Chapter Five
"Nice..." - Irwine commented, looking over the selection of weapons available in the Collective outpost's armoury.
He saw everything from the Zeniths, to TMPs and Sanctions, all the way up the food chain, to HI-NRG plasma rifles. But he was after a very specific beast. A Whisperhead ERASER, integrally suppressed sniper weapon. Assigned to be Yelena's support, in case her meeting with the Bratva contacts went awry, he would be the one watching her back.
And frankly, if they hadn't assigned him to, he would have demanded the job. A month and a half ago, when they dispatched him to Sankt Peterburg, to first observe, then tentatively make contact with the runaway Tyrant operative, and... test the waters, he was... ambivalent, to say the least. Not afraid. Not... as such. A former Marine scout, turned recruit for the New Sons of Freedom, turned undercover operative for the Collective, he had his fair share of difficult assignments, even outright firefights with various Belltower units that were always hounding the Sons' movements across the North American continent.
Then, on orders directly from Juan Lebedev, he was shipped off to detached duty directly for the Collective – then promptly assigned the Sankt Peterburg operation.
Observe. Make contact. Assess. Recruit if possible.
However, he discovered that being undercover, was substantially more difficult, then any number of firefights he'd been in. He had to learn the language – which he still was far from completely proficient in. He had to integrate, he had to build a life for himself in Sankt Peterburg. Only after all of that had been achieved, was he in a position to even begin, looking for the mark.
The mark. Damn... understatement of the year! What a woman...
He thought, with faint amusement, as he finally found what he was looking for. Taking the longarm from it's stand, he headed down the hallway to an excavated tunnel that served as a sniper range, stretching some 400-so metres into the cavern system that comprised parts of this base. The weapon needed zeroing-in, and he was determined to get some time on the range, before their deployment tonight.
He found her, or rather, she found him, purely by chance. One evening while he was spending time in one of the local dives near Gorelovo district, he overheard a pair of drunk construction workers talking about a 'half-invisible apparition' they saw near the river, close to where they worked. The next day, he followed them and spend an afternoon observing the surroundings. As it turned out – he was also under observation. A slight prick of a knife's tip at the back of his neck, while he was sitting on a bench, doing his best to be inconspicuous, followed by a hushed 'chego ty khochesh' ot menya', was his only warning.
The rest, as they say, was history. It didn't take Irwine long to fall for her, even if the reverse took a bit longer. She was quite a bit more... personable... then the intel briefing suggested, though there was no mistaking the understated threat behind that dark, deep, patient gaze. Or deeply buried pain.
He hadn't been involved with anyone, ever since his desertion from the Marine Corps. Frankly, he wasn't looking for it. All the relationships he'd been in, so far, had ended in hearbreak, on one side or the other.
And I'm still not sure if this is gonna be any different in the long run...
He had to admit to himself, as he went prone, set up a tripod, and began squeezing off the first couple of shots, regulating his breathing. Marksmanship practice always focused him. Allowed him to collect his thoughts.
Were they really right, for each other? Was he ready to give it a go again, after all the drama it usually led to, in the past? Was there enough of her left, under... however much emotional baggage she was lugging around? Guilt? Rage? Pain? Not to mention her conditioning and... damaged, dangerous psyche, to say the least? She was unstable. A part of him – a rational part of him – told him NOT to take a chance. The danger was very real; she was a trained, hardened, conditioned killer, with a level of cybernetic-integration that would classify her as a living weapon, in most countries around the world, according to international law regarding augmentation. But rationale gave way, beneath attraction.
Without trying, she drew him to her. And not just on a physical level. Somewhere buried deep down, beneath all the segmented layers of angst and fury, there was a genuinely interesting, insightful, engaging, even... compassionate at times... woman. And an honest one, almost to a fault. All his relationships in the past had failed, because they were invariably poisoned by lies and misdirections. With Yelena – there were no lies. Not on a personal level, anyway. What he saw, was what he got. Always. And she made it very clear, that she expected the same honesty from him.
Maybe it can be different this time... If we both get through this whole mess. And I'll be damned if I let her get back in there, alone.
He replaced the clip, sighting-in on the second target in the distance.
"Sir?" - a voice came behind him.
"What is it?"
"The quartermaster wants to know where the asset is. She was supposed to report to the armoury half an hour ago."
Irwine scowled hard, turning to face the younger man.
"An 'asset'? She's got a name, you know."
The man, a teenager really, probably not over the twenty-mark, frowned.
"Uh, sir, we all know the rumours... and what happened to Jam's brother. She's just a walking piece of assault equipment that's gone haywire. I mean, that's why you were sent in to retrieve the-" - before Irwine stood and faced him squarely. The boy's eyes widened at the expression on the mustachioed man's face.
"Does that mean I'm one, too? I'm an ex Marine. Turned 'terrorist', according to the great powers that be, playing chess above all our heads. Wanted for... seven, last I checked – counts of 'assault on government-sponsored contractors'. Meaning Belltower and their cronies. Because I can think for myself? And news flash, kid – you're a 'terrorist' too. Or you wouldn't be here with the Collective, right now."
"Y-yes but you'r not a mil-spec hanzer like that bitch-" - before Irwine's fist connected to the boy's jaw, in a cross hard enough to send him sprawling sideways on the ground, blood pouring from the corner of his mouth, as he spat out a pair of teeth, wheezing softly.
"Get up and repeat that." - the man growled, standing over him.
"Fwww...ffworry, sfwwrr...!" - the boy slurred, holding the side of his jaw, as he scrabbled away.
"GET UP." - Irwine repeated, menacingly.
Once the boy did, stumbling against the cavern wall, he got in his bloodied face.
"Her name's Yelena, and she's a person. One who's been through more shit then you can picture in your wildest fucking nightmares. More then I can. More then a sane person can. Stuff that makes psych-horror movies look like Hello Kitty. You got that?! You... don't get to judge her." - he growled.
He got a shaky nod, as the boy didn't meet his eyes.
"Good. Now get the fuck out of my sight. And what do you mean, she hasn't reported in yet... what's going on... ?" - he belatedly remembered the first bit of information, as he headed back into the base proper, to check in with the quartermaster.
"Ya know, it's your own fault, really..." - the bald tech commented, after Yelena was securely restrained into the Auto-Doc, clamps around her wrists and ankle-leafsprings. He moved closer, to fit her with an EMP-discharge restrainer, designed to depower her active augmentations.
Her retinal HUD overlay fizzled-out, as she thrashed briefly, testing the strength of the clamps. She needn't have bothered. Her systems were more tailored for speed, precision and reflex-reactions, then brute force. And now with polyfibral musculature no longer receiving power, due to the EMP restrainer, she was effectively crippled.
"...thinkin' you get to just decide, to walk away? Bite the hand that feeds ya? Who the fuck do you think you are?! You think others ain't tried, before?"
"Yes. I hunted down a few, myself. Standing orders regarding defectors." - she replied evenly. Dark gaze never leaving him. Not a trace of fear, only... patient, feral intensity of a trapped predator, looking for a chance to strike back.
Her composure seemed to incense him, as he slammed the butt of the pistol, across her temple, in a heavy, brutal pistol-whip. The skin split, above a slight swelling, a trickle of blood marring her aquilline, delicate features, pouring down her face, some of it ending in her mouth. But the swelling didn't turn purple, or enlarge. Nor did her arcade even fracture, let alone break. Despite her seemingly-delicate facial structure, there seemed to be a great deal of calcification going on, beneath the skin. She was conditioned to take hits. Part of her somewhat aquilline look, and pronounced cheekbones, was in fact bone calcification.
Licking up the few drops of blood on her lips, she smiled.
"That feels good. So what is your plan then? Aside from turning me on?" - biting her lower lip softly.
With a snarl, he wound-up and brutally punched her, his meaty fist colliding with her mouth. Once. Twice. The restrainer-chair rocked backwards under the impacts, blood painting itself around her mouth. Her expression remained unchanged, as she briefly spat one of her front teeth out.
"Ya think you're funny, miss I-don't-give-a-fuck?! Let's see how funny you are, when your new legs explode, on your first assignment for these terrorists... nicely inlaid with semtex. Remote trigger... no loose ends! And I get let off the hook." - the man snarled, as he moved over to a programming console, to input a set of instructions into the Auto-Doc's surgical subroutines.
The aquilline woman eyed him, swallowing some more of her blood.
"Off the hook? Do you think that is how it works? A favour for a favour? Let me guess – you were conscripted for a sleeper assignment, under leverage on your family? Or maybe just your own life?" - coldly.
"Shut up, bitch. Or maybe I'll just be usin' the phrase and skippin' all this song and dance." - he growled, giving her a venomous glance, before he turned his attention back to the console.
Out of the corner of her eye, Yelena could see a conveyor rack, bringing in the two 11B cybernetic limbs. A pair of articulated robotic arms lifted them, and set them on a ready-rack, next to her restrainer chair. A flushing sound came from the other side – a IV drip containing dilluted Neuropozyne.
"They will never let you go, you know. You are a tool, just like I was." - she continued, ignoring the threat.
"BLACK MANT-" - he shouted, but cut himself off, glaring at her.
A brief flicker of an unknown protocol, scrolled across her vision, just as quickly gone. But she felt... cold, for a tantalising moment. Like someone stepped on her metaphorical grave. Along with a briefest stirring of...
Genuine fear.
So the algorhythm is active even when I'm disabled... ? Useful to know.
"At least you did not do it for money." - she continued, out loud. "Some of the informants, undercover plants, and sleepers do. Then they get too greedy, or develop conscience, or are simply compromised from outside – and people like me get notified, briefed, then sent to clean up. And make an example for anyone else with second thoughts."
The man's mouth worked soundlessly, as he approached again, to grip her with both hands around her neck.
"You're lying! YOU'RE FUCKIN' LYING! I was given guarantees, god damn it! A written-up contract!" - slamming her into the chair. But the timbre of the voice was more like that of someone trying to convince himself of that.
Delaying tactics. Make the target emotionally compromised.
She thought, her throat muscles fighting against the grip. Her expression still even and measuring, even as he bore down on her.
"BITCH!" - he slammed her once more, then suddenly backed away.
"You know what, fuck this... if you're right, what the hell's it matter anyway?! What's the point of even fightin' them?! HUH?!" - he yelled, glaring at her.
"If you really believe that, put the muzzle of that Zenith to your temple, and pull the trigger. It is an easy way out. One I almost picked, three months ago in Montreal." - the bloodied woman replied, the cold tone not changing even by a nuance, those dark eyes boring through him.
"So why didn't you? HUH?! Cuz you think you got it in ya to bring it all down?! Little miss uppity? Cuz you think YOU can do, what so many others tried and got aced for?! If you'd just kept your fuckin' head down and did your god damn job, stopped that... whoever the fuck he was... corporate hitman or whatever... from runnin' amok, then we wouldn't be here!" - he demanded.
"I tried. Did you?" - she countered vaguely.
"The fuck do you mean...?" - he asked, thrown off-track by the non sequitur.
Yelena smirked, slightly.
"Tell me, tough guy." - giving him a critical once-over, "...ex... Army, correct? I have worked with one ex-Marine, Lawrence Barrett, and am now involved with another, you do not quite have the same... cocky attitude. You are much too introspective. Nor are you an ex-spook. Not arrogant and self-righteous enough for that. Not like Jaron Namir or Scott Hardesty were. You remind me of some Bratva members. Trying so hard to fit into the mold of what your job demands of you, that you cannot convince yourself that you enjoy it. I almost feel sorry for you." - she goaded him, in a calculated move.
"DON'T YOU FUCKIN' COMPARE ME TO YOUR SICK LITTLE GANG OF MURDERERS!" - the man yelled, spittle flying from his mouth, kicking the side of the restrainer chair hard enough for his foot to flare-up.
"I don't fuckin' ENJOY this! I'm just doing my JOB! Not like you did, when you got sent out to kill innocent people! Hell, I'll be doin' the world a service, by killin' you!"
"I'm sure you would." - the woman agreed, her dark eyes narrowing slightly, "The thing is, why are you not enjoying it? Because you have not spent a long enough time in the business? Because you still think there is a way out for you? One little job, and you are 'off the hook', huh? Are you that naive?"
He was silent, mouth working overtime. Knuckles going white on the grip of the gun in his hand.
"There are three ways out." - she continued, emphatically, "You learn to enjoy it, you sink into it, like I did for seven years. You die. Or you try to break out. I did the first method, almost did the second method, and now am trying the third one."
"The fourth method that you think you have – getting off the hook? That does not happen. Ever. There is no quitting the fold. Not for operatives, not for sleepers like you, not for more visible assets. Not for ANYONE. And I do not care what kind of written guarantee you have. Words on a paper. They mean nothing. I have killed people holding such papers to my face, thinking it would save them. But I had my orders." - with conviction.
He glared in outrage mixed with denial, before the doors behind him suddenly whooshed open.
"DROP THE GUN! NOW!" - Irwine's hard tone echoed, the mustachioed man holding a TMP at his shoulder, aimed steadily at the man's back.
Behind him, Quinn crowded-in, a Buzzkill stun pistol in the older man's hand. Unlike Irwine, he didn't give a warning, he simply fired.
An electro-dart crackled from the muzzle of the weapon, impaling itself into the thickset man's back, and sending a hi-voltage charge through his system. For a brief moment, he stiffened, an expression of surprise on his face... before he plopped-backwards, knocked out cold.
"We need him alive for interrogation." - he allowed the weight of his arm, to make Irwine lower his weapon.
Irwine scowled, but simply rushed forward, to check up on the woman.
"Yelena-! You alright?! Jesus Christ... you look like-" - before she cut him off, with a grin.
"I look like I would look after an average sparring session, with some of my ex-colleagues. Looks like I will need another new tooth..." - with slight annoyance, as she traced a tongue at the empty space in her upper jaw... "Now get me out of this thing!" - jerking slightly in her restraints, for emphasis.
Three hours later... on approach to Sankt Peterburg
The stealth VTOL flew low over the plains surrounding the city, before it would rise just a bit, using the buildings for cover. Their drop point was an abandoned coal-plant on the outskirts of Gorelovo, overlooking the small square where Yelena was supposed to meet her Bratva contacts. The plant itself would provide a good vantage point for Irwine to set up on.
"How's the tooth?" - the man asked, peering closely at her face. Aside from a trace-amount of swelling near the arcade, there was very little evidence of damage left. No bruising around her mouth, no discolouration. The work of her integrated bio-matrix, he assumed.
Nifty trick... less then three hours later, not even scarring! Wish I had one...
"Better then the old one. I was in need of a facelift, anyway." - she wisecracked, not looking at him, as she checked her weapons.
Her loadout was different for this assignment. Given the supplies and weapons available to choose from, she decided to go back to her preferred dual-wielding setup, but with certain alterations. In the place of TMP's, she packed a pair of suppressed Zenith pistols, saving on space and weight, and making room for a third weapon – a PAX-22 tranquiliser rifle slung across her back. A pair of grenades, one gas and one EMP, and twin curved karambit knives in forearm holsters for easy access, completed the ensemble.
Most importantly, however – Quinn was good on his word. A full suit of plated Thermoptic armour, somewhat different in design to her black tetrahedron-patterned one, that she made use of as a member of the Tyrants. Black-on-green in colouring, it had a somewhat more streamlined surface. Protection-wise, it didn't quite match up to the density of her original suit, but it was certainly an improvement over the flak vest. Lighter, as well. And much more relevant, once again, she was provided a suitable matrix for her cloaking array to work off of, saving on power drain and improving the effect.
The legs however – for the time being, she would have to make do with her original units, since the engineers and a demolitions crew at the outpost needed to do a full disassembly and reassembly of the replacement limbs, given that they were, in fact, inlaid with semtex.
"So I'm curious... why did you agree with Quinn, to keep that guy alive? He tried to kill you!" - Irwine asked.
The woman shrugged, leaning back and attempting to pass the time with some breathing exercises, like she got in the habit of doing, for countless number of drops.
"Tried. Not succeeded. Besides... his interrogation would reveal how he was inserted." - she murmured.
"True..." - the man conceeded, "But you heard Quinn – they'll have to evacuate anyway. The site's a wash. So it's not like they need to reconfigure to prevent future infiltration. His info would make no difference, to wherever they move to."
"He was carrying out his assignment, Irwine. I can respect that. And he might know more then just the details of his insertion. His handlers' names... the data-trail leading from them." - she looked at him.
"It is unlikely, the cabal doesn't leave footprints like that – but it is not impossible."
The man regarded her for a long moment.
"That's all? I mean... when we walked-in, he was a bit... uhm..." - searching for the right word.
"Distracted? That was the idea. Delay him for long enough to hopefully allow a reversal." - Yelena smirked.
"But also – I reminded him that in our respective lines of work, there are no simple ways out. No off-ramps. I know that better then anyone." - she finished, her gaze going remote, as she removed a strand of hair from her eyes.
"So you felt... sorry for him?" - Irwine probed, with a chuckle.
~"Attention. Drop in ten!"~ - the pilot's voice sounded over the VTOL's intercom, as a red light started flashing, off to the side.
In a fluid motion, Yelena rose and primed her electrodynamic landing array, stepping to the side-hatch, that just opened.
"Don't insult me." - she purred, coupled with an eyeroll, before she... dove out, a lithe, elegant shape, descending towards the twinkling lights of the city below.
"Sorry I asked..." - Irwine smirked to himself, double-checking his parachute integrated into the three-piece combat-armour he was wearing, before he followed suit.