Buryatia Republic, Russia. The land was a mountainous region in Eastern Siberia. It was home to one of the largest indigenous populations in the country, though it was quite diverse, with a range of cultures making up its identity. Open air, a quiet environment, and the 31, 772 square kilometers of clear, sparkling water of Lake Bavikal made the Republic appear to be a place whose mere existence seemed to be for relaxation and comfort. Though that was not the only reason why he had chosen to go there.
Yassen Gregorovich was finally home. Though he had debated on booking the trip, he decided to anyways in the end. The fact was simple- it was the remoteness of the land which had attracted him. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't deny a deeper, more persistent factor- lodged somewhere at the back of his mind.
Estrov. The name was forein on Yassen's lips, yet he could never really seem to forget it. This land was the closest thing to Estrov, not only in terms of deep-rooted culture, which stemmed back generations upon generations ago, but more so because they had known. They had known about the accident.
Yassen was sure of it. The BR was a small part of Russia, an insignificant speck on the map at the least, yet despite that, it was also one of the leaders in the news, the happenings of the country. When scandals broke out in the government, they were the one of the first to know. When there were attempts on lives of the ruling parties in Russia, the Buryats quietly accepted the fact before many popular cities like Moscow even got around to reporting. They seemed to have connections, backdoors to the Government.
And when the Government sent herds of firing squads on helicopters to obliterate Estrov, and kill off the remaining inhabitants of the city during the anthrax leak, they knew. The oddity of it all though, was that very few people in Russia knew of the small nation's abilities. Yassen himself was oblivious to it all, the history of Russia, the inner political workings to it, before he went to work for Scorpia. The ignorance was of course, forgiven, as regular citizens much less a fourteen- year old Russian schoolboy, were not expected to know of such things.
"Mr. Gregorovich." A voice awakened Yassen from his thoughts. He turned around. It was his aide- a heavyset, dark man of short stature who was only a few years younger than him. "The job has been done. We have killed the man." He had an accent. Low, guttural. Afrikaans. Yassen got up from his seat. "Were there any problems?" he asked. "No, sir." "Very well." Yassen turned to walk away, but paused. "Send Mikhais my regards," he added. The man nodded. "Yes, sir."
Outside, was a picturesque view of the shore of Lake Balkvil. Yassen noted the red stained across the horizon, and a few meters ahead, the water which lapped gently on the beaches. Briefly, Yassen was reminded of the quiet afternoons he spent as a young boy on the grounds of his town. He remembered the walks he used to go on across the local village markets, the evenings he'd spend after school at the pier of the local shores. That was a time when there was the freedom of youth, the complete unrestricted ability to do whatever he pleased, without having to worry about anything other than reading a few schoolbooks and maintaining a few friendships. A feeling of calm washed over him. Estrov.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure, a small frame of a young boy, bending over a motorized boat. Yassen walked forward. As he approached, the brown- haired boy looked up. "Illya," Yassen greeted him. The boy was nineteen, if he remembered correctly. He was sent here to learn from Yassen, as well as help with the handywork lying around. "How are you getting along?" Yassen asked, speaking in Russian. "Fine, sir." The boy also responded in Russian. "Do you like the work? Is it too difficult?" "It's alright, sir. It isn't very hard." The boy spoke clearly, with confidence. Yassen watched him carefully. For a minute, he was reminded of Alex Rider, and he wondered why such a thought should even come into his mind. Not all teenagers were Alex, though Yassen supposed it was reasonable to think of this boy of being like Alex, as Illya did look a few years younger than he actually was. "That's good." Yassen nodded.
"I think I should leave you to be, then." Yassen said the words simply. For a brief second, he noticed something flicker in the boy's eyes. Uncertainty? Fear? That wouldn't help him. Yassen couldn't help but note it. "Finish this by four," he said, before turning away.