Krovo usually hated baths. They made her feel strange, as if she were lying in wait to be drowned by some cloaked and daggered assassin. The feeling of vulnerability wasn’t worth the soothing comfort of warm water and mounds of suds. She preferred the unforgiving showers at the Rebirth Center. It was a gamble whether or not the heaters decided to function properly, resulting in sometimes lukewarm water or sometimes cutting cold water. She was used to it. Before the freezing rains of Korea she endured the dry heat of the Kazakh SSR, bathing in the cold Ilek River of Aktyubinsk, her hometown. Like most of her younger squad mates she never experienced the devastation initially wrought upon the Soviet Union in the second Great War - only the fallout.

Aktyubinsk was a struggling township in the middle of the dry Kazakh steppe. The Kazakh SSR found itself a melting pot for the undesirables of the Soviet Union both during and after the second World War. Refugees of war and a considerable portion of Russia’s dregs arrived and contributed nothing to its growth, deported by the government for an uncountable number of reasons - some so petty as their race or religion. The Family Edict was enacted and then enforced with benefits to Mothers who had large families. So Krovo’s parents happily complied with Presidium, expecting their benefits to be effective immediately - but even as they grew their family the benefits weren’t nearly enough to sustain both them and their four children.

Krovo and her family experienced extreme poverty, growing up in the northern ghettos on the river’s edge, scrounging for scraps while her Father worked in a ferroalloy factory. Someone somewhere once said the road to hell was paved with good intentions, and those words couldn’t have been truer - at least for Krovo. She initially joined with the Red Army at the onset of the Korean War, barely of age to enlist but with hopes that if she fought for her country further benefits would be rendered to her struggling family. But the soldier she had become today wasn’t the one she started off as. She was a coward, only driven forward in war by promise of compensation and fear of embarrassment, or worse, execution. Only after a dozen engagements did she find her footing, hardening to the reality around her. Her soft interior withered but never left her completely as she was thrust between conflict zones, fighting what felt like an indecisive battle day in and day out.

War either broke a soldier or made them whole - but in Krovo’s instance it was a terrible combining of the two. Her mind was fractured from the inhumanity - she was never mentally prepared for the trauma. But rather than cave to the immense pressure a portion of her brain warped itself for its own survival. The result was a shell of a Yordle operating more and more off instinct than logic and reason. She remembered vividly denying a promotion for her efforts as the Korean War stumbled to its conclusion. She felt more like a rabid animal, trapped in a cage and released to hunt then return once the prey was caught and slaughtered. A leader of soldiers she was not, and never did she want to be. That would only result in plenty under her command dead. Her superiors didn’t understand, not able to separate combat effectiveness from leadership quality.

Sure she’d bark some orders at her frozen comrades or organize the riflemen for an assault but she wasn’t officer material. Even then the Soviet Union suspected she was good for something. Upon returning to Russia she was propositioned. Some shady nobody greeted Krovo at her base near Sevastopol, handing off a letter with an officious looking seal. All of those memories evoked from a warm bath and the desire for a cold shower. The funny thing is, she never did return home to check on her family - in fact she had forgotten half her siblings’ names. What little she could remember about them was intertwined with a number code. Two, three, two, three, eight, eight, two.

A rough but gentle hand rose from the soapy water in front of her with a rag in its grasp. It touched down against her cheek, coming across her face slowly before descending around her neck and clavicle. The security and comfort of Byk at her back was the only reason she could stand sitting still for this long. Krovo was fast coming to realize she could only relax in her partner’s presence.

“Don’t like the wine?” Byk whispered over her shoulder with a curious smile.

“Huh? Oh…” Krovo glanced to the glass of bubbling wine at the edge of the tub, reaching out for it. “I like it, yeah.” She took it by the delicate stem and sipped a generous portion.

“You know you don’t have to lie to me, right?” Byk chuckled.

“I’m not! I mean- I’d prefer something a little less… Prissy? But it’s not bad. Plus it fits the mood.” Krovo explained, setting the glass back.

“Well, I hate it. But you’re right, it does fit the mood.”

Krovo let silence reign as she was washed over by Byk’s careful hand, feeling like she could close her eyes and sleep then and there. But eventually a question arose in the back of her skull, prompting her eyes open. “Vechiya?”

“Hmmn?” Byk hummed.

“Have I ever done anything that made you angry?”

Byk seemed to adjust her posture at that question, jostling Krovo around between her spread legs as she combed through her hair with a few errant fingers. “Uuuh--... I think you’ve done things that would make a normal Yordle angry. But me? No.”

Krovo looked slightly back at her big-spoon. “Why?”

“Why don’t you make me angry?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Another moment of deliberation forced Byk’s cleaning to slow. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I know you? I know who you are and I know why you are the way that you are. So getting angry wouldn’t make sense.”

Krovo’s ears fluttered at that, more so out of further curiosity than anything. She almost sounded reluctant to ask her next question but her brain wouldn’t let the topic lie. “And… Who am I?”

Byk let the rag float along the still surface of their bath water, using both arms to hug around Krovo. She inhaled deeply, her eyes rolling around in her skull clockwise while she thought of an apt response. “...You are… Someone that’s broken… Someone that’s broken and in need of fixing. But you’re also someone that can’t be fixed, not because you don’t deserve it or because it’s impossible - but because circumstances won’t allow it…”

That answer was exactly what Krovo was hoping Byk didn’t say. She knew she had a problem, and perhaps a part of her wanted it solved, but a greater part of her was left lethargic, unable or unwilling to take the necessary steps towards some sort of recovery, whatever that may look like.

“But,” Byk continued, forcing Krovo’s ears to perch, “You’re also a sweet person, a caring person, someone who will fight for her loved ones. You’re fierce, dangerous - you’re like a wolf, loyal yet savage. And most of all… You’re different.”

“Different?”

“You’re the most unique person I’ve ever met, Dima. And that’s why I love you.”

Meduza held it in her hand, admiring its construction, or rather - criticizing its construction. She really had no reason to nitpick as she did, it was as much a gun as its Russian counterpart - but for that very reason she didn’t like it. Meduza figured herself the least prejudiced of her entire squad, but not by much, and even she hated the construction of American weaponry. Especially this dreaded AutoMag III design. While she could admit it appeared powerful and aggressive, two things she could relate to - the rest of it just seemed gaudy. Its silver stainless-steel appearance was particularly offensive. It was essentially the same profile as a Colt M1911, just with a longer, thicker barrel, a more sloped hand-grip and a larger caliber round.

It wasn’t hard to smuggle weapons onto ships, the fad of ocean liners was already a crumbling empire as jet planes replaced mass transportation across long distances - those in steerage weren’t checked thoroughly for contraband or weaponry because for the most part they sailed out of necessity. And the affluent first class could simply pay extra to get whatever dirt they wanted on board. A few well hidden seams and compartments were all they needed to introduce three pistols to the Queen Elizabeth. Meduza ejected the magazine and spun it around between her fingers, pushing all seven .30 Carbine bullets onto the mattress. She checked over her shoulder to make sure Alyuusha was well asleep before she racked the slide, spitting the last bullet onto the bed with the others. It was nice to hold a gun again, even if she couldn’t use it. Something about cold hard gunsteel, no matter its manufacturer, put her at ease.

Drel watched from the chair between the two beds, cerulean eyes low. It was after hours now, the ship’s curfew enforced for second and steerage class passengers. The night sky and full moon gleamed beautifully on the ocean’s semi-tumultuous expanse. It wasn’t calm waters but they weren’t violent either, leaving the ship bobbing in an exaggerated up and down that left one of their neighbors sea sick. They could hear him retching in the bathroom opposite theirs, loud enough so that it was impossible not to hear, but quiet enough that Anton and Alyuusha could remain asleep.

The entirety of the squad was awake, silently listening, waiting. Myslitel lay beside Anton and Alyuusha while Krovo and Byk occupied the bed across from her. Their state of quiet and patient hibernation was soon to end. As the clock approached midnight Meduza checked the breach of the AutoMag - made sure it was to her standards then loaded the magazine, slamming it into the well. Her thumb flicked the safety on and she readied a round. Meduza made to stand, her uncharacteristically gorgeous dress flowing off her person - hair curled with feathered bangs to appear as glamorous and American as possible. Tonight she was playing a role within a role.

The group mobilized, leaving their weary pseudo-nanny behind with the children while they filtered out into the hall. Meduza tucked her sidearm into a band around her left thigh, securing it out of sight. The darkened corridors were empty with the occasional wandering soul passing them by. Upon reaching the flight of stairs their formation broke with Meduza going one way and the rest of Bheka separating in the opposite direction. She ascended towards the Queen’s Grill, a recently renovated restaurant within the Queen Elizabeth for the most esteemed guests aboard the ship. She could already hear the classical music growing louder as she closed on the after midnight ball. Their objective on the Queen Elizabeth was two-fold - the latter half stood before her on the dance floor; Arnold Picker, an ex-film industry executive and finance chairman of Edmund Muskie’s campaign - one of Nickelson’s political adversaries running in the upcoming Presidential election.

Arnold Picker was at the top of a list drafted by some of Nickelson’s assistants detailing his political enemies. Outwardly the memorandum wrote of damaging social and financial actions rather than violent ones, but Nickelson made it clear behind closed doors that at least some of the names on his long list were subject for assassination. And who better to carry out such gruesome killings than a group of highly trained and discreet Russian special operations soldiers? Arnold Picker was an easy target. In the print given it wrote that he was easily tempted by young pretty faces and open promiscuity. Despite having given up his roots in Hollywood he was still very connected to the organizations there, funding talent and paving paper trails for his old friends.

He recently spied an actress by the name of Glenda Jackson who had been making waves in the British television and movie scene. She had all the makings of a star ripe for international viewing and apparently his close friend and filmmaker Melvin Frank agreed. So rather than get her on the first flight to New York he instead took a trip to Britain and back, treating Glenda Jackson to a lavish stay on the Queen Elizabeth - all expenses paid. Arnold had made a lot of Yordles famous - even with his political tyings he lived his life like a young adult in the fast lane. Drugs and women were his idea of a good night. So it was no wonder he looked miserable surrounded by rich aristocrats in a ballroom.

Glenda treated Arnold to a dance - allowing him to hold her close. She was a gorgeous little creature, perhaps a little smaller than average but her classic bob, emerald eyes and crimson lipstick stood out amongst other things. Arnold made no attempts at hiding his infatuation, his eager hands fighting the urge to get a palmful of her curvature - but for as sweetly as Glenda was treating him, it was clear she had no interest in anything beyond sex. And not the kind of sex Arnold was into either. He liked the wild types, the porn girl types with an appetite for the freaky. Glenda was not that. At most he might be able to transition from missionary to something like doggystyle for an hour tops - no fellatio or anal. So he put on a good face, made like he was enjoying himself and prepared to leverage his power for a trip to the bedroom, even if it wouldn’t be to his liking. Glenda wouldn’t deny him, he was the only reason she was getting these kinds of opportunities. That kind of transaction was nothing to an actress of her standard. She had laid plenty of directors and would likely lay plenty more.

Meduza inserted herself at the perfect time, cutting in after the dance came to a close and Glenda’s back was turned. She threw on a French-American accent, something that at first hearing would evoke simple American girl, but the longer she talked would peak an interest towards the exotic. The low cut dress showed plenty of cleavage, advertising she was the whore Arnold had been waiting for. “Arnold Picker?”

He was taken aback, brows jumping as he stopped himself mid-stride and stood straight again. “Uh-Yes, yes I am! And… Who might you be, gorgeous?” He had a classic American accent - the kind that was fit for radio.

“Laura Clément, a pleasure to meet you. I hear you’re popular in the film world?” She got straight to the point, Meduza hadn’t mastered the art of roleplay but she was convincing enough for a horny politician to bite. Plus men liked that, at least in the short-term. An easy lay who got straight to the point and straight in their pants. Especially one this pretty.

“I hear a hint of French on your breath, is it?”

She smiled and nodded, a smile that conveyed he could say anything and she would be amused and or interested. “I apologize for such a sudden intrusion but I’m a small time actor back in the states and I saw you sitting with mister Melvin, the filmmaker?” She played up the airheaded sweetheart act, speaking fast and with a nervous edge - she wanted to show Arnold she was intimidated by him and his status.

“Aaah- In search of opportunities, then…” He chuckled and stuffed a hand into his pocket, retrieving a card with his information. “Call me.”

“Wait…” Meduza expected this. One extra step to see how far she would go. A textbook strategy to seem less desperate than one actually was. “I’m really serious about my career. If you could just fit me in now I--...” She closed the distance, pressing a palm against his abdomen to show just how serious she was.

“Well then, Laura. If you’re so adamant, let’s head up to my suite and talk business.” He grinned and offered a hand which Meduza gladly took.

The nicest suites were nearest the top of the ship but below the penthouse suites bathed in the most sunlight and fresh air. The halls here were a touch wider than the ones below to accommodate for the decrease in rooms due to their larger size. Foot traffic was sparse owing to the midnight ball going on below. The few first class passengers that did mill about were either half-drunk off expensive champagne and calling it quits early or were returning for much the same reason Arnold and his newest fling were. He produced his key and pushed open the door to reveal his suite.

He had hardly broken it in, so busy socializing about the ship since boarding. He’d paid a visit to the captain and then some. His suitcase hadn’t even been properly unpacked. The suite sported a full sitting area with a sofa and two seats flanking it as well as a coffee table, a full balcony and a king-sized bed. The bathroom was perhaps the best part, though that remained closed for the time. Arnold moved to the balcony to sweep aside the sliding door, eager to pull a breeze in. Without hesitation he began undressing - stripping himself of his designer Savile Row suit and tie. His erection was halfway to blooming at the thought of having this small-time actress’ hot mouth servicing his shaft. He was in dire need of a good fuck.

“Y’know, I was just dancing with a popular English star when you approached, her name is Glenda Jackson - perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

“Is that so? She was beautiful, I’m surprised you didn’t bed her instead.”

Arnold laughed, “Well, she’s more the classy type-- Not that you aren’t, of course! It’s just-... That’s not my type, if you know what I mean. I enjoy a woman with experience, a woman who’s not afraid to get her hands dirty, in a manner of speaking.” His eyes drifted out to the balcony as he finally got around to unbuckling his belt.

“Then you happened across the right gal.~”

“‘Course I did, you’ve seen your fair share of the industry, I’m sure. The world is about mutual exchange, you scratch my back and I scratch yours,” A hand came to his length, stroking himself fully hard, “Now,” He turned to present himself, “Let me take--...”

His words died in his mouth as he was confronted by four figures.

“I forgot to mention, I called some friends up - hope you’re okay with company.” Meduza smirked, flanked by Krovo, Byk and Drel.

“Company?” He inquired, only half-dissuaded from taking the situation further.

His member began to wilt as he saw the biggest of the women close the gap. He backed slowly away only to be clipped in the jaw by a straight left that put him on his ass. “Agh!!-- What the fuck is wrong with you, whor--”

Byk slammed her knee to his neck while Krovo came around with the gag to shut him up. He raged against the cloth, finding himself flipped and subdued with bed sheets around the wrists and ankles. His eyes went wider, terrified at the endless array of possible outcomes. He wanted to know why, was this some sick joke by his buddy Melvin? Was this chick some crazy serial killer? And what did they want? Money? Power? The answer was much worse than anything he’d imagined. Laura brandished a gun at him, twirling it by the trigger guard around her index finger.

A simple motion and he was hoisted to his feet. His captor’s accent suddenly switched from innocent French-American to foreboding Russian. “I want you to know it’s nothing personal, Arnold...”

Krovo went about tying hundred pound weights from the Fitness Center a few decks down to his ankles, for this they needed authentic roping, which was easily obtained from the life rings around the boat. Her knots were tight, likely to last for a few hours before breaking. Arnold shook his head frantically, mumbling against the cloth ball in his mouth. He struggled to beg for his life, managing half the word “please” over and over again.

“You just weren’t my type.”

Krovo hoisted the weights up with the help of Byk while Meduza hobbled him to the balcony. Drel delivered a boot to his chest just as Byk and Krovo hefted the weights over the banister. They gathered at the edge, watching him descend like children watching a paper plane take to the air after its release. Krovo was the most amused with their efforts, the rather mundane half-year lacked that killing edge she was so fond of. She needed this.

Arnold hit the water and vanished beneath its surface with a considerable splash the moment he made contact. The fall from such a height was sure to break a few bones, then the current of the ship would likely drag him even further under. Meduza almost wished she had put one between the eyes before they dumped him overboard, but that would bring more trouble than he was worth.

“Check the bags,” Meduza ordered, “Photograph anything important, take nothing of value - disperse one at a time after every other minute.”

Byk was last to depart, checking the room twice over to make sure they left no evidence of their coming. But rather than head back to the room she detoured, rounding the stairs down until she happened upon the little bar. It was a half-hour after midnight, closing time. She hoped she wasn’t too late and nearly smiled when she found Patrick still stacking chairs. Her approach was halfway hesitant, her mind inevitably wandering to Krovo. But she shook away the thought. It’s just drinks!

Patrick noticed her the moment she rounded the corner into the lounge. “If it isn’t my Siberian friend! Didn’t expect you to take me up on my offer.” His bright smile shone in the dimmed room.

“Neither did I.” Dayanna replied as she found a stool at the bar.

“Pick yer poison, it’s on me.” Patrick rounded the counter, sweeping his arm to gesture towards his vast assortment of alcohol as if it were a collection he’d curated all his own.

Byk placed a finger to her chin, pointing up at the Okhotnichya Hunter’s Vodka. Unlike most Vodka it was colored a smooth orange-brown in the same vein as Whisky. The rooster on the label stood out to her, she had enjoyed it once before with Colonel Khaski a couple years ago upon a successful mission. It was a relatively new brand, too - with a memorable after taste. Patrick glanced up, confirming her selection before bringing it down to pour a pair of shot glasses.

“Quite a strong spirit you picked there. Sure you don’t want some like-... Gin or somethin’?” He jested.

“Don’t think I can handle my drink?” Byk narrowed her eyes in a suspiciously amused fashion.

Patrick knocked his shot glass back without issue, hardly grimacing at the strength of the Vodka. An exhale of satisfaction deflated his chest, issuing his silent challenge. Byk’s brow perked at his bold strategy, wordlessly tossing hers back after him - barely a grimace, only a calm exhale.

“Very well, then. Challenge accepted.” The bottle came down to fill a second round. He raised his glass in toast this time. “To good health and great fortune.”

Byk shrugged and hoisted her drink. “Sure, whatever that means.”

Both parties put the shot away with ease and the next round was set. “This so-called sister. Got any more of those?”

“Four.”

“Four?! So there’s five of yous wit’ one man?” Patrick said, outraged. Though it didn’t stop him from shoving more alcohol down his throat. “Lucky bastard.”

Byk obliged before she answered his question, concluding their third round. Patrick graciously lined up a fourth. “Was.”

“Ah, poor sod. How’d he go?”

“I’d-... Rather not talk about it.”

“Very well, then,” He raised for yet another toast, “May he rest in peace, whoever he might be,” His words were solemn, given out of respect and not mockery. He knocked back his shot, watching Dayanna do the same. “So, you’re seeking a new life in America. What for, if I might ask?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the Soviet Union isn’t best place to be at the moment.” Byk chuckled, shaking her head.

“Yeah, but I mean- I thought all you crazies liked it that way over there.” He laughed back, staying on top of the banter.

“You’re good at this.” Byk mentioned off-handedly as her next shot came and was downed all at once - the buzz surfacing at the back of her eyes.

“Good at what?”

“Conversation.”

Patrick sunk his shot, leaning up against the counter to be a few inches closer to the Yakut. “It’s my job, honey. I’m a bartender.”

“No? Your job is to serve drinks.” Byk said, thoroughly confused.

“Maybe where yous come from, but where I come from? A bartender has to have charisma, helps bring in the customers and keeps them there. Probably why yer butt is planted in that very seat talkin’ to me. Because I’m charismatic.”

Byk rolled her eyes at his self-aggrandizing. “Whatever.” She knocked the counter, demanding her next shot.

“Alright, alright…” Patrick folded, pouring another round. He had nearly lost count of how many they’d been through. “But you know I’m right.”

“I’m only here for free drinks, nothing more, nothing less.” Byk countered, knocking back her shot just as he did.

“Quit lyin’ to yerself, if it was just for the drinks you’d be gone already.” Patrick’s smug smile widened only to falter when he saw Byk spinning in her bar chair to leave. “Wait- I’m jus’ kiddin’, jeez!”

Byk’s brow furrowed, glancing at her empty shot glass. Patrick got the memo and set up yet another round. The Irishman was fading a lot faster than his Siberian counterpart, but wouldn’t be dissuaded without a good fight. “Goodness, you can really put em’ back.”

“Want to quit?”

“What do I get if I do?” A devious smirk parted his lips.

“Nothing,” Byk said, bluntly.

“Oh, c’mon. Let’s up the wager! How’s about I let you walk back to your room with this whole bottle and another round of free drinks on me if…” Patrick paused to build suspense.

“If?” Byk’s curiosity peaked.

“If you give me a kiss.”

She scoffed at his proposal, eyes turning away, disinterested. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I promise I’m a good kisser, two seconds max.”

Byk hated that she was lulled into this trap. The alcohol actually had her considering such things. She had half a mind to stand up and walk away right then, but another part of her wondered what it would be like. She’d never really spent any time with anyone intimately besides Krovo, her life before the military and her lifestyle now wasn’t conducive to a relationship or even one night stands. An exhale summoned her mind back to the fore, it was just a kiss, so why was she contemplating relationships and one night stands? She shoved those ideas to the deepest crevices of her mind, it was probably just the alcohol loosening her standards. She hardly found Patrick attractive in the first place. But she did like Vodka.

“Fine… Two seconds only.”

“Alright - but I’ll warn you, once we start, I don’t know if you’ll want to stop.”

His confidence only made her more determined to leave him dry after the allotted two seconds. She didn’t reply, leaning over the wooden countertop to come in range. Patrick paused, cleaning his mouth of the Vodka before he closed the gap - slowly at first but quickly near the end. Byk’s low eyes showed no emotion as their lips met but she couldn’t deny it was at least different. She had never been on the receiving end of a kiss like this, she was always the aggressor. It felt strange, she couldn’t quite tell if she even cared for it or not. But her deliberation made the kiss last five or six seconds longer than was planned. She turned her head, pulling away from the Irishman.

Patrick clearly wanted more and was waiting to see if her thoughts would dissipate and allow them to continue, but they didn’t. Instead Byk stole the bottle and deserted.

“I hope I didn’t offend!” Patrick shouted after her.

“Thanks for the drinks.” Is all he got in reply.