Prologue
Convoy of nine vehicles. Three military green covered trucks, six black chrome, all with altered license plates. HVT in the fourth car; the black 1957 Hussar Delux. Glint of light in window of apartment building overlooking mission area. Radio silence. All teams reported in that mission is a go.
Security Administrator Joseph Pakrov fanned his face with a meaty hand. Of all the cars in the motorcade, he doubted any of them had air conditioning that survived the heat. The weather in Berlint had been undergoing a record-breaking heatwave the likes of which had not been seen in forty years. His head of security offered him an apologetic smile which he returned. It wasn't the young man's fault that the Ostanian government neglected the more niche bureaus in their employ. He was a nice lad with a promising future. The black bottom rim of his mustard yellow beret was soaked with sweat; his dark brown uniform had patches of moisture bleeding through. He had an easy smile on a youthful face. The submachine gun resting passively in between his legs gave off the reassuring feeling of a sheathed sword.
"The radio said this morning that we would be getting some rain soon." The young man offered, attempting to break the silence. Pakrov smiled lightly at the attempt and opted to humor him.
"I certainly hope so. I don't think my garden can take much more abuse."
The soldier raised an eyebrow in surprise, "I didn't know you gardened sir?"
"Well it used to be my wife's, but after she had knee surgery she couldn't tend to it anymore." Pakrov explained, to which his security nodded.
"Are you married by any chance lad?" he asked, earning a shake of his head.
"No sir. I actually haven't even had a relationship for the last few years."
"Oh? How come?"
"Not a lot of time on my hands I guess." the young man shrugged, "That and just waiting to find the right lady of course. Better to be patient than to rush off and get a divorce later, right?" Pakrov laughed and reached over to lightly punch the young officer's knee.
"Good! Good! If only some of my colleagues thought the same, maybe there'd be less complaining in our meetings."
The officer's smile grew a smidge and they fell back into silence once more. Approaching a three way intersection, the procession rolled to a stop. The young man's eyes traveled back and forth along the sidewalk and buildings before landing on a cozy looking bakery. A woman with lovely brown hair wearing a flour-stained apron was setting out fresh loaves of bread in front of the store window. They looked heavenly. The young man craned his head back to Pakrov.
"Maybe we cou-" The boy never had a chance to finish as the whole world around them erupted.
Pakrov didn't know what happened; for a single frame of a moment, the whole world became a violent clash of dust, and fire, and confusion. His ears were ringing, his mind was a jumbled mess, and the mother of all headaches raged within his skull. A sudden oncoming wave of exhaustion swept over him, held off only by fear and the primal knowledge that if he fell asleep now he might never wake back up again. He opened his eyes and fought the urge to vomit; the world was spinning and blinding light assaulted his eyes. Opening his eyes once more with a cringe, the portly man fought for his swimming vision to focus. Upon regaining some of his senses he retched at the sight.
The car was totaled. Every window was either shattered or covered in cracks. A small fire emanated out from under the demolished hood. The slumped over driver, like the rest of the interior of the car, was dusted with a thin layer of debris. Pakrov could see from the back seat the blood trailing from the motionless driver's ears. Pakrov turned to his right and froze. The body was horrific. What was once a bright young man was now a half charred and mauled statue of meat and cloth. One of those bright blue eyes had an inch long shard of glass spearing through it. Once chocolate brown hair was now caked in dark blood, the beret now a mixture of yellow and brown. The skin was shredded, as was the once pristine brown uniform. A line of bright red trailed down from a gaping mouth.
A deafening staccato thundered outside the car, throwing him out of his shock. Gunfire filled the street smothering the terrified screams of fleeing civilians. Holes punched into the hood and windshield and Pakrov scrambled to unbuckle himself. Trembling hands struggled with his door to no avail. Bullets punctured the corpse of the driver and Pakrov screamed. Crawling over the body of his guard, he reached and opened the other door. Mournfully, Pakrov shoved the body out of the car with a silent prayer and flopped painfully onto the sidewalk.
The street was a warzone. Muzzle flashes bloomed from windows and behind cars. The bodies of his convoy security and officials littered the streets. An arm wrapped around him and thrust him against the side of the car. He struggled for a moment before recognizing the uniform of his security team. The man had blood flowing over one of his eyes from a gash just above his brow on his soot caked face. The officer thrust a small pistol, a Makarov, into his hands against his protest and in a hoarse voice shouted,
"Take this and stay down!"
The officer's head snapped forward a moment later as a bloody crater appeared. Pakrov screamed again, huddling his bulk behind the totaled car. Silver cylinders bounced into the street, belching out thick clouds of chalk white smoke. The rapid peels of automatic fire subsided into methodical singular pops, often immediately followed by the sound of a collapsing body. Pakrov's lungs protested and he covered his mouth in efforts to muffle his coughs.
Eventually the occasional gunfire died out as well upon the distant shout of "Check fire!" Pakrov peeked out from over the car but saw nothing through the dense smoke.
"Joseph Pakrov?"
Pakrov reeled around and froze. The fall-colored camo was unmistakable, as was the pitch black chest rig filled to bursting with AK magazines. A black balaclava revealed nothing but his cold green eyes and lips, which were pursed into a thin line. Hanging by a strap was an AK-47, safety off.
He knew of these men, or at least the rumors. In a panic, he raised his pistol only for it to be batted out of his hands with almost contemptuous ease. His eyes followed the firearm as it disappeared into the smoke until he felt a throbbing pinch radiate from just under his shoulder. Weariness began to set in as he looked over to the source of the pain; a syringe, plunger fully depressed, was jabbed into his arm. Whatever it was, the drug acted fast, as the last thing that he saw was more uniformed figures emerge from the fog.
Saturday afternoon in the Forger household was a pleasantly lazy affair. Sunlight poured in from the living-room windows, washing the room and connected kitchen in a warm golden glow. Yor Forger sat beside her daughter Anya as the small girl engrossed herself with her favorite cartoon Spy Wars; from within the kitchen, Loid busied himself with fixing together lunch for his daughter and wife. It was a good day, a slow day.
Loid found himself unexpectedly reveling in the moment; such a peace was a rare thing for him these days. As W.I.S.E agent Twilight, being a Westalis spy stationed in Ostania came with a multitude of pressures by nature, but the effects of his current mission had been the source of newfound levels of stress. Operation Strix: a high level intelligence gathering mission focused around one Donovan Desmond, head of the National Unity Party. Ridiculously, in order for him to gain access to Desmond, he was required to get married, have a child, and have that child enrolled into Eden College. Evidently, Donovan Desmond was something of a recluse and was only ever relatively exposed when attending events held at the elite private school, using them as informal get-togethers with fellow upper crust types.
That was where his family, and subsequently his alias as Loid Forger came into play. Adopting Anya and falsifying documents to say that she was biologically his sounded good on paper, but the girl herself was a handful to say the least. His 'marriage' with Yor was of necessity as well, though convenient for both parties. He needed her to pose as his new wife, having remarried after Anya's "mother's" passing; Yor needed the arrangement to avoid the secret police's potential suspicion of single women her age being spies. Admittedly, the secret police had arrested a fair number of female W.I.S.E agents in their recent round ups.
Smaller additional missions had dropped into his lap throughout this operation, often leaving him drained and exhausted, but in the deepest corners of his mind he had begun to treasure this fake family he had built. The smile like the one currently lying on his face felt real more and more often than he was willing to admit.
Loid's hands glided about, three bowls of creamy tomato soup and three glasses of iced tea prepared as the droning sound of his daughter's cartoons babbled quietly in the background. Yes, today was a good day.
"Loid..!" Yor called, her tone being one of alarm and dread.
Loid's senses screamed in an instant. Yor had had her moments before, but the tone of her voice was something new. Stalking out of the kitchen with as much casual poise as a spy could muster, he strode into the living room to see Anya burying her face into her mother's red dress. Yor herself clung to her daughter with one arm, the other covering her mouth in horror.
Loid turned his attention to the TV screen and felt his blood freeze. The scene was a massacre. Smoke billowed from buildings and cars. Bullet holes pockmarked just about every possible surface, cars, walls, the street. Worst of all were the glimpse of black man-sized bags being carried off behind the journalist actively reporting on the scene. The final nail in the coffin was the text lining the bottom of the screen.
'SECURITY ADMIN ATTACKED: WAR ON THE HORIZON?'
Spy x Family: Next of Kin
The Cold War between Westalis and Ostania wasn't as cold as many believed. In efforts to uphold their respective national interests, it often fell to proxy wars between politically allied elements in foreign countries. Destabilized nations were picked apart by the two powers as local forces took up sides in their own civil wars. Westalis and Ostania graciously would provide arms, equipment, and most discreetly troops, with the intent of raising politically allied nations grateful for such charitable assistance.
Most of this information was withheld from the general populace of course. No, for them war was always both long past and just on the horizon. Peace was now a very real possibility.
This is the story of how two nations embroiled in a cold war waged a true war in silence.