After Robert F. Kennedy’s assassination less than a decade ago the pot had thoroughly been stirred, the media and conspiracy theorists were fast becoming aware that the United States government could theoretically have its hand in any pie it desired. The media; Nickelson’s greatest double-edged sword. On one hand Republican reporting was a priceless asset for swaying public perception, but on the opposite end Democratic news could and already had tarnished his reputation. No one was safe from the wide sweeping accusations and speculations of the media, it was a war of hearts and minds - the words written in the New York Times, Washington Post and San Francisco Chronicles doubling as ammunition that one side of the aisle could fling into the other.

Public perception was never more important than it was in modern day America. Attention and goodwill was a currency with an ever rising stock - the more one could attain the more popular they could become. It was a gateway into wealth, stardom and business opportunities. It was no wonder today’s politicians placed such great importance on the Press. To lose in the public eye was to have one’s career sent into a death spiral, every grasping attempt either helping to slow the descent or leave one plummeting twice as fast. Normal everyday Americans had night terrors of losing their jobs, their loved ones, their freedom. Politicians were kept awake at night to the thoughts of being publicly embarrassed - their deepest and darkest secrets laid bare on the Wall Street Journal for all to read.

Nickelson shared the same fears as most politicians, even more exacerbated by the fact he was the standing President of the United States. A few specs of dirt could put an end to his tenure with swift and punishing ease. But Americans were nothing if not gamblers. Nickelson had grand ambitions for this country - in truth he aspired to rule his country for longer than two terms. His wisdom was needed in America - between foreign affairs and internal turmoil the country couldn’t afford a weak leader. Weakness would only breed more incompetence at lower levels - rotting the structure from the highest seats in the cabinet all the way down to the Congressmen and the individuals at a State level. This could not be allowed to happen.

Nickelson was a strange breed of American, willing to stoop as low as he needed to in order to do what was right, or at least what he thought was right. He hoped that the American people would understand his decisions and sacrifices should they become public knowledge, but he wasn’t willing to risk his grandiose blueprint on the halfway hope that the truth would be well received. In fact, the logical half of his brain knew it wouldn’t. Americans, just like the British, the Canadians, the French and even the Australians - were too privileged to ever fully grasp the immoral deeds done in the name of freedom. If only they knew the secret dealings that went on behind the curtains; They would be appalled. Nickelson himself was shocked by many things upon entering the Oval Office. The knowledge he was now privy to could insight panic and riots - and this information was barely scratching the surface of a massive, unsavory iceberg.

This deal with the Russians was a drop in the bucket, a truth he placed just under the surface of the frigid water. America was structured in many layers of filth - some more obvious than others. Theorists had already stroked the nail on the head with Robert F. Kennedy. His death was no coincidence and their suspicions of CIA involvement were mostly correct. Mostly. While he admired the Premier’s ambitions for unity he knew there was bullshit on some parts of that equation. He couldn’t possibly know what she truly wanted and what was a veiled deception, so better not to fully indulge in her fantasies.

Nickelson’s pen had trailed off the page in his deep thought, ink running across onto another page far less important than the one he had in front of him. A sobering sniffle brought him back into focus just in time to see the double doors of the Oval Office swinging open, eyes leveled on that of the dictator’s within a few seconds of acknowledging her presence. Mak paused to take a brief look about the room, her entourage breaking off to remain against the farthest wall. In behind them came a camera crew. It was a formal photo opportunity to show Mak had been on American soil discussing the de-escalation of Russian and American involvement in Vietnam.

“Premier.” He addressed her with a business-casual smile, getting up out of his seat and around the broad desk to extend his hand.

“President.” Mak replied, taking his hand in her own for a brief but firm handshake.

Cameras flashed to capture the moment, their friendly faces worn for the cameras only. “On your way back to Russia, then, Miss Molotok?”

“Yes - I am, the dinner was most enjoyable - thank you for your hospitality, Richard.” The inclusion of his first name was most certainly a sly dig, one followed by a can-do-no-wrong smirk that was photographed on their way back towards the door.

In truth the dinner was a borderline disastrous affair. The clashing of ideologies had only served to flare tensions between the two leaders. The world class food was consumed over back and forth debates about how global politics would be better under either respective political system. And though both sides were abrasive - Mak did admit openly that she hadn’t been politically challenged like that in more than fifteen years - finding it refreshing to hear counter-arguments to her absolute opinions.

Nickelson gave a faux laugh as he brought a hand around her shoulder. “I didn’t know we were on a first name basis, Mak.”

Mak subtly cringed from the physical contact just as Nickelson assumed he would, “Well after last night’s conversation it only seemed appropriate.”

The President shook his head in amusement, more so from her reaction to touch than her reply. He turned to the cameras afterward with a gesture towards the Premier, as if displaying her like a Communist medallion to be looked at and adored. Then he concluded their photo-op with another handshake.

“Farewell, President Nickelson.”

“Thank you for the visit and safe travels on your flight back…” Mak departed with the cameras and her own entourage of Russian delegates, guards and assistants following after - a sigh falling from Nickelson’s mouth as a firm hand pressed the doors shut. “Ya’ Commie bitch.”

About a week before…

A choice scene lay before the detective. A sleeping bed of decommissioned and dormant subway cars stretched like lines of texts across the West End Line Yard. This could’ve been the sight of a murder in its own right with how the eeire morning dew clouded the horizon. As usual the police department graveyard shift regulars were already on the scene and waiting to be relieved by the bright and early boys while their experts and forensic teams went about collecting evidence cleanly and efficiently. The New York Police Department definitely didn’t deploy their finest officers for protection detail on this one. The two Yordles who stood guard were two belt loops overweight and too tired to keep both eyes open at once.

He took one last pull from his cigarette before stamping it into the gravel beneath his heel. A hand settled his fedora comfortably on his head as he strode up to the two officers, practically shocking them into attention. Detective Snipes was a taller than average Yordle with a dusty-gray coat of thick fur and cerulean blue eyes to contrast the lack of color. He was stern faced, a detective about his business and nothing more or less than that. A real no-nonsense type with a disdain for criminals and an even bigger bone to pick with lofty fools who wielded their powers wrongfully.

“Detective Snipes,” One declared with a sobering cough, ears falling back against his head in a guilty manner, “Forensics is already inside.”

He kissed his teeth with a rolling pair of eyes. “No shit sherlock,” his smooth and gravelly voice grumbled low with blatant disgust for the two stereotypically fat and lazy beat cops, “Gimme’ your report.”

“R-Right… We were uh-... Given the call late last night. The conductor of the midnight train from the Lexington Avenue Express made a call to the station about a pretty gruesome murder scene on his sixth car. We grabbed his statement and he says he heard gunshots but didn’t investigate for fear of his life. He didn’t see anyone come in or out but he believes the killings took place on his way down from the Bronx to Lower Manhattan. We were thinking anywhere between the Financial District up to Midtown Manhattan?”

Snipes produced his notepad, jotting all this down. “What’s his name?” He grimaced as his pen failed to produce ink on the paper, stuffing it back into his pocket to produce a backup.

“Esteban Rodriguez, middle-aged, lives in Brooklyn, fifteen-ninety-five Pacific Street near Saint John’s Park with a wife and two daughters; No criminal record.”

“Alright…” He stuffed his notepad back into his long-coat’s inner pocket. “Have the Lexington Avenue Express’ travel documents and its daily route through the Tri-state area on my desk by this afternoon… And get some god-damn coffee here while you’re at it. It’s gonna’ be a long day.”

“Would you like a foot massage with that, sir?” One cop jested, a shit-eating grin following his “clever” statement. Nevertheless he complied, marching off without need for further provocation.

The detective finally found himself immersed in the crime scene and it was much more brutal than he could’ve imagined. His eyes fell on his Senior-Analyst; Anya, firstly and his Forensics Photographer; Anna, second. To the untrained eye one might think their vision doubled staring at the two copies of one another - but no, the two Yordles were identical twins, both possessed of emerald eyes, orange-white skin and stout, canine-esque pointed ears. The only notable physical feature that distinguished them was the wedding ring on Anna’s finger and the brighter smile Anya possessed over her sister.

“Hello, ladies…” Snipes scanned the crime scene with an air of revulsion at the sheer violence of it all. “What have you made of it so far?”

“Morning detective,” they said in unflinching unison.

Anya was more than happy to begin the brief, her tone that much more spirited than her sisters despite the grizzly muder she surveyed. “This is what’s left of our seven men and boys from the Savage Skulls street gang! From their paraphernalia and personal belongings it seems they’re based in the Bronx - which makes sense considering the conductor’s statement says he was working his way south from there. Still no idea why they were on the midnight train, though.”

“I see bullet wounds but no markers, we got some missing casings?” Snipes inquired, his notepad coming out as swiftly as he’d tucked it away just a minute ago. The nearest body to him had three bullet wounds, one to the knee, one to the stomach and a killshot to the head.

Anna snapped a photograph of the sixth corpse in the car before following that picture with another of the cracked glass on the connecting door. Her tone was much more even, logical and far less enthused about her work than her counterpart. “None at all, actually. Our killers were quite thorough, dare I say professional. They collected all the weapons used in the scuffle and even dug the bullets out of the wounds. We found trace amounts of fabric in two of the three, the third was a through and through, though. We’re sending what we gathered back to the lab but it’s unlikely we’ll find anything of definitive value, but there is one thing...”

Anna knelt down beside the shot Yordle - tracing the diameter of the wound with her gloved index finger. “This kind of damage isn’t typical of any handgun caliber round we’ve seen, we think this was a rifle round or something in between.”

Snipes took a step back to imagine the scene as it might’ve played out. Clearly the gang had entered the car from the nearest door, likely intending to confront the opposition and perhaps cut them off. Whoever did this was of nearly equal numbers and strength, but how was it that only one of the seven got fired on? Was it a melee until someone on either side decided to pull a weapon? Or maybe it was an after the fact execution? This had the makings of a rival gang confrontation if the near three dozen stab wounds on the poor Yordle by the window wasn’t indication enough.

“We’ll have the rest of the team come in and scan for residue. Have you eye-dee’d any of these sorry bastards yet?”

“Just one!” Anya chirped. “All of them were either too young to have identification or never cared to get properly registered… Except… For this one…” Anya produced a plastic baggie with an open wallet displaying a driver’s license with the name “ James Gardener.” He was a few years beyond graduation and a Bronx native, but other than that there was nothing remarkable about him. “He’s one of the older ones. Maybe a leader?”

Snipes was happy to have at least one lead he could chase after. More reasons to get away from the office. “And we have no witnesses?”

Anna scoffed. “The conductor made sure to hit every stop on his route before investigating the commotion, anyone who was on the train at the time of the killings is long gone.”

Snipes gave a ragged sigh in reply, reaching into his jacket pocket to summon a fresh cigarette and lighter - putting it to the flame with a clink of his zippo. “Great. This is just fan-fucking-tastic - a pile of delinquent corpses and only one concrete lead to go off.”

“So… What are you thinking?” Anna closed on the detective, looking over his shoulder at the carcass he squatted above.

“Clearly we’re dealing with Mafia or worse. Rifle caliber rounds, no casings, no witnesses - maybe they’ve even got military experience. Sometimes these smaller gangs get mixed up with bigger fish and end up blowing a job while pissing somebody important off in the process. The big man in charge sends a hit squad, the kids in over their head get whacked for their incompetence - chalk it all up to a criminal-on-criminal, wash our hands of it and move on to the next case.” Snipes worked the scenario from every angle in his head, striding about the bloodbath as he receded further into his own mind.

“Buuuuut?” Anya leaned in, knowing he wasn’t satisfied with his own answer.

“I don’t know… Just doesn’t feel right to me. If you have a rifle why not ice these punks the moment you spot 'em’? Especially if these are orders from some mafioso. This guy here got it the worst,” Snipes gestured to the Yordle with his chest poked full of holes, “Did he mean something to someone? Maybe I’m over thinkin’ this shit but the pieces aren’t fallin’ into place properly.”

Anna snapped her gloves off and gave the Detective a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “No worries, Detective. Once we get it all back to the station we can start building a bigger picture.”

Seattle, Washington

2020 Hours, August 11th, Third Era

“Names Edwin Guthman, ex-military, served in North Africa and Italy before the ceasefire. According to his dossier he was awarded the Purple Heart. Now he works as a reporter for the Los Angeles Times but has experience as a reporter with several other newspapers, including the Seattle Times. In short, he’s pretty successful.”

Myslitel brought a zippo to the bottom of the document, catching it alight. All mission critical intel was to be memorized and burned. The most pertinent information was already consumed a dozen times over. Places he frequented, next-of-kin, business contacts, residences. No stone was left unturned in the pursuit of their mark. Normally Edwin would be in Los Angeles but for about a month he intended to take a leave of absence to visit his sickly Mother. From the hospital records they managed to obtain with the help of their Secret Service information brokers she was battling Cancer and had only a few more days to live, give or take.

“Mmhm. He’s Ex-military. No scaring this one.” Meduza glanced over her shoulder into the back of the van.

A suite of surveillance equipment greeted her. Wires neatly ran along wood paneling, plugging into sockets that powered colored monitors, analog soundboards, videocassette recorders, microphones, cameras, radios, scanners, printers, air conditioning outlets and even cramped living accommodations towards the back. Two tall, swiveling desk chairs allowed two operators to interface with the mass of equipment while a small door led to the front of the vehicle where the inconspicuous driver and passenger cabin could be isolated from the rest of the van.

The technology wasn’t exactly state of the art but it was more than they bargained for. It seemed the President had a lot riding on the success of their mission. Bheka couldn’t complain. The complex interior was masked by a very inconspicuous exterior. All of it was housed in a Dodge Tradesman Strong Box with an extended cab, the back of which had blackout one-way windows, providing maximum concealment and privacy. The black-silver vehicle posed as a band van, belonging to an unidentified group of musicians going by the name of “Centennial”, chasing the Indie Rock trend with their evolution of the genre now widely known as Post-Rock.

The band had several official mentions on the listings sections of newspapers across the country with excerpts promoting small concerts at local venues by the group, which were always strangely canceled because of poor attendance or the performers being late. The result was a band without an audience of nameless and faceless upstarts touring the country trying to make a name for themselves. No one would ever approach the van because no one had ever heard any of their music and no one would ever hear any of their music because there was none to consume, but the band still had a traceable footprint that could deflect suspicion should curiosity arise. It was a genius idea really, Meduza would have to start giving these Americans more credit.

Their van came with authentic and appropriate props just in case. Guitars, boom arms for microphones, drum kits and cymbals. The whole suite could easily convert itself into a passable mobile studio. Myslitel and Drel busied themselves at their chairs - monitoring video feeds that displayed a downtown Seattle hospital from across a busy street. For almost a week Edwin had done nothing but stay by his Mother’s side. They knew the exact room Edwin and his mother resided in. A decent opportunity had yet to present itself. It was likely after her death Edwin would begin funeral arrangements for Miss Guthman.

His file told that his Father had already passed some four years earlier - leaving his Mother to be cared for by his younger Sister. A slight nagging of regret kept playing in the back of Meduza’s mind. What a fucked up situation this guy was in. A veteran with hardly any family left was about to be six feet under less than twenty-four hours after his Mother kicked the bucket. Fuck… A job was a job, though. Her sympathy would do little to get in the way of that fact.

“Hey. I’ve got eyes.” Drel snapped towards Meduza to pull her attention.

Meduza curled out of the driver’s seat and into the back cabin - closing the door behind her. There he was on the live feed, a ring of keys in hand and his cheeks wet with tears. He was about Meduza’s age, burnette-brown fur with black rings around his dark eyes. His ears were ursine and his broad frame showed he kept up with himself physically. Definitely not the type to go out without a fight.

The Major wasted no time heading back up front and then out the driver-side door, slamming it shut behind her. She made her way through the waves of passersby to reach a payphone. Her fingers struck each number and the phone rang once… Twice… Three times…

“God damnit, Krovo… Pick up…”

Meanwhile…

The droning music of the hotel lobby was beginning to grate. Not because it was particularly bad but more because it was too soothing. It allowed Krovo to lose focus, and when she lost focus she’d start to daydream. And when she daydreamed bad things would happen. “Daydream” was too flattering a term, truthfully. They were more like hallucinations, visions or episodes. She didn’t want to call them that because that would give them more power over her. Meduza was becoming increasingly frustrated with her condition. If it got any worse she might be benched, which would only make her “daydreams” worse. Silence, peace and lethargy were her antithesis. It all led back to one thing; Time to think.

Krovo knew she was slipping when the perfectly American desk clerk across the lobby’s eyes began to slant more and more. Asian Yordles could easily be distinguished by their thinner, slanted eyes. It was rare a physical trait was exclusive to a certain race of Yordle. Koreans had more almond shaped eyes that grew thin towards the corner while Chinese had tear-drop shaped eyes that slanted upward. That was the only way she could tell them apart. In Korea they called them “Raskosyye Glaza”; Slant Eyes.

The frontdesk attendant was glancing at her more and more which only served to make the undercover soldier more paranoid. She postured up by the payphone, previously leaning lazily against the wall but now at full attention - a stare of intent directed towards the Yordle opposite her. She knew it wasn’t real but couldn’t dare turn away for fear of being ambushed. That bitch had a pistol just under the counter, or at least that’s what her paranoia was screaming.

“Kill her Krovo, before she gets us first!”

“She’s ten meters away and you’re unarmed, rush her before she can react properly!”

“Take cover, Krovo! Byk is upstairs, she’ll hear the gunshots and come down fast!”

“She’s probably got a radio, she’s making a call for reinforcements right now!!!”

Beads of sweat ran down Krovo’s forehead, eyes widening at all the terrible possibilities. She had to do something, now! Before she could act the attendant looked down into her lap at a weapon Krovo couldn’t see. Shit, she’s reaching! The Lieutenant dashed violently for the bathroom, ramming open the door with her shoulder to throw herself inside - rolling twice over on the ground until she ended up on her belly, eyes shut tightly with the assumption a hail of bullets would careen overhead through the fragile bathroom walls. But they never came.

When Krovo opened her eyes again she was in a bathroom, but not the hotel bathroom. This bathroom was crumbling, the roof blown open with the only illumination coming from rays of dim sunlight flooding in through the shell holes above. The sinks, stalls and mirror’s were a generation older and debris coated the tiled floor. She stood up, her uniform ragged and bloody from weeks of hard fighting. Her Mosin had clattered to the floor so she retrieved it with a mild look of confusion. Her face was caked with soot and dirt. She craved a hot shower and a warm meal, but neither would be afforded to her. Instead Krovo elected to wash her hands of the blood. Blood she knew wouldn’t come off.

She pulled against the faucet, pleasantly surprised to find water still ran through these pipes. Before she could dip her fingers under the stream however, she was confronted. Her hands sprung for her Mosin, training her weapon towards the doorway. A raised hand waved through the threshold before a younger Byk stepped through it, just as wartorn as herself. Suddenly she was totally disinterested. She turned back to the running water, letting her rifle collapse into its sling against her chest.

“Why are you following me?” Krovo asked, her tired voice scratching in her dry throat.

“We’re in the same unit?” Byk replied, confused.

Krovo’s thumbs rubbed viciously at her palms, struggling to wash away the crimson stains. “You’ve been watching me for weeks. You think I didn’t notice?”

Byk was astonished at her answer. Krovo had never so much as glanced in her direction since she laid eyes on the Yordle. She was a lot more aware than she at first seemed. Byk dared to smirk at that, provoking an irritated glare from Krovo. She expected an answer.

“I…” Byk began, unsure of how to proceed without sounding like an idiot. “What’s your name?”

“You… Want to know my name?” Krovo’s hands fell still as her head craned to look at the behemoth of a Yordle. Her emerald eyes were especially striking. No one had ever cared to ask her name before, either. At least not like this. An inexplicable warmth bubbled in her chest all of a sudden, causing her to blink.

“Yeah…”

Krovo looked down at the rising water in the clogged sink, then up to her own cracked reflection and finally back to her company. “It’s… Dima.” She scooped two handfuls of water and splashed it against her face to clear the grime.

Krovo opened her eyes to an unbroken full-wall mirror, an overflowing sink and the sound of a ringing phone just beyond the bathroom. She stepped back from the puddle of water at her feet, shutting the faucet off to scramble out the door.

“Hello?”

A silent sigh of relief left Meduza upon hearing Krovo’s voice. “Hey. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Krovo mustered a somewhat romantic tone but Meduza could tell she wasn’t all there.

“I’ll be there in maybe ten to twenty, might make a couple stops on the way back.” Meduza replied.

“Okay. Love you.” Krovo sighed.

“Love you, too.” Without a moment’s hesitation she hung up the phone and circled back towards the van - keying up the car. The engine rumbled to life and the tires whined as she pulled off into the street in pursuit of Edwin’s navy blue Malibu. The reporter seemed to be in a hurry to get where he was going, honking his horn at the slightest inconvenience or hold up.

Drel opened the access door to the back cabin, kneeling down to reduce her profile beside the Major. “What’d she say?”

“I missed you, too” and “Love you”.” Simple but effective code.

“So the trap is set and we’re in the clear with the staff?” Drel confirmed.

Meduza nodded. “Yup. Now we just have to retrieve the security footage, edit it and put everything back how it was after we’re finished.”

“Looks like he’s not headed back to his nest, though.”

Meduza glanced at Drel through the rear view mirror. “Probably headed to his Sister’s house to check on her. That’s fine, we’ll head to the hotel and wait for him.” The Major took a right where her mark took a left, navigating the busy streets back to the Kimpton Vintage.

The hotel in question was a gorgeous take on modern building methods and the spirit of dense urban architecture with nearly thirty stories all full of the biggest top ten percenters in Seattle. A couple nights cost a fortune, mainly due to its prime real estate being halfway to everything important in Seattle from the museum to the airport and the newly built Space Needle - a marvel of the twentieth century. It stood lording over the entirety of the skyline almost alien in its construction. About two decades ago something like this would’ve surely been from outer-space.

Meduza pulled up about three blocks down. Myslitel elected to stay behind with the van while the Major and her second went about preparing for Edwin’s arrival. There was little they could do until he showed so they decided to grab some coffee at the diner next door while they waited. The barista was a kind young soul, his smile about as big as his ears. He was a tad taken aback when they both ordered their coffees black. They sat down at a booth by the window across from one another, sharing a quiet moment with little conversation or eye contact.

Nothing much could be said after Meduza’s confession and Drel’s revelation. So instead they watched, enjoying the chaotic downtown rush hour fervor of Americans trying to navigate traffic back out into the suburbs from their draining nine-to-fives. A thought occurred in Drel’s head that she’d never thought of until now. What if she was a worker bee in this hive? What if she was some office dweller with a cubicle and a spreadsheet pushing pencils all day? How would she enjoy that? Her first reaction was immediate disgust. But she couldn’t deny the idea was at least interesting to think about. Maybe somewhere out there in another world she was a worker and not a soldier.

Seattle, Washington

2200 Hours, August 11th, Third Era

Edwin had shed the last of his tears on his way back from his Sister’s house, finding her strangely absent in her Mother’s last days. Probably work calling her away. She was a Lawyer, a much more demanding job than Edwin currently held. He entered the revolving door to the Kimpton Hotel, drained of any enthusiasm or energy. All he wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep the pain of loss away. Tomorrow he would have to contact Lake View Cemetery, his Father was laid to rest there and a plot was set aside for his Mother in case she followed.

The Hotel lobby was barren. His dress shoes clacked against the tiled floor, giving a wave to the frontdesk attendant - key in hand. Normally he wouldn’t have hesitated to have food sent up to his room, but he had no appetite. He approached the elevator, practically punching the button that would bring it down to him. It opened to reveal an older Yordle with a full handle-bar mustache who stepped out past him - a nod of respectful greeting accompanying his brief smile. Edwin didn’t smile back.

The elevator doors shut as he stepped in and he pressed his finger to the twenty-third button on the double row. Not even elevator music accompanied him on his way up. Just silence. The door creaked open to an empty, dimly lit hallway. He stumbled along until he found his room number. Four-one-seven… Four-one-seven… There it was. Four-one-seven. His key sunk into the lock with a twist and satisfying click. His shoulders relaxed at finally being in the comfort of his room. The door was locked behind him and he entered his hotel proper. Edwin flicked on a light, loosening his tie and peeling away his jacket just in time to notice a few shapes sitting on the end of his bed.

His brow furrowed and he glanced around himself. Only then did he take notice of the shadow cast on the balcony curtain, lounging in the wooden lawn chair - the glowing end of a cigarette gleaming beyond it.

“Hello? You housekeeping or something?” Edwin asked aloud.

No reply. His paranoia got the best of him. He went towards his brief-case, popping it open to root through his clothes for his piece. A pit formed in his stomach when he couldn’t find it. He stood tall again, gripping the closest thing to a weapon he could find. A broomstick, that would suffice. As he crept closer to the balcony curtains the shapes on the end of his bed manifested into photographs. He froze, gulping hard on his own spit. The unmistakable visage of his baby Sister caught his eye. He snatched the photo up and brought it close. There she was in a dark room, bound and gagged.

Rage boiled over into a scream. “What the HELL DID YOU DO TO HER?!” He stormed towards the curtains, peeling it back to find a formidable female Yordle sitting with a cigarette between her lips. She brought it away from her mouth, exhaling hot smoke. Her emerald eyes turned on him and she stood.

“Relax. She’s fine. But that might not be the case depending on how this conversation goes.” Byk wore her Russian accent plainly.

“Wha-...” Edwin’s blistering rage made it hard to think. Why would someone do this? Who was she? How did she get a hold of his Sister? “What do you want?”

“Nothing special. I just want you to kill yourself.”

“What?!” Edwin nearly stumbled backward at her words.

“You jump off the balcony, your Sister goes free - not a hair on her head harmed.” Byk gestured to the balcony as if it was the most appealing prospect one could advertise.

“Bullshit.” Edwin wasn’t buying that crap.

“Do you really want to risk the only kin you have left in the hopes that I’m lying? Even if you overpower me I have a rifleman trained on your head. So you die and your Sister dies. Or I blow your brains out with your own gun and make it look like a different kind of suicide. Both ways you lose everything. But if you do things my way? She walks.”

Edwin was really contemplating what kind of sick and twisted bastard would want him dead in such a way? Was a bullet not good enough for him? Reasoning with his demise was almost beyond him. But if this Russian was telling the truth, he’d lose his Mother and Ela in one day. All of his family gone? How could he live with that?

“How can I be sure?” His tense exhales calmed as he slowly resigned himself to his fate.

“I am only here on orders. I think it’s quite unfortunate that you find yourself in this situation on the night of your Mother’s death, I wish I didn’t have to do this. But there are forces at play much bigger than ourselves. Your Sister will be safe, but she won’t be here in Seattle any longer. Can’t risk her talking about her kidnapping. You can probably guess why.”

Byk came across as unnervingly sincere. Edwin could read immediately that she was a soldier. He saw shades of himself in her. Do whatever the mission requires, even if you don’t agree with it. She was that kind of soldier.

“...On your soldier’s honor?” The reporter extended a hand out towards her.

She produced her leather gloved hand in return, clasping his palm with a firm shake. “I swear on the crimson flag and the golden sickle.”

“Alright.”

Edwin took a deep breath in, a hand brushing against the billowing curtains as Seattle’s city circuit surged beneath him. His whole life was laid bare before him, from birth to war and peace after that to now this. What had he done to deserve such a fate? He reached out for the banister, gripping it harshly until his knuckles were white. His foot inched up onto the seat of the chair then to the top of the banister. His other foot slowly followed until he was fully standing on the edge of the balcony. His chest crashed with beating blood - the red stuff surging so hard he could hardly hear the noise of Seattle anymore.

“I’ll see you soon, Ma’.”