A/N: Sorry for the hiatus, work has me busy something fierce. It was also hard coming off of such a heavy heated chapter. The title of this chapter is from one of my favorite shows, Carnivàle. A haunting line, with an equally intriguing meaning -which can be found below. Hope you enjoy.
Thank you to my viewers, and especially my reviewers: Baffled Queen, Little Yellow Sunflower, wittingcube3, our Guest, Swarosvala, and the countless readers who find their way here. I appreciate every one of your reviews, and knowing people are reading this brings me joy. Thank you!
Ch 15: Every Prophet in His House
It's been a while since I've had a sleepless night. My blood's still running hot. My emotions are getting the better of me and I don't like it. It's not me. This was not battle I was used to fighting. Guerilla warfare of the mind.
I'm mad for a lot of reasons. Knowing my old friends were on the heels of Makarov had me feeling like a sidelined player. I didn't care what it would take -I'd give anything to have a chance to put a bullet through that psychopath's skull. Capricorn's haughty air rubbed me the wrong way and I didn't trust her, yet my hand was forced if I wanted help. I'm mad at Elle because she's patronized me with that whole attitude that she knows best. Like she could ever understand what I've lived through.
I'm upset with myself because I yelled at her. Demonized her. Took her support as a personal attack.
I try to work on an apology before she gets in. I have nothing. Nothing good at least. No poetic words. No persuasive speeches. This would be a job for Whitney. He had a way with language, for better or for worse maybe, but he knew how to connect. Didn't matter if it was man, child, pet or a damn rock.
The thought train is derailed when Elle breaks the threshold of the doorway. I still have nothing. I half expected her to send someone else in. Yet here she was. Armed with a calm look. It's still there though, in her eyes. The 1000 yard stare, the drooping corners of her mouth, a submissive cower in her shoulders.
"Good morning John."
Was there anything good about it?
"Look, Elle-"
"I've got a full schedule for you today, including a physical battery exam. Let's get a move on."
'Physical Battery' is a suiting term for today. I remember a while back Elle mentioning these being weekly. Elle may not have laid a finger on me, but with her behind the wheel of my regiment, she could extort any amount of suffering on me. After our brief blow-out yesterday I'm able to focus that anger into something creative. Call it pulling a Whitney. I push every limit until it feels like everything is either going to snap, or break. I'm checked out by the end of it, but feeling accomplished.
After my trials by fire are done, I hit the shower and I allow myself a few extra minutes to soak. The hot water is short of scalding, but it's barely enough to put a dent in the stiffness that's setting in. I'm definitely going to be a cripple tomorrow. Elle retires me back to my bed when the evening rolls around, where within 10 minutes of our close out procedures, everything is tightening up. I feel feeble as I transpose the final numbers from my test into my journal. It's a huge improvement from the first one.
"How are you feeling after today's test?" It's the first bit of casual conversation she's struck up with me.
"Terrible." I yawn, "But good. It helps put it all in perspective when it's on paper."
"I know. I'm going to have to restructure your PT schedule I had built after today's exposition. I don't want to rush it, but you're far more capable than I expected at this point, especially considering the extent of your initial injuries."
"That's if I make to morning." I already resigned to fact I felt like death. I hear her laugh.
"Don't be so dramatic John. It's not very becoming of you."
"Who said I was being dramatic?"
"You're going to be fine." She's smiling again. And not that 180° smile. A genuine one.
"Listen, Elle, I wanted to apologize, for yesterday…" It's not an eloquent opening but it's a foot in the door. At least she's listening. Still smiling.
"John," she starts with a sigh, and I brace for a double edged remark that never comes.
"I know you're going to have a bad day." She lays her hand just below my collar bone on my chest, giving an encouraging rub.
"Just try to let me know next time. Now, get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
Day 37, Sunday January 22, 2017
There's been a hushed chatter this morning. A certain low buzzing energy that fills the hallways. During my morning PT on the stationary bike, I catch a brief glimpse of what must be causing all the stir from the news cast. By lunch I go directly to Elle. She informs me that the world is finally under a true cease fire. Vladimir Makarov is dead. Apparently all this went down at the Hotel Oasis in the Arabian Peninsula. No details surrounding the event have been released to the public, but I have my suspicions who might have been involved.
The news is bittersweet. I will never deny that the world will be a better place without Makarov. But we need the world to have people like him in it.
He exploited the flaws in our leaderships. Proved that one determined man, hungry for power and driven by his own self desires, could accomplish anything, and it took an entire planet to bring him down to his knees. Even then, he didn't go down without a fight. Makarov was reckless though. A mad dog off his leash. Under the right conditions, he possessed the potential to be a powerful world leader and do right by his countrymen. Instead, the environment he was in nurtured malice and revenge. Makarov was a few hairs shy of being a contemporary Hitler.
The civilian side finds it hard to grasp the genius behind the madness. The horrible admiration derived from people like Makarov. Like the cop and the criminal, it was an ever endless game of cat and mouse. If it weren't for bad guys like Mao, Hussein, Zakhaev, we wouldn't have the military powers we do. Like the Cold War, having silent enemies drove us to arm ourselves. People like Makarov made us actually step up and react. It brought people together, like myself, Price, Ghost, Roach, MacMillan, the members of one-four-one, Delta Force members -even guys like Whitney -the most amazing and skilled individuals that become your family when nothing else is left. The military is a lifestyle, it's not something you can just walk away from easily. And when it's all over, it leaves us abandoned, soldiers without a war, without a purpose. Peace was as foreign to us as civilian life.
War brought out the best in us, and the worst in us.
-Somewhere in Europe-
"You're on time." A male voice lulled from behind the large metal desk in Russian.
"Is that a problem?" countered the newly arrived female, shaking the thick snow from her faded blonde hair.
"You're never on time. You're either early. Or late." He eyed her incrediously in the low light, taking a drag from his cigarette, smoke curling from his nostrils.
"You have a problem with everything I do. You're so suspicious, Yevgeny."
"I get paid to be suspicious."
"As do I." The woman leaned across the desk, plucking the cigarette from the Russian's mouth, snuffing the stub out on the surface.
"You need to quit. They're going to kill you."
"Where were you this week?" Yevgeny pressed, a bit irritated by the wasted cigarette and ignoring the taunt. This time he reached slowly under the desk for something tucked away in the drawer.
"I do have other clients, you know."
"Aren't you worried about any conflicts of interest?" He hesitates to surface what he's pulled from the drawer.
"The less we now about each other, the better. It's not in our business to ask those sort of questions of one another. Rule number two." The female gave pause, her lips parting into a cruel smile, reading the Russian's stoic face. Carefully, Yevgeny placed two short glasses on the desktop, following up with a half consumed bottle of vodka and pulling the cork. Once the two glasses were dispensed he handed one to his counterpart, each taking a sip in resonating silence.
"You were worried." She accused with a sharp, condescending laugh, feeling the Russian's steely gaze fall on her.
"It doesn't matter what I was, Zvezda."
"Or are you jealous?" She took another swig of her drink and finished it off, settling the empty glass back on the desk. His nickname for her was adorable and carried with it an affection he wouldn't admit to. Without asking Yevgeny refilled the empty tumbler, pushing it back across the way.
"You still consorting with that fellow?"
Warily, the woman picked up the drink, swirling its contents for a moment, her eyes watching the light shimmer off the surface.
"You aren't the only Russian in my life. You know how it goes Yevgeny. Every prophet in his house."
"You are poorly misquoted."
"And cheap vodka is best served over ice." the remark was clipped, harsh. "Speaking of ice, how is our queen, now with Makarov out of the picture?"
"Upset. Crying."
"Good."
Yevgeny shot her a hard look. It didn't go unnoticed to his Zvezda.
"She needs to let it out. She's facing enough problems. You should be there with her. Where's Midas on things?"
"Making progress. As always, it takes time to coordinated everything. Expect an update soon."
"And Jericho?" The drink is down in one gulp, clattering back on the metal desktop.
"Eleven hundred strong."
"He does make good on his promises."
"Will you?"
A chilled silence passed between them.
"Don't I always?" Zvezda leaned across the desk, lifting Yevgeny's chin so their eyes could meet in a more friendly fashion, her thumb brushing along his bottom lip.
"And yet you always make me worry about you." Yevgeny finally smiled, an unspoken moment passing between them. He picked her hand off the table, and kissed on the back of it, the flat gold ring catching the light.
A/N: I'm lazy and used an online translator. Thus, Zvezda is supposed to mean "Star" in reference to Capricorn's name.
As for the chapter title, it's a speculative derivative of the verse: Jesus said to them, "A prophet is not without honor except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home."
...which translated means:
Then Jesus told them, "A prophet is honored everywhere except in his own hometown and among his relatives and his own family."
I wanted it to reflect the tensions of the world. In their home countries, these spies might be poorly viewed for the not-so-glamorous work they do, possibly traitors to their native roots. Yet to others, they become hailed heroes for the dirty work their willing to do, and the words they speak. And to me, it carries a sort of, "to each their own" feeling that definitely applies between friends/rivals.