Daylight struck and left Bheka longing for more darkness, the milling about of soldiery keeping them from falling back to sleep. It wasn’t long before they were confronted and questioned. Governors Island was apparently a Coast Guard base of operations. That explained the hats. They were sent away with only a warning, ferried back to Manhattan to begin their day on the streets. Meduza wasted no time getting them back into the Subway - intent on finding their way to New Jersey before the scene of their crime could be fully discovered by police. She wasn’t worried they would be among the most likely suspects - but that didn’t stop the itching paranoia from clawing at the back of her mind. They went on empty stomachs, smelling of grass and the ocean salt that swept New York’s coast.

They had seen precious little of the Big Apple, but then again this wasn’t a tourist’s trip. Its magnificence in the daytime was leagues above its midnight counterpart. Sure the skyline was glistening with light but the streets were dead. The morning brought a new kind of chaos to New York. A rush hour of epic proportions where white collared workers struggled against traffic to get to their places of employment in the financial district against a tide of blue collared workers doing the same. The classism in New York was quite obvious but insignificant to the untrained. The Communist Bheka could see it clear as day, though. To these people it was just work, a daily commute to a job that paid their salary. How naive they were.

Regardless, once they were aboard the train that would take them across the Hudson all of that was forgotten. The Subway was actually populated with Yordles, enough Yordles to dispel the fear of being ambushed again. It appeared Meduza’s itching paranoia was contagious, her head turning to find Krovo’s eyes about as active as her tapping foot. She glanced at Drel who glanced back. They had made this sort of eye contact before, the kind that said, “We need to talk”. It was becoming more and more apparent Krovo was losing herself to something - her bloodlust had always been an obstacle the squad had to factor in and work around - but her episode last night was worrying in the extreme. It was Meduza’s intention to deal with those thugs bloodlessly, sending them packing with maybe a few broken limbs - some busted noses and a wounded sense of self. In hindsight that was never going to work, Krovo was too determined to make her mark.

It wasn’t often Meduza was stumped about how to proceed in any situation, much less one of her subordinates. Krovo was the most adept fighter in all of Bheka, save Baran before he passed and maybe Drel when things got tense in a gunfight. This mission required more than just good weapon handling and close-combat expertise, it was a delicate operation - equal espionage and muscle work. Sending Krovo back was out of the question - they were too deep. Having her sit it out once they were stable and under the supervision of the American presidency also wasn’t an option - leashing your maddog would only make them act more erratically. Krovo could certainly jeopardize the mission -but after Baran’s passing she’d vowed to never issue a threat of execution to anyone under her command again. She was very serious about the lives of her soldiers.

Her indecision was obvious and readable on her face. Drel placed a gentle palm to her thigh, a lazy toothless smile telling Meduza everything would be alright. The Major looked down at the hand and up to her Captain, an aura of awkward unsureness purveying her tired features. But eventually she conceded, bringing an arm around Drel’s shoulders. Her opposite arm extended in the other direction, her fingers curling around the far cheek of Krovo’s face to bring the tortured soldier’s head against her shoulder where it would rest. Krovo, half immersed in her own waking nightmares - acknowledged her superior’s unusual affection with a cursory glance. Even if Krovo couldn’t verbally admit the comfort of an embrace was helpful, Meduza saw in the way her tense figure relaxed against the Major that it was. The rare compassion extended out to Myslitel and Byk, too, who leaned inward - falling against Krovo and Drel respectively to share their warmth. Drel, Myslitel and Byk fell quickly to sleep, catching up on the hours missed the night before while Krovo and Meduza sat silently together.

Gordon had finally reached some semblance of understanding. He understood now that he was never supposed to speak the numbers aloud. They wouldn’t tell him why, but he knew whatever would result from it would be bad for himself and those around him. He could imagine what that fallout would be, but only somewhat. There was this unseeable film spread across some of his memories, making it hard to recall certain things about his past. He struggled against this haze - knowing now it had been programmed into him by months and months of conditioning. But somehow he knew he would slowly forget that film was there entirely. The urge to fight against the rebirthing stopped long ago. He wasn’t a willing subject, but he wasn’t unwilling either. He was just a victim.

The product was a reborn Gordon, a tool for his masters. And now his masters had a mission for him. A folder was laid before him along with a cigarette and match for his consumption. They were nothing if not hospitable, or perhaps that’s what they wanted him to believe? Even now the mind games continued. He obliged and plugged his lips with the cigarette, striking the match against the edge of the table to run it alight. After burning a hot cherry into one end of his cigarette he brought his hands to the folder.

Gordon peeled it open to find a picture of his former president Nickelson, a full dossier and all the information his KGB masters had gathered was splayed before him - most of which he had volunteered after the rebirthing. The mission detailed he was to mesh back into Nickelson’s Committee for Reelection and rendezvous with five Russian agents operating under the exclusive jurisdiction of the White House. It was Nickelson’s understanding that until these Soviet agents made first contact Gordon would be held in Soviet custody - then released afterward as a good faith showing. What Nickelson didn’t know is that his man Gordon had been turned inside out by the KGB. An imposing figure Gordon knew only as the ‘Director’, informed him he would be performing duplicitous spywork in Government circles while monitoring Bheka and their progress.

The next page showed the Russian agents in question. Their names were expunged with black ink and so were their callsigns. All he was allowed to glimpse were their faces. Five rather dire looking female Yordles stared back at him, looking as if they had seen a thousand lifetimes worth of killing and war. Gordon knew the look of a soldier when he saw one, not to mention a handful of these faces were familiar from his time in the Sinai. How ironic he would be working with the very same killers who captured him. Some suppressed part of him felt a growing rage but the calm majority kept it from bubbling any further. Instead his expression remained near lifeless whilst he read. Upon meeting this squad of agents he was to issue forth some sort of passcode so they could understand he was a Kremlin spy. He peeled away a strip of black tape to reveal the passcode in question.

“You’re going home, Gordon. A plane has been readied to take you back to the United States, we’ll pack your things and escort you to the airport.” One faceless figure said.

In all his time being reprogrammed he’d never seen anyone’s face until now. A clever strategy. Should he ever be compromised and interrogated nothing concrete could be linked back to the Kremlin. In reality he wouldn’t be able to muster the truth of his duplicitous nature in the first place. America’s interrogation tactics paled in comparison to what he’d experienced here. He was a thoroughly broken creature, held together by the strands of adhesive the KGB had sown him up with. It all ran back to the numbers somehow. That small part of his psyche wanted to fight back against the blanket of docility spread over his thoughts, to decipher the meaning of the numbers and their full significance - but a greater part of him was almost lazy, too lethargic to do anything but follow orders. It was like he was a spectator in his own head, looking through the windows of his own eyes.

Gordon’s invisible restraints aside, he had a plane to catch. Everywhere he went in the facility they blindfolded him, walking him along like a dog on a leash. He was kept this way even on the car ride to the airport. He could hear the jet engines running as the tires of his vehicle screeched to a halt on what he could only imagine was a runway. The door to his left opened and a controlling hand yanked him out. Tarmac fell under his dress shoes as he stumbled towards the whirring jet. Russian voices went back and forth in a language he only vaguely understood. He had been taught Russian but this was some mysterious variant of it.

He took the first step onto the plane and nearly fell flat over, gathering himself with a hand towards the rail and the assistance rendered by his escort. Eventually he found himself moving through the cabin until his backside found plush leather. His blindfold was suddenly pulled away, revealing an immediately recognizable visage. It was the Soviet Premier; Mak Molotok, sitting before him in the flesh. Madam Molotok glared up at him, a magazine spread open between both delicate hands. Rather than donning the Authoritarian uniforms the world was used to seeing her in, instead she wore a gorgeous crimson-black business pencil dress.

“Mister Liddy, welcome to Aeroflot.” Mak smirked.

He looked about himself, registering the luxury almost immediately. The spaciousness of the private jet was likened only to President Nickelson’s collection of private aircraft. A smell of perfume struck him soon after, he reckoned it was a concoction of something like rose oil, fruit and vanilla. It was an endearing scent he couldn’t distract himself from. The fragrance obviously permeated from the Premier.

“I wasn’t expecting to be face-to-face with the leader of the Soviet Union.” Gordon said in a matter-of-factly manner, adjusting his tie as if to appear more presentable.

“Well, relax. We’re simply headed in the same direction so I thought a lot less effort and fuel would be expended if you flew along with me.”

“You’re leaving for Washington as well?” Gordon’s brow raised with a tinge of curiosity.

“Yes. We have a few stops to make before then but our final destination is indeed Washington. Hopefully by that time my little expeditionary team will have made contact with Nickelson and we can formally exchange you.” Mak sat her magazine down, providing all of her attention toward the double-agent.

“May I ask why?” Gordon followed his first question with a second.

“Nickelson and I are negotiating a deescalation of the Vietnam War. He wants to pull his troops out and has asked me to limit my support for the Soviet-aligned factions.” Mak explained.

He was somewhat taken aback. This new era of negotiation, timid peace and proxy wars was going places he’d never expected it to. Gordon among many others had predicted the Cold War would go hot much sooner, but to his surprise they were actually making progress in the opposite direction. Gordon knew little about the Kremlin’s real ambitions, but it was hard to believe Mak would let everything she’d worked for fade into irrelevance. Or perhaps it was the media portrayal of her that skewed his perception? The Soviet Union had been vilified in the extreme, maybe Mak was truly seeking a peaceful resolution to things - and just maybe he was back pocket insurance to make sure America honored their word?

His speculation only grew as he sat in silence across from Madam Molotok.

“Is everything alright, Gordon?” She asked.

He blinked hard, sitting up in his chair. “Oh- Yes, just lost in thought, is all.”

The train had taken them all the way to the suburbs of Newark, New Jersey. A far cry from the densely populated and totally vertical innards of New York. Instead they were met by the other side of the American stereotype. Suburban expanses of colorful housing with gorgeous green lawns, flowers, children playing about the street - a low crime rate, neighborhood watch, automobiles and on it went. In short, it was a paradise for upper middle class Caucasian families. Over the years as the excitement from the second Great War declined so too did the popularity of cities. Suburbs were featured heavily in the media spotlight, promoted by the Government for several reasons - some legitimate, some shady at best. This movement into the suburbs was facilitated by the explosion in affordability and popularity of vehicles. Walking or bus riding between the suburbs outside urban centers that housed all of the work was a drag, but commuting there by car was actually feasible.

The Soviet Union never boomed with industry like the United States did. They could all hardly remember a time in which Soviet suburbs weren’t blocks upon blocks of Industrialized housing. The stereotype of Soviet apartments dominating the majority of major cities across Russia wasn’t a stereotype, it was a reality. The bland, off-white, near factory looking apartment complexes were a drab and depressing part of life in Russia. The interiors of such homes were doubly saddening. Space was limited - sometimes families found themselves jammed into one-bedroom apartment dorms. It made Bheka jealous, jealous that a family of three or four could exist in a single story house with a driveway, lawn and garage while people in Russia made do with a room’s worth of space.

They were like fish out of water here. Everywhere they went they received stares and looks, looks that made them feel as if they were actual Gypsies. The children that shot basketball in the street stopped their game to turn and watch them walk past. Never had they felt so alien.

“I guess stealing a car here is out of the question then?” Drel asked, glancing over her shoulder at the couple standing on the porch looking out at them a few houses back.

Myslitel scoffed. “Probably the quickest ticket to jail in all of America. Why is it they couldn’t have just given us enough money for a train to Washington again?”

“We’re supposed to be broke Gypsies looking for a new life in America. If they checked our bags at Customs and found enough currency for a trip to Washington our story wouldn’t be very believable, now would it?” Meduza curled her braid over her shoulder as if punctuating her reply.

“How much do you think a train ride to Washington even costs?” Myslitel narrowed her eyes at Meduza.

“I don’t know? More than we’re meant to have, I know that. Besides, I’m sure a bus can get us somewhere less…” Meduza looked about herself. “Safe?”

Safe didn’t begin to describe the amount of security this suburb boasted. It was so safe in fact, patrolling police cars frequented its labyrinthine depths. The group had been passed up a number of times - the officers in question side-eyeing the procession of Gypsies on every pass. But eventually one stopped, bwipping its sirens at the group before pulling up beside them.

The officer in the passenger seat rolled the window down, his eyes narrowed toward them. He remained silent, inspecting their ranks like an officer would their subordinates. Then he beckoned them closer, lighting a cigarette.

Myslitel and Byk took a step off the sidewalk, coming near to the door.

“Evenin’,” The officer said with that classic New Jersey accent, “You uh- know where you are?”

Myslitel held the urge to frown. “Sort of? We’re just passing through, trying to find bus station.” She replied in her broken English.

“Foreigners then? Where you gals headed?”

“South. We have family in Washington.” Myslitel lied.

“Well, the people ‘round here don’t take kindly to strangers in their neighborhood. If you’re looking for a bus station, officer Garand and I’d be happy to drive you there.” He gestured to the back seat.

Myslitel glanced back at the other three. Meduza looked left and right along the street, then to the policemen. Eventually she stepped off the sidewalk and pulled open the backseat door. The Gypsies piled in with her and her baby last. Officer Garand pulled away from the sidewalk and onto the road proper. Their sore legs appreciated the reprieve, walking from the heart of Newark and into the suburbs was a two hour trip - not to mention their stomachs were empty.

“So, where are you ladies from exactly?”

“Russia.” Meduza droned.

“Woah, you’re not commies are you?” The officer chuckled.

“Wouldn’t that be funny,” Byk said, rolling her eyes.

The two cops took the hint. Conversation wasn’t on their list of priorities. They were exhausted from travel and had no interest in going back and forth. The drive to the edge of Newark was silent, save for the fussing of Anton and Alyuusha every now and again. They arrived at the bus stop some ten minutes later and the bus showed an hour after that - taking them down from Newark to New Brunswick and from New Brunswick to a sleepy little township called Princeton.

Princeton was a town of some significance in American history, as visible on their trip through its storied breadth. Model cannonry and statues depicting the famous George Washington abound. Even the architecture nodded towards its historical roots. Assumptions were that this place had something to do with the American Revolution, but beyond that their interest died. Food was far more pertinent of a concern. They were running short on powdered milk for their boys. Princeton seemed a good place to work their “Gypsy” magic. Petty thievery was among their acquired trades, an essential part of their performance. If they weren’t scrounging and stealing they weren’t real country Gypsies.

They gathered outside a General store on the edge of Princeton down the street from a little diner and gas station. An American flag hung from its exterior, the sign beside it reading ‘Sally’s Sisters’. Meduza was ready to give the game plan when Drel raised a hand, her eyes showing interest towards the gas station they had glossed over. Her finger stretched towards a curious looking vehicle.

“Look!” It was a Winnebago motorhome, the boxy kind with the off-white cream exterior and ‘W’ on the side. “We should steal that!”

The entirety of Bheka turned. It would solve two of their biggest problems; A place to sleep and reliable transportation. The only issue was the gas station and cafe combo had more than enough patrons. A half dozen cars gathered for fueling and servicing while another half dozen were parked around the cafe segment of the building. The Winnebago was about fourth in line for gas.

“Way too busy,” Byk replied, plainly.

“Oh, c’mon! This could be our only chance to get a mobile home. Alyuusha and Anton would be safe, we’d have transportation and a warm place to sleep every night.” Drel argued.

“What about gas?” Myslitel countered, half focused on the conversation and half focused on rocking Anton to sleep.

“We’ll siphon it.”

“And the people who own it?” Byk followed.

“Uhhhmm… I don’t know, we kind of have to figure that out, don’t we?”

“Well… It’s about to be gone if we don’t make a decision fast.” Krovo gestured to the first automobile in line as it pulled out of the gas station, pushing the Winnebago to third and counting.

“I don’t think they even need to leave the car, look at the other ones.” Myslitel drew attention to the station staff who went about fully servicing each car, from cleaning its windshields to filling its tanks and checking its tire pressure.

“That complicates things,” Meduza hummed in deep thought.

The moment continued to pass as the next car, only requiring a refill, paid its lot and pushed off. The Winnebago was now next after a sleek gray Pontiac GTO. Meduza waved Bheka on, starting towards the gas station. She used the blankets she’d swaddled Alyuusha in to create a makeshift sling for the toddler. Myslitel took the hint and did the same. The collection of Gypsies casually walked over to the Gas station. It was a marvelously constructed little establishment with a creative take on the Art-Deco style that seemed to permeate all of America. Its glazed brick was painted an egg-shell cream and crimson color with strong zigzag shapes drawn to emphasize its flamboyance.

The top edges of the roof rose with vertical-rubbed detailing, clinging to the bottoms of two towers, one much larger than the other, presenting the Gas station’s title “Red Ruby” while the other, much smaller tower read “Cafe”. The pumps were vintage from a decade before, showing their commitment to Full-service and the legacy of customer satisfaction. The building appeared to be split in two, with the station office and garage occupying one half while the other housed the eatery. Upon closing on it the Yakut’s could hear lively swing music played loudly on a jukebox inside.

Rather than entering the establishment they curled around the back. The sun had come down just in time to mask their movement. “Whoever owns that vehicle is probably on some sort of road trip… Or getting back from one. I’m assuming the former. We get on top of the station, wait for it to start driving off and jump on it.” Meduza explained.

Byk sighed. “You’re fucking insane.”

Meduza grunted as she hauled herself up a dumpster and onto a service ladder. “I don’t see anyone else disagreeing.”

“I just wanna’ car surf.” Drel admitted, starting up the ladder after her.

“Why did I have to get put in a unit with a bunch of thrillseekers?” Byk complained to no one in particular.

Myslitel was the third to start climbing. “Give it up, Byk. The more sense you make, the more insane we get. First the train and now this? I think we’re intentionally trying to fail the mission, but I can’t say it isn’t fun.”

Byk gave another tired sigh, grabbing Krovo to hoist her up towards the ladder like a child. While the assistance wasn’t called for nor needed, she wanted Krovo ahead of her and always in purview for obvious reasons. “You can tell Madam Molotok how much fun we’ve been having from a jail cell tomorrow. We’ve only been here for three days and you children are treating it like a vacation.”

“Instructor Usoro and the Director gave us alter-egos for a reason. This is a very Gypsy thing we’re about to do right now. Plus it’s not like we’re veteran Special Forces or anything, stealing a car should be child’s play,” Drel said, smugly.

They reached the roof and carefully plodded towards the edge, making sure to get low as they approached the canopy hanging over the pumps. Myslitel got eyes on the Winnebago just before it pulled out of sight. They could hear a brief conversation between the Gas Jockey and what seemed like a pair of voices, one female, one male.

“Welcome to Ruby’s! just a refill or a full-servicing?”

“We’re about to take a trip down to Woosamonsa Ridge, wanna’ make sure the are-vee is tip-top.” A feminine voice gushed.

“Woosamonsa? That’s just off thirty-one isn’t it?” The Station Jockey asked.

“Sure is. Good little hiking trails up there, lots of good fresh Spring air, too.” A masculine voice confirmed. “We’d usually head down sooner but last Winter was a little longer than expected.”

“That New Jersey countryside is hard to beat, me and the wife’ll have to think about following you down there next year.”

The trio laughed boisterously before the Gas Jockey got to work filling the tank and wiping the windshield down. They could faintly hear the glug of the nozzle sending fuel into the Winnebago. A full meter for when they commandeered the vehicle.

After routine check and maintenance the Gas Jockey’s retail voice returned. “Windows wiped, pressure looks good and your oil is at appropriate levels. Anything else?”

“No, that’ll be all, thank you so much!” The wife smiled audibly.

“On your way back up stop by, we’ll make sure there aren’t any squirrels stuck in the drive shaft!” Another fit of laughter marked their departure.

Meduza got them ready at the edge. This landing would have to be as soft as possible so as not to arouse suspicion in the couple. They sat on the extreme of the canopy, feet dangling. The engine growled to life and the tires cracked against asphalt. The flat top of the motorhome appeared below. They held for a half second and then Meduza gave the signal to jump. Bheka slipped off and onto the ceiling, immediately falling to their sides and stomachs as the RV picked up speed. The noise was minimized by the other cars on the street, the loud swing music and the din of chatting patrons. A few souls saw and a few others tried to bring it to the couple’s attention, but they were unsuccessful.

The wind picked up as the couple got out on the road heading south away from Princeton. The darkness helped hide their presence on the mostly white motorhome, as well as the height of the vehicle. A metal bar ran around the tail end of the roof, providing an unintentional safety net for the Gypsy stowaways. If there was one thing the Gas Jockey got right, it was the beauty of the New Jersey countryside. American countryside was less wild than Russian countryside - more farmland, more farmsteads, more infrastructure, more topography. Russia was a flat steppe from the western border all the way to the Ural Mountains, or thereabouts. The grass on the steppe was of a yellowish hue this time of year, but in New Jersey it took on a darker sage color. The rolling foothills and liberal change in elevation was welcome.

Meduza had planned to ride along until they stopped but it appeared Anton had other plans. The whistling wind upset the little boy, starting him balling before Myslitel could get things under control. The couple downstairs continued for a while, but the constant crying of a child they didn't have was bound to raise alarms sooner or later.

Meduza cursed, drawing her pistol from Alyuusha’s blankets. “Drel, when they stop, see if you can get in through that window at the back; Byk, you’re with me. Krovo, stay here and keep an eye on the road.”

“What?” Krovo spat.

“Don’t fucking argue with me, Krovo. Just sit this one out - stay on the roof and watch our ass. That’s an order.” Meduza shot Krovo a glare. The car was slowing and she didn’t have time nor care for an argument.

Krovo’s lip notched like a rabid canine restraining the urge to attack. Her eyes remained locked with Meduza’s until the vehicle stopped. She conceded this battle, pulling her chin away to focus down the road. Nothing came from north or south, at least not now.

The engine ran as the side door on the right flank of the vehicle swung open. Anton was still crying when a casually dressed Yordle stepped onto the side of the road, his bright orange-red eyes looking up in confusion. Before he could register what was going on a pair of figures descended on him, knocking him to the ground. He screamed in surprise, guarding his face from further attack. Byk wasted no time flipping the Yordle onto his stomach, eyes towards the ground.

Meduza moved into the Winnebago to secure the wife, gun ready. She met the cowering Yordle just around the corner hugging against the fridge door. “P-Please don’t hurt my husband!! Please!”

“Shut the fuck up! Eyes down, on your knees!” Meduza wore her best American accent, securing the wife by her collar to put her down on her knees. “Look at me and I paint this are-vee with your brain matter!”

“Oh, god! Oh, GOD-- I’m s-so-sorry, don’t hurt us, please god!” The wife shakily complied, falling to her knees - face pressed against the refrigerator door.

“Hey! Hey!! Leave my wife alone, god damnit! If it’s money you want we can give you that! Everything in my wallet, it’s yours! Just leave her the fuck alone!!” Her Husband declared.

Byk brought the bottom of her shoe to the back of his head, forcing his face into the dirt. “Shut your mouth, tough guy. We don’t want your money.” Her American accent was less practiced but passable.

Drel had already made her way in through one of several open windows, her own AutoMag drawn. The keys were still in the transmission but she patted the wife down anyway to make sure there wasn’t a spare hidden anywhere. Then she shuffled past to clear the husband of any weapons or items of import. Upon opening his wallet she found a hundred dollars in cash along with an ID. Harold Gallagher was his name.

“Actually, Harold. I want your money.” Drel said smugly. She made sure to wipe the wallet down after looting through it. Bheka was nothing if not thorough.

Meduza shoved the wife out of the vehicle, whistling up to Krovo and Myslitel. The two came down and into the Winnebago. Another ugly look and a brushing of shoulders accompanied Krovo’s entry. Meduza shook her head, gesturing for Drel and Byk to join them. “Eyes to the dirt, lady.”

Once everyone was aboard Meduza leapt onto the RV and shut the door. Drel punched her foot against the pedal, launching them down the road. The couple remained frozen for nearly a half minute afterwards. Drel laughed and her laughter became contagious, spreading first to Myslitel and eventually Meduza.

“We fuckin’ made off like bandits!” Drel exclaimed, beating against the steering wheel with her fist from the excitement of it all.

“I can’t believe that worked.” Byk hung her face in her palm, finding a seat in the cabin.

“Fate has shown us time and again that Bheka cannot lose! Wooo!” Myslitel rejoiced with a fist in the air.

Meduza went rooting in the fridge for something appropriate. A six pack of beers revealed itself. She pulled each one from the plastic rings, handing them out then turned to the last can in the pack, pulling it out too. That one was for Baran.

She cracked open the Beer with a smile, her paranoia and worry shelved for the moment. “Long live Bheka.”

Though some were more reluctant than others to join the festivities, whether begrudgingly or willingly, they all echoed Meduza and her sentiment. “Long live Bheka!”