The Wall

September 16, 2017:

Backscene. In January of 1962, the young organization SHIELD and its director, Peggy Carter, are tapped to assist a Soviet defector in his attempt to escape through the Berlin Wall. An already difficult task is complicated by the fact the Soviets loosed the Winter Soldier and Black Widow to pursue, and by the intervention of a shadowy third party, 'Samael,' tasked to also keep an eye on the defector.

East Berlin, Germany

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

January 1962.

Vasily Ivanovich Drozdov was a big name in the Russian mafia, the so-called Bratva, a derzhatel obschaka with his fingers in all the mob money, and the job of bribing the government to turn a blind eye. But Drozdov, he doesn't really have the fortitude to do this kind of work forever, and he's got the kind of foresight that can see where the Soviet Union is headed. He's heard life is easy in America, and he's been guaranteed some very nice things and some very good protection if he puts his knowledge and skills to better use than keeping the KGB from breathing down the necks of his superiors.

So he cut a deal. And SHIELD sent some of their best to extract him from his current location, East Berlin. Two agents, with falsified identities, penetrated East Berlin to escort him to the wall, where they'll meet back up with the main bulk of the SHIELD detachment that has arrived to ensure this extraction.

The means of delivery: a small, nondescript car heading slowly down a snow-dusted street towards one of the northernmost checkpoints along the Berlin Wall. Drozdov's hidden in the trunk, but he's not complaining: this is probably the safest way to smuggle a man through.

The two agents, one driving and the other riding a tense shotgun, keep a wary lookout as they approach the Wall itself. Five months old and already ripe with resentment, tension, and hate, the Berlin Wall stands silently between West and East Berlin, an ugly dividing line between two halves of a city. The winter has already frosted it with a few inches of snow, and the small group of men manning the small inspection post the car is slowly approaching look cold but doggedly determined — certainly in no mood to brook any nonsense from people trying to pass through.

It's a quiet evening, nearly one in the morning. The initial floods of people trying to get through have already passed.

Helga? Hellen? Harry? Ham? Herman? - For someone with a very good memory, Emmet Paul was having a devil of a time remembering what his current employer's niece and nephew's names were. Not that it mattered that much but they had been coming around regularly for dinner and then staying over for 'desert' for the last week and alleviated any and all boredom that usually filled the nights where he waited for instructions. Madam Weber was a bearable old woman. Racist, Bigoted, but with enough dementia to make her forget who she was being racist or bigotted about so his job was mainly carrying her upstairs, driving her around…making her meals…putting her to bed. Sometimes she forgot his name and called him 'Jasper' but when that happened she usually passed out from the excitement of the memories that name brought her…her hands tended to wander during those times.

But tonight, he had no time to play snickerdoodle with the Vunder Twins. Emmet had been German with faint Turkish heritage since he arrived, his swarthy complexion and mastery of the gargle of a language that is German allowing him to serve inconspicuously, waiting for instructions. No beard, hair always kept short and well groomed, he played his part waiting for instructions. And instructions did come…

/Pray tonight to Raphael, that this gentleman travel safely. For his mission is one of light but it is not fueled by honor. Should he fail…you know your mission Samael./

So Samael is clad in black…dark trousers, sturdy boots, leather blade vest hidden by a dark coat…also leather and falling to about his knees, a fedora with a wider brim pulled down at an angle to shadow his features he is a shadow, lips moving in a quiet prayer. One glove worn, the other hand bared…thumb and pointer finger rubbing together as if shifting between rosary beads and he crouches in the shadows, a longer sheathe strapped across his back, the ring hilt of his blade also wrapped in black leather to keep the metal from reflecting in the shadows.

"<St Raphael..thou wast a faithful companion to the young man, Tobias, on his long journey from Syria to Media>.." The familiar words are mouthed in Latin by the man crouching in the shadows and watching the checkpoint with narrowed eyes.

Samael knows his duty. Emmet thinks its getting too cold for this shit.

At the Wall checkpoint is one Peggy Carter. Director and partial founder of SHIELD, some might think this mission below her. Others might see her presence as being a signal as to how important it is to SHIELD that Drozdov is brought in unharmed. Calls have been put out to not just SHIELD, but other various contacts in order to ensure this asset is brought in alive. Peggy is too pragmatic to assumed it will be done without resistance. As long as they have his intel, she can mark this down in the win column.

Dressed practically in pants and a tactical jacket, her long brown hair is pulled back into a practical ponytail. Guns are at her hip and sharp eyes watch the road in front of her. She has seen too much to believe that an extraction of such a vital part of the USSR will be given up without a fight. As such, she is poised for a fight. Her eyes can rooftops, alleyways - waiting for the ghosts she has read about in her files. If they were to make an appearance, this would be the time. In fact, perhaps that is also why she is here. One asset is nice, an asset along with a ghost is better.

Standing to the side, her eye moves from the car she knows holds Drozdov to everything else around it. If they are going to make their move, now is the time. She remains in her own shadows, ready to pounce, to usher, to move whent he moment arises.

Save for one planted British agent who knows where perhaps to know —

— it is something easily missed.

A blur of black on black, like some upstart shadow slipped away from its owner and choosing now to perch on the roof of one of East Berlin's crumbling apartment blocs: one of the unfortunate few standing so close that every day is an eyeful of that hateful wall, and, high enough, lucky enough — stolen glimpses of the other side of the city that does not exist in a cage, throttled by barb wire and lion-whipped by the nightly sound of gunfire.

The apartment is dark now, and oblivious to the figure balanced on the edge of the roof.

At this distance, it is no more than the barest outline of limbs, kneed down —

— and taking aim with rifle whose long, considerable barrel stretches a line of black against the bruised, snow-bloated, wintry sky.

Peggy Carter would glimpse it clearly: a shooter.

The sound that snarls through the air ratifies it, a single, tactical shot: that ventilates a border guard straight through the face. Operation blown.

The shouting starts before the border guard hits the snow. Men snap their rifles to attention, screaming at the two agents to get out of the car. They comply with tight expressions, man and woman alike, both kicked into the snow as two guards start to search them.

Four more guards take up a defensive position in cover, out of the sniper's presumed line of sight, scanning in the direction of the shot and radioing for backup. They don't know what's going on, exactly, but they're pretty sure it involves someone trying to escape.

And the last three guards? They head straight for the trunk. They know what's probably going on here.

"<Rescuing him from many dangers and, in particular, from the danger of death in the river Tigris>…" The Latin continues, lips moving slowly over and around each word but then there's that sound. A sound that people who kill other people for a living, on and off the fields of war recognize and his top lip curls with puzzled disdain. Eyes track the shot from where it cuts a life short, over the invisible trajectory that would make the most sense. Then quickly flick back to the car and the scene unfolding.

Pushing himself to his feet, Emmet readjusts his hat to make sure that brim is lowered as kneels again to pick up a piece of concrete that might be part of an old brick or some sort of divider. He weighs the brick sized piece of debris in his gloved hand. Then he walks out of the shadows, only to haul back and toss that brick substitution at the back of that car.

"Oi!" He staggers out of the shadows, that sheathe on his back has been removed and he leans on the blade still encased in black leather like a really thin walking stick, waving a flask in the air a bit. He speaks in fluent German. "I am trying to piss my name here, what's all the commotion? Its hard to get all those gs and hs in cursive…" He rasps out a wheezy laugh. Trying to draw the guards's attention. "Who wants to help me? I…I need help holdin' it straight."

Peggy, alert and on edge for something like this, sees the outline in the night. The shot through the head of the guard is met with something akin to professional panic. That was not in the plan. Who authorized that?

The Director moves from her shadows, purpose finding her as she keeps an eye on the outline against the sky, but also moving toward the car that holds her asset. She doesn't want to give up too much too soon, but she also needs to ensure things are properly managed.

There are guns being raised, operations being blown, but all she seems to care about at the moment is getting a singular car through the wall, no matter the task.

The two agents kiss the icy road, facedown, gritting against the snarled barks of the border guards to GET DOWN and DON'T MOVE and HANDS BEHIND HEADS. One guard smashes the stock of his rifle into the back of the man's head, the violence jerking through every bone of the agent's back.

"<We're innocent!>" pleads the woman in German. She thinks far more colourful thoughts, and all in a different language.

She gets kicked for her trouble, as the guards share a look. The other casts a look on the corpse, urgently radioing it in.

A tower closer to the wall turns its spotlight up, skimming the rooftops of the higher towers. All of them are empty.

Meanwhile, the third guard tasked with securing the car, gun in hand, checks the interior — empty — and with another wide berth around the car to avoid any subsequent shots, moves for the trunk —

— when someone interrupts his search. He turns, gun pointed, aiming down what… appears to be Herr Shitface, drunk off his gourd. He isn't taking chances.

"<Get down!>" he snaps, gun pointed, daring to move closer. "<Get on the ground!>"

Meanwhile, the figure lost from the roof balances, en pointe, in the stone socket of a building window, using her back and one outstretched leg to brace her still inside six inches' depth of space from a long way down. Romanova isn't concerned. Looking down curiously at the scene below, she speaks into a radio transmitter one word: "Zanimat'sya?"

The help isn't coming nearly fast enough. It's late, and the recent snowfalls and subsequent melts have made a muddy slush of the roads. We are on the way, the reinforcements radio back, but they're not nearly going to get here fast enough to back up the nine men remaining at the post.

They seem to know it, judging by the paranoia and fear in their eyes and the way they aggress on Emmet with weapons drawn. Can't trust that he isn't part of all this.

The guard heading for the trunk gets there, yanks on it, and yells something at his compatriot, who moves to pull the lever that will open the back of the car. The two with rifles to the heads of the SHIELD agents aim their weapons dead at the backs of their heads, clearly prepared to shoot first and ask questions later if there's anything untoward in that trunk.

Meanwhile, improbably en pointe in a windowframe, Romanova only has one question.

There is a long silence over the radio, before a man's voice, cold and harsh, answers, "Nyet. Nabljudaj."

That flask is turned upside down and shaken as Emmet looks heartbroken at the lack of alcohol and his features are still not clearly scene thanks to the shadow of his hat brim but he sighs and sways dangerously. "Hm?" He asks as if confused or lost.

And when the guard dares to get closer, he shifts his weight forward as if he is about to kneel and then drops the flask, shifting his grip on his sheathed blade, looking up a bit to count the guards, note body language, but…it is the trunk that draws his attention and his grip on that sheathe tightens.

He looks up towards the sky however and then the guards and then back at the sky before slowly lowering to one knee, resting an elbow on the knee and holding that leather encased blade loosely in his off hand.

"<We beseech thee with all our hearts, to be a safe guide…>" Back to Latin, murmured under his breath as he prepares himself for the task at hand.

Things have - to put it in proper words - have gone to shit.

Peggy Carter moves her way toward the car in what she hopes is a fashion that is unseen. The men have guns trained on the SHIELD agents. That is unfortunate and horrible, however, the main asset is in trouble and those agents knew that this was a dangerous mission. Peggy Cater moves through guards and cars and bystanders. The first shot is very important and telling. And, as such, it may come to no surprise that it is aimed at the guard that attempts to pull open the trunk of the SHIELD car. The bullet is aimed center mass, but not a killing shot. Peggy wishes to disarm and defang those against her agency, but she doesn't want to kill discriminately. Of course, she will make a kill shot if it proves necessary.

From her shadows, she aims for one of the other guards holding the SHIELD agents at gunpoint. She knows they will be the next under fire and she wants to save them if she can.

"Tak tochno," Romanova replies breezily through her radio. She turns her eyes down on the scene, cat-like, considering. She tilts her head.

She turns off the radio and jumps off from her perch, diving down, a shadow disappearing into darkness. Wouldn't be the first time she didn't listen.

And as that would-be drunk man reaches unseen for a hidden weapon —

— the patrol guard working on opening the vehicle's trunk suddenly goes down. He jerks, plugged with a bullet from Peggy Carter, groping for his own torso, cradling the exit point that pools blood. He drops to his knees, screaming with pain.

The gunshot stops the rest of them, the men arrested by the sound. Another falls, a man back by the captured SHIELD agents, put down by another bullet that makes him scream in shock and pain. It distracts the few with their guns on Emmet, attention swerved off him, toward the source of the shots, screaming orders back at post to turn the god damned search light and to bring back-up immediately.

They cannot find Carter yet, but —

— crossing through the fray, someone can, as a woman descends behind her in silent engagement, trying to sweep out her legs, and in a one-two movement, snap one hand out to stun her gunarm at the nerve, in hopes to drop the weapon.

Tak tochno, the Black Widow says. Then she breezily disobeys his direct order. Somewhere, the Winter Soldier slowly turns his head to survey the sudden confrontation.

He doesn't bother barking a reprimand or questioning what she's doing. He knows the radio is off. This has happened before. He has to admit that every time it happened before, they both did wind up having a lot more fun than if they'd just followed protocol, but playing with prey still carries it hazards.

Hazards like the unexpected quantities that have made themselves known.

Black Widow goes for the human elements. The Winter Soldier goes straight for the mission target. He is on the scene immediately, cutting into the fray in total silence with the quickness of a rushing wolf. The first sound that emanates from him, alerting all and sundry to his presence, is the high, metallic whine of his left arm as the prosthetic winds up. He snatches up the downed guard by the trunk of the car, lifting and then hurling him twenty feet through the air to break his back against the face of the Wall.

He turns instantly on the car itself, afterwards, ready to rip /that/ open too to get at the contents.

The two SHIELD agents on the ground take advantage of the fact one of their captors is down to leap up and eliminate the other. They arm themselves with the weapons of their erstwhile captors, and take advantage of the confusion to start running in the direction from which Peggy's shots came: presuming she's there, and hastening to back her up.

There is alot going on, gun shots that cause the man in black's head to tilt to the side ever so slightly, shadowed gaze following various bullet trajectories and then he quickly turns his attention back to the car, taking a deep breath as he watches folks go down but then his gaze turns slowly back to the car in time to see…

Emmet just stares for a moment because somebody goes flying and the car gets lifted up and his cheeks puff out in a huff of an exhale, taking a deep breath. He rises from his crouch, flipping back his coat to draw a dagger from his hip, twirling it and throwing it at the trunk of the car, aiming for the key hole and to draw attention as both hands move to draw his sword from his sheath.

He stands there for a moment and whistles sharply, pointing at the man (?) with his sword and waggling a finger with his other. "Oi! Boyo…I dun tink that belongs to ye." And there comes the Irish lil, rounding his vowels and coloring his words. He does /not/ piss himself and somewhere in his brain, he is proud of that.

Natasha is an expert at stealth and engagement. Peggy is an adept spy and field agent, but she is no match for the the Black Widow's opening move. It's a mere moment too late that she feels the presence of the assassin behind her. Of course, too late is always too late.

Peggy's legs are kicked out from underneath her and her arm suddenly tingles on pins as Natasha strikes a nerve. The gun clatters to the stones next to her. With a grunt, she collapses to the ground, shoulder barking in pain at the sudden contact.

Despite Natasha's opening advantage, the Director of SHIELD is not about to take a beating lying down. Pushing herself up would take too much time and open her up to another attack. Immediately, she kicks out at Natasha, attempting to either push her back or connect. Either way is a more advantageous position for her. Her right arm still feels the effects of the nerve attack. The left arm, though? It makes a reach for the dropped gun. She might not be as good of a crack shot, but she has certainly tested shooting from her left before.

Distantly, through the sound of shouts, Natalia hears a too-familiar shriek of metal: plates arranging and reforming to gird the limb into a weapon.

Her mouth quirks up at one corner. He didn't want to be patient either. She knows the Winter Soldier better than he knows himself.

For now, she engages the apparent shooter — discounting Natalia herself — using a simple, effortless ram of her fist to numb that gunarm. The Black Widow does not even need to apply significant force; knowledge of the body does not require it.

When Peggy goes down, she tilts her head, and the Widow makes a soft, almost discouraging sort of noise. Ended too soon, too fast, and it's obvious so far she's /toying/. She wants to play, and it looks like this is another one of those interchangeable paper pushers. Too few in the world left to amuse her. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" she asks politely. "Or dirty American? No matter."

She pulls wire free from her left glove —

— as Peggy kicks back, and the Widow twists just in time to receive it in a grazing blow, brightening up with surprise that there may be some salvaging it. "Very dirty!"

Peggy reaches for the gun; Natalia sees it, but she does not have time, not with the two back-up agents coming closer. The Widow seams back into dark, her black clothing helping it, her steps soundless, kicking up from a wall to twist in behind the woman, wire garotted around her throat, staging her like a human shield in Peggy's line of fire.

The two SHIELD agents have only just reached her when the Widow vanishes; the man stays near her, trying to cover her with his stolen weapon, while the woman ranges a little farther afield to try to find the assassin.

She certainly finds her. The Widow descends behind her, and that garrote chokes her voice off before she can cry out for them to don't worry about her, just SHOOT —

Her fellow agent snaps up his rifle, but he hesitates transparently for any word from Peggy on what he should do.

Meantime, the Winter Soldier has no comment on how well Natalia knows or doesn't know him. He keeps his own counsel — and a periodic eye on her, where she engages with Director Carter.

The main of his attention is on the car — up until a thrown knife suddenly splits the air and rams with unerring precision into the locking mechanism, jamming it shut and rendering it impossible to open in any conventional way. The Soldier considers this development a moment, before he cuts a gaze over his steel left shoulder at Emmet's challenge. "Irishman…?" the Soldier wonders, sounding more curious than anything. Oddly enough for an apparent Soviet agent, his English is perfect, with a clear American accent. "You're a long way from home…"

His steel left hand punctures clean through the trunk of the car — and with a shriek of its mechanisms, the Soldier tears half of it loose as if ripping a sheet of paper, throwing the resultant jagged piece of scrap metal at Emmet in a very rude form of greeting. "What brings you to East Berlin?" He almost still sounds conversational.

Thankfully, for Emmet, between him and the Winter Soldier, the guards seem more inclined to shoot at the heavily-masked man. The Soldier's arm is covered up — this is not a mission where he wishes to advertise — but that just makes the unidentifiable inhuman metal sounds coming from him more alarming. A burst of fire from the remaining guards standing splits his attention, the assassin ducking around the body of the car to place it between himself and the bullets.

Drozdov has had quite enough of all this, it seems, because he's now trying to get OUT of the ruined trunk and just make a panicked run for it.

He can't help but count rifle shots in his head, lips moving reflexively, but Emmet's eyes stay glued to the Soldier/Stranger who places his accent before just tearing through the metal of that car like he's opening up a present. This was not in the briefing.

"You're one to talk." Is the snapp retort before he's step pivoting out of the way of that scrap of metal just a few seconds faster than a normal human would…which means he still staggers to the side slightly, ignoring what he's sure is going to be a bruise/gash when he checks under his light armor later. That scrap of metal checks him in the side and he exhales sharply. "Oh ye know, tere was the woman…then tere was this man…then tere was 4 of 'em…"

A small dagger finds its way into his free hand again and this time is tossed towards the back of the neck of one of the guards firing at the soldier with deadly precision and then he's adjusting his grip on his sword preparing to engage the second guard.

Oh right…the man is getting away…"Oi! Dumbass…dun get /out/ of te…oh for fucks sake."

Left hand snatches the gun and she keeps moving, shoving herself upward to standing. Peggy has none of the fluid and ballet-like mobility and flexibility that Natalia has. Her own movements are more like a brawler. Someone who can take a punch and then keep pushing through the pain. "Da," she hisses at the woman who is clearly trying to either kill or stop her. "Both."

Attempting to get feeling back into her right hand, she shakes it. At the same time, the left brings the gun up to level at the woman now holding a SHIELD agent captive with a garrote wire.

The last thing she wants is a death of a SHIELD agent on her watch. With her dominant arm working, she might risk the shot, but left hand? Not immediately. "Help Drozdov," Peggy orders the other Agent. Her own eyes remain on Natalia, gun trained.

With a first clear look on her assailant, Peggy Carter can see —

— someone so /young/, a woman barely out of girlhood, with that impetuous, flighty young stinging her blue eyes electric. Tall and lean, dressed in black, with hair as red as fresh blood pooling from a corpse, Natalia stares back. Her cheek almost intimately touches that of the female agent, like two best friends sharing a secret, though her eyes and attention do not leave Carter.

It hasn't missed the Widow that the other is glancing at her — a man begging her for direction, for an order. "A woman in charge?" she asks, her breath misting on the wintry air. "Am I seeing this right?"

A bright laugh escapes her. "How progressive, you westerners."

But as Peggy gives that order, the Widow's attention cuts momentarily to the second agent not tied up in her hands. Playing is all good and fun, but if they get Drozdov first —

She moves her free hand. There's no gun, no weapon that can be seen — except for the Widow's Bite she darts off her wrist to stick him, which lights the agent up with electrocution.

Her eyes meet Peggy's. She smiles.

And, just like that, she lets her wire go on its retractable line, slicing through the woman's throat. She pushes her forward, toward Carter, forcing the director to make her choice. Go for the enemy or provide first aid to your dying own?

With a clear bet on the latter, Natalia cuts and runs, beelining in a chase toward the escaping Drozdov.

You're one to talk, Emmet retorts. The Soldier laughs. "That's a compliment to my English!" he says, before adding something long, unintelligible, and likely of dubious politeness in Russian afterwards. He's probably commenting how Emmet's story sounds an awful like he came to Germany for a foursome.

Then he tries to kill Emmet, which is probably actually how people punctuate their greetings in Russia. The other man dodges adroitly, something which raises the Soldier's brows over his obscuring mask, but he doesn't have much time to contemplate this before the guards are firing at him. They don't know precisely what is going on, but they know someone's trying to get out of East Berlin, and that several of their compatriots are dead, and neither of these things can be allowed to stand.

Emmet's thrown knife takes one of the men clean in the neck, eliminating him as a threat. The second shifts his weapon to fire on Emmet, especially when he's aggressed upon with a sword.

Drozdov has his own idea of what to do about all this — RUN. It's not the smartest thing to do, but he's freaked out and he can see potential freedom and safety just on the other side of the checkpoint. He's scrambling out of the trunk, heedless of Emmet's unimpressed yell, cringing and ducking as bullets ricochet around him. He cuts and runs, even as the male agent by Peggy's side acknowledges her order and runs to meet him, providing cover fire.

The Soldier witnesses this with a soft snarl. He starts to rise — and his head turns as the faint sound of arriving military vehicles hits his senses. Reinforcements have finally arrived, and there's quite a lot of them.

He moves to hold them off and prepare his and the Widow's way out, but it's more a delaying measure than any actual intent to fight and win. "Vdova!" he calls in Natalia's direction, though whether the order is to 'hurry up and kill Drozdov,' or 'it's a wash, get your ass over here,' seems to be up for interpretation. Natalia certainly has a poor track record when it comes to listening to him.

Its that language, that sounds like the sharp nails of a beautiful woman scraping against a chalk board doused in vodka. Emmet places it with a quirk of an eyebrow and a hint of a dimple smile as he shakes his head. "…why yes, I /do/ 'ave a beautiful mouth. Thank ye for noticin'…" He does not speak Russian. Its the principle of the thing. But he shifts his stance twirling his sword in a 360 flip like he's twirling an umbrella.

Its the timing of the thing that matters, he's shot at? He actually seems take the bullet, letting it graze his arm and then another shot graze his thigh as he charges, he's lowering a shoulder and he moves gracefully…the footwork of a fencer to duck a shoulder to get to the man's side, twisting and slicing neatly below his guard. His blade is narrow but it is sharp and stomachs are soft.

He also hear the sounds of military vehicles and somehow this is obviously the Russian's fault. "Oi! Speak-no-Evil, look what ye did! Feckin' Russians…this is why ye didn't get an invite to the menage a beaucoup! Ye have no concept of foreplay…" He mutters. This was not…in the briefing. At all.

"Yes, democracy does do wonders for progress," Peggy tells Natalia in dry tone, expression serious, muscles tense as she waits for the Russian's move. Then, it happens. She can already read the cut of the garrote against her agent's throat in that smile. "No!" she shouts, stepping forward to stop it, though it is already too late. The mission is Drozdov. There is little she can do to save the woman right now. The best she can do is ensure she did not die in vain.

Shots ring out as she attempts to either wing Natalia or stop her outright. "Medic!" she shouts over the din of the attacks and mayhem. "Sani!" Just because she is staying on target does not mean she cannot verbally attempt to help.

Peggy follows, angry and determined to ensure no one else dies. At least, none of her people.

There are mistakes that come with the impetus of youth, and the spider who plays too much with her food will not have her meal.

She bets one way of Peggy Carter without knowing her — expecting a soft woman to do soft things — and receives punishment for her trouble. One of those shots hits the Widow soundly in her side and intercepts her pursuit of Drozdov.

Shuddering with surprise and annoyed pain, Natalia looks back, a hand on to hold the gout of blood from her wound, one that will soon be very dangerous if not seen to. A deadly lesson learned tonight.

With temper in her blue eyes, enraged of being denied a kill, she instead retreats, forced to detour off between the darkness between apartment blocs, visibly trailing fresh, red blood. Failed mission on her part.

Blue eyes roll at Emmet's returned sass, the smart mouth of the man sparking mingled amusement and irritation in the Soldier's demeanor. "You don't speak a WORD of Russian," he rejoins, though from his position he watches with observant interest as Emmet cleanly — and inhumanly — moves around the shots of the man trying to fire at him, sliding in close to gut him with a sleek, sharp blade.

Drozdov moves, and both Russians move to intercept him. But the sound of reinforcements stops one, and the other…

A man can teach in a vacuum, but some lessons can only be taught in the chaos of the field, with live ammunition flying. One of those lessons tags Natalia in the side, and the Soldier's calculus of the encounter instantly changes. The mission has become much too noisy, with far too much risk of being uncovered or — worse — caught.

Time to go.

Emmet has a few parting words. The Soldier's only reply is a gesture of his left hand as if firing a gun, a coy little 'bang' motion that promises to recall him. There is one last baleful glance shot towards Director Carter — she would be such a prime target, but not yet, not now — before he too whirls and leaves his erstwhile target to the care of those tasked with his extraction.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License