The dank, steam-swollen underbelly of New York was always the same. It had been quite some time since Snipes set foot in a subway tunnel - he preferred his Chevrolet Fleetmaster just fine. The pristine leather interior, custom stick shift - the citrus smell from his fresheners - it was almost hard to imagine commuting down to the station by train like he once used to. Snipes was on the fast track to becoming a Federal Agent - no more local dead end murder cases. The crime turnover rate in Manhattan was pitiful. He wanted to fight real crime, solve real problems, put real offenders behind bars. His Division Headquarters scoffed at the idea of such things, though. America was losing its sense of justice at an unprecedented rate. Money mattered most in today’s United States, the dollar bill came before everything.

Joining him was some green newbie heaped onto the Detective by his betters, he hardly remembered the kid’s name. Lander? Lanther? Something to that effect, and he didn’t care to confirm.

“Just stick close and don’t go making eye contact with nobody, ya’ hear?” His head turned halfway over his shoulder, shooting a stern glance at the boy.

The Yordle accompanying him was a little on the shorter side, dressed in his long coat but without a fedora to hide his slicked back blonde hair and his pitiful chin stubble. His fur was a shade of white-tan and his ears sloped back on either side of his head. He had a rare set of crimson eyes on him and despite his relatively cautious demeanor he didn’t seem intimidated. “Yessir.”

Admittedly the boy didn’t talk much and that was just fine with Snipes. The quieter he was the better. He only needed the newbie for backup in case someone figured they were cops and not businessmen. Never walk into the Lion’s den alone.

He hoped to find more evidence regarding the newly opened case of the murdered street gangers in the subway. He sent off-duty officers earlier this week to see what they could make of things but both came back unsuccessful. He was convinced their failure was due to a lack of finesse, though. Better to try his hand at it one last time before letting things lie.

The first hobo he spotted gave him a suspicious look so he turned away from him quickly in search of someone less wise but perhaps a bit more vigilant. These homeless folk called these stations home for the better part of a few weeks before workers or police forced them to move on - but just like roaches behind the cupboards the moment authority left they came back to nest. One gal tucked off in a corner with a tarped over shopping basket looked like a good place to start. He feigned like he was waiting for the train before meandering over to her.

“Hey, lady…” Snipes glanced about himself as he approached.

A mischievous smile bloomed on her worn visage - dark eyes looking him up and down. By that look alone he could tell what she was peddling. She stroked her hair out as best she could and undid a button on her dirty top. “Lookin’ for some pussy? Twenty bucks and a meal for all this and more.~” The cougar purred.

Snipes had to keep himself from recoiling with disgust, sniffling hard whilst settling his coat correctly on his shoulders. He started to shake his head but thought better of it. “How about thirty dollars for some information instead?”

She was surprised at his offer and even seemed a little thankful she wouldn’t have to be whoring herself out tonight. “What do you want to know?”

“First off: How long you been down here?” Snipes inquired.

The unassuming broad shrugged. “You mean in the subway? A few weeks to a month… Why?”

“You ever seen a group of thugs messing around down here? Six or seven of them with skulls on their jackets, thug types?”

“What are you, a cop?” Her brows furrowed with growing suspicion.

Snipes rolled his eyes and sighed, going into his wallet to brandish the thirty bucks he promised. “You got what I need or what?”

The vagrant looked down at the wad of cash and then back up toward the detective. “Yeah, most of us know 'em. A bunch of hoods from the Bronx, that’s all.”

“Do you know why they came down this way?”

“I don’t know- I always see them roughing up the drug dealers on the platform but they ain’t been back for a couple days.” She folded her arms and scanned the platform for a half-second.

Snipes absorbed the information like a sponge. Perhaps these drug dealers were responsible? “When’s the last time you saw them?” The Detective had half a mind to take out his notepad and start jotting - but considering his environment he abstained.

“They got on the train a couple nights ago headed that way,” and she pointed south towards Brooklyn.

“Anyone else get on with them? Do you know?”

She racked her brain for an answer, scratching at the back of her neck. “Just a bunch of random people… There was some late-night shift workers, a couple homeless folk hopping stations, a group of chicks with babies… Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Agh, damnit!” Snipes cupped his hips with disappointed anger, stamping his heel into the stone platform. Eventually he let it wash over and away from him, handing off the cash. “You’re now a witness in a police investigation, ma’am. Please give your full name and any contact information to my,” Snipes paused, looking back at his newest aid, “Partner here.” Without waiting he stormed out of the rank station, awaiting his company in his Biscayne.

When the kid finally did emerge he tuned up the engine. His aid didn’t seem too happy that Snipes left him back there alone, but he didn’t protest - nor could he. His tone was that of restrained annoyance. “Where to next, Detective?”

“The next station over. We’re on the right track.”

Far from Moscow, east of the Ural mountains and south into the deserts of the Middle East, lie Kazakh-Russia. The shrubland was a rugged medium between the unforgiving steppe and the parched desert. The land was agriculturally untenable in a lot of places, resulting in very few established cities within its borders. Officially the Kazakhs were a part of the Union, but in reality the people had become disillusioned with the powers that be in Moscow. They fell on the very edges of Moscow’s sphere of influence - a military presence remained in the territory - but it was sparse. Russia was a big place, it couldn’t be governed over with an iron fist everywhere. But still the people didn’t revolt.

The Kazakhs were complacent. They were mostly unbothered - too far from the politics of the Republic to worry about its daily goings on. They did what they must and that was enough for the average Yordle. Mak appreciated their lifestyle. She admired it even, so far away from everything - isolated in their section of the world, hardly inclined towards the machinations of their government. It was for this very reason they made good soldiers. Soldiers that would do as they were told, fight with a sense of duty to their homeland. They didn’t fight for Russia, they fought for the Kazakh and in turn lended themselves to Mak in that way. It made no difference.

Now Mak sat in the shadow of heroes amongst the humble folk of a small city called Almaty under a canopy of early autumn trees - her ears full of the rustling leaves and gentle breeze that plucked them from their branches. She looked on at the faces of dead soldiers carved in stone, her mind receding in her skull to a simpler time where the enemies of her nation were more easily distinguished from her allies. Where battles were fought on fields, not in politics. Where her soldiers only had to worry about killing the enemy, dying in battle and when their next meal would come. What terribleness had befallen the world? All cloaks and daggers, mutually assured destruction - no violence of action, clashing armies or strength of arms.

She resigned to reality with a sigh - standing up to stare the foremost statue in the face. A strong-jawed, masculine Yordle looked back at her, one ear shorn from shrapnel - teeth grit as if weathering a storm of gunfire to meet the enemy in close combat with Papasha clasped tightly in his iron grip. She brought her hand to the statue as if caressing the visage of a still living creature, showing the statue gentle compassion. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cold stone - hoping to share in the General’s imagined warmth.

“I saw her again…” Mak spoke to the battle-scarred statue, her voice at a low whisper in the dead of night. “I saw her again and I-... I can see she’s unraveling at the seams- she’s the last of her kind and she’s-...” An immense guilt played on her broken voice as the Premier fought back the urge to ball.

“I’ve made a lot of bad decisions for this country but never in my most horrific nightmares did I imagine I would have to sit across from one at a lavish dinner table, sipping wine and playing politics…” Mak cupped her face, nails digging into her forehead - threatening to peel off every inch of her skin.

“It’s not fair, Ivan… It’s not fair! My conscience is eating me alive and I-I don’t know if I can take it! These secrets should’ve been buried with the bodies but I can’t stop seeing their tortured faces.”

Mak peeked at the statue through the gaps between her fingers, her eyes squinting with a sudden violent and accusatory stare. Her open palms became fists and without a moment’s hesitation she struck the stone visage with knuckle and flesh - a bellow of crying rage spilling out of her that would humble even the sturdiest of soldiers. Rather than her fingers caving to the stone, the stone caved to her fingers. Decently sized chunks of finely sculpted plaster went scattering across the earth - displaced with the same force as a sledgehammer.

Mak looked down at her fist with a cold and knowing glare. “No more secrets.”

America was once again in upheaval, the streets of Washington D.C overflowing with anti-war protesters. Their dismay was palpable even from such a distance. Their shouts and multi-colored peace signs demanded a resolution, however sudden. No more soldiers dying overseas, no more families broken apart, no more sons and daughters suffering for the Government. “Peace in our time!” They chanted. Famous words spoken by a once just as famous Prime Minister of Britain, now relegated to history because of his incompetence.

Drel watched them gather from their high-rise, speculating what a well placed rocket would do to that smattering of people. American blood everywhere, the press would run it in their headlines for weeks, “Terrorist attack in Downtown Washington, hundreds dead or wounded, perpetrators not yet found!” She laughed at the idea, her smile lingering long after she had pushed the thought from her head. The only thing that returned her expression to normal was the constant thumping of a tennis ball on the wall behind her.

“Would you fucking stop that?” Drel squawked. “I can’t even hear myself think!”

Myslitel, only trying to keep herself entertained, shot an annoyed glance towards the Captain - catching the tennis ball without even needing to look it into her hand. “Leave me alone, Drel - I’m not in the mood for your mouth today.”

A toilet flushed in the adjacent room, a door swinging open to reveal Meduza. Her presence alone locked up the chatter. She gave a stern look between the both of them before coming to sit herself on the couch. She turned on the television, producing an image of a sweet-faced news reporter with an outraged crowd of peace-loving hippies behind her. Meduza immediately ran her eyes through the window and down at the crowd, finding the production van wasn’t far off.

She explained the situation as it developed, having to scream over the cohorts of angry protesters. “We’re here just a few blocks from the Capitol on sixth street in Penn Quarter and the crowds that have gathered here are absolutely massive, Jim! Traffic in this region of the city has slowed to a crawl as authorities try to reroute commuters around the demonstrations! So far no luck but we’ll keep you updated!”

“Could you imagine this bullshit flying in Moscow? This is the crown of their country and their people trample over it like it’s nothing.” Drel scoffed, unable to believe how tolerable the United States government was.

“It’s “freedom of speech”, Drel. They can say whatever they want and do whatever they want so long as they aren’t “infringing on others’ rights”.” Meduza used plenty of air quotations and sarcastic speech to convey just how bullshit this whole situation was to her.

“The only right I agree with is the one that lets them all carry guns. In Russia if a law like that existed we would have shootouts in the streets for fun.” Drel jested.

“Like westerns?” Myslitel added, thumping the ball off the wall and back to herself.

The Major and Captain seemed confused, speaking up in unintentional synchronicity. “Westerns?”

“Yeah, you know, cowboys with revolvers and big hats that shoot each other in the streets.” Myslitel explained further - pretending to fan an imaginary six shooter.

“What the fuck are you talking about, ‘Litel?” Meduza droned.

She sighed and extended her hand, fingers beckoning. “Give me the remote.”

Meduza was reluctant at first but eventually conceded the remote - tossing it across the room for Myslitel to catch. She passed Meduza the tennis ball in exchange and the Major snatched it out of the air without issue, sitting on the couch beside herself. She flicked through channels with increasing speeds until she found what she was looking for. There was usually at least one or two on at any given time.

The scene showed a lonely cowboy astride a horse - his figure silhouetted against a setting sun. He rode into town and found himself quickly to a saloon - shoving the doors open to silence the occupants with his presence. Whoever this cowboy was, people knew him. He proceeded to the bar, his spurs jingling until he was before the bartender. He demanded whisky on the rocks - leaning on the bar whilst he waited for his glass to be poured.

A fine bar wench eyed him from a balcony above - fanning her bosom and winking one eye. Without hesitation he took a step forward, struck by her beauty. He was about to go and investigate further when a fist met his nose. One of the larger patrons had hairs to split about him being in town. A short back and forth of words and the whole saloon was thrust into chaos. The fight knocked over one fool’s drink and so he joined in - only to accidentally bump into another patron who also got involved and it kept going like this until the protagonist was sent sailing through a window back out into the muddy street.

“Heh… This is kind of entertaining.” Drel admitted.

Myslitel smirked. “Told you.”

Meduza went into her pocket, fishing for smokes and a lighter. “So, how do you two like it here?”

“The flat? It’s nice to have a place to call our own. All this hunting has us moving from place to place in that cramped-ass van, so…” Drel explained while meandering through the kitchen in search of something to drink.

Kitchen wasn’t the right term for it. More like a kitchenette. Everything was pretty compact, mainly due to the fact the American Government registered the place under an American couple. Two bedrooms, one half-bathroom and bath. Bheka never minded a lack of space, though. In training they were six soldiers to a single trench a lot of the time - sleeping over and between one another. It was an intelligent exercise on Usoro’s part, forcing them to share space so that they would have nothing to do but become comfortable with one another. And in some cases a little too comfortable.

“I meant America.” Meduza reiterated as she struck her cigarette alight, her zippo plinking back into her pocket.

Myslitel scoffed. “Isn’t the answer obvious?”

Meduza shot her a knowing glare, sitting up to stand and pace about the room. “You can cut the bullshit, the Committee isn’t breathing down our necks anymore… And Byk’s not here. I mean- Obviously it’s not like we’re going to skip town and stay here forever, but I’m curious to know what you two really think.”

Myslitel sorted through her hair with her fingers, mentally sorting over their experience in the states and how best she could explain it. Before she could formulate her thoughts into words however, Drel jumped in.

“It’s comfortable. But, I think we really only think that because we’re getting special treatment. Shit wouldn’t be nearly as cozy if we were here of our own accord, y’know? Our perception is skewed.”

“That’s true. We’d probably have to work and stuff.” Myslitel conceded.

“Is that a problem?” Meduza laughed. “We kill people for a living, a half a day’s work in some warehouse isn’t going to be nearly as taxing.”

Both Myslitel and Drel smiled at that. It was once again sobering to think about what a life in America would entail. What jobs would they work? What hobbies would they have? Completely unrealistic but curious to speculate on.

“But it’s fucking boring,” Drel retorted, “What jobs in America demand even a fraction of the energy we use everyday? We’d be out of this shithole in less than a month.”

Meduza nodded, conceding that fact, her finger prodding the air as if a new idea just popped into her head. “You know, Baran and I were talking about it one night in the Sinai- He mentioned some group called WatchGuard International, a bunch of Ex-British Special Forces who are like the modern day equivalent of Mercenaries. They called themselves a Private Military Company. Countries and businesses buy their services for all kinds of things.”

Drel appeared confused. “Okay?”

“She’s saying after this is all over we might want to think about becoming mercenaries.” Myslitel clarified, tossing her tennis ball at the Captain as punishment for her stupidity.

The ball landed center mass just as she was about to crack open a bottle of pop. “Hey, fuck off!” She stooped down to grab it. By the time she was coming up and loading back to throw it, Myslitel had scampered into the hallway out of sight. “Fuckin’ bitch…”

Meduza’s lips pursed in an amused fashion, stepping past Drel to grab a soda, too. It was overly sweet and carbonated garbage but it was easy to acquire down at the general store and made them look more American by buying it.

“Are you really thinking about leaving the military?” Drel leaned against the cabinet just beside the fridge, sipping at her pop.

“The major powers have been doing this stupid song and dance for too many years with their proxy wars and their espionage, the Committee already treats us like we’re Mercenaries, going here and there to solve ex, why and zee problems for their own interests. I signed up to be an elite soldier, not an errand girl.”

Drel shook her head in disbelief. “You sound like a capitalist.”

Meduza smirked, the kind of smirk that told Drel she wasn’t getting the point. “Fuck the money, Drel. I want what’s best for us. Everyday more and more I see what we’re capable of. We’re capable of fighting wars at the highest levels and infiltrating foreign powers - standing in front of world leaders, assassinating politicians! We’re better than what we’re made out to be and no one knows that better than you and I! Put a gun in our hands and we can do anything the Committee tells us. The only thing stopping us from doing that ourselves is… Us.”

The Captain was taken aback by the amount of passion Meduza preached with. She was wrong and right about so many things. She didn’t believe Meduza would defect, but she was fast realizing her Major didn’t want to fight for the crimson flag forever. In truth Bheka hadn’t given much thought to their future. Soldiers in general didn’t think much about their future, though. It was an unspoken rule to focus on the here and now so you wouldn’t end up dead or worse, getting one of your comrades killed. Drel had made that mistake already.

Baran’s death really put things into perspective for you, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Meduza said plainly, “Bheka is my family. I would die for my family… But I’m starting to ask myself more and more if I’m really willing to sacrifice us for Russia.”

Mak came storming into the headquarters, her heels crashing against the doctored tile with every assertive step. The cigarette smoke produced a fond haziness she had come to miss. It was time to get back to pulling strings. The staff had arrayed themselves on either side of the hallway, producing salutes as she strode past them. “To your seats!”

They filed along the edges of the hallway into the Control Room, sitting themselves down one by one until all hands were back on station. She climbed to the top of the Control Room, her leather chair sitting warmed and ready for her return. Boris had her coffee prepped and hot, gesturing for her to have her seat.

The Director, having been summoned in advance to meet her before the wall of consoles and screens, gave her a nod - stood off to the side of her station. “Madam Molotok.”

“Director, have all planned operations regarding the United States accelerated, I want that empire toppled within the year.”

The Director nearly choked on his own spit at that, letting out a fit of nervous laughter. “S-Surely you jest, Madam. Some of our plans are predicted to be completed at least a decade from now, there’s no way we could possibl--”

Mak’s deadly serious look told him indeed it was no sick joke. “There is a very serious threat to national security operating within the United States as we speak that could ruin everything we have built thus far. I’m not willing to risk our assured future of globalization on the off chance I’m wrong.”

More confused laughter was issued forth from the Director. “O-Operating? Is this threat a person?”

“It’s the worst mistake of my life.”

While most of Bheka had been enjoying a lazy evening in their flat, Byk and Krovo decided to play some soccer… On the roof. The highrise was constantly being stroked by cool wind. It was a relaxing place to be in the midst of the chaos on the streets below. The roof was relatively clear of obstacles save a few air conditioning units. They had smashed the padlock to gain access to it and had been passing the ball back and forth for a while. Or attempting to, anyways. Krovo was easily distracted by everything.

She had counted three planes going by and two helicopters. One helicopter was commercial, maybe flying some important business person. The other was a medical helicopter, perhaps escorting a patient to a hospital? All the planes were passenger jets, white with two big engines. Always two big engines. Always two big wings, always two wheels for touchdown, two emergency exit doors…

The soccer ball bounced off her foot as she found herself idle for the fifth time. “O-Oh… Sorry…” She looked over to Byk who seemed both worried and disappointed all at once. “Do you want to go back downstairs?”

Byk shook her head. “No. Let’s keep playing.” She seemed genuine enough. Probably because there was nothing she cared to be doing downstairs, either.

Krovo nodded, scooping the ball onto her foot. She launched it upwards and spiked it towards Byk just before it hit the ground. Byk, rather than returning the ball, stomped it into the roof gravel.

“What are you always thinking about?”

Krovo blinked, blindsided by the sudden question. “Huh?”

“More and more I see you lost in your head. I can tell when you’re having bad flashbacks but this is something different. What are you thinking about?” Byk kicked the ball to one side, her fists tucking into her hoodie pockets.

“I-... I don’t know…” Krovo murmured.

“You know.” Byk retorted. “Tell me.”

“I’m… Counting.”

“Counting?” Byk’s suspicion was blatant. She stepped forward, brows furrowed. “Counting what?”

Krovo didn’t even know how best to answer that. “Everything?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Dima.” Byk began to slowly but surely close the distance, appearing like a bully on the playground, annoyed for not being included in the games.

Krovo didn’t concede ground, not because she wasn’t intimidated, but more so because she couldn’t fathom Byk hurting her in any way. The bull of a Yordle stood before her with emerald eyes fixed down on Krovo. She looked up like a half-spaced drug addict a few too many hits in.

“I’m not.” Krovo said, tugging on her brain nervously, her ears folding against her head.

Byk leaned close, narrowing her eyes. “What are you counting?”

“I- I count everything. I count the freckles on Myslitel’s face, I count the teeth in your mouth, I count the tiles on the floor, I count the number of times the street lights turn red, I count your heartbeats when I lie my head against your chest, I count the jets that go by, I count the signs of the protestors. And I remember. Every. Number.” Krovo tugged a little harder at her braid, niggling her index finger through the binds.

“Why?”

“I don’t know!” Dima shouted, turning away from Byk with a frustrated exhale.

A hand found Krovo’s shoulder, Byk spinning her around to focus her attention where it belonged. “Krovo… I’ve been watching you eat yourself alive for weeks! I said I would always be there for you and I will, but that terrible war ended a long time ago! I know you can be unhinged sometimes but clearly something’s making your condition worse, we can’t even kick the ball around anymore. Why won’t you tell me what’s got you like this?”

Krovo knocked aside her lover’s palm with an arm, stepping back as if wounded. “You… You think I’m lying?”

“I didn’t say that, I--” Byk began, trying to take Krovo in her arms - only to be shoved back again.

“You didn’t have to say it. I know you meant it.” Her tone took a turn for the dire, the hurt and betrayal stinging like the aftertaste of hard liquor.

Tears swelled in Byk’s eyes, the usually unemotional behemoth reduced to an emotional wreck - her arms outstretched hoping Krovo would hold her. Krovo took a step in the opposite direction, looking Byk up and down with distant worry. Vechiya’s tears began to fall in earnest, running down her cheeks at a trickle and then a torrent.

“What, you think it’s easy? You think it’s easy to watch the person you love disintegrate in front of you every day? I love you, Dima, and I will always be there for you but this not knowing is fucking killing me! I’ve never felt so powerless in my life! I just want to help you feel better, I want us to be able to laugh together again, I want to kick the ball and watch the sunset together like we used to, Dima! I miss you, please come back to me!!”

Krovo had never seen Byk cry before. Her heart stormed in her chest, the emotional outpouring was tugging at every string in her body. She fought back the urge to cry herself, her mind naturally focusing on something else to keep from crashing to her knees. A pit in her stomach formed, sucking violently at all the goodness in her body until she was left feeling like a husk of herself. She cared so deeply, but she couldn’t focus properly on the situation. Something was distracting her. Why was it distracting her?! All she wanted to do was love Vechiya. Why? Why?! WHY?!

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven… Twenty… Twenty… Twenty… Twenty… Eight comes after seven, thirty-eight comes after thirty-seven… What comes after twenty-seven tears?

Krovo’s eyes glazed over, her nose spontaneously running red with blood. She lurched forward, giving Byk hope that she was about to embrace the Yordle - but her balance shifted the opposite way and before she could even register what happened she was on her back, looking up at the orange-blue sky and the setting sun on the horizon. Vechiya came into view, crashing to the ground beside her - face still wet with tears.

“I see numbers in your tears.”

“What?!?! Fuck the numbers, Dima! You’re the first and last number I care about!”

First. Last. Number…

One, twenty-eight…

One through twenty-eight…

Two, plus three, plus two, plus three, plus eight, plus eight, plus two… Equals twenty-eight…

Addition… Mathematics…

Twenty-eight…

Twenty-eight…

Twenty-eight…

Twenty-eight…

The first and the last number of one through twenty-eight.

First. Last.

Alpha…

Omega…