⧗ CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE ⧗

"So, Dmitri, tell me how you've been doing recently."

Dmitri studied the teacup in his hands for a moment, before taking a sip. His heart beat a little faster, nervous with the Madame watching him. Judging, thinking, evaluating his readiness.

He had to pass.

"Doing better," He replied, and it doesn't feel like a lie. Physically, Dmitri had all but recovered from Ksenia's attempt on his life. Mentally, emotionally? Well, that was a different matter altogether. "My hand works fine now. My shoulder is better."

"Hm," The Madame took a sip from her own cup. She was dressed elegantly as usual, double-breasted jacket, coifed dark hair and legs crossed at the ankles. Aside from a small pair of earrings and a matching necklace, she wore no jewelry — the ever present white gloves being her only other notable accessory. Her office remained as it always appeared, unchanged from the large mahogany desk to the small seats arranged by the fireplace. Music played softly from the heirloom record player. "That's good. So you feel prepared for your upcoming test?"

"Yes," Dmitri answered without hesitation. Every two weeks he'd been invited for these little chats over tea; Dmitri didn't know if the Madame did this with all her students, but this was a recent development since Ksenia had died. Maybe it was just him. Maybe the Madame had cause for concern.

"Good," the Madame smiled, head tilting appreciatively. "You've come so far, Dmitri. Just two years ago, you returned to us a broken boy. You've endured so much. This will be the first time you've stepped out into the world since then. It was a day I feared might never come."

Dmitri blinked, feeling a new burn behind his eyes. The praise was unexpected; the acknowledgment of his suffering, Dmitri wondered had he really made it? Was this the culmination of all his efforts? He'd never realized how badly he wanted the Madame's pride, her approval.

And now, it seemed, he finally had it.

Perhaps he had it all along.

The Madame raised an eyebrow, detecting something in Dmitri's expression he hadn't intended. "Something on your mind?"

"N-no," Dmitri stammered, caught off guard. He hadn't thought he'd given anything away. Didn't think he had an errant thought to unwittingly express. And yet… "Should I be afraid?"

The Madame blinked, tilting her head slightly. "Afraid of your father's enemies, you mean?" She paused to swirl the tiny spoon in her teacup. "I want to say no, Dmitri, but you and I both know there is no such thing as true safety. I've ensured that information regarding your outing will not be leaked; should anything happen, you won't be alone out there. But the rest is up to you. Keep your eyes open. Stay aware of your surroundings. And I shouldn't have to remind you — Don't drink if you can help it."

It wasn't quite the reassurance Dmitri was hoping for, but he knew he couldn't expect any handholding now. Safety didn't exist outside of these walls. And, depending on who you asked, it didn't exist within, either.

"Will this affect your performance?" She asked, when Dmitri failed to respond in due time.

Dmitri shook his head. "No, I'm — I'm used to it by now. I know what to expect."

"They always say that," The Madame smiled knowingly. "I've given you the tools to protect yourself, Dmitri, but using them effectively is another matter entirely. Remember that nothing ever goes according to plan. The best you can hope for is to complete the mission with the least amount of collateral damage possible."

And make sure that damage isn't himself. Dmitri could figure out that much for himself. But he was ready. He knew he was. He had to be. "I won't let you down."

"I know," The Madame said, her eyes twinkling.

~o~

Had it been two years already?

Dmitri studied the boy in the mirror. He didn't look like he was eighteen years old — but he had to be. Dmitri couldn't believe he forgot his own birthday. Again. When had it been? The calendar on the wall said it had to have been months ago. He'd been eighteen this whole time and hadn't noticed.

He didn't see the boy who had returned to the Red Room two years ago. Dmitri thought he must be taller now. Less gangly, with broader shoulders, less baby fat in his cheeks. Not all gone, but just enough for his cheekbones to have prominence. Still not a trace of a beard, something Dmitri decided was just not in the cards for him at this point. A funny little genetic anomaly. Hopefully one that worked in his favor, as he seemed to have matured in every other way that mattered.

Not just a boy anymore. Legally an adult, and in some ways, Dmitri felt it. He wasn't the same person he was two, three, five years ago. In the same vein, he still felt… juvenile. Inexperienced. Like a child being thrown out into the universe without a lifeline.

Two years ago, he'd just been shot and was facing an uncertain future where he didn't know if he'd ever dance again.

Two years ago, he'd come out of a daze, remembered himself, remembered where he came from and what he was meant for.

Two years ago, his hands were clean.

Something in his face that he couldn't determine, something he was still looking for when the banging door behind pulled his attention away.

"Dmitri, hurry up!" Oksana called. "It's almost time to go!"

The hotel bathroom was small, not really big enough for the five of them. From their initial arrival, the group had a couple hours to prepare before heading out to the club. Dmitri couldn't remember the last time he was in St. Petersburg. Was it… was it when he was shot? Was his father's home really less than a mile away? Dmitri wondered what happened to the property now that neither of them were technically alive anymore.

But he still put a smile on his face as he finally walked out of the bathroom. "How's this?"

"Boring," Oksana teased, but shook her head. She wore a silky blue dress that was so light and sheer it almost looked like a sleeping shift. She had just finished an argument about whether or not to wear a bra beneath it or not (No Bra won). Her strawberry-blonde hair was up in a messy bun, completing a just-rolled-out-of-bed look. "Boys have it so much easier — you don't have to work as hard to look so good."

"What? Yes, I do!" Dmitri insisted, a little offended, that all his efforts to get the right level of tousled hair and the correct combination of white shirt (so white and so sheer, in fact, that it was nearly transparent), and dark pants to get the look to match his new cover ID. His nails were freshly cleaned and manicured. His earlobes still itched from the new piercings, and Sabina insisted he wear a thin gold chain as well, to complete the look. Dmitri thought it gave him the appearance of, as the Americans say, a chode. He looked like a boy with more money than sense. But perhaps that was the point; he was easier to underestimate that way. He added, "If I'm not hot enough, they won't let me in."

"It's true!" Sabina called from the couch, as she was putting on a pair of strappy heels. They were shiny gold, matching her iridescent dress that shimmered with every movement. She wore the longest dress, reaching all the way to her mid-thigh, but with a long slit up the side, reaching up to her hip. "They'll let in all the pretty girls they want, but not too many guys. Don't want it to be a sausage fest."

"Ew," Annika wrinkled her nose. "Hopefully not too old."

Oksana threw him another appraising look. Their relationship was still standoffish, but since they were all sharing the same room and were more or less working together for this mission, Dmitri knew he couldn't maintain the usual aloofness he had before. Especially in case anything went bad. He needed to rely on them. And maybe he wanted them to feel safe enough to ask him for help in turn.

So when Oksana reached out for his shirt, he let her. "Here, just undo a few more buttons… there."

Dmitri's shirt was now undone to nearly his navel. Practically indecent. Oksana grinned, "Now your v-neck matches Rada's."

Rada tugged at her magenta halter-top dress, covered in sequins, the neckline of which did indeed drop straight through her cleavage and onto her abdomen. She made a face. "Might as well be wearing a bathing suit for how much this covers. I can't even call this a skirt!"

"You look amazing," Sabina told her. "You'll have no problems snaring your prize."

"Hmph," Rada sniffed, but seemed mollified by that. "I reserve the right to burn this dress when I'm done. A sacrifice to the gods of sex."

"You can burn my shoes, too," Annika offered. Her hair was pulled up in matching twin buns, little butterfly clips adding a youthful tone to her very-not childlike dress, a brilliant red two-piece ensemble that exposed her midriff and only barely covered her chest and hips. "I haven't even stood in them yet and they already hurt."

"Those dresses and shoes are the only reason they'll be letting us in," Sabina reminded them. "I guarantee you they won't even look at our IDs. Just how old we look in our clothes."

"You think so?" Oksana called from the bathroom, applying mascara with a funny face.

"Well, I definitely don't look twenty-six," Annika said with a frown towards her fake card. "It says I'm from Lyon. Ugh, that means I have to do an accent."

"At least it's French. French is easy." Oksana replied, sticking her head out to pout at them. "Mine says I'm from Glasgow. Do you have any idea the kind of idiosyncrasies that requires?"

"You don't have to do all that. Just do your best Scottish brogue," Dmitri suggested, already guessing that everyone in the club will be far too drunk to really analyze her accent. "It's not like your target is going to compare what you sound like to your ID."

"Easy for you to say," Oksana scowled at him. "You get to be American. All you have to do is sound annoying."

That got a chorus of laughter and Dmitri rolled his eyes, but good-naturedly. The nationality was not his greatest concern. He glanced at the ID card given to him, the one supposedly to buy him passage through the club doors. According to this piece of plastic, he was now twenty-two years old, a concept Dmitri wasn't sure he'd be able to pull off. Even before he was eighteen, people often assumed he was younger than he looked. He didn't think it would serve him well now.

It also said he was from New York, which had a specific accent, but such a cultural melting pot that Dmitri had a lot of leeway in how he wanted to sound. His only requirement to be convincing was not to sound too Southern.

Tonight, he was to be Declan Albuquerque, a name so fake, in Dmitri's opinion, it would never pass muster with an actual American (or simply convince them he had sadist parents).

And his target? Each of them had been given a thin file, containing a single sheet of information and an assortment of photos. His contained the details of one Johanna Mikhailovna Ismaylova, a thirty-seven year old corpo accountant, twice divorced and currently single, with a penchant for vodka in exclusive clubs. Her profile indicated a lonely woman who hated her job, lacking purpose or excitement in her life, chasing after her youthful glory days with trips to clubs she could never afford to go to before, yet no longer young and attractive enough to get into on her own — creating a deliciously wicked cycle of decadence and self-destruction.

Tonight, it was Dmitri's job to make her dreams come true.

A loud clap caught their attention. All heads turned towards Comrade Goncharova, who stood in the hotel room doorway. "Attention! Finishing touches, and then you're out. You each have a button camera, remember to use it. Once you step out this door, you are no longer the people you once were. Return only when you've completed your task."

She was dressed in dark clothes, fully covered, so at odds with their youthful and skimpy outfits. Half of their outfits didn't allow underwear without ruining the aesthetic. Dmitri himself was told not to wear any. He supposed he should be thankful he wasn't wearing tear-away pants.

Probably sped up the process, once they were in private quarters.

Dmitri would hazard to say they looked less like girls out clubbing, and more like strippers. He couldn't quite put his finger on what made the distinction. Perhaps it was just the nature of their actions tonight; not to have fun, but to work. Not just work, but a performance. A deception.

He had just enough time to grab his blazer before following the other girls out the door. Girls who only seconds ago teetered precariously in their platform heels, suddenly found balance and poise once they passed the threshold, and out into the cool night air.

Spiders on the hunt.