The gusts of wind coming off the helicopter's rotors blew Makarov's scarf in her face and nearly took her hat off, but the doll calmly reached up and held both articles of clothing still. It was cold in the hangar, not at all helped by the brisk winter wind following the helicopter. Makarov was quite warm, however, comfortably wrapped up in her coat and tights and boots. Not that dolls would ever need as much heat as organics did to survive, but it helped ease the discomfort of the cold wind anyway.

To her left, Major Bezpalov stood, cloaked in his old Soviet winter overcoat and ushanka. Despite the gale and chill, the officer was quite unflinching. Makarov observed his attitude (or lack thereof) and filed the memory away for later examination and consideration. He was one of the few humans on base she truly looked up to.

Finally, the helicopter touched down and the rotors began slowing. It was an Mi-26, Soviet Russia's biggest production chopper, and S17 had exactly one. It had rarely been used beforehand thanks to its fuel costs and excessiveness, but Bezpalov and Makarov had jointly mandated its necessity for the purposes of their mission.

The helipad jutted out from the hangar, the sheer face of the mountain dropping down beneath it. Soviets, mused Makarov, once again struck by the design choices of the mountain base. Two more helipads like it were each spaced by thirty meters, and an immense hangar door had been pulled up for the purposes of today's landing. Helicopters were pulled into their own service hangars by dedicated vehicles after they had landed, but the Mi-26 was the only chopper present at the moment.

As Makarov watched, the side door was unlocked and pulled open, and Welrod Mk II jumped down onto the concrete, followed by SVD, PP-19, AS Val, and KSG. The quintet of dolls quickly stepped off the helipad and approached Makarov and Bezpalov. Makarov only glanced once at the CO of the air wing to ascertain that he was keeping the same neutral expression.

"We got your bloody Guideline," Welrod spat.

"Волга," Makarov corrected, confused at her partner's tone.

"I'll call it whatever I goddamn please." Welrod paused and took a moment to breathe. "Did you know there was a field of mines outside of that base, or that the automated turrets would still be up?"

Makarov raised her eyebrows in genuine surprise. "No. Serdyukov made no mention of such defenses in her report."

"Yeah, well, they were there. And we got torn to shreds. At least there weren't many Sangvis, and at least they can't laugh, because I absolutely would've if I'd seen how sorry we were afterwards. How many more of these are there?"

"We know of at least four more sites."

"Smashing. Let me know if there are any defences this time, okay?"

"I certainly shall."

Welrod nodded, mollified. "Major," she said, and walked towards the exit. The next doll to speak was SVD.

"A bit of warning would be appreciated," she said, a bit more lightly than Welrod. Makarov sighed.

"I'll see. The Soviets classified a lot of stuff about their bases here, and sometimes they didn't even bother to make a note of where they mined, or what the remote shutdown code is for the defenses…

"It's fine," said SVD. "Nothing some time in the repair bay won't fix. Besides, you need to offload the helicopter and prep it for the next sortie. We really scored big on this one."

Led by SVD, the four dolls trooped off after Welrod. Makarov stood still for a moment before starting for the chopper, followed by Bezpalov. As she stepped out onto the helipad, the winds got worse, and only with careful steps did she make it to the door without losing her footing.

"Makarov!" greeted the co-pilot as she climbed inside the cabin. He was a ruddy-faced man, surprisingly cheerful for Soviet pilot. Ex-Soviet, Makarov corrected herself..

"Evgeny," she replied, offering him a small upward twitch of the lips. Both he and the pilot grew serious as Bezpalov entered after her, but he merely gestured for them to continue with the post-flight checks.

"The tug is coming out now," he said. "How was the flight? I know you haven't taken her out for a while."

"She was great," replied Grigori, the other pilot. "Held together great for someone as old as she, and with the extra weight."

Makarov turned to see exactly what the extra weight was. Two S-75 Волга "Guideline" missiles were nestled in the cargo area of the helicopter, a crisp white against its green-khaki interior. She knelt by the warhead, placing a hand on its metal cap. Bezpalov merely gave it a glance before resuming his conversation with the pilots.

"Kerr and Makarov say we're going to keep running missions," said Bezpalov. "I'll be shifting you out with Andrei and Volodymyr soon–"

"Oh no, trust us, Major. We can take the extra missions."

"Maybe you can. But I don't want to hear about an accident because you got overconfident, or felt heroic."

"Since when have we let you down?" Evgeny sounded ready, but refused to break his gaze away from the instruments. Makarov straightened up and went to stand by Bezpalov, putting one booted foot up on the raised cockpit floor.

"We don't want you to be so tired you get into an accident," she said. "It'd be a waste of–"

"–your lives, and the dolls in the helicopter," Bezpalov cut her off. "There's no obligation here. Have a smoke, get some rest, eat something. This was your fifth sortie in fourty-eight hours, you need it."

Both pilots nodded, and Bezpalov glanced at Makarov as if to say "Take from that what you will." The doll got the message.

"How many of these did the military make?" Makarov asked as the two stood back in the hangar, watching a group of human technicians transport the two missiles into the base.

"4,600 launchers, many more missiles."

Makarov ran her tongue around her teeth contemplatively. They were porcelain – she was old enough to have porcelain teeth instead of plastic – and nearly perfect imitations of actual human teeth. Or so the IOP engineers said, anyway. Makarov was not particularly well versed in the matter. "We've got a lot of work to do."

"And that's not to say there isn't a Tunguska or something similar in a base out there."

"Don't tempt fate."

Bezpalov snorted. "I'm surprised you'd use such a phrase."

"I picked it up," she said as an excuse, which was true. Makarov was not so foolish as to believe in superstition.

"Hm. Well, despite your worry, we should be just fine. None of your dolls said that Sangvis had gotten close to actually operating the launchers, right?"

My dolls. "Yeah."

"We'll be fine," Bezpalov repeated. "Everything's going according to plan. Don't worry too much, or something will go wrong."

"No plan survives contact with the enemy," Makarov said religiously.

"Hm."

The missiles disappeared into the freight elevator and the immense hangar door began to clatter down as the Mi-26 was pulled towards its servicing bay. Makarov sighed, her breath clouding in the air in front of her. "I need to go follow up with Welrod."

"And I with the pilots." Without another word, the two stepped away from each other and went their separate ways.

Winter was fast approaching, if it hadn't already come. The base had been shut up even more than normal to protect against the bitter wind and snow, and the base's high-up location did nothing to help. At least the dolls were operating in the low-altitude area of the foothills and forests, where the cold wasn't as bad, but there were still heavy parkas by the main entrance for anyone heading outside. Even inside the base, vast portions of it were poorly insulated and heated, so many dolls wore coats whenever they could. Makarov wore winter gear as part of her usual outfit, so she saw little need for extra insulation herself. She considered herself better than the dolls like G41, who wore very little. Not that the Commander sent G41 out on many missions to begin with…

Makarov stepped into the café. It was fairly empty, with most dolls – including Springfield, as it were – away on missions. Kerr and Jericho had recently upped the amount of echelons out patrolling S17, Springfield's Mayflower Team one of them. G36 ran the café in her absence, and a selection of Brahms played over the radio. Makarov ignored the music as her gaze swept about the room. Many dolls came to the café for a respite right after a sortie, even if it was just for a drink.

Welrod was one such individual. The doll was sitting alone at a table, hand around a pint of beer. Makarov approached her quickly, and Welrod scowled.

"Mind if I take a seat?" Makarov asked, already sitting down.

"Yes," muttered Welrod, taking a gulp of her pint.

"I'm sorry about the lack of information."

"S'fine," Welrod replied, resting her head in her chin tiredly. "Nobody got killed, just beat up. Was good practice, I guess." This particular model of Welrod spoke with a London accent, something Makarov found rather fitting for her personality.

"We've got a bit while the helicopter refuels and the crew changes. If you want to skip this sortie…"

"No. I'll keep going," said Welrod, taking another sip of her beer and wiping away the moustache from her lip. "Who'd you send instead?"

"Grizzly, NZ75," Makarov shrugged.

"Right. I'll be there for the next run," Welrod chuckled at Makarov, who begrudgingly offered a smile after some hesitation. "That's good. You should smile more often, reminds me that you're not Kerr."

Makarov stopped smiling.

"Sorry I popped off on you earlier," said Welrod, focusing on the rim of her pint glass. "I was just angry. At the team, at you, at the Soviets, whatever."

"At the team?" Makarov leaned forward. "If you're having problems, I can reassign–"

"No, no, they're fine. They're really good, actually," grinned Welrod. "I wouldn't mind working with them after this mission is over, on a better schedule."

"That's good," said Makarov, genuinely surprised. Welrod usually worked with the best rifle team in S17, so hearing her praise a bunch of second-fiddle dolls was certainly something. Makarov made a mental note to bring it up at the next echelon composition meeting. "I'll let you know when you're sortieing again."

"Yeah. Thanks." Welrod finished her pint with one big swig. "New pilots, you said? I kind of liked Evgeny."

"Bezpalov insisted."

"Fair enough. Tired pilots are dangerous pilots."

Makarov nodded. "Well. See you after it."

"Aye-aye." Welrod saluted with two fingers and turned around to return her glass to the bar. Makarov had left the room by the time Welrod looked behind her.

The doll's next stop was munitions storage, which was where the recovered missiles had been taken. It was not a short ride down in the aged Soviet freight elevator, and Makarov took it alone. Not that she particularly minded: the doll was rather used to doing everything without help or a companion, even in the command center. She often pondered if that was why Kerr liked her – independence. Though cooperation is vital to a good command structure, Makarov reflected, a phrase she had picked up after joining the S17 command team.

The elevator doors squeaked open and Makarov stepped out into the munitions storage warehouse. Though not possessing of as high a ceiling as the IOP factory floor, it was just as expansive. Crate upon crate of weapons filled the floor, high and tight enough that Makarov could only see down the corridor. There were too many rows to count. Though a lot of it was surplus ammunition for the dolls and human divisions, yet more were grenades of all shapes and sizes, missiles or autocannon rounds for the numerous helicopters S17 operated, and the increasing amount of recovered Soviet weaponry awaiting processing.

"Makarov," said the doll emerging from amongst the stacks.

"Vector," replied Makarov.

"Here for the Guidelines? I've already put them back in extra-large storage."

"Yes."

"Follow me."

Makarov liked Vector a great deal. Not only did the doll keep her mouth shut, but she got the job done, did it well, and rarely complained. When she did have something to say, it was always constructive. Makarov held a lot of respect for dolls who kept their composure. She supposed that it was too much to expect it, however. Nearly every doll was preprogrammed, so they couldn't help their personality. Makarov herself was like that–

Vector broke into her thoughts. "How many more of these do you think you'll recover?"

"Er, we're not sure. Four to eight, maybe more."

Vector sighed. "Please let me know. They aren't small, and we aren't equipped to handle them. Not to mention the risk if it explodes…"

Makarov chewed her lip. "Sure. I'll see what I can do."

They came to the missiles now. Another one of the dolls staffing the warehouse was K11, who worked when she was off her echelon shift. Likely for the best she's not around explosives more often, Makarov thought, knowing the doll's tendencies.

"What's the deal?" Vector asked.

"Without the launcher, I don't anticipate it being easy to start the launch and detonation sequence," K11 said. "They'll be safe for the moment, but obviously a proper defusing would be preferred.

"Are the Soviets going to want these?" Vector asked Makarov, who shrugged.

"Maybe. They haven't responded to our questions about it just yet."

"Hm."

"They're real beauties," K11 grinned. "Big, heavy, powerful. Soviets knew what they were doing with this one."

"Don't fall in love," Vector chided, turning to Makarov. "Well, you saw them and got the update. Need anything else?"

"I can't think of anything," Makarov said. "How many more can you take?"

"Two, four. Maybe six, if we arrange them right. Any more, we'll need more space down here. Or to use another storage room – but that would mean getting the missiles there, which could be difficult. Or digging a new one. Or connecting two rooms. Or–"

"I get it," said Makarov, holding up a hand. Vector pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You give me this huge storage room, then load it up with enough ammunition to level this mountain range, and then want me to store a bunch of very, very high-yield anti-aircraft missiles in with it. You'll at least give me the proper space. I'm not too keen on the idea of stacking them."

"I'll see what I can do," Makarov said again. "Is that all?"

"I've got a list." Vector reached for her pocket.

"No, stop. Send it to Serdyukov or Type 81." Makarov crossed her arms. "I don't handle that stuff."

"Pity, I wanted to see your face when you saw how long it was." Vector sounded dead serious. "Incidentally, have you seen AK-47 today?"

"...no, why?"

The bar was crowded. Springfield's café may be run by a doll, for dolls, but the bar – it had no real name – was quite the opposite. Deep in the bowels of the original Soviet installation, the place had originally been a lounge for the staff, but some dolls had found it and, in collaboration with the human mercenaries in S17, converted it into a proper bar. It was one of the rare spots where androids and organics mingled outside of missions. Kerr had never acknowledged it, but no action had ever been taken to shut it down, so it continued running strong. The walls were rough concrete, the tables covered with a bland Soviet pattern, and the bar was plain metal, but the place had a unique atmosphere that many seemed to enjoy.

Makarov was assaulted by a wall of noise as she entered the bar. Every seat was full of either dolls or humans, drinking or eating. Lunchtime, though Makarov, consulting her internal clock. Vector said that AK-47 would be with her echelon, or at the very least some friends. Makarov didn't much like that.

"Makarov!" cheered the doll in question, and Makarov caught sight of the bottle of vodka in her hand. "I thought I'd never see you!"

"We talk every week," said Makarov, wishing it was once every year.

"Not enough." AK-47 staggered across the floor towards Makarov, dolls and Griffin soldiers hastily stepping aside. "Makarov… Макарова!"

"Quit it. Vector said you needed something?"

"Oh, yes," said AK-47, standing up straight and adopting a serious tone. Makarov wondered if she had actually snapped out of her liquor-induced stupor. "About that."

"What is it?"

"Well…" she started, pivoting on her heel and returning to the bar. KS-23 and AVS-36 both sat on stools, somewhat warily watching AK-47. Makarov wondered where the doll's other squadmates were. "There's something I've been noticing on my missions recently."

"Yes?"

"It's really quite the hindrance, I think. And it's been around for a while. But yesterday's patrol was the final straw…"

"Just spit it out!" Makarov hated being held in suspense, she was the one who was supposed to know everything. Not to mention that AK-47 sounded like she actually had some important information.

"Vodka! Kerr's dumb 'no drinking on duty' policy… it just won't do!" AK-47 took another swig out of the vodka bottle and slammed it down on the bar. AVS-36 jumped at the noise. "A-91 and I agree that we need to be drinking for any work to actually get done. How else do we handle the stress?"

"That's enough," said AVS-36 from the bar, standing up unsteadily. AK-47 spun around to face her.

"You can't speak! You only just came out of that office. Maybe you should drink something…"

"You drink for her," sighed Makarov. "Did you only want to see me to petition for drinking while on duty?"

"Absolutely!" grinned AK-47. Makarov stared. "Come on, comrade."

"Don't 'comrade' me," Makarov said angrily. "First, I hear that you need something. Feeling benevolent, I decide to humor you and walk all the way down here, to find you drunk off your ass at–" she checked the time again –"Twelve thirty in the afternoon. Then, you have the audacity to ask me if you can drink more during the one time you're not allowed to."

"You don't have to be such a downer," mumbled AK-47. Makarov rolled her eyes.

"That's your fault. You've got a mission in eighteen hours, so I suggest you quit the bar and get some sleep. Don't ask for me if you don't have an actual problem, you hear?"

Without saying another word, Makarov turned on her heel and marched out of the bar. She had more important things to attend to.