Disclaimer: Do not own Black Lagoon. A word from the direction of those who do, and this fanfic goes down the drain.
Another Day at the Office
By Moonlith
Dawn broke to the city of Roanapur. It began suddenly as the sun rose from the East, bleeding it's yet pale light over the ocean. With the sun gingerly peering halfway above the skyline and the first rays cast upon the water, which reflected it back to the heavens, the whole horizon was painted for a moment in an ethereal glow of crimson, gold, and azure, all in their soothing shades of pastel. Feebly different forms of life started to shake off the nightly daze. Cicadas and other musical insects commenced their constant singing, whilst the colorful ones spread their brilliantly motley wings and added their own share to the celestial choir. Soon it was greeted with the endless lamentation of the seagulls, and thus the process of awakening was completed on nature's behalf.
But amidst all the serene beauty was something even the almighty sun hesitated to show in board daylight. Slowly yet steadily the light crept onwards, reaching the enormous sculpture that stood as a landmark and a guard for the city beyond it, a statue of Buddha. In it's current place the symbol of peace and virtue was like a cruel joke and a twisted travesty of the city it was standing for. A little crooked and eaten by time, it still beamed the calm that would trick many oblivious travelers into the fallacious belief that the place was a good target for a visit. But perhaps the smile on the statue's face was that of pure wickedness, for the true information it bore. Having stood there for a respectable amount of time it new better, and chose to hid it's secrets behind that sly grin. Past the Buddha the light wormed, bringing to view a couple of green and beautiful hills. And between those innocent formations of nature was a fairway leading to the harbor of the cancerous maggot hole called Roanapur.
In order to maintain at least the most basic level of neutrality, the city could be described as a place with many facets.
First and foremost, it was the home for such a catalogue of different kind of delinquency and felony that one might have a hard time figuring out where to begin the naming. Criminality was in such measures, that one could read out every single form of organized crime out of a dictionary and then recognize them from the street image. Bordellos, Mafia, and other gangs roamed the city and fought for living space. The smuggling of many illegal utilities, guns being one of the most popular ones of them, only served these confrontations to be often as violent as possible. On more individual stage, there were pickpockets and other minor punks lurking behind every corner, often infiltrating with the civilian people. Just to mention a few. Human rights was an alien concept, as prostitution was shameless and as common sight as a tourist in the Canary Islands. Everything was allowed by a corrupt police system, and what could police alone do in the middle of such havoc anyway. People who weren't taking part in the active aspects of felony, such as killing and stealing, were the consumers of questionable commodities. Heartbroken and withered rags, who eagerly answered to the calls of numerous strip bars and hookers. Drunks, who sought their happiness from the bottom of the bottle. Addicts, who made a profitable market for the drug dealers of the neighborhood. All of them had their share in coloring the foul streets of Roanapur.
Secondly, it was a city of pleasure. Extremely guilty and sinful at that, yes, but with the inhabitants of before mentioned sort, such trivialities were not an issue. As inhumane as it may sound, it was, like with so many other affairs, merely a matter of perspective. Or, if unable or unwilling to try to apply to a criminal mind, looking the whole picture with eyes stripped from all moral, ethics, and virtue of a sophisticated civilization was another key to understanding. Fragile people, whether they were sex fiends after the pleasure or lonely souls seeking ease for their emptiness from a brief sensation of proximity, found their satisfaction and comfort in the embrace of the tarts. Dreary masses of drunks and random wanderers found their way to the myriad smoky bars, pubs, and taverns, from where they could get the booze for their heads and, in an event of luck, another of their type for a decent mate to fill the longing of the heart. Shining neon lights loudly screamed of the endless pulse and action of the city, from which eccentric travelers and people on urban vacation got their entertainment. Bitter human wrecks and hounds from previous and lost wars drowned their thirst for killing in the unending gunfights, which occurred in timely fashion. For these people, Roanapur was the Garden of Eden.
But above all, it was simply just another one of those countless of underprivileged and unfortunate corners of the world, who hadn't kept up with the industrial and constantly modernizing society. Hell, having been under the foot of the rich west most of the time, they hadn't even had the chance to begin with. And now it was the rotting nest for the underbelly of human race, and for all the problems it caused. Overwhelming population, famine, and poverty bred hatred, conflicts, and violence, which led back to the starting point. The rat race was that of no end, and one couldn't escape it so easily. Despite all the barren conditions, the sun did shine in Roanapur as well. Actually it did so more, than in most parts of the world. The common habit of connecting sun and happiness has not come out of nowhere, though Roanapur was clearly more short of the latter. During the daytime the streets would get crowded with people, and among the barking of angry people, sounds of gunshots, explosions, and police sirens, could be heard the laughter of children, running around with bare feet, and the happy tunes of the buskers, while endless lines of noodle and other fast food stands oozed their greasy smell and filled the air with delicious scents. The city had a beautiful harbor, where one could gaze at the vast shimmering ocean or feed the seagulls and other birds, who never lost interest in hovering in the air and look for some easy snack. With little actual full-time jobs around, people made living mostly by self-employment, such as selling different sort of goods in the market and street corners. When there would be no customers around, people could yield themselves to siesta almost anytime. This created very relaxing and visceral atmosphere. The city's upper class consisted of the wealthiest and most powerful of gangsters and already retired villains, and together all these people formed their own little society. To them, Roanapur was home.
Now the city was on the brink of waking to yet a new day. Or perhaps 'waking' is a bit inaccurate verb to describe what was happening. It was more of a change in shifts, since the city hadn't in truly slept at all. Upon reaching the buildings and slowly enlightening the dark corers and alleys, the light chase away the creatures of the night and gave way to the butterflies of light. Having lost the blissful darkness of the night, it was finally time for the brothels and bars to close their doors for the day. The workers of dubious virtue of these establishments, being freed for a moment from their uncomfortable duties, either chose to catch some sleep before the next night of business or lit up an early smoke and simply just bask in the morning sun. Some of the homeless and poor folk withdrew further into what was left of the shadows of the alleyways, while the more encouraged ones settled to their usual begging spots. In the numerous blocks of flats all over the city housewives opened the shutters on their windows to let the daylight in and greeted the morning, while salesmen started to put up their gear without any extra rush, looking eagerly towards hopefully another productive day.
The city was built on one large hill, so the streets raked upwards from the harbor. Atop of the hill were the biggest of the buildings, owned mostly by rich corporations and the most well-doing and influential criminal organizations. As the morning had finally entwined the whole fell in it's light, it meant an equal day at work for the bigger policymakers as well. And among them was a certain group going by the name of Hotel Moscow.
------
To the light peeking from the slight gap between curtains and shining to her eyes Balalaika, the head of the Thailand's Russian Mafia branch known as Hotel Moscow, woke.
Her eyes opened slowly yet purposefully. For a brief moment, she chose to lay motionless on her back and gaze at the ceiling, letting the awareness fill her entirely. After the last bits of sleep were haunted away from every corner of her mind and her focus in the state of wake was in one hundred percent, she determined it was time to get up and wasted no time in doing so. Swiftly she pulled the blankets to the side and swinged her legs over the bed to the floor, which was still a bit cool underneath her feet in the aftermath of the night's chill. She didn't let it bother herself, but rather accepted it as a welcome change to the usual distressing heat that the burning sun caused the indoor spaces to bathe in.
Once successfully made it to her feet, she proceeded to drawing back the curtains on the windows, which were on the opposite wall from her bed.
The moment she ripped the curtains aside, the room was invaded by seemingly unrestrained rush of light. The sun had made it well up to the sky, and there were no clouds about it to block any of it's rays. It shone so brightly that the sky just around the sun looked as if it shined just as much as the sun itself, while the remaining sphere was so deep in it's azure that it was almost like an early night sky. Balalaika didn't let the piercing glare trouble herself as her eyes accustomed to the previous dimness of the bedroom soon adjusted to the rapid change.
Unhesitant to the fact she was completely naked, she stayed at the window to observe the city spreading below her, all the way down the hill to the distant harbor. One by one she started to register familiar sounds of the city, as the fierce tooting of the car horns, rattling of different wagons on the stone pavings, loud cries of large ships' chimneys in the harbor, all made their way to her ears, more or less muffled by the shut windows. Absently cursing in her mind for the undisputedly raging heat, she retreated back deeper into the room in fear the idle basking in the sunlight would make her feel drowsy again.
Carefully she made it back to the bed and pulled some of the covers back in their respectable place in a vague intent of making it. However, she knew it was unnecessary, for the maids and butlers of the complex would certainly do it along with every other chore from dust sweeping to ventilating the rooms. Having received proper if not even strict Soviet upbringing, she was every so often irritated that they had so many such humbles fussing around and doing the everyday things she herself could very well do, for her. But that grudge was very extravagant of her, she knew, for she had long since entered the grown up world and was now in charge of commissions so important, that it pretty much rendered tasks like that meaningless.
Balalaika stood upright and commenced to a magnificent whole body stretch. With the loud crackling of her joints and bones and the sudden rush of warmth in her muscles, the remaining traces of sleep were shrugged off from her body as well.
Satisfied she was now fully alert in both body and mind, she started to take in her surroundings. Of course it was not like she was unaware of her own residence, but constant cautiousness was something that decades of either fighting for her life in battlefields of war and criminal underworld or training for it had bent in her backbone.
The bedroom in which she stood was humongous, so much that it would do better justice to call it a chamber. On the same wall with the queen sized bed was the door to the room. The wall across from the door was hallowed completely to a series of large windows, which were yet for the most part covered with majestic curtains reaching from one end of the room to the other, imperial purple by their color. The right wall was occupied with an enormous wardrobe, which didn't leave room for anything else. The left side of the room was where most of the room's commodities were. The wall was dominated by a large shelf unit, which housed a television, stereo equipment, and dozens of dark covered books. Above it on the wall was a single still life painting by an unknown artist. In front of the shelves were items common to any other living room; a table surrounded by three couches. One of them was two-seated, whilst the other two facing each other were much larger. Below these pieces of furniture was the only carpet of the room, a gift Balalaika had received from the main branch of the Russian Mafia when she entered the business. Otherwise the floor was stripped, a dull chess board design being the only factor giving it any sort of nuance. Walls, like everywhere else in the hotel, were dark green. All furniture in the room was made of dark wood, except the couches were covered with army green cushions to fit the walls. From the ceiling hung a single chandelier, which provided only dim light. It wasn't a problem, however, as most of the light would come free of charge from the sun outside. Between the bed and the door was a nightstand holding a small desk lamp, a glass of water, and a handgun. On the same wall with the bed and the nightstand was Balalaika's own personal liquor cabinet, which contained beverages from all over the world, starting from the vodka of her homeland to various whiskies and exotic Arabian wines. Below it was a small cupboard with a sink to support the glasses.
Confirmed that everything was in place, Balalaika started for her wardrobe, enjoying the feel of the warm air in the room on her bare skin. She picked up a pink silky morning gown and proceeded on with her morning routines.
Normally, she would begin her day almost exclusively with a cigar, a commodity she had grown very fond of and could be seen smoking one so often, that it had become like a trademark for her.
But today was different. Strangely Roanapur had been short of violent conflicts as of late. Being deprived of her favorite thrill, she decided to save at least the joy of cigars for as long as she could, and so she decided to deal with other necessities first.
As she opened the door to leave for bathroom, she found herself standing face to face with one of the maids, who was apparently coming to do the usual morning chores in the room. Flabbergasted as the maid was, she didn't fail to quickly yet composedly step aside and make way for Balalaika.
"Good morning, ma'am. Did you sleep well?"
Though Balalaika was the head of the house, she didn't have the habit of treating her subordinates with arrogant insolence. However, she was rarely in the mood of idle small talk or rhetorical questions.
"Well enough. Make sure to be gone by the time I get back" She gave her answer, and didn't stay to hear the maid's monotone reply of obedience but stepped past her without further exchange of words.
In the bathroom, Balalaika walked over to the bathtub and turned on the faucet to fill it with hot water. That done, she went over to the washbasin and cupped water from the tap in her palms. Splashing it over her face with her hands, she remained bent over the sink and took support on it's edges. After a while she lift her gaze to the mirror right in front of her.
The reflection that stared her back was of a face scarred in many senses of the word.
A pair of icy blue eyes, so bright they would look almost turquoise in the right lighting. Eyes, which always aroused terror and panic in the ones falling under their piercing scrutiny that never failed to cause her enemies to succumb to her arrogation. Despite many of her remaining delicate features, such as her proud and graceful nose, clear lines of her lips, and overall sharp forms, passing years had not gone by without leaving their mark. The shadows around her eyes were becoming deeper and sustained, and tiny furrows were starting to build up here and there. But they only served to emphasize her undisputed authority, as the physical evidences of age finally started to catch up with her maturity gained through experiences and hardships many couldn't even imagine having nightmares of. And of course there were her scars to consider. Scars obtained by fighting in horrendous wars and conflicts, in other words, wading from head to toe in the filthiest soil of human nature.
Watching in the mirror reflecting herself and small bits of the room behind her, she saw that her bath was ready.
Balalaika stepped in, and sighed in content as the comforting hot water covered her all the way to the neck. However, she couldn't help scowling from slight discomfort as well, since the old and numerous scars all over her body still itched due to the contact with the water. Soon it subsided to a minor background irritant. She let all her worries go and set her mind at blank, as the dulling relaxation settled over her.
When her body was clean and she felt it was time to pull herself back to reality from the peaceful slumber, she gradually got up and grabbed a white towel hanging from a hook on the wall.
Carefully she dried herself up and scanned through the contents of one of the bathroom's cupboards in search for a perfume. After a moment of contemplating she chose a bottle of Red Moscow and sprayed it a couple of times around her clavicles. It wasn't all that necessary, as gunpowder and smoke, the two scents very familiar to the business she was in, followed her everywhere in her wake, covering all the fancy odors. Even as a person, Balalaika didn't mind smelling like raw sweat and everything else of the before mentioned, for she thought it suited her actually very well. Nevertheless, she reasoned that in a possible event of being in close contact with people of the same rank as she was, a little perfume would address her status much more agreeably.
Done with her tasks in the bathroom, Balalaika strolled back to the bed chamber. It was time for her to get dressed.
Dark tights covering a pair of strong yet slender and delicate legs. Plain and all the same elegant uniform in the color of maroon consisting of a small jacket and mid-length skirt. A huge army green overcoat with badges of honor from her military times, hanging open on her feminine but broad shoulders. Furrowed yet beautiful hands with well-taken and polished fingernails held it in place. Marvellous blonde hair, which flowed like a river of pure gold down her back despite the hair tie she used to keep it in a ponytail high in the back of her head. And the whole figure was carried by a pair of simple black heels.
Standing in front of a large mirror attached to the doors of her closet, Balalaika regarded the sight of herself coldly. After a moment of close studying of her image she gave herself a curt nod of approval. Deciding it was finally time to lit up the first cigar of the day, Balalaika rummaged through her closet in search for the small wooden box she kept her expensive cigarettes in. When she finally had it in her hands, she found it, to her extreme irritation, to be empty. Tossing the box back into the closet, she made an angry mental note to order one of her subordinates to fill the stock, and quickly.
Her mood already darkened by a degree or two, the grim Russian woman left the chamber.
------
Such a lame design..
Balalaika mused as she walked the chess board corridors of the hotel on her way to have breakfast. In a way, they represented her current lifestyle fairly well: a game. Constant gambling, knitting of strategies, watching your opponents moves and then answering with a counter-attack. But the hotel had not been designed with a twinkle in the eye, and unintentional irony was not to Balalaika's personal liking.
Appropriate, but lame.
She reached the double doors leading to one of the complex's dining rooms, and pushed them open
The room was built in very much the same manner as all the others in the hotel, with a few exceptions. There were two double door entries to the room, the one from which Balalaika just emerged and one on the opposite wall from it, on exactly the same spot. On each of them stood a guard firmly armed with an Uzi submachine gun. On the left from the door was a set of windows, and the floor in front of them was occupied with dozens of round tables. Same sort of tables could be found on the left of the opposite entry as well, and the center of the room was reserved for several buffet lines. The ceiling hung quite low, with several small lamps embedded all over into it. The walls were in their usual shade of green, to which Balalaika was slowly starting to get fed up with. Even the furniture was the same dark-lacquered wood. At least the awful chess board floor was out of sight as the floor was covered by one enormous carmine-colored mat with golden embroideries. In the far right of the room was a long cabinet. Besides providing a place with the possibility for smoking, it served as a private corner for meetings and discussions not meant even for the guards' ears.
The maids were at the windows, drawing back their curtains and letting the daylight in, while butlers were setting the tables ready for the first people to have breakfast. For a while everything seemed almost...homelike, though Balalaika made sure not to get lost in the feeling.
Good thing she didn't, for the atmosphere was shattered the moment her presence was notified.
All the servants in the room, be it a maid, butler, or a guard, stiffened, turned to face and greet her in their own way. The guards who shared her military background made their usual salute, while the more civilian attendants bowed deep.
It is good they know their place and live up to it, I suppose...though I wouldn't mind slipping past these dry and time-consuming formalities every once in a while.
A quick dismissive move by Balalaika's hand, and the personnel turned back to their proper duties.
Balalaika stood still and took her time in letting her gaze wander throughout the room. She chose a table from the back next to a window and pointed it to one of the valets while handing him her coat to be taken care of. After that matter was addressed, it was time for her to go and pick up her breakfast.
A diverse set of salads for starters. An omelette with bread and caviar for main course, and Oatmeal Kissel for dessert.
Balalaika began her meal with pleasure. She'd learnt the importance of breakfast long ago, through the words of authority and personal experience, and she savored it. Often she enjoyed eating alone, but as her second-in-command and closest trustee Sergeant Boris walked in, she didn't have anything against enjoying her first meal of the day with him.
Noticing her summoning wave, Boris walked to Balalaika's table. After receiving a gesture suggesting him to take a seat, he did so.
Bypassing all the meaningless personal babble, she cut right to the business and asked for a short presentation on the day's schedule. But when Boris had finished his briefing, Balalaika snorted in frustration.
So it's going to be just another day at the office, eh?
Her appetite suddenly gone, Balalaika finished her breakfast quickly and without another word. Soon she got up from her seat and sighed in surrender.
"We shall begin, then" She said, and the two of them left to collect the rest of the crew to start their day.
------
Sitting in the back seat of one of her organization's dark tinted limos, Balalaika contemplated the streets of Roanapur as they drove on.
A small group of harlots were idly sitting the day away in front of a closed night club. Each of them were being engaged in their own lame activities of very small account. One of them was smoking a cigaret, or rather simply hanging one between her lips as the nicotine stick slowly burnt itself to a tube of grey ash. Another one, a bit on the chubby side by her shape, was nourishing herself with a cup of noodles, casually slurping the food into her mouth. The rest of them were either just sitting or standing, staring into somewhere where no one could reach them. An overweight police officer turned from the corner and stopped by them for a chat.
Reverting her gaze, Balalaika spotted a gang of gamblers. Apparently an argument had arisen, since one of them was held tightly by the collar of his shirt, while the other ones were drawing pocket knives, pistols, and whatever small arms they had with them. Not so far away, a lonely salesman without any real customers entertained himself by casting small articles of food to a stray cat wandering around him. Another merchant ran dangerously close to the Russian cortege while he was chasing a wild goose, which had probably escaped from it's cage. Both of them got nearly driven over, but in the end the merchant caught his prey, and backed away apologetically. The never ending cacophony of sirens, shouts, and the clamor of human masses beat in the background.
Balalaika turned away from the window and leaned back in her seat, letting out a deep sigh.
Ain't no place like home, indeed.
She gave a curt laugh to herself. It surprised her a bit to see how easily she'd grown to use such an expression of the city they currently resided in.
The car had stopped, and Balalaika's thoughts were cut abruptly as the door opened and Boris' deep voice announced:
"We're here."
She stepped out of the car and regarded Rowan "Jackpot" Pigeon's porn cave with mild amusement and disgust.
Inside, the ever-present dull disco music was beating from the stereos, of which one wall of the hall was full of. Some of the walls were in the color of crimson to fit with the bar's atmosphere of carnal desires, while others were misleadingly serene pastel blue, which only served as another twist to the perversity of the place, given the sinful environment. In the middle of the room was a single dance floor with a thin steel bar rising from the center of it. Night after night it would be occupied with different lonely dancers of very little clothing, earning their scarce living by yielding their bare flesh to the hungry eyes of shabby men. Since this time of day wasn't a rush hour for them on that post, they were absorbed in other tasks. In their working outfit of tights, thongs, and a thin transparent jacket, some of them were serving drinks to the few customers, while a couple of selected ones were given the noble mission of keeping close company to the vile owner of the place.
Rowan himself sat comfortably on a large couch. He was resting his arms on the shoulders of two of the house's girls, one for both of his armpits. Although his business wasn't the most glamorous by reputation, personal wealth was written all over him. As if basking in the company of young beautiful women wasn't enough of a proof of success, his appearance shone like the whitest of teeth in a black man's mouth. He had a yellow suit, and the jacket he wore open revealed a pink shirt underneath. Stylish afro haircut stood proudly atop of his head, and a clean cut beard decorated his face. Great sunglasses hid his eyes. With his hands heavy with rings and bracelets, he truly gave an aura similar to a retired Floridan business man.
Every piece of the stark facade was shattered as the Russian entourage entered.
All life and noise with the exception of the music died down, and Rowan himself was on the verge of shrinking into the couch, so fiercely he backed away in his seat at the sight of Balalaika looming in front of him.
"W-what do you want!?" Demanded his high-pitched voice.
"Certainly not your head, as the fear in your voice suggests. Relax, we're here only to collect the shipment you have for us."
It took a moment for her words to sink in, but when they did, it seemed as if Rowan would've exhaled all the worries he could have ever had in his life with a deep sigh of relief. He pushed himself up in his seat and cleared his throat. Just then he noticed the two beautiful yet cheap companions were still by his side, and almost like in a tentative attempt to show modesty for his sudden visitors of extremely high account, he waved them away.
Balalaika regarded this with a hint of frustration and tired amusement. Did the man really think a couple of hookers could make her unease, or that sending them off would make her appreciate his forced politeness? She had often wondered in disgust what was it about men trying to always act modestly in front of a woman they considered at least somewhat equal to themselves, yet shamelessly continue pursue their desires on others, when no one was there to judge them. Instead of pushing the matter further by voicing the needlessness of such courtesy, she settled with just raising her hand in denial and hurrying up the man by taking the focus to the actual matter.
"A shipment of 150 videos in total. I assume you have them ready for us." She put just enough venom in her voice not to leave any guesses if she'd like to chat about the weather first.
"O-oh. Yes, yes indeed. J-just a moment, I'll have one of my men to get them for you right away." He called one of the bartenders to come over, and after the man had been given his task, Rowan turned back to Balalaika:
"Would you like to have something to drink?"
"That won't be necessary." Rowan's hopes of having at least something to occupy him and his guests were shot down in an instant with the answer.
"I-I see."
A short moment of extreme awkwardness in a tense air was suffered, and finally the bartender carrying a huge suitcase returned. After it was handed to Balalaika's men, the Russian lot was ready to leave.
"Well, that was all. Have a nice day Rowan...and you too" She finished, directing her last words to the girls sitting on the couch with Rowan and long forgotten. As they left, a nervous gurgle which could've been interpreted as a laughter escaped from Rowan's throat, while the girls could do nothing but to raise their hands to their mouths in shock.
------
The room was filled with loud, theatrical moans. Together with the dissolute squelches as two bodies continued to slam against each other and the voluptuous panting of the couple, it was as if an orchestra of carnal desires was holding a concert.
Balalaika sat absently on an armchair of black leather in a small cubicle connected to her main office. It was very practical room, designed only to provide the necessary space and equipment for what was going to be done there. The walls were very light and worn green by their color, with nothing decorating them save for a single white noteboard. The biggest and the only noticable item in the room was a single huge desk, occupied with a series of editing devices.
Lazily Balalaika stared at the show opening on the screen before her eyes. After acquiring the films from Rowan it was time for the actual work, which was editing the footage. Naturally she could've gotten anyone from the lower stairs to do the job for her, but a part of her working ethics was to keep a certain connection between herself and the sort of ignoble assignments like the one she was going under at the moment. In the past, through hardships full of pain, sweat, bitter tears, and broken dreams, she'd fought her way to the leading position she was in now. And although many would argue she had the full right to make the most out of it, it didn't suit her honor and pride to completely severe the ties to the work of the gutter. Of course editing porn was not the exact equal to her days in the battlefield, but it made her look like enough of a martyr to add to the respect her fellow comrades felt for her. Besides, she did occasionally gain some odd satisfaction from the entertainment, though granted it was more about the fun she received in laughing over what was in fashion at a time, than the sort of pleasure one usually seeks from such medium.
A beep of her cell phone delivered the merciful interruption to the task at hand. Casually Balalaika pressed the green button and brought the phone to her ear. After the speaker at the other end of the line had finished his message, Balalaika answered with a single "roger" and ended the call. Rising from her seat, Balalaika took her leave and so the mating couple in the television screen was left to enjoy their joining in peace.
Having arrived at the Church of Violence, Balalaika regarded the house of faith.
The yard of the church bathed in breathtaking greenery. An unkept but still majestic mantle of grass covered the land. Gorgeous bushes and high and mighty palm trees, which stretched their slim and elegant necks to the skies, reigned the scene. Along with a wide and tall fence, these beautiful children of mother nature took the objective of guarding the holy area and isolating it from the world outside. Otherwise the courtyard was pretty much barren of any flora, save for a few graceful lilies peeping from the ground here and there. Amidst all the verdure was the chapel of the church itself. Weather-beaten and hackneyed as it was, the grandeur of sacred territory was still there and undeniable.
The day was at it's hottest, as the objects under the early afternoon sun didn't create but the smallest of shadows. With even the noises of the city far behind, one could've easily fallen for the peaceful atmosphere which usually was the harvest of such a spiritual place. But from the sidelines of the yard came a sound cutting through the celestial silence. There, on a lonely wooden pole sat the pet of the house, a parrot white by it's color. At first it could've been counted as another innocent piece of nature and a delight for the place, but soon the veil of purity was stripped as the creature opened it's mouth, spitting out the foulest of words the human language it'd been taught could offer.
"Hello, hello, hello, I fucking kill you, hello, hello, hello..."
As the cursed bird continued to croak and cast it's insults upon the visitors, Balalaika wondered if it were to be considered too much of a desecration to shoot the damn thing on the spot. Dropping the issue as just another silly whim, Balalaika walked further into the yard. She glanced at the large entrance of the chapel. Seeing that no one was breathing on their neck as of yet and deciding they weren't in any hurry, she walked up to the doors and let herself in.
The chapel was plain from the inside as well, Balalaika noted. Between rows of wooden benches, a tile pavement led to the altar platform, which was accompanied by a sculpture of a saint on either side. Above the altar hung a crippled statue of the crucified Jesus Christ, with an altarpiece on both of it's sides. Although the air was a bit cooler inside, a series of large windows on the side walls of the chapel didn't show any resistance for the burning rays of the sun coming from outside. As the sharp daggers of light pierced the room throughout, it made all the dust hovering in the air come into view. The place lacked any unique incentives, for there was naught but the common accessory found in all Christian churches to occupy the mind. Combined with a silence of a grave and the nuzzling warmth, it was enough to make the Russian woman a bit light in the head. Balalaika took a seat from the front row, and let her thoughts wander.
Having grown in the atheistic Soviet Russia, all sort of religious education and activities had been of short. Balalaika had born to a family of very high class, and the expectations for the young were high and glorious. Bound to strict rules and carefully set mould of what her superiors wanted her to become, Balalaika was raised to keep her mind constantly on these goals and the present moment and to forget all else but what was necessary and of benefit for her priorities. Relying on god, religion, or anything out of this world, her principles would have none of it. You always had to be capable of taking care of yourself, and nothing else mattered. Then came the time for her acid test, as Balalaika was sent out to war to the burning hell of the deserts of Afghanistan. The freedom from the shackles of religion came to fruition, when the conflicts entered the realm of life and death by their danger. Whereas her enemies reached for their pitiful religious trinkets, Balalaika knew better to take support from the one thing needed to keep you safe in such situations; a weapon. Although Balalaika's hopes and dreams of becoming a professional athlete were crushed after the war, she'd continued to stand victorious on all battlefields with her men. And even if she did sometimes bitterly play with the thought of having a normal childhood and how her life might have turned out as a result, in the end she was always proud of her background. Never had she bowed her knees in front of something she didn't believe in, and never she would.
"It certainly is the most intriguing to find you here deep in though, miss Balalaika."
Balalaika snapped back from her reverie and quickly fixed her glare upon the speaker. When her features finally relaxed in recognition, she took a deep breath and greeted the old woman and the head of the Church of Violence - smuggling organization standing a few yards away from her.
"Sister Yolanda."
"Ah, very good. I was beginning to wonder if my presence was being totally ignored. Youth these days tend to be rather amenable towards impudence like that, you see."
Shuddering at the thought sister Yolanda had possibly been staring at her for long moments and dismissing the fact she was obviously being lectured by the old lady, Balalaika kept her cool. There were things even the most fearsome woman in Roanapur had to swallow, one of them being the tradition to respect the elder. Especially now, when the old granny in front of her was one of her most essential business associates.
"You have been able to hold on to your soft and nimble spacing, it seems, for even I couldn't sense your arrival. Pardon me, if my oblivion appeared insulting to you, sister." Balalaika offered.
"Mmm, well I guess I can overlook your ignorance for just this once, since it is a rare event to see you in such a devoted state on a holy ground. A pinch of prayer is good trait in all of us in this world today, I believe." The old nun continued, as if she hadn't heard Balalaika's words at all.
"As for myself, I am under the impression religious small talk is not what our scheduled meeting was supposed to be about." Balalaika shot back, with a hint of impatience creeping into her voice.
"Hmph. Guard your tongue, young lady. Very well, we shall follow your wish and cut to the business. Come after me, if you would." Sister Yolanda's voice was suddenly that of pure ice, and for a moment Balalaika was taken aback as she was reminded the elder woman still had the strength of steel in herself that many had come to fear her for. Nevertheless relieved the awkward discussion was now over, Balalaika followed the nun out of the chapel.
Balalaika was led to another part of the church complex, and now she found herself sitting in a very ordinary and small room. The walls were yellowish in color, and the bright light coming from outside through six large windows in total highlighted their shade. Furniture was of short, for there was only a chest of drawers for each wall, out of which those worth mentioning were the one in the corner of the room, as it carried a vase of flowers and a framed photograph, and the one with the only decorative item of the room on top of it, a three-branched candelbra. The center of the room was dominated by two large four seated couches, dark green by their color. A long and low-lying table stood in between them.
Yolanda and Balalaika sat face to face at the table. As usual, Yolanda was accompanied by a younger sister, a novice going by the name Eda. Balalaika had heard she was one of the very few people to spend time with Revy, the gunman of Black Lagoon - delivery company, in a fashion that could be deemed as "friendship". One glance at her, and Balalaika couldn't help but agree to the idea the two of them did share a thing or two in common, and thus could very well get somehow along with each other. Like Yolanda, Eda was wearing a nun gown, true to the facade Church of Violence kept up to cover their true business of smuggling. But that was as far as the image of a nun went. She was sitting next to Yolanda, legs crossed, and with arms akimbo in her lap. Loud, smacking sounds escaped from her mouth as she continued to violently mince a chewing gum with her teeth. Pink sunglasses covered her eyes, while a few golden locks were falling from underneath her hood to the sides of her face.
Truly disastrous. Balalaika chuckled in her mind. She took great entertainment from Eda's caricature-like religious appearance, grown sick with the dry and sacred church atmosphere as she was. But still, such impudence from an adult woman all but astonished Balalaika.
Just then the silence was interrupted as the door opened and a man carrying a tray of tea supplies entered. He was the newest acquaintance to the church of violence and a breath of fresh air in the female-dominated organization, man as he was. With a bushy and curled hair that reached his neck, skin in a slight shade of dark, friendly face with never ceasing board grin, and sympathetically short in height, he was a pleasing sight. When the man placed an empty cup in front of Balalaika and offered to fill it for her smiling widely all the while, Balalaika found to her delight his manners to be very agreeable as well. Inquiring the man's name and immediately receiving the answer in a tuneful voice, Balalaika decided that this man, Ricardo, was definitely among the sort of young men she categorized with one word: adorable.
"Well then, are we all settled now?" Queried Yolanda
"In case you do not have any other rules or conditions up in your sleeve you've forgotten to mention about, then yes we are." Balalaika replied with a sigh and then brought the cup to her lips to take a sip from her tea.
Being the leading distributor of illegal arms in the town and with the pride and experience brought by high age, sister Yolanda and the Church of Violence were not the easiest trading partners. Yolanda knew her position and value in the gun smuggling business very well, and didn't give in one bit with her demands. They'd been negotiating for a good two hours now, and when finally a conclusion that satisfied both parties had been reached, everyone agreed it was good time to sit back and enjoy the quality tea sister Yolanda had in store.
"Why, don't you be so impertinent, miss Balalaika. The deal is the one we agreed on a moment ago, nothing less, nothing more. We at the Church of Violence do have our honor, and we just wouldn't dare to play tricks on a classy girl like you." The elder sister chuckled her reply.
"Splendid. We shall be on our way, then. After all, it certainly doesn't do to bother the tea break of an elderly house, now does it?" Balalaika set her cup back on the table and rose. As she turned to leave, she noticed how Eda continued to blow balloons with her chewing gum and the apologetic smile on Ricardo's face. And as the door behind her shut, the detestable cackle of sister Yolanda.
Outside, the day had turned to late afternoon and the shadows were starting to grow longer. Balalaika rubbed her eyes out of the drowsiness sitting inside had caused and stretched her neck. Taking in a deep breath, she turned to Boris and voiced a need she'd had the whole day.
"Boris, a cigar, please."
"...Excuse me, captain...?" The man answered after a short break.
Balalaika snapped her eyes open and regarded him in disbelief, to make sure she'd heard him correct. Deciding Boris indeed hadn't understood, a dysfunction very unusual of him, she repeated herself.
"A cigar, my honored Sergeant. After as distasteful affair as that, god knows I need one."
Now fully comprehending the issue, Boris's reply came quickly:
"I'm sorry, captain. I was unaware we had run out of those, and therefore we unfortunately don't have any."
Argh! Out of all things, of course I had to forget to mention about the damn cigars. I wonder if the age is really starting to get to me. Balalaika groaned to herself, and with her composure lost for a moment, she gave her extremely irritated reply:
"In that case, would be so kind as to see that by the end of the day we will have them. Now!"
Giving his salute, Boris wasted no time in proceeding to fill her commander's orders.
Sighing, Balalaika shook her head walked to the car. After the door and been shut for her, she was hit by a sudden inspiration. She gave her instructions to the driver, and when he nodded in understanding, the car drove off.
------
Balalaika walked the solid tile paved pathway, surrounded by greenery so bright that almost the color itself was so stark as enough to make her eyes ache. Everywhere she looked, her gaze was met with breathtaking verdure. Lime and plump branches of trees were the heavenly canopy, which enveloped the ground in breezy shadows, refreshing in the heat. It also protected from the sun above, as only small fragments of light could penetrate the thick and dense leaves and speckled the pavement. Here the vegetation was the richest in all of the city, as beautiful kaleidoscope of lilies, daisies, dandelions, and all flora imaginable decorated the path's sideways. The green and rich grass oozed it's earthly scent and blissfully covered the exhaust fumes of the city. Among ordinary timber grew exotic palms trees; the gift of the tropic climate of Southeast Asia. Besides the dominating green of trees and plants, the scenery was enriched with other sorts of life. Various insects inhabited the shred of nature, some were flapping their motley wings in the air, while others hopped and crawled in the grass. Around the treetops, birds continued to chirp their happy song.
When the meeting with the Church of Violence was over and she was in the need to clear her thoughts, Balalaika had decided a walk in the park of the city could fill the purpose more than well. As she walked amongst the trees, she found herself, to her pleasure and relief, to be right. By all means, Balalaika was not a woman of sentimentality, but that didn't stop her from appreciating the beauty of the nature and the quiet relaxation in could offer every now and then. On as she walked, she soon reached an open square, and in the center of it was a large fountain. It was an elegant piece of architecture, decorated with a design of four elephant heads in round. Above them was the actual spring, out of which the water poured in a way that it created a veil around the statue. At night the artificial illumination would create almost magical atmosphere for the place. Balalaika walked nearer and sat on the edge of the fountain, taking her heavy military coat off.
Sitting there in the midst of the desolate peace, she began to breathe in deep. With every inhale she took, she pulled in her lungs vast amounts of fresh air with the brisk scent of the water and nature caressing her senses. After holding it in for a while, she let the air out, and along with the air all her worries and negative thoughts were blown away. It didn't take long before her sour mood was completely gone. This could compete even with the smoke of cigars. she mused with a hint of humor making it's way to her thoughts. Feeling her mind clean self-control regained, she got up and went back to the car, which would take her back to the hotel.
When they arrived to their residence, Balalaika was content to see the dinner was served. Breakfast being the only meal they'd had that day, neatly set tables and freshly cooked food were welcomed with open arms. Despite Balalaika's usual preference to enjoy her meals alone, every now and then she felt obliged to dedicate such moment to her fellow comrades. These people around her at the moment, these scarred and hard-featured men, had been her loyal companions for almost a decade. Their together journey had started in the late 80's, when the responsibility they carried for Mother Russia and the Soviet Union had thrust them in the middle of the rampage that roamed in Afghanistan. And when the war was finally over for them, it struck Balalaika the hardest to find the country they'd been fighting for had fallen. But in the moment where Balalaika herself had already thrown all away, her dreams and her pride, the very same men that'd fought under her command stayed by her side. Seeing the faith for her in their eyes, Balalaika made her decision. Desperation and grief now replaced with shame for her previous hopelessness and a resolve of iron, Balalaika saw that they would remain and continue to fight as one. For everything they had been through together, Balalaika also realized her fellow warriors were the closest thing she had to a family at the moment. Not bound my family names, but by same values, experiences, and shared hardships, and to her, it was the strongest bound she could ever think of. Though Balalaika didn't want to think about it much because of her leadership position and the cold and formal demeanor she had to maintain for it, she had come to see that she was genuinely happy to have them around her. Sometimes she wondered if the affection and loyalty her men showed for her was that of a typical male attraction towards a woman, but she didn't let it bother her. And as she watched those hard-edged and slowly aging faces relax and melt into smiles and laughter, she felt the feeling of happiness growing firmer.
Satisfied for her stomach was now full, she left the dining room and the celebrating men and pulled back to her office.
Balalaika sat comfortably in her armchair at her desk. It was large, made of fine wood, and neatly organized, for it was occupied only with the necessities of a table lamp and a telephone. Right behind her was an enormous bookshelf, which covered the whole wall and was full of heavy books. To her right was a vase of flowers standing on a tall mounting, and the wall next to it had large windows side by side, through which the evening sun lit the room. Besides windows, the wall was decorated with a few scenic pictures, of which there were many on the other walls as well. In the middle of the room were two couches facing each other, carmine by their cushioning and hefty in size. Between them stood a table elegant in design, and underneath these pieces of furniture laid a dark green carpet. At the wall across from Balalaika's desk was the entrance of the room, and before the wall to the right from it was a chess of drawers with unusually decorative lamp and a framed photograph on top of it.
Spread on the desk before Balalaika was a set of papers. They were mainly half-finished reports she had to write for the main branch of the Mafia, explications on how business was doing, had there been any unexpected deviations in the routine, and everything else the part of the job called paperwork included. Balalaika supported her head in her hands and sighed. Feeling the work of the field much more appealing, she was not cut out for sitting inside her office for long periods of time. Nevertheless, since it had to be done, Balalaika had decided to spend the uneventful hours of evening to get it out of the way. Both to her delight and vexation, for the lame work would be paused for a moment but still continue later, she was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Come in." Was her immediate answer.
The door opened and a butler stepped in, carefully holding a wooden box in his hands.
"Ma'am. Your cigars have arrived." The butler informed after bowing in greeting.
"Leave them on the desk." Balalaika instructed, her spirits remarkably lifted due to the sight of her beloved Cuban's.
When the butler had carried out the short order he'd been given, he bowed again and left. As the door closed, Balalaika didn't wait another second but rose from her seat and opened the lid of the box, picking up one cigar from it. After she had found a lighter to lit it, she moved to the side of the table and leaned against it. Balalaika took a deep pull from the cigar and savored the familiar smoke, gazing at the sunset in content.
She called it a day.
Author's notes: ...And the first story รก la Moonlith is out! Whoopie. Ignoring the extremely used and worn-out title, I hope you enjoyed this one. Hell, at least I had fun enough writing it.
Comments are welcome
Till next time,
Moonlith