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Chapter Ten

KATOWICE, POLAND

OCT 12, 22:00

Nadya’s cold hands are wrapped around a mug of coffee. Her hollow gaze is locked on the checkered pattern of the greasy plastic tablecloth in front of her. Her brain feels sluggish, and she doesn’t think it’s because of the late hour. Every inch of her is numb and trembling. It has been a long time since she’s let a mission upset her this much, but then again, it’s also been a long time since she’s had something that she cared about enough to let upset her. She takes a small sip of her drink, barely noticing that it’s gone cold. Her body feels slack, like the usual tension that envelopes her has somehow left her body, replaced by this dangerous sluggishness. Replaced by the cold hollowness that she had felt after she’d lost Sasha. Sasha… She tries to shake off the name, shake off the flashes of memory that hit her like sledgehammers: their first mission together, the first time she realized she loved him, his eyes pleading with her to pull the trigger, those same eyes not recognizing her on the train…

She has always been unshakable, she has trained herself to put aside the weaknesses of love and emotion, but when it comes to Aleksander Morozov, she hasn’t been able to let go- and she hates herself for that. Her whole life, she’s never let anything break her armour, except for him. Her one weakness is now hunting her. And the most dangerous hunter is one who knows all of your flaws, all your weaknesses, every scar from your past. Nadya has never felt this uncertain, and in her line of work, uncertainty is deadly. Reflexively, her hand flits towards her left wrist, slightly lifting the sleeve. As if burned by a hot iron, she jerks her hand back. The numbness is back. She can no longer feel the throbbing of the bruises caused by the fight on the train, or the fracture in her right wrist, or even the crushed ribs. Every bit of feeling is gone, and the emptiness is back. She’d felt it creeping up on her when she had gone back to see Sokolow, but she’d managed to push it away for the time being. This time, though, she doesn’t think she can. She reaches back to her wrist and runs her nail against the tender flesh. She barely feels it, and, alarmed, applies more pressure until her skin breaks and a tiny drop of blood wells up on the surface. She grits her teeth as she continues to drag her nail across her arm. The thin yet growing line of blood leaves her with a strange sort of satisfaction.

“Are you done with that?”

The voice startles Nadya and she jumps, her hand subconsciously going to her belt where her weapon is concealed. Her entire body freezes. When she looks up, she sees the waitress, a middle aged woman with a wide face and heavy features standing over her, holding a pot of black coffee. The woman gestures toward her half-empty cup and quirks a bushy eyebrow. Nadya pulls her sleeve down over her arm and forces a smile.

“No, sorry,” she replies.

The woman, looking unimpressed, shrugs and walks away. Nadya lets herself relax a bit, taking another sip of her tepid coffee. The feeling still hasn’t come back into the rest of her body, but the cut on her arm twinges slightly. That’s a good sign. It means she won’t be numb forever. It means that despite everything, she’s still alive. She’s been hardened and scarred so badly that all the damage has created a cocoon, an armour that is difficult to break. She gently pulls back the sleeve of her jacket and dabs at the bleeding scratch with a napkin. This one is not deep. It probably won’t even scar. Nadya’s eyes scan her arm, taking in the dozens of small, pale, identical scars that dot her wrist. They all prove the same thing. Nadezhda Arkanova is still human, for now. She raises her mug to her lips, and balks at the taste. She hadn’t noticed it before, but the liquid is revolting. She sets it aside and turns her attention to taking inventory of herself. Despite her apathy, she is aware of her numerous injuries. She can tell based on the tight feeling in her cheek and the odd looks she’s been getting from other patrons that she is beginning to develop a nasty black eye. Her strained breathing indicates several broken ribs, and her right arm is swelling up alarmingly in a way that makes her suspect a fracture. Other than that, she only has a few more minor contusions. She is lucky to have escaped from a fight with someone as deadly as the Censor with such relatively minor damage, but any injury is an asset to her enemies. Even though she can’t feel the pain now, she will certainly be able to soon. Her numbness won’t last forever, and no matter how many painkillers or shots she uses to dull it, the pain will slow her down and untreated wounds will make it worse. She needs to tend to her wounds, but first she needs to find the nearest drugstore and raid them of their gauze, Ace bandages, and ibuprofen. After that, she’ll find a liquor store and pick up a litre of vodka- a necessity for both medicinal and personal purposes. She reaches inside her jacket and pulls a wallet from an inside pocket. Flipping it open, she counts her cash. 293 Euros or about 1243 PLN. Enough for her purposes. She won’t be in Katowice for much longer. Once she crosses the German border, she’ll stop by a safehouse and restock her cash and ammunition, which she’s also dangerously low on. She takes a moment to collect herself, glancing at her lap. Her skirt is filthy and her tights are ripped. She should probably find a clothing store while she’s at it. She leaves a 10 Zloty note on the table in front of her and rises, dusting herself off. 

Nadya’s eyes dart around the shop one last time as she crosses the dim room and moves toward the door. The gust of chilly air hits her like a wall of ice, and she pulls her jacket closer around her shoulders, shivering. The street is dark, but spotted with the occasional streetlight. There are few pedestrians, but the streets crawl with slow-moving cars. Nadya walks quickly with her head down, not eager to attract more stares than necessary with her black eye, which is quickly starting to sting. The cold seems to have switched her nerves back on, returning feeling to her body. Along with the physical pain comes the emotional distress as well. Along with the pain comes him. Nadya grits her teeth and keeps walking. She remembers passing a corner store on her way to the cafe, and heads in that direction. Hopefully they’ll at least be able to cover her medical needs if nothing else. She reaches the shop- a small storefront with a flickering neon sign that reads Wisniewski Provisions: Buy Everything Here! She pushes open the glass door and hears the tinkle of the bell as it swings shut behind her. The warmth of a heated building makes her aching body relax a little. She glances up and sees that the cashier, a pimply young man in his mid twenties with curly brown hair, is staring at her. His blank gaze makes her suspect that he is taking more notice of her curves than her obvious injuries. She pays him no mind as she walks down the first aisle- various snacks and soft drinks. It’s in the third aisle that she finds the top item on her list. She retrieves a litre of Luksokowska vodka from the top shelf, takes a moment to check the price, and continues with her shopping. The next aisle is filled with toiletries. She stops to pick up a bar of soap and some deodorant and then doubles back to select a tube of pale concealer. No point in walking around with a bruise as noticeable and recognizable as the one she currently has when there’s an easy fix right there. When she finds the medical supplies, she is relieved to see that they carry what she requires. Gauze, bandages, and Ibuprofen apprehended, she turns her attention to her clothing situation. Wisniewski Provisions doesn’t have much of a selection, so she elects to try a different store. 

Nadya walks up to the cashier and places her merchandise on the counter in front of him, flashing him her most winning smile while she does. Despite her ragged state, it works. His cheeks flush and he fumbles as he scans her items. She prepares to take out one of her fake IDs, but the cashier doesn’t ask for it. Instead, he gives her the total. She pays in cash, before tilting her head at him.

“Excuse me…” she glances at his nametag, “...Piotr.” He looks up, clearly flustered.

“Yes?”

“Do you know of any clothing outlets nearby? Preferably ones that would be open at this hour?” Piotr’s face brightens, clearly glad to be of service to her. She cringes internally.

“Kaminski Wardrobes closes at eleven, I think. It’s about four blocks east.”

Nadya thanks him and gives him another bright smile before bracing herself to head back out into the frigid air. It’s worse the second time around, because this time Nadya can feel every time the wind lashes her face or whips her already tender injuries. Her body aches from lack of rest and numerous abuses. She can’t wait to get the hell out of this damn country. As far as she’s concerned, the whole Polish nation can choke. Of course, in order to leave Poland, she has to face one more unavoidable indignity, but that call can wait until she’s gotten cleaned up a bit. She walks into Kaminski Wardrobes with some apprehension, but this cashier, an elderly man, ignores her completely. It doesn’t take her long to find what she needs: a pair of black cargo pants, a tank top of the same colour, and a change of underclothes. Once she ensures that they’re her size, she walks up to the register and pays without incident. The old man at the counter grunts and gestures toward the back when she asks for a water closet, but she thanks him as politely as if he had shown her himself. 

The public toilet isn’t the nicest she’s ever been in, but it’s far from the worst. The dingy walls are painted a pale blue, and the mirror is cracked towards the bottom left, but it seems fairly clean, so she can’t complain. She feels an almost palpable relief to be on her own and in private. She first unholsters her gun and places it on the ceramic countertop, then removes her jacket and hangs it on the doorknob. Taking off her skirt and tights feels like shedding a tight, uncomfortable skin and she does so happily before removing her top as well. She stands in front of the mirror for a second, assessing her body for damage and taking in every inch of herself. Her body is covered in fresh bruises from her fight with Sa- the Censor, and the tops of her thighs are dotted with faint white scars identical to those on her wrists. She unwraps the bar of soap and washes herself as best as she can using the tap water and paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. It’s not much of a bath, but it’s better than nothing. Her sore, aching muscles would give anything for a hot shower right now, especially knowing that this is the best she’s gonna get, at least until she makes it to Germany. She splashes her face with cold water, before drying it off with a paper towel. Unspooling the Ace bandage, she rips off a strip with her teeth and packs the wound with gauze, before carefully wrapping her injuries. When she reaches a particularly nasty gash on her calf, she opens the bottle of vodka and takes a fiery gulp, before pouring a small amount on the wound. She hisses at the burning sensation. Her eyes tear up both from the pain and the shot. After she has finished tending her various cuts and bruises, she takes a handful of pills and washes them down with another sip of vodka. She reaches down and picks up her fresh clothes, slipping first into the underwear then the tank top and cargo pants. Finally, she unboxes the concealer and unscrews the cap, dabbing a copious amount onto her black eye. It doesn’t make it completely disappear, but it lessens the visibility considerably. It will do for now. She pockets the concealer and bags the soap, deodorant, medical supplies, and vodka, but tosses her ruined clothes in the trash. Suddenly feeling a chill, she shrugs on her jacket again.

Now that she is done with her immediate activities, she feels restless. She looks up, meeting her own eyes in the reflection. For the first time since meeting the Censor on the train, she has time to think. And that is never good. Her body feels weak at the memory of him, his hollow eyes, and his hands that were so determined to kill her. The most volatile ghost from her past is hunting her down and she is not sure if she can outrun him for much longer. Her past has a way of surfacing when she is least prepared to fight it. Sokolow was different- her anger and venom toward him fueled her such that killing him was satisfying, almost enjoyable- but she has no hatred toward Sasha. She’s not even sure if she ever quite stopped loving him, despite the years. Nadya knows in her heart that she probably never will. For every time his hands reach out to kill her, there are a hundred times where they have reached toward her with love. Nobody else has ever touched her, before or since, with the same love, gentleness, and familiarity as Aleksander Morozov. She’s had other lovers, been touched both willingly and unwillingly by men and women alike, but she’s only ever truly loved him. He is the one person who has managed to slip under not simply her clothes, but also her armour. He knew everyone of her scars and loved her just the same. He knew the pain she feels daily, and helped to wash it away. Now that she’s lost her Sasha, she’s empty. A huge piece of her soul has been stolen from her and she doesn’t know how much longer she can survive without it. She doesn’t know how much longer she can live knowing that her former captors still torture him. She isn’t sure she wants to know what they did to him to make him look at her like that, with all the coldness and detachment of a wolf stalking his prey. His eyes no longer recognize her, like the years of familiarity and closeness and love are nothing more than a figment of her imagination. That cuts her deeper than his knife ever could. She feels her eyes stinging, and this time it has nothing to do with the alcohol. She squeezes them shut and curses herself for being so goddamn weak. Why can’t she put her feelings for him aside and do what she needs to do? She gives the woman in the mirror a death glare before getting the ibuprofen and vodka back out and swallowing another mouthful of pills and alcohol. She knows her liver will probably be fucked soon, but considering her line of work, she probably won’t live long enough to have to worry about that. She gives her reflection one last long look, brushing a curl of auburn hair behind her ear and tucking her tank top into her cargo pants. The ribbed material hugs her curves and the loose fit of the cargo pants provide easy movement. Her black leather biker jacket acts as a security blanket, a second skin to protect her from the cold air and leering grins alike. Her hands are steady as she picks up her gun and holsters it in her belt.

Nadya’s shoulders sag as she picks up the plastic bag full of her supplies and opens the door of the bathroom, pushing all thoughts of Sasha aside. She has bigger problems right now, like the phone call she’s about to make. God, this is humiliating. She can take physical pain, she can take violence and brutality, but there is nothing quite as embarrassing as calling someone you used to fuck and asking for help. She is already gritting her teeth by the time she crosses the store and makes it out onto the street. It doesn’t take long to find a phone booth, but she stands in the chilly, confined space for far too long before even touching the receiver. Every muscle in her body is screaming at her not to do it, but she dials the familiar number, holding the icy phone to her ear. The ringing seems to go on forever, but eventually her recipient picks up. 

“Hello?” the woman asks in Russian-accented German. Nadya hangs her head in defeat, and instead replies in their mother tongue.

“Hey, Oksana.”

The woman’s voice turns from confused to cold in a matter of seconds.

“Nadya? Holy shit, you do exist. I haven’t heard from you once since Odessa.”

“I’m sorry, Sana. I’ve had shit to do. You know how it is. If I stay somewhere too long, our friends back home will send me a housewarming gift.”

“Well we wouldn’t want that,” Oksana says sardonically, “But you couldn’t have called me?”

“Really, Sana, I’m sorry. What else am I supposed to say? Would you rather me just sit around and wait for Mikhailov to find me?”

“Whatever. I understand you have your priorities, and I know you were never too serious about our little dynamic.”

“Oksana…” Nadya sighs in exasperation.

“Why are you calling me, Nadya?” Oksana asks, more tired than upset. Nadya pinches the bridge of her nose, wincing as her thumb comes into contact with her black eye.

“I need you to get me out of Katowice.”

“Why the hell are you in Poland?”

Nadya looks around, scanning the street for any suspicious characters before answering. “I had to get a gift from an acquaintance, and pay a visit to an old friend. But I’ve been compromised. Our… family… tracked me down. There may be some American involvement, I’m not entirely sure.”

“I see.”

“Will you help me?”

Oksana sighs, defeated. “What’s your location?”Nadya gives it to her, smiling.

 “I’ll send Dimitri in. He’ll be there around 02:00. Look for a black Volvo V60.” She sounds somewhat apprehensive.

“You’re the best.” Nadya says, smirking. She can hear Oksana smiling through the phone.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. See you in eight hours.”

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Conventional Weapons Character Theme Songs

Nadya Arkanova:

Thank You For The Venom by My Chemical Romance

Exit Music (For A Film) by Radiohead

Maria by Grandson

Hayloft I and II by Mother Mother

S/C/A/R/E/C/R/OW by My Chemical Romance

Sasha Morozov:

TRRST by IC3PEAK

Waste by KXLLSWXTCH

Spectre by Radiohead

I Am Machine by Three Days Grace

Sleep by My Chemical Romance

Markus Sauber:

Man of War by Radiohead

Message Man by Twenty One Pilots

Something in the Way by Nirvana

Fake Your Death by My Chemical Romance

West Coast Smoker by Fall Out Boy

Oksana Pavlenko:

Give ‘Em Hell, Kid by My Chemical Romance

Bubblegum Bitch by Marina

Call Me by Blondie

Rat A Tat by Fall Out Boy

The Kids Aren’t Alright by Fall Out Boy

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My Dream Cast for Conventional Weapons

I am taking into account age and nationality. My actual dream cast for Nadya is Olga Kurylenko, but she's too old. I would love someone like Ansel Elgort as Sasha, but he's American, etc. Anyway, here it is!

Katya Sitak as Nadya Arkanova

Kirill Zaytsev as Sasha Morozov

David Coronswet as Markus Sauber

Marina Mazepa as Oksana Pavlenko

Garrett Hedlund as Aaron Swanson

Natalie Martinez as Emelia Sanchez

Roman Evdokimov as Dimitri Aslanov

Idris Elba as Apollo Hart

Harrison Ford as Nicholas Mason

Ego Mikitas as Vladimir Mikhailov

Aya Ivanova as Serina Kuznetsova

Glenn Fleshler as Viktor Sokolow

Brianne Howey as Eleanora Daniels

Clark Gregg as Robert Knowles

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Chapter Nine

KATOWICE, POLAND

OCT 12, 22:00

The man’s hands have turned to ice. His fingers have frosted over- frozen, robotic metal. The cavity in his chest is filled with frigid mist, a fog that seems to coat his thoughts on the daily. The cold is all he knows. The emptiness is his only comfort, and the numbness is his only guard against the bright, painfully fractured memories that course through his head whenever he closes his eyes; memories that he can’t place, and do nothing more than confuse him. Most of them are harsh shards of torturous pain, but some are different. A flash of hazy green eyes, a fleeting smile, his hands buried in her scarlet hair. These brief moments of forgotten joy are somehow worse than the bad memories. Crueler, because they mock his suffering. They keep him locked in a foggy dreamland where he isn’t a monster, but which always breaks before he can quite believe that it’s real. He rarely lets himself sleep anymore. 

The man turns his attention back to the task at hand. His icy grey eyes bore laserlike holes into the photograph. Her steely glare meets his challenge. Those green eyes burn with more hatred than he’s ever seen. She seems to be cursing him. He knows he shouldn’t care. She’s his mission, his target, nothing more. He’s been ordered to kill her, and good soldiers follow orders. He doesn’t know her, no matter how familiar she looks, and no matter how many times she appears uninvited in his dreams. But he can’t convince himself. Yesterday, on that train, she had known him. She called him by name. Granted, it was a name he was sure he had never heard before, but something inside him stirred with recognition. And if she knows him, does that mean he knows her? He stops himself, gritting his teeth, and tearing the photograph in half before throwing it into the hotel wastebasket next to his bed. He refuses to think like that again. It doesn’t matter. Whether he knows her, or she knows him, he will kill her. He has never failed a mission before today, and he swears to himself that he won’t fail again. Good soldiers follow orders. He rests his gaze on the rifle laying beside him, picking up the Kalashnikov. The metal is even colder than his hands. He carefully examines his weapon, taking note of every scratch or imperfection. Deep inside, he feels a kind of kinship with the weapon in his hands. They are one in the same, him and the gun. Both tools of destruction to be manipulated as necessary. Neither have any choice but to strike, wound, kill… Both of them are nothing more than extensions of their owner, empty vessels that cause chaos that will bring order. He rises, carefully setting the gun aside and walking into the small adjoining bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looks haunted, with a blank stare. One of a killer

The man knows this kind of hollowness isn’t normal. He hears his commanders and captors talk about their lives. They have homes, families, memories. He has nothing. They tell him he was created for one purpose alone. They tell him that he has no past, but he knows that this isn’t true. No man is without history. No man is void of memory. And before he was a weapon, he was a man. Somewhere under all of his training and programming, maybe he still is. Maybe, if he were to get far enough away from his handlers and their torture, he wouldn’t have to be the monster they made him. Maybe if he found the girl, she could tell him who he was. She could help him figure out why he is empty, and how to be filled. He slams his fist against the mirror. No. He meets his own eyes in the mirror, shadowed by hopelessness and by the shaggy hair that nearly covers them. No, when he finds the girl, she won’t help him. He must kill her, and if he doesn’t, then she will surely kill him. This girl is not his friend. She’s not his lover. She is nothing more than his mission.

“Good soldiers follow orders,” he whispers at his shattered reflection. 

It’s never been his right to act as judge or jury, only executioner. The man in the mirror straightens, his cold eyes frosting over, and his body tensing. No more is the broken man who longs for a past that he can’t remember. Instead, he is a well-oiled machine. A soldier with a mission that he will not fail. He pushes aside the hair on his forehead, revealing for a moment the puckered scar beneath. He turns away from his reflection, and exits the bathroom. He reaches for his jacket and tactical vest that lie strewn across the bed, and pulls them on. Reaching into the pocket, he pulls out his gloves, slipping them on. Next, he crosses to his desk and grabs the roll of black bandages, slowly wrapping them around the lower half of his face. Determinately, he crosses the room, rummaging through his bag. He pulls out the pack containing his knives and unzips it. He carefully selects a few knives, hiding each on his person- in his combat boots, vest, belt, and sleeves- before placing the pack back into the bag. Next, he pulls out two handguns, making sure each is loaded and placing each in the holsters on his thighs. He pats the pouches in his vest to ensure he has extra ammo. Finally, he picks up his Kalashnikov, slinging the weapon over his shoulder and crossing to the window. It is pitch black outside. He recalls his mission, the voice of Director Mikhailov running through his brain.

“You know what to do, soldier. You know what happens to enemies of the Motherland.”

And he does. He knows exactly what happens to enemies of the Motherland. They are executed, and he is the Motherland’s favourite executioner. He knows his purpose. Deftly, he opens the window and steps onto the rickety metal fire escape. His heavy boots don’t make so much as a sound as he closes the window behind him and quickly scales down the ladder. He lands catlike on the cobblestone floor of the alley below. His senses are switched into high alert, and his mission is on the forefront of his mind. He must find his target. He knows she is somewhere in the city, and he won’t stop looking until she is dead. For now, he has to stick to the shadows. No use making another scene.

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Conventional Weapons: Chapter Eight

KRAKOW, POLAND

PRESENT DAY

Markus stares out the window of the plane as it descends onto the landing strip of the airport in Krakow. Half of him still can’t believe the events of the last two days, despite the fact that he is now halfway across the world. The moving red dots of air traffic controllers make a strange map across the dark tarmac. The bump of the plane setting down jolts Markus out of his state of stupor, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the cellphone that Agent Sanchez had given him before he boarded the plane, and powering it on. He reads the message that flashes across the screen- an address followed by an acronym that he doesn’t recognize. TTYL? Probably some CIA-standard code he hasn’t learned yet. Whatever… He pockets his phone and feels a piece of fabric brush against his knuckles. He pulls it out and looks at the old ragged bandana he’d used for years. He runs his fingers over the many stitches in it, before pocketing the cloth and turning his attention to his surroundings. The plane slows to a stop, and his fellow passengers begin to stir. Shortly after, two flight attendants begin to dismiss them, row by row. Markus stretches as he stands up, scowling. The CIA gets billions of dollars per year, yet they can’t even get him a damn business class seat… He shakes his head and picks up his backpack from the floor between his legs. He scoots out of his row of seats, joining the stream of disembarking people. Exiting the plane, he files out into the terminal. It takes a moment for him to orient himself, staring up at the English translations on the sign that denotes his location, before he determines the location of the exit. He didn’t check a bag, but was told he’d be provided with everything he needs when he arrives at the safehouse. He exits through the large glass doors onto the cloudy street. His first thought is that the weather in Krakow is not too different from that in Chicago. As he looks around, he catches sight of a man in a suit standing next to a black sedan. He is holding a sign, which reads Batman. Markus groans.

 “Really funny, Emelia,” he mutters, before snatching the sign away from the driver and opening the door of the car. He climbs into the back seat, and rips the cardboard sign in half angrily before settling with his backpack on his lap. The driver climbs into the sedan, and starts the engine. He doesn’t say a word to Markus, but types an address into the navigation system. Markus pulls out his phone and compares the address in Emelia’s text message to the one on the screen of the car. He is relieved to see that they match. Good to at least know he’s being taken to the place he believes he is. The car starts slowly before pulling away from the airport. This is probably the first time in Markus’ life where he has been able to drive five feet without being stuck in traffic for hours. He looks out through his window at the buildings of Krakow. The streets and architecture are nothing like the windy city he is used to. It is beautiful, the October sky is practically clear, with only a few white streaks where planes fly over the city. He has to stop himself from wondering about how much history is here. He shakes his head and reminds himself of his mission, looking at his reflection in the window. Markus inhales, resting his head on the back of the seat. He listens to the sounds of the motor running and tries to forget the life he left behind when he boarded the plane to Krakow. He  hopes against hope that if this mission goes well, he will have a new job, a new life, far from Chicago and the memories that lurk there.

The car continues, winding its way through the unfamiliar streets. The driver adjusts the mirror, his eyes meeting Markus’s. Markus looks away. He doesn’t feel much like talking, unless the driver cares to explain his mission more clearly. Despite fully reading over the case folder Emelia gave him twice on the plane, the details still appear a little foggy to him. He knows this is probably intentional- no need to give the rookie more information than he can handle- but it irks him nonetheless. Many things irk Markus Sauber, not the least of which is being treated like a child by his new employers. He supposes that this is simply protocol, and doesn’t let it bother him too much. The driver tilts the mirror back away from him, and he turns his attention back to his assignment, wondering where the hell he’s being driven. Maybe some sort of CIA safehouse? Or directly to a target? Wherever it is, he hopes Emelia is waiting for him, preferably with a more informative case folder, but he decides not to count on it. This cynical worldview hasn’t disappointed him yet. He squints out the window, trying to make out the text on the signs, but utterly failing. His passable German is no help for translating Polish. He is so preoccupied with staring out the window, that the jerk of the car stopping startles him. He turns his attention back to the situation at hand, and notices that they have parked by an alleyway. The scene swarms with tactically-dressed people, Krakow Police, and CIA agents alike. The alleyway is blocked off by blue and white tape, denoting the area as an active crime scene. Markus unbuckles and leans forward.

“What’s the deal with this?”

The driver doesn’t answer, and instead only unlocks Markus’s door. Markus obliges, determining that if he wants any answers, he’s gonna have to get them on his own. He opens the door, and climbs out of the car, feet hitting the pavement. He prepares to grab his backpack, but the driver reaches out to stop him. 

“I’m supposed to take your luggage to your lodging, Mr Sauber.”

Markus grits his teeth, but decides not to waste energy arguing. He silently closes the car door, and starts walking towards the police line. He doesn’t get more than five feet before a uniformed officer steps in front of him, holding out a hand and seemingly forbidding him from going forward in rapidfire Polish. Markus stares at him blankly and shakes his head in confusion. The man furrows his brow, and then understanding crosses his face. 

“Amerykanski…” he mutters knowingly before shouting something Markus can’t translate to the people behind the line of tape. He ushers someone over with his hand and smiles hesitantly at Markus. Markus glances over at the swarm of officials on the scene, and breathes a sigh of relief upon seeing Emelia Sanchez, dressed in CIA tactical gear, making her way towards them. She stops on the other side of the caution tape, and stares at Markus reproachfully, crossing her arms.

“You’re finally here. Good. Let’s get started, shall we?”

Markus raises an eyebrow, annoyed and slightly confused at Emelia’s change in demeanor. Instead of being professional and calm, she seems to be offended by Markus’s whole existence. Great. All he needs is another person who judges him for everything he does. He makes an active decision not to care, but is not entirely successful. Emelia turns and begins to walk towards the active crime scene- the eye of the storm- and Markus follows, ducking underneath the tape. He takes note of the fifteen officers from the Krakow Police Department, as well as two other Americans- a man and a woman- dressed casually in street clothes, and talking in hushed tones. The latter, he guesses, are probably more CIA liaisons. Emelia stops beside them and gestures for Markus to do the same. The strangers’ eyes come to rest on Markus. 

“Agent Daniels, Agent Swanson, this is Markus Sauber. He’s the new recruit. He’s the one Mason briefed us about.” One of the agents looks Markus up and down, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jeans. The other gives a small smile.

“This is that Chicago guy?” The woman asks, raising a single eyebrow. Markus’ jaw clenches. Something about her makes his skin crawl. “Hm… ‘kay. Let’s show him the scene. See if we can find a use for him,” she says before turning around and reading something off of her phone screen. Emelia crosses the scene and begins to talk to a uniformed officer in Polish. Markus turns his attention back to Agent Daniels, hating the flood of memories that something in her demeanor brings out, and he clenches his teeth against them. The man leans closer to Markus, and stage whispers in his ear. 

“Hey, don’t pay her any mind. She’s a bitch but she’s good at her job. Aaron Swanson. I’m the director of operations here in Poland. You already met Daniels.” Swanson says, offering Markus a hand to shake. Markus obliges, maintaining a firmer grip than necessary. Swanson notices, and squeezes his hand in return, but quickly lets go after Markus increases the pressure.

“Um… anyway, has Mason told you why you’re here?”

Markus snorts and rolls his eyes. “Does he ever? He sent Agent Sanchez to brief me... I wouldn’t mind a refresher.”

Swanson laughs. “We’ve gathered the evidence for you. Your job is to track down any leads. We’ve heard that you’re pretty fucking good at that.”

Markus smirks and nods towards the crime scene. “So, what have you got for me?”

Swanson leads Markus towards the center of the scene. The alley has been illuminated by portable floodlights, sending every detail into sharp relief. Every nick and chip in the cinderblock walls of the surrounding buildings stands out as a glaring flaw, and the dried blood staining the pavement is washed out by the light. Next to the reasonably sized stain, a briefcase and a suit jacket lie. The two men pause next to the bag, and Swanson waves his hand toward it.

“Robert Knowles. One of our lead agents here at the Krakow embassy. He was killed about a day or two ago. He’s down at the morgue now. We thought this was a random assassination, but now we’re not so sure. Some files and notes recovered from his pockets make us think he was here to meet someone.”

Markus furrows his brow. “What are you thinking? Affair with a local girl gone wrong? Debt to local mafia? Did you guys piss off the SVR?”

“We think he was passing information. A… deal gone wrong.” 

“You think he was an informant? For who? Why?”

Swanson shrugs. “That’s why you’re here. We all have our theories, but Mason elected to bring in an outside perspective.”

“I’m all ears.” Markus crouches and unzips the bag. Swanson stops him, pulling latex gloves from his pocket and handing them to Markus, who pulls them on before continuing with the bag. Swanson opens his mouth to answer Markus.

“Well, Daniels thinks it was the Russians. I guess that makes sense. They have a large presence here, we’re a little too close to their turf, et cetera. And, he had a note in his bag. In Russian. It wasn’t his handwriting.”

“But you don’t think it was them?” Markus asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well… I think the person he was meeting- the person who killed him- was Russian, but I don’t think this was someone from the SVR.”

Markus pauses sifting through the papers, giving his full attention to Swanson. 

“And why is that?”

Swanson looks around tentatively, his eyes darting to see if any onlookers are listening. Nobody is paying attention. 

“Can we keep this between you and me? I’m not entirely sure what level of clearance this information is.”

“Got it.”

“Well, a few hours after Knowles was killed, we had another similar attack. Near Nowa Huta.”

“Another agent?”

“No. His name was Viktor Sokolow. Major crime lord. Owned a shit ton of clubs and brothels over there. He was also known to be in league with our Ruski friends.”

Markus nods. “Let me guess: paid by the Russian government to keep tabs on the city? Maintain their control of the area. Take out assets when necessary?”

Swanson crooks an eyebrow, impressed. “Good guess. Well, anyway, autopsy reports show that Sokolow was killed only a few hours after Knowles, and I can’t help but notice similarities in their deaths. Not just the time frame, but also the weapon.”

“Sokolow and Knowles were killed by the same gun?”

“Yes. An HKP30. But not just that. We’ve managed to apprehend two witnesses. A cab driver who works this street, and an American citizen who was at Sokolow’s club at the time. Matthew Allan. Asked them if they saw anyone that night, and they both said they did.”

“Do we have a description?” Markis asks, his heart beginning to race.

“They both described a woman, mid twenties. Redhead. Spoke both Polish and English with a Russian accent,” Swanson begins to talk faster, running a hand through his greying hair, “They were both killed by the same person.”

Markus furrows his brow, suddenly skeptical. “Are you sure this woman isn’t some SVR liaison? Think about it: Sokolow stops being useful, so they send someone to take out two birds with one stone.”

“That’s what Daniels thinks. But I don’t. And I think I have a pretty damn good reason.”

“And what’s that?”

“This woman matches the description of one of our shadiest targets. We don’t know a lot about her, but she has a lot of connections. She’s credited with several high-profile kills- Lebedev, Monroe, Dohmer- but we’ve always thought she’s some kind of myth made up by the intelligence community.”

“Who is she?” Markus rises to his feet, forgetting entirely about the briefcase.

“We don’t know her name, but she’s known as Agent Red.”

The title circles Markus’s brain, a tempting thread that he knows he will eventually have to pull, the sooner the better. Agent Red… As he turns his attention back to the briefcase, crouching back down to more carefully examine the contents, Swanson receives a call on his cellphone. He quickly excuses himself and walks a few feet away to answer it, leaving Markus alone to his thoughts. He sifts through the items in the briefcase, mostly papers, and begins to look at each individually. They are mostly transcripts of diplomatic meetings, or interviews, or correspondence reports, but scattered among them are more notes written in Cyrillic. All of them are written in red ink- red, like her, his target- and the handwriting is so neat that it nearly looks typed. Markus frowns in both curiosity and annoyance. He speaks high school-level German, but he doesn’t even know the Cyrillic alphabet, much less fluent Russian. He gathers each handwritten slip into a pile, and places the rest of the useless contents back into the briefcase. As he closes the bag, Swanson ends his call, and walks over to where Emelia and Agent Daniels are conversing. Markus watches as Swanson talks to his colleagues in hushed tones. He gestures towards Markus, and Emelia hesitantly nods. Markus stands as Swanson walks toward him.

“We… got some news,” Swanson sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What kind of news?”

“One of our plants in Katowice just called in. There was just a major violent incident on a train from Krakow to Dresden. Perpetrator shot up a dining car. At least one dead, but we don’t have casualty numbers at this point. The suspect is an unknown male, but it appears that his main target matches the description of our main suspect.”

“Agent Red? She was on the train?”

“We think so. We can’t be sure, but multiple accounts describe a woman with red hair and a Russian accent who was on the train at the time. Multiple accounts state that the shooter appeared to be targeting her.”

Markus’s head spins. What a coincidence that just moments after he had been briefed about this mysterious asset, she had resurfaced again. It seems to him like she wants him to find her. Like she is taunting him. His pulse speeds up, and he looks Daniels dead in the eye.

“I-” He is cut off by Emelia’s voice interrupting him.

“Change of plans,” she says, her tone businesslike, “Aaron informed us that you have been made aware of his little theory. I just spoke with Mason, and he says that we have a new objective. Sauber is to track down and apprehend the asset who we believe is responsible for Knowles' death,” She turns to Markus, “You leave in an hour.”

Markus nods. His face is stony, but inside, he is beaming. This is what he signed up for. The chance to be a hero. 

[exitmusicforastory]

Conventional Weapons: Chapter Seven

TRAIN FROM KRAKOW, POLAND TO DRESDEN, GERMANY

PRESENT DAY

“One ticket to Dresden, please.”

The woman behind the counter of the ticket booth looks up from her computer screen, an irritated expression on her face, as if Nadya’s request isn’t in her job description. She stares at Nadya for a moment, her mouth twisted as if she has just been force-fed a lemon, and Nadya knows why. She had been able to get the nearly invisible bloodstains out of her black clothing easily enough with the help of some of Sokolow’s finest vodka, but her garb still marks her as the kind of nightcrawler scum that no respectable person would be seen with in broad daylight. She resists the urge to tug down her skirt or zip up her leather jacket, and instead smiles at the woman and repeats herself, lacing her tone with charm.

“How much for a ticket to Dresden?”

The woman considers her before answering, “That will be 172 zloty.”

Nadya nods and smiles, digging in the pocket of her jacket for the corresponding notes, placing the ornately printed slips of paper on the counter and sliding them under the metal grate. The sour woman takes the cash, handling it as if the paper has the potential to detonate. Nadya waits patiently, her teeth on edge, as the woman prints and rips her a ticket. Once Nadya gets her hands on the paper, she turns away from the booth, whispering a quick thank you and preparing to walk away. Just as she is about to leave, she hears someone mutter a curse at her back.

“Kurwa,” the woman spits, her tone poisonous. 

Nadya grits her teeth and ignores her, slipping through the crowd and disappearing through the gate. She reaches the automated ticket machine, inserts her ticket into the slot, and exits onto the platform. The woman’s insult still rings in her ears, despite how used to it she is. No matter where she goes, she knows she will never find sympathy for women who look like her and do the things she’s had to do to survive. She pushes away the anger, knowing that she deserves it. Nadya continues walking until she reaches the correct platform, then stops next to a brick pillar. She places her back to it, leaning against the rough stone, and scans the crowd around her for potential threats. She sees none, but knows that they could still be present. Nadya glances at the electronic schedule posted on the adjacent wall, and sees that the eight-AM train from Krakow to Dresden is due at any moment. Good. The sooner she leaves this god-forsaken city, the better. There are too many memories and too many ghosts here, but she knows that’s true of half the major cities in Europe. Nadya has scars from so many places that sometimes it feels like her entire world is one of ghosts, half of which she caused. She pushes away the thought. No use dwelling on the past. She has no time for regret. Regret makes you slow, hesitant, and hesitation kills. Nadya’s hand twitches toward her waist at the thought, but she reminds herself that there is no apparent danger. She breathes a sigh of relief as she hears the sound of a train pulling into the station. The locomotive screeches to a stop, resting for a moment before the doors slowly open. People begin to trickle out, most glued to cell phones or locked in conversation. Nadya scans the stream of passersby, but no suspicious figures stand out. When the station clears of the disembarking people, those who await the train begin to file on. 

Nadya hangs back, letting the majority of the crowd board before she finally slips behind two elderly men in newsboy caps. Both men speak German with a heavy Dresden accent, and Nadya can understand them reasonably well. Her German is passable, but not excellent. If Sasha were here, he’d understand better. He was always better at German than she was. No. She shakes her head, blocking out all thoughts of him. There’s no use dwelling on the past. She boards the train, careful to avoid any curious glances. The farther below the notice of the other passengers she is, the better. She looks around the train, and makes her way toward an empty section in the next car. The train ride to Dresden is clearly not going to be a full house. All the better for someone who intends to fly under the radar. Someone like her. She sits down, adjusting her mirrored aviators and shivering despite her leather jacket. It’s been a while since she’s utilized public transit, and she has forgotten how cold it is without the press of countless bodies around her. She shifts in her seat, wincing as her handgun digs into her back. This is going to be a very long trip. Very long, and very lonely. Nadya is used to being alone, and used to having nobody, but sometimes she can’t fight off the feelings of isolation. Especially during the moments when she is forced to lay low, avoiding the action that typically distracts her so effectively. Right now, she’d give almost anything to have something distracting her. 

She pushes away the thoughts and begins to survey the other passengers. Everyone appears to be harmless, and no familiar faces or suspicious characters stick out to her, but she knows better than to let down her guard. The car slowly fills, but the seat next to Nadya remains vacant. Good. She intends to keep it that way. The voice of the conductor crackles through the speakers, informing everyone in monotone Polish that the train is about to leave the station, and to expect a journey of about twelve hours, plus three stops. The message repeats, recorded in a cool female voice in English, German, French, and Russian. Nadya surveys the car one last time, watching the other passengers settle in and prepare for the journey. She is certain that she won’t be able to settle down, no matter how long sits there. The combination of hunger, post-combat soreness, the chill of the car, and paranoia are sure to kill any chance of sleep. Maybe she will make her way down to the dining car in an hour or so. Nadya turns away from the aisle and faces the window, watching hawklike as the train pulls out of the station and begins its course. She rests her head against the window. Her face breaks into a small smile as she realizes she’s leaving Krakow. For good. She promises herself that she will never return to this god-forsaken city, and that’s an oath she fully intends on keeping.

The train rattles on, soon enough leaving the tangled urban streets and alleys of Krakow behind, and racing through the moody Polish countryside. The grey sky tells of rain in the near future. Nadya stays in her seat for the next hour, biding her time before she enters the dining car, and waiting patiently, despite her hunger. After she has deemed it long enough, she rises and checks the time using the clock on the back wall. 9:17 AM. The train is due to stop in Katowice any minute. Nadya stretches, nursing an ache in her side. She looks around, and is glad to see that none of her fellow passengers are paying her any attention. She walks to the front of the car, opening the sliding door and stepping into the next car. She passes through two more cars to get to the dining section. Her body shakes from exhaustion and hunger, and she sits down at the white-clothed table nearest to the door. Her eyes fix upon the faux flowers in the vase in the middle of the table, and her body finally relaxes. The plastic, purple blooms are a strange, alien comfort. She tenses again as an unfamiliar voice hits her ears. Looking up, her gaze falls on a waiter, who stands beside her table. She fixes a charming smile on her face, placing her sunglasses on top of her head and straightening her posture. The waiter, a slim man with brown hair and a large moustache returns her smile and places a menu down in front of her.

“Lunch specials are on the front page, miss,” he says in Polish. Nadya picks up the menu and opens it.

“Thank you,” she responds in kind, and watches as he walks away. She studies the menu for a moment, making note of the price on each item. Now that her main source of funding is gone, she will have to be considerably more careful with money. At least until she can find a new employer. 

Damn it, Apollo, she thinks, rubbing her temple. Couldn’t he have waited even one more week before deciding to uncover her real identity? It was just her luck that her sponsor and employer decided to stop aiding her, right when she needed it most. Her eyes scan the menu, before she decides on a sandwich. Cheap, hearty, and filled with protein. She sets down her menu and glances around the dining car, taking note of everything. About twenty booths line the walls, with a bar near the back. Eight of the other tables are in use, but the rest remain empty. The waiter returns to her booth, and she makes her order. As he walks away, her eye catches at the door on the far side of the car. It has opened, and a familiar form enters. The man is of middling height and stocky build. He is balding, with dark skin and a neatly trimmed grey beard. His business suit is black and well-tailored, clearly expensive. The second the sliding door closes behind him, his eyes fix on Nadya, and her blood runs cold. 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

The man crosses the car and stops by Nadya’s table.

“Do you mind if I sit down, Ms. Arkanova?” Apollo Hart asks in English, his British accent laced with false warmth. Nadya narrows her eyes, smiling coldly, and gestures at the seat across from her.

“Be my guest.”

Apollo sits, crossing his legs and folding his hands on the tabletop. Nadya’s right hand strays to the holster on her thigh, and she knows Apollo notices the subtle movement. He smiles broadly and leans forward. Nadya holds her ground, her posture remaining upright. Smirking, Apollo nods and shifts his weight.

“Why are you here, Apollo?” Nadya asks, her tone cold and businesslike. Apollo’s grin broadens.

“The same reason you’re going to Dresden. To see an old friend.”

Nadya’s jaw clenches at his knowledge of her mission, and at his reference to her as his ‘friend’. That has never been an accurate word to define their relationship. Colleagues, yes. Allies, certainly. But never friends.

“We’re not friends, Apollo,” she states flatly, all pretence of charm gone from her demeanor. Apollo’s smile loses its warmth and he gives a humourless chuckle. 

“No, I suppose we aren’t.”

“Let’s cut down on the formalities, shall we?” Nadya says, “I don’t have the time for this.”

Apollo gives an exaggerated look around the train compartment before turning back to Nadya and raising his eyebrows.

“We have a little under ten hours. I’d say that’s more than sufficient for pleasantries.”

Nadya rolls her eyes, leaning back and crossing her arms defensively. 

“Would you please just tell me why you’re here? I was under the impression that our business agreement has come to an end.”

“I myself am not convinced that it has, Ms. Arkanova,” he replies.

“Oh, really,” Nadya laughs icily, “And why is that?”

“Because I believe we still have the potential to be incredibly useful to each other.”

“If you’re here to kill me, just say so. I’m sure my country would pay you well for your service.”

Apollo laughs, genuinely amused this time. “I am not here to kill you, Nadezhda.”

Nadya’s brow furrows, both at this claim, and at the use of her given name. She frowns at the look of triumph on the face of the man sitting across from her. No amount of familiarity is going to win her trust- not that she has the capacity to trust anyone, even if she wants to. She lost that privilege a long time ago, and that’s not the kind of prize you can ever win back.

“Nobody calls me Nadezhda,” she mutters, staring daggers down at the flawlessly white tablecloth. 

“Right, Nadya, is it? Or would you prefer it if we stick to our previous arrangement?” 

“I see no reason to get personal.”

“All right then,” Apollo says, “Agent Red it is.” He reaches into his suit jacket pocket and Nadya tenses, immediately reaching for her HKP30. Apollo notices her alarm and raises both his hands, one of which holds a glossy colour photograph. “There’s no need for that. I’m only attempting to show you why I am here.” 

“Fine,” Nadya allows begrudgingly, “But if you try anything, I won’t hesitate to do whatever I need to escape. And that tie looks really expensive. I’d hate to mess it up.”

A muscle twitches in Hart’s jaw, but he remains silent, placing the photograph down on the table between them. Nadya reaches out and slides it toward herself. It takes her a second to fully grasp the subject of the photograph, and another to let the sight sink in. Her eyes widen, and she looks up at Apollo, all colour draining from her face as she meets his eyes. Her hand shakes as she brushes a stray lock of red hair out of her face.

“What the hell is this?” she asks, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“What does it look like?” Apollo retorts.

“It looks,” she replies, “like an extremely edited photo meant to unnerve me. What I want to know is how the hell you know about him, and why you’d care.”

“Wh-what?” Apollo creases his brow in confusion, “What do you mean? This is a photo of the man who has been costing me my profits for the last three years. He’s an assassin. Sent by your old people, I think. Keeps on killing my informants before my guys can get the information out of them. He’s the best I’ve ever seen: cold, ruthless, completely unstoppable. Well, the best I’ve ever seen. Apart from you, of course. Which is why I’m here. I want you to take care of him for me. If you do that, our partnership is back on. I won’t tell a soul who you are.”

Nadya stares down at the photo, barely listening to Apollo, as her eyes scan every inch of the paper. She still doesn’t believe what she is seeing, and she can’t for the life of her believe that this is a coincidence. Or that it’s real. It can’t be real. The man in the photograph is tall, wrapped in a dark windbreaker as he stands on a nondescript street corner at night. He stares off into the distance, not noticing the camera, his grey eyes as cold as steel. His almost-blonde hair has grown longer since she last saw him, nearly brushing the collar of his jacket, and a faint five-o’-clock shadow adorns his cheeks, but his face is the same one she’s always known. Only it can’t be, because the last time she saw this face, a bullet hole filled the space between those haunting grey eyes. A bullet from her gun. A bullet that had killed her just as much as it had killed him. She looks back up at Apollo, and sees that he has stopped talking.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“N-no. It’s just, I already have a mission, and I don’t intend on abandoning it,” she responds, pushing away the feelings that come up at the sight of the familiar face.

“I’m not asking you to abandon your mission. In fact, I believe that with this taken care of, your mission will be much easier to accomplish. And you won’t even have to go out of your way. We believe his next target is in Dresden.”

Nadya’s head is still spinning, but she nods.

“So this means you won’t come after me?” She tries to disguise the hope in her voice, but isn’t entirely successful. Apollo smirks, shaking his head slowly.

“I had no intent of going after you, even if I had the resources to. You’re… how you say… Лучшие из лучших?” Apollo explains. His broken Russian causes Nadya to cringe on the inside, but now isn’t the time for a phonics lesson. 

The waiter arrives with Nadya’s sandwich, placing the plate on the table, resting a menu on the table in front of Apollo before leaving to deliver a check to a customer on the other side of the restaurant. Nadya waits until he’s out of earshot before responding to Apollo’s statement. 

“So you want me to find this…”

“We like to call him the Censor, because he has consistently prevented our informants from sharing sensitive and important information.” Apollo looks weirdly proud of this fact, and Nadya rolls her eyes.

“Clever…” she says. “So you want me to take down this Censor, and then it will be business as usual?”

Apollo nods and opens his menu, running his finger down the page until he finds an option he likes. Raising his hand imperiously, he waves the waiter over and orders a steak. Nadya’s body is still tense and prepared for an altercation, despite Apollo’s claim that he has no intention of harming her. She stares down at her sandwich, which as for now remains untouched on her plate. She knows she needs to eat, so she forces herself to pick up the sandwich and take a bite. In her preoccupation, she can barely even taste it. Apollo sits silently in front of her, a satisfied smirk on his face. She can tell that he is not surprised that he managed to convince her so quickly. She can tell that he knows how desperate she really is. And that makes her blood boil. Nadya deliberately looks anywhere else in the room, except for Apollo. She takes another bite of her tasteless sandwich. The two of them sit there in a sort of stalemate for a few more minutes. Nadya finishes her sandwich, while Apollo receives and starts to eat his steak. Finally, Nadya breaks the silence.

“If I’m going to do this job, I’m going to need some resources. Money, lodging, food.”

Apollo finishes chewing his bite before answering, “Of course! You think I’d just throw you out there without preparation? I want this job done!” He reaches into his jacket, and pulls out another slip of paper, this one with a single address written on it.

“When you get to Dresden, go to this address. I know you have a mission of your own, and someone to visit, but you would find it beneficial to go here before you visit her.”

Nadya slowly nods, picking up the piece of paper, and memorizes the address before tearing it up into tiny pieces and scattering them under the table. She rises to her feet, and reaches out to shake Apollo’s hand, but before she can, a muffled pop sounds from the other side of the dining car, and Apollo’s head hits his chest, the back of his skull reduced to a bloody crater. Nadya’s heart skips a beat. She immediately dives under the table, seeking cover from the invisible assailant. She whips her head around, scanning the car to see where the noise came from. She spots a crack in the window to the car neighboring theirs. Before she can react, a scream sounds from the other side of the compartment, and all hell breaks loose. People rise from their seats, and immediately bolt for the exit, knocking over chairs and tables as they pass, but the sliding doors on either side of the dining car can only accommodate so many people, and the stream of bodies is choked by the narrow portal. Nadya doesn’t bother running. She knows there’s no point. There is no doubt in her mind that she is the ultimate target of this attack. She doesn’t know who sent this assailant- be it allies of Sokolow as revenge for his murder, her former employers in Russia, the CIA, or the countless scores of others who want her dead - but she knows they’re here for her. Amid the chaos, she ducks for cover again, feeling some sort of projectile whiz through her hair as she lands, this time behind an overturned table. 

She grabs her Heckler and Koch, and racks a round into the chamber. She takes a moment to steady her breathing, holding tight to the handgun as if it were a lifeline, before preparing to move once again. She dashes out into the open, ducking from her spot of cover to behind the bar. As she reaches temporary safety, she hears another round slam into the rack of glasses above the bar. Broken glass rains down around her, acting as projectiles in their own right. Pieces embed themselves in her face and legs, leaving bloody gashes where they fall. She raises her handgun, holding her firing arm steady with her other hand, and blind fires three rounds over the bar, before retreating back to safety. The car is silent around her as she waits for the next round of fire to assault her, but none comes. Slowly, she raises her gun over the laminate counter. As soon as her arms become visible, something grabs her wrist and yanks her over the bar. She is too stunned to react, as she is forcibly thrown into one of the nearest upright tables, slamming into it with enough force to knock every bit of breath from her lungs. She can vaguely feel the pain of the impact, but her vision swims. She looks at her attacker, trying to make her eyes focus as he stalks toward her. He wears a black hooded tactical jacket under a Kevlar vest. His face, from what she can see, seems to be covered with medical bandages, dyed black. His gloved hands carry an assault rifle- a Kalashnikov, as he approaches her, his combat boots seeming to make the whole car shake. Once he gets close enough, he lunges forward, grabbing for Nadya’s throat. She ducks under his outstretched arm and notices a tactical knife sheathed at his hip. She slams her elbow into his side, hearing him grunt as the wind is knocked out of his lungs, and yanks the knife out of the sheath. She lunges forward again, slashing across his left arm. He makes no sound as the attack lands, barely even reacting, before turning around and throwing a punch at Nadya. He knocks her square in the jaw, grabs her, and slams her into the bar table behind her. 

She is too stunned to form a counterattack, but clocks his next move easily. She dodges his punch, catching his arm in a lock, and slashing towards his throat with her knife. Before she can sink her knife into his throat, her monstrous attacker throws a hand in the path of her attack, catching the blade in his palm. The force of her blow causes the knife to sink through his hand, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. She’s taken aback, but before she can withdraw her weapon, she is doubled over by a firm fist to her gut. Once again, the man grabs her, lifting her clear into the air by her throat, before slamming her forcefully down onto the bar. She groans, bringing her knees to her stomach. The pain leaves black spots in her vision that she can’t seem to blink away. Despite her agony, she desperately looks around for something to defend herself with, and spots her handgun on the floor where she had dropped it. She rolls off the bar and lunges for it, but before she can grab it, a leather boot stomps down on her hand. She screams and looks up at her attacker, gritting her teeth. The man’s gloved hand slowly reaches down and grabs her hair, pulling her off the ground and looking her dead in the eyes. His are like ice. He slowly tilts his head, as if caught off guard by the sight of her face, and Nadya takes advantage of his momentary loss of focus. She throws a punch forward, hitting him in the nose and snapping his head backwards. As he still reels from the attack, she lashes out and rips the knife out of the attacker’s hand, slashing across his face. The man stumbles back and draws another knife from his belt. He lunges forward with his knife, and Nadya dodges, throwing an uppercut with the blade, but only ever nicking his hood. The two continue sparring back and forth, evenly matched in nearly every way. As Nadya attacks and counterattacks, she somehow feels like she’s done this a thousand times before. She doesn’t dwell on this, and instead aims a kick at the man’s gut. He blocks it and backhands her in the face, sending her stumbling back, but she uses the momentum of the attack to slash upward, hitting her opponent in the face. He stumbles backwards, his hands clasping at the bandages that have come loose from his face, desperately trying to prevent them from falling to the floor. Nadya steadies herself and dives for her handgun, straightening and aiming at the man in front of her. She squeezes the trigger, prepared to fire a round into his forehead but hesitates when her opponent speaks. 

“Stop resisting.” Nadya freezes, and her heart almost stops as the familiar voice hits her ears. She stares, horrified, at the man in front of her. Their eyes lock as his hand falls limply to his side, and the bandages flutter to the floor. As Nadya takes in her attacker’s visage, her worst fears are confirmed. 

“S-Sasha?” 

Her eyes widen, her body shaking with this horrifying realization. Her brain scans every detail of his face, as if determined to disprove what she sees in front of her. Despite a few new scars, he looks exactly the same as he did seven years ago. Her hands tremble, her memory flashing back to that day. Sasha stares at her in confusion. He clearly doesn’t recognize the name. He slowly tilts his head once again, like an animal examining his prey, before he lunges forward, slapping Nadya’s pistol away and grabbing her throat, Nadya’s fingers scrabble against Sasha’s wrist as she’s slammed against a window. She feels the glass crack behind her as her former lover applies more pressure. The glass feels as if it’s seconds away from cracking. Nadya looks out the window, seeing the Polish countryside speeding by, and her heart sinks, knowing that surviving a fall from a moving train at this speed is nearly impossible. In a last-ditch effort, she lashes out with the knife, catching Sasha in the face. He drops her, and she kicks in his right knee, feeling the cartilage pop under the force of her blow. He cries out, dropping her, and she lunges for her handgun, turning back to aim it at Sasha’s forehead. But this time, Nadya Arkanova does not pull the trigger. This time, she turns and runs.

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Conventional Weapons: Chapter Six

CHICAGO, UNITED STATES

PRESENT DAY

Markus Sauber leans against the brick exterior of the restaurant, staring impatiently down the street. The chilly morning breeze ruffles his dark hair and whips his face, making Chicago’s title of the Windy City well earned. He adjusts his stance, shuffling his feet in annoyance. Mason should have been here by now. For a government agent, he seems to be fairly unprofessional. Markus glances down at his watch to see that Mason is almost ten minutes late to their first meeting. He sighs. Markus Sauber is many things, but patient isn’t one of them. His blood runs too hot, and his body runs too tense for that. Patience is for those who don’t spend their nights brutalizing criminals and evading law enforcement. Patient is for bureaucrats and spies, and Markus is neither. He glances around the street once more, scanning the cars, the passersby, the patrons of the little cafe across the street, but there is no sign of the steel-faced, grey-haired agent. The weak morning light filters through the clouds, not quite gloomy, but certainly not cheerful. Markus continues waiting, growing increasingly frustrated with every passing second. Just as he is about to give up and go home, recognizing that he’s been scammed, he hears a businesslike voice at his shoulder. 

“Mr. Sauber?”

Markus whips his head around to face the woman. She’s short, barely over five feet, Latina, with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and large dark eyes. She is dressed casually, but she nevertheless manages to look entirely put-together in her light blue tank top, brown leather jacket, and jeans. Markus narrows his eyes at the unfamiliar woman and opens his mouth to answer her.

“I’m sorry, have we met?”

The woman smiles and shakes her head, “No, I’m Agent Emelia Sanchez. I’m a colleague of Nicholas Mason who you met last night.”

“You mean, you’re-”

“Not here. But, yes. Agent Mason apologizes for his absence. He got an urgent call from DC this morning and took the first flight out. He sent me to meet you. I’m to be your supervisor.”

“My- What?”

Before replying, Emelia grabs his arm and pulls. Shocked, he stumbles at the surprising strength of her grip and follows her for a few steps before coming to his senses. He stops in his tracks and yaks his arm away from her.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting us a ride.”

Markus stares at her in disbelief.

“You think you’re just gonna drag me somewhere without telling me what the hell is going on?!”

“I’ll explain in the car,” she says, steering him towards the curb. A black sedan slows to a stop in front of them and Emelia immediately walks up to it. Without hesitation, she opens the rear passenger door and ushers Markus into the back of the car. Markus pauses, distrustful and tense, before meeting Emelia’s reproachful eyes. He sighs, and something inside him gives in. He loses his last bit of self control and common sense. This woman is a government agent. Not only that, but she’s his ticket out of this god-forsaken city. And maybe, just maybe, she’s his chance to finally gain a little recognition for his work. He clenches his jaw and climbs into the back of the car. Emelia smiles and follows him. Markus settles in the driver’s side seat, fastening the seat belt before glancing up towards the front seat of the car. A stone-faced man sits with his hands on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. His blue eyes meet Markus’ in the rearview mirror and the two men exchange a terse nod. Emelia situates herself in the seat opposite from Markus and shuts the car door behind her. The second it closes, Markus feels a lurch in his gut, as if an invisible fish hook has caught behind his naval. There’s no turning back now. The car pulls away from the curb and begins to merge with the oncoming traffic. Agent Sanchez turns to Markus and smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling ever so slightly.

“Well, Mr. Sauber,” she says, “Now that we’re somewhere a little more private, I think I owe you an explanation.”

Markus grunts in amusement. “You’re damn right.”

Emelia ignores his bluntness and continues.

“We had originally planned to put you through some basic training before throwing you straight into the mouth of the lion’s den, but our mission timeline has been somewhat accelerated.”

“What do you mean?” Markus asks, “You haven’t even told me what our mission is. Hell, I don’t even know what Mason hired me to do.”

Emelia pauses, pressing her lips together in thought.

“Agent Mason had heard about your local… exploits, and realized that you could be of value to our cause. He approached our superior, and campaigned to have you recruited as an agent. His request was denied, but he managed to find grounds to hire you as a sort of independent contractor.”

Markus stares at her in shock for a moment before responding.

“You mean I’m not going to be an agent?”

Emelia frowns and shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. Without the official CIA baggage, you are free to make a lot more decisions on your own.”

Markus slowly knits his brow. “You mean I can act outside government jurisdiction?”

“That’s the general idea.”

Markus considers her words and nods, turning to look out the window at the landscape of concrete buildings and passing cars. Somehow this new designation, ‘outside of government jurisdiction’, makes his new prospective job all the more exciting. He’s always found something exhilarating in thwarting the rules, be it school regulations or federal laws. He turns back to Emelia, and sees that she has pulled out a manilla folder with printed text embossed across the cover.

“So,” he says, “What’s this mission?”

Emelia slides the folder across the leather seat between them and Markus picks it up, reminded of the folder that Mason showed him last night. He opens it. This isn’t the same one; no blurry shot of him is present, but instead a thick stack of finely printed documents greets him. His eyes swim and his head throbs just looking at it.

“Sorry, but there’s no way in hell I’m reading all that right now.”

Emelia lets out a short laugh and shakes her head. “Oh, of course not. That’s just background information you might want to read over later. No, I’m going to give you a verbal briefing. I have to make sure you’re prepared before your flight departs.”

“My… flight?” Markus stares at her with a look of visible confusion on his face.

“You’re leaving from Chicago O’Hare to Krakow on the next plane out.”

“Krakow? As in Krakow, Poland?”

Emelia nods. “Ready for your briefing, Mr. Sauber?”

Markus doesn’t have time to respond before she launches into rapidfire explanation mode.

“We have had a network of informants keeping track of a series of Russian SVR black ops stationed across central and eastern Europe for the past decade. Our agents have been focused on finding and apprehending one man: Andrey Ruslanovich. He is a Russian scientist who has been the SVR’s lead in the human experimentation department. The results of his research could be invaluable to our military and intelligence services, as they have been to Russia’s. His last known location was Krakow.”

“So,” Markus replies, “You want me to find Ruslanovich?”

“Not quite,” Emelia replies, “Three days ago, one of our leading agents, Robert Knowles, was found murdered, and all signs of Ruslanovich were lost. We need you to find Knowles’ killer and apprehend them. We suspect they might have information on the experiments, and we can’t let that get out. You have a good amount of experience bringing criminals to justice, so, naturally, you’re the obvious choice for the job.”

Markus nods slowly and meets Emelia’s eyes with a gaze both intense and determined.

“I promise I won’t disappoint.”

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Conventional Weapons (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/370229456-conventional-weapons?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_myworks&wp_uname=katya-the-ruski In the shadowy world of espionage, morality is a weapon, and betrayal is the price of survival. Nadya Arkanova, a disillusioned former Russian operative, has spent years navigating the treacherous underworld of international espionage. Hardened by loss and haunted by guilt, her only goal is revenge-until her path collides with Markus Sauber, a rogue American agent with a past as fractured as her own. When Nadya uncovers a conspiracy within the intelligence community, one that spans continents and threatens to destroy the fragile balance of power, she becomes a target. Forced to trust Markus, an unlikely ally with secrets of his own, she must face her deepest fears and confront the ghosts of her past. As alliances shift and enemies close in, Nadya and Markus find themselves drawn to each other in a dangerous dance of loyalty and betrayal. But in a world where everyone is expendable, love may prove to be their greatest vulnerability-and their most powerful weapon. Explosive, dark, and deeply emotional, Conventional Weapons is a pulse-pounding spy thriller about the choices that define us, the scars we carry, and the human cost of revenge.

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^^^

This is a Conventional Weapons appreciation post

I love you Conventional Weapons 🫶

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To my writers out there

Just because you didn’t write 1k to 10k words today didn’t mean you didn’t write.

You wouldn’t have a book to begin with if you haven’t envisioned, brainstormed and edited previous chapters. Word count is a cute marker to show off, but the real work starts from behind the scenes of a word count.

Some days I feel like I haven’t gotten anything done because my word count hasn’t gone up, but then I remember I edited and brainstormed ideas to fix plot holes.

Word count isn’t a count of the amount of work you have put in.

Happy writing guys.

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Conventional Weapons: Chapter Five

KRAKOW, POLAND

PRESENT DAY

Nadya’s hands clench into fists as she makes eye contact with Sokolow. A greedy smile spreads across the man’s hawkish face, and he rises from his seat. He spreads his arms wide, as if about to embrace Nadya. Her heart begins to beat, a scream stuck in her throat. Her mind races, searching for a way out, but she ultimately realizes that for now, it’s futile. She’s outnumbered five to one, and her only remaining option is to stay, attempting to diffuse the situation before it explodes. God, if only she’d been more prepared before walking straight into the goddamn lion’s den. This is not how she imagined this meeting going, but perhaps her hopes had been naive. She should have known her old ‘friend’ wouldn’t let her go without a price. And she knows exactly what that horrible price is. She knows Sokolow far too well to reasonably expect otherwise. Shaking her head, she whispers a curse to herself.

“Dyermo…”

She begins to slowly step backwards, inching her way away from Sokolow. He notices this, his smile souring as he takes another step closer.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Nadya forces a smile and places her hand on her hip. 

“Oh, Vik. I should really get going. I promised my friend I’d meet her after I talked to you.”

Sokolow takes another step towards Nadya, and she scrambles back, her calf smacking into the leg of the coffee table. She loses her balance and falls backwards into the side of the sofa. Nadya is dazed for a minute from the sudden burst of pain in her leg. She clutches the arm of the couch for support as Sokolow looms ever closer. His shadow falls over her, smothering. Nadya’s green eyes dart around the room, taking in the four bodyguards who stand ready at different points across the room before they come to rest once more on Sokolow’s ominous face. His glower makes her heart stop.

“You’re not leaving any time soon,” he says, his fingers closing around her wrist. A sheet of icy rain trickles down Nadya’s spine and she instinctively twists away, breaking his grip easily. His face turns stony with fury and her heart begins to race. She can see the danger in his eyes, and it turns her blood to ice. Viktor takes another step towards her, and this time she can’t step back any further. He hangs over her, a menacing force that she can’t escape. She reaches her hand slowly towards her waistband, to the gun concealed there, but Viktor straightens, stepping back with a smile. He gestures towards the giant man by the door, who crosses the room in only a few strides and comes to stand beside Sokolow. The two men make eye contact.

“Alert Anna. Tell her that our beloved Scarlett has returned at last,” Sokolow smiles. He waves his hand toward two other men.

“Howaniak, Lensherr,” he says absentmindedly, “You’re dismissed. Check on our newest delivery.”

The men exit, leaving Sokolow, Nadya, and a single thug alone in the lounge. Sokolow gestures at the remaining man, and he silently leaves the room. The faint red lighting sets an ominous, menacing tone and even though most of her captors have left, Nadya feels just as trapped now that she’s in this intimate setting. Viktor’s malicious leer makes her skin crawl. Her body hugs the sofa and her fingers dig into the soft, plush cushions as she stares up into his face. Nadya sees the look in his eyes. He enjoys seeing her vulnerable like this. She braces herself, knowing that she can’t let him win. Straightening her shoulders, she narrows her eyes and smiles, relaxing her tense muscles and adjusting her position on the sofa, now giving the appearance that she is lounging comfortably instead of retreating in terror. Sokolow notices her change in demeanor, and she sees a flash in his predatory eyes, but she can’t quite discern if it is lust or anger. Either way, she’s shaken up the dynamic.

“Feisty, are we? You know it’s better not to resist,” he says.

“Funny,” she replies, teeth gritted in fear, “I thought you liked it when I struggled.” 

She attempts to steady her tone, injecting a hint of venom that’s only amplified by her terror. Maybe if he sees that she isn’t intimidated, he will let her go. Sokolow snarls and leans closer. Nadya’s heart drops and she curses herself for her hope. She’s pushed him too far. If there’s anything she knows, it’s not to push an asset too far. Nadya hates herself for letting her fear control her like that. Sokolow’s face is as red as borscht, and as angry as a wasp’s nest. She sees his meaty fists clenching, and senses danger. Before she can react, he shoots his arms towards her, his hands locking around her neck. She gasps in horror and her fingernails scramble uselessly against his iron grip before she pulls herself together. She grabs his wrist and twists with calculated force, his hands loosening on her throat as he yelps in pain. Just as she manages to shakily inhale, he clamps down on her windpipe once more. She struggles against him, her body screaming out for oxygen as his anger fuels his attack. Suddenly regaining consciousness, she raises her knee and strikes hard between his legs. He recoils, his face contorting in pain and his body, caving at the force of her blow. His hands loosen just enough, and she twists his wrist, hearing a satisfying pop of cartilage. She leaps up and continues twisting until his arm is behind his back. The thug by the door springs into action, crossing the room towards her, but he keels over when the bullet enters his throat. Nadya watches her victim fall before she kicks Sokolow in the side. The steel toe of her combat boot sinks into his fleshy body and he crumples to the floor. 

Nadya clenches her teeth and tightens her grip on the rubber handle of her handgun, aiming for her asset. She kicks him in the side and he rolls over, his pudgy face tight with pain. His eyes widen as they lock on the firearm that she has pointed at his head, and he pushes himself up onto his elbows, scrambling back. Nadya squeezes the trigger. Sokolow holds up a placating hand.

“Scarlett, baby, I’m sorry. Things just got a bit out of hand! Now put down the gun and we can talk things out!

Nadya laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d love to ‘hear me out.’ Would that be before or after you have your way with me and dump my body in the river?”

“Scar… I just want-”

“Yeah, I know what you want. But you’re not getting your way this time.”

Viktor stares at her, incredulous. The last time he’d seen her, she had been a scared girl with no will or means to fight back. She’d been terrified and desperate and such easy prey, freshly escaped from her life, her prison in Moscow. And he hadn’t hesitated to take advantage of her vulnerability. Many an impoverished woman had found work and a place to live thanks to Viktor Sokolow, but he always had a price, and if one didn’t pay him, he’d force them to. And Nadya was no exception. But now she’d returned, and this time she had every intent to make him pay his dues, just as he’d forced her to pay hers. She’s not afraid of him. The man on the floor poses no threat to the woman holding the gun. And the woman holding the gun holds no mercy for the man on the floor. A triumphant smile flits across Nadya’s face, and Sokolow sees it. His beet-red face drains of all color, and he shakes his head.

“Are you going to kill me, Scarlett?” he whispers. Nadya considers his question for a moment before answering.

“Maybe,” she says through her smirk, watching his expression change to hopeful, “If you want to live, you’re going to have to give me something in return.”

“Anything. I’ll do anything. I swear!”

Nadya looks him dead in his watery eyes, her smile radiant as she delivers her ultimatum.

“Beg me.”

“Wh-what?” Sokolow stutters.

“If you truly value your life, beg me for it. It’s not like you’re not familiar with the concept.” She can see his jaw clench and his mouth twist in disgust, but he seems to realize that he has little choice but to oblige her. He pushes himself up on his arm, grunting in pain, until he is on his knees in front of her, hands clasped in supplication.

“Scarlett. Please. Let me out of here alive, and I’ll give you everything I own. I’ll give you anything you want!” He pauses for a moment, fighting to say the next words. “I’m begging you.

Nadya tilts her head, considering. “Anything?” she asks.

“What?”

“You’ll give me anything I want?” she continues.

“Yes! Of course!” he replies hastily.

The smile drops from her face as she once again raises her gun to aim at the space between his eyes.

“I want to kill you, Viktor.”

All hope drains from Sokolow’s eyes as he hears her words.

 “Sca-” he begins.

Before he can even finish his first word Nadya pulls the trigger, feeling the recoil of the Heckler and Koch. The sound of the shot is muffled by the suppressor, and inaudible thanks to the deafening music in the club downstairs. She smells the gunpowder and feels a splatter of blood splash across her face as the man she hates more than anything in the world crumples into a pathetic pile on the floor. She tightens her grip on her pistol and continues firing shot after shot into his body until all she can hear are clicks. Tears intermingle with the blood on her cheek. She takes a deep breath to compose herself. She thought this would make her feel better, and she was right. A smile once more plays across her face as she watches the blood pool around his body. She takes a deep breath and holsters her gun once more. She grabs Sokolow’s grey suit jacket that lies on the couch behind her and wipes the blood off her face, before throwing it on the floor and looking back down at Viktor one final time.

“Увидимся в аду, ублюдок,” she mutters, before exiting the room and slamming the door shut. 

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Me trying to write Nadya and Markus in Conventional Weapons

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Conventional Weapons: Chapter Four

CHICAGO, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PRESENT DAY

Markus stares at the intruder, his mouth agape as the man’s words sink in. Despite his uncertainty and pure shock, his arms are steady as he holds out his gun. Agent Mason’s iron face remains unchanged, in the same serious, yet expectant expression. Though it's only been a few seconds since the man made his statement, Markus feels as if he’s been standing there forever. Finally shaking off his stupor, he gestures towards the intruder with his firearm.

“You expect me to believe you’re from the CIA?” he asks, his tone harsh and infused with false confidence. Mason is unfazed, and only smirks, reaching his hand toward his chest pocket. Markus squeezes the trigger on his handgun.

“Show me your hands!” he growls. Mason obliges, still cruelly smiling as he raises his hands in surrender.

“You asked me how I should expect you to believe I’m from the government,” he states cooly, “I’m simply attempting to prove my credentials.”

Markus sighs and nods, allowing Mason to reach into the pocket of his neatly pressed white dress shirt and pull out a brown leather wallet. His nimble fingers flip it open, and he flashes a gold badge at Markus. Opposite the badge is an identification card, the tiny text too small for Markus to read from a distance, but it looks real enough. The possibility of the credentials being counterfeit doesn’t leave his head, but he decides to suspend his disbelief for the time being. He lowers his gun slightly. No need to get arrested for threatening a government agent, even one who just broke into his fucking house. He nods at Mason, indicating his acceptance of the credentials, and the man quickly tucks the wallet with the badge back into his chest pocket. The man, without turning his back on Markus, pulls out a rickety chair from the kitchen table and sits down. He gestures for Markus to do the same. Markus considers the possible dangers of this for a minute before giving in and sitting down. He carefully sets the gun down on the table, not removing his hand from the grip. Mason nods and opens his mouth to continue.

“It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Sauber,” he says. Markus furrows his brow in confusion.

“Finally? What do you mean by that?”

Mason smiles and reaches into his jacket again. Markus moves his hand to the gun, but Mason only pulls out a small manilla folder. The agent places it on the table between them and slowly slides it over to Markus. Markus picks it up, the smooth cardstock feeling foreign in his hands. He opens it, and his eyes widen as they fall on the first page of the file. A picture of himself is clipped there. But it’s not him as he is known in his day-to-day life. This iteration of him is dressed in his full tactical gear, bandanna masking the lower half of his face. He stands in the shadows of a dark alleyway, over the slumped form of a man, staring away from the camera. Chills run down Markus’s spine. He remembers the night on which this was taken- one of the jobs he had been most proud of. But he hadn’t seen anyone else in the alley that night. How long have these people been watching him? He looks up to meet Mason’s eyes.

“Let’s just say I’m good at my job,” Mason states, leaning forward and folding his hands. Markus looks back down to the folder, questions racing through his head a million miles a minute. His brain was screaming at him to stop reading but his eyes refused to look away. Nearly every facet of his life was on display in black and white. Reduced to ink in a manila folder.

“You intend on blackmailing me?” Markus asks, not looking Mason in his eyes.

“Call it a form of firm encouragement.” Mason corrects.

“What do you want?” Markus asks, finally shutting the folder and tossing it on the table.

“We need your particular set of skills,” Mason begins, leaning back in his chair. “You see, we can’t tell you too much right now, but it’s a matter of national security. We’d send one of our guys to do it, but we’ve met our quota for international incidents for this year.” Mason explains, his stone-cold expression unchanging as he speaks. Markus turns away from Mason, covering his mouth to think. Mason leans forward, trying to get as close to Markus as he can.

“It’s the kinda job someone will be remembered as a hero for.” If Markus wasn’t listening earlier, he sure as hell is now. His eyes dart toward Mason’s cruel grin, his hand immediately slips from his pistol and he rests both his hands on the table.

“W-What?” he asks. Mason smirks to himself.

“So I take it, you're interested?” he asks, standing up and buttoning his suit.

“I mean… if it’s a matter of ‘national security’, why wouldn’t I try to help my country?” Markus quips. Mason lets out a dry chuckle as he steps out of the kitchen and toward the door.

“We’ll contact you. Just say your keyword to prove your identity,” he says, before shutting the door and leaving Markus alone. Markus glances back toward the table to keep reading the file Mason gave him, only to see a single business card resting where it used to lay. He reaches out and gingerly picks up the slip of paper, handling it as if it’s an armed bomb about to detonate. His brown eyes scan the card, and take in the phone number, typed in stark black ink, on the front, and a single word: Ares. He clenches his jaw and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“What the hell…” he sighs.

Markus sits there in shock for a minute, his gaze frozen on the number. What did the Central Intelligence Agency want with him? And did they really find his nighttime antics intriguing enough to warrant recruitment? Surely there are better candidates than Chicago’s own dollar store Batman. But he can’t quite let go of Mason’s words. 

It’s the kind of job you’d be remembered as a hero for. 

It’s like the man had seen into his core, sinking barbed claws into his soul that wouldn’t come out. Does Agent Mason really believe that Markus can be a hero? This is the spark of belief that Markus has always craved. Throughout his entire life, he has longed for someone to tell him that they believe he can be a hero, even if he has never quite believed it himself. He has spent forever convincing himself that he left that dream to die in the fallout of his childhood. Markus shakes off the haze and looks around his apartment. Except for the tiny slip of paper in his hand, it’s like Mason was never here.

Markus rises from his seat and picks up his sidearm. He stares down at the wooden surface of the table where it used to lie for far too long before holstering it. His body feels robotic from the shock and the adrenaline letdown, his limbs are exhausted from the fight earlier, and all he wants to do is collapse into his bed. He forces himself to keep standing, to pick up his feet and move across the linoleum kitchen floor, and out into the hallway leading to his front door. Once he reaches the door, he presses his eye against the peep hole and peers out. He’s not sure what exactly he’s looking for, be it Mason’s return or some unknown threat, but he stares out for almost a minute before pulling his eye away and turning his attention to the locks. The entire side of his door is covered in a variety of deadbolts and locks. He carefully fastens each one, paying careful attention to every piece. He’s not paranoid, just cautious. Only once the door is locked does he let out the breath he’s been holding. He stares around the apartment, scanning each of the few windows for damage, but each is unscathed. He sighs and turns towards the very last door in the hallway: the one leading to his bedroom. Markus opens the door and reaches his hand along the wall, feeling for the lightswitch. His hand finds it, and he flips the light on. The second the room lights up, his tense shoulders relax. Despite living most of his life in the shadows, he’s never quite conquered his fear of the dark. He shuts the door behind him, and switches off the light once more. Crossing the room, he reaches his bed and collapses, letting himself sink into the mattress. His aching, exhausted limbs crave rest and his equally tired mind pulls him towards the allure of sleep. He knows it’s useless to resist at this point, and gives in, not even bothering to remove his boots and jacket before lying down. His mind strays to his conversation with Mason, the agent’s words darting in and out of his thoughts as he drifts off. The last thing that runs through his brain before he sinks into sleep is Mason’s haunting words.

You’d be remembered as a hero.

He awakes suddenly, as if struck by a bolt of electricity. It’s pitch black inside his bedroom, the only light coming from the streetlights outside his single bedroom window. He raises his arm and glances at his watch, seeing that he wasn’t asleep for more than three hours. He lies completely still and silent, unable to quite identify what woke him, be it internal or external, but the disturbance seems to have ended. His instincts don’t seem to sense danger, and he trusts them more than any alarm system on the market. Sitting up, he groggily looks around. Nothing is out of place. Just as he is about to lie back down and give himself back over to sleep, his gaze rests on the slip of paper that had fallen from his grip while he slept. It sits on the mattress beside him, so bright white that it almost glows in the darkness. He sighs and rubs his temple, realizing instantly what he needs to do. 

Markus picks up the card, rubbing his thumb over the bold numbers and letters. He sits up fully, stretching and letting out a muffled groan. As he stands, his exhaustion dissipates and his mind buzzes with adrenaline, despite the lack of clear and present danger. He immediately crosses the room, opening his door. He steps out into the pitch black hallway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. As he walks back into his small kitchen, he contemplates the decision he is about to make. He stands beside the sink, leaning on the counter for support. The man just stands there for a minute, lost in thought, before he shakes it off and reaches for his jacket pocket, and the cellphone there. His hand freezes as he unzips the pocket, and he stops. Better to get a drink before making such an important phone call. He’s not stalling, but he’s not exactly anxious to call the fucking CIA…

He walks to the fridge and opens the door, squinting his eyes against the blinding white light from the inside. Examining the sparse contents for a moment, he reaches out and grabs a plastic bottle, half full of cranberry juice. He shuts the fridge door for a minute before crossing the kitchen and opening a cabinet on the other side, grabbing a small cup and setting it on the counter. He slowly pours the crimson liquid into the cup, his mind traveling back to the conversation with Mason as he does.

You’d be remembered as a hero

Before Markus can finish his musings he looks back at his cup, seeing he had overfilled it and it was spilling onto the counter.

“Shit!” he exclaims in a hushed tone, grabbing a paper towel and attempting to clean the cranberry flavored mess on the table. Once he has the mess under control he takes a deep breath, pausing and staring at the counter, he takes another breath, closing his eyes. He feels filthy. He carefully lowers his head to the rim of the cup, slurping some of the cranberry juice from the rim until he is comfortable picking it up. He slowly steps toward the entrance to the kitchen, leaning his aching body against it and taking a deep breath. He takes another sip, the cold bitter liquid leaving a cool trail down to his stomach. To think that something as simple as cranberry juice could bring such comfort to him… He takes another sip. Not removing his eyes from the window overlooking the city he still didn’t know how he felt about. Whether he loved it for giving him a purpose, or if he hated it for all the memories it constantly reminded him of. Thunder suddenly crashes and Markus jumps, his eyes widen and he snaps around him looking at the door. He stands in silence for what feels like years, expecting it to whip open. But it never does. He eventually manages to pry himself out of the stance he’s in and presses his back against the wall. Clenching his fist and cursing under his breath. He presses the back of his head against the wall and slowly slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, cranberry juice in hand. He takes one more sip before closing his eyes. One word echoing through his skull like a bell through a church, as droplets of rain slowly hit the window next to him.

Hero… Hero… Hero…

He pushes himself off the floor, grabbing his cup and chugging the last of the red liquid remaining. He sets it on the counter and is just about to go back to bed, but before he can turn the light off he stops. He slowly turns his head to look at the counter one last time, seeing the card Mason had given him. It was calling to him. Markus tries with all his might to just turn the damn light off and go to sleep, but he can’t force himself to. He turns around and grabs the card, reading the number inked on the face until he’s committed every inch of the paper to memory. He closes his eyes and flexes his hand to crush the card and throw it away, but something stops him.

Hero

Markus grabs his phone from his pocket, immediately typing the number onto the cracked screen and pressing his ear to the speaker. The phone rings for a couple seconds, but to Markus it feels like he’s been waiting his entire life for the person on the other side to pick up. He hears a click and the familiar voice of Mason on the other end of the line.

“So, hero. Ready for your assignment?” He asks. Markus smiles and grows a confident look on his face.

“Where do I sign up?” Markus quips in response.

[exitmusicforastory]

Conventional Weapons: Chapter Three

KRAKOW, POLAND

PRESENT DAY

Nadya keeps her head down as she walks down the busy downtown street. She is no longer encumbered by Apollo’s duffel bag, which she had disposed of for safety, dropping off an empty footbridge into the silent water of the Vistula. She had carefully memorized the contents of the file given to her by the now dead Agent Knowles, tearing it to shreds and scattering the pieces to the winds. Instead, the only thing on her back is her fitted black leather jacket. She shed her casual civilian clothes in exchange for a form-fitting black tank top, skirt and tights. A swathe of dark red lipstick coats her lips, and her eyes are rimmed in smoky liner. Her leather jacket does a fair job at concealing the firearm at her hip. Her intense gaze flits across every passerby as if scanning for threats. This street is enclosed nearly entirely by nightclubs, patronized by both the scum of the city and Krakow’s wealthiest politicians and socialites, though the latter would never admit to their involvement in this scene. It would be counter to the interests of the powerful if it became known that the vibrant underground nightlife didn’t only cater to the poor, ragged filth of the streets. The dark road is illuminated by the dim, flickering street lights, and the intermittent flashes of bright, colorful light from the open doors of clubs. However, there are places on the street where the brightness doesn’t reach. The darkness of the cracks and alleyways teem with the kind of illegal activity that this corner of Krakow thrives on. Every shade conceals something. Shadows sigh between illicit touches, and hazy smoke conceals other, more illegal affairs. Nadya continues down the street, passing countless people who seem to be trying not to be found. Perfect. Nadya also prefers anonymity. Her green eyes bore through the raised hoods and sketchy gazes of passersby.

She finally pauses by the door to a fairly busy club and turns her gaze to the entry. A sign over the door reads in dimly lit fluorescent letters: The Venus Lounge. A woman leans languidly against the stained cinder block wall of the building. Her already impressive height is emphasized by a pair of tall, red stiletto heels. Despite the bite in the air, she is dressed scantily, in a short black skirt and a sleeveless, fitted scarlet top. Her makeup is dark and sultry, giving her the appearance of haughtiness. She has long, dark curls pulled back into a high ponytail, olive skin, and coal-black eyes. Nadya nods when she catches sight of her, her expression giving nothing away. The woman smiles at Nadya and beckons her over. Nadya moves closer and leans against the wall beside her.

“I’m here for Sokołow,” Nadya whispers.

“He’s upstairs. Private suite,” she says, “It’s good to see you again, Scar.”

Nadya cracks a smile at the woman’s usage of her pseudonym and slips her hand into the pocket of her jacket, pulling out a 20 Zloty note. She presses it into the woman’s palm. 

“You too, Moriah.”

Moriah pockets the cash and straightens, no longer leaning against the wall. Nadya’s heart twists. She knows Moriah, and more than that, she is her. Nadya may not sell her body in the same manner or for the same reasons as the woman beside her, but she knows what it’s like to have her agency stolen, her soul owned by another. She had long ago vowed to never leave another woman or girl in that position again, hence her mission. Eventually, she planned to not only take down the organization that victimized her, but also destroy every bastard who thought he had the right to own another’s body, spirit, or mind. She shakes her head, letting the dark thoughts disappear like a cloud of smoke. Nadya smiles and nods at Moriah once more, making her way towards the entrance. The second she leaves Moriah’s side, Nadya’s entire demeanor changes. Her posture straightens, her closed-off attitude dissipates, and instead she exudes an air of confidence and intrigue that can’t help but attract people. The corners of her crimson lips quirk in a seductive smirk. As she reaches the doorway, her gaze lands on the bouncer, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black muscle shirt and jeans. He has a strong, intimidating presence, and his mouth is a harsh line. She waves at him as she passes, and he pulls the door open.

The music hits her like a shockwave of energy, absorbing into her skin. The room is filled with both the richest of high society folk, and the sort of person that society tends to forget. Countless lounge chairs and couches scatter the room, surrounding tables garnished by glasses of liquor. On the couches, young women, filthy with desperation, drape themselves over men, dripping in wealth. A haze of pungent smoke lingers in the air. Across the room, there is a glass-topped bar. Nadya steps into the room, and begins to weave her way through the crowd. Before she gets very far, she catches sight of a familiar man lounging on a nearby couch. He recognizes her at the same moment she sees him, and his face cracks into a charismatic smile. He opens his arms and beams at her, shouting out into the crowd.

“Scarlett! Well, well, well. I never thought I’d see you back here…”

The room falls silent for a moment, countless eyes falling on the redheaded woman. Nadya winces at being called out, and the sudden wave of attention directed to her, but recovers quickly. She smiles coyly and places a hand on her hip as she approaches her old acquaintance. The man beckons to her as she draws nearer, and pats a spot beside him on the couch. He shoos away the petite blonde who had previously been sitting on his lap. He is American, dark and handsome, dressed in an expensive tailored suit, yet the slur of alcohol in his voice, as well as a substantial knowledge of his past, disgusts her.

“Sit down, Scarlett. It’s been a while. I thought for sure you’d ended up dead in some gutter! Not uncommon for your kind. Would have been a shame, though, a gorgeous girl like you.” 

His voice drips bravado, like he is putting on a show. As she sits beside him, crossing her legs elegantly and leaning sideways onto her hand. She tilts her head and ignores his comment. 

“Oh, it has been forever, don’t you think, Matt?” she asks, her sultry accent lacing her tone.

Matt smiles and places a clammy hand on her upper thigh. Nadya has to suppress a shudder. She had forgotten how much she hates Matthew Allan, but now the feeling comes back in full force. She despises this wealthy American, who spends most of his time overseas, tempting and trapping the ragged, desperate women he meets into giving him sex in exchange for a hot meal or a roof over their head. Her fingers itch to grab her gun, but she resists. She smiles at him and presses a kiss against his cheek, her skin crawling underneath her flirtatious demeanor. 

“Actually, I’m here to see Vik.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Vik? Oh, he’s upstairs. He’ll definitely be glad to see you, but you’re not leaving just yet, are you? Stay here for a while!”

He tightens his grip on her thigh, sending shivers of disgust up her spine. Nadya moves her leg, escaping his hand. She sees his eyes darken, and realizes the danger. Rising from her seat, she brushes her leg off and winks at Allan.

“You know I can’t resist your charms. But I’m afraid this time I have to. Duty calls, you know.”

He sighs, but waves his hand, dismissing her in a way that makes her grit her teeth with annoyance. She ignores the slight on her importance and leaves Matt, squeezing between two dancing forms. The crowd now largely ignores her, which is much more to her liking. She maneuvers through the knot of people, traversing the familiar room, and making her way to the back staircase. She quietly opens the door and enters the dark stairwell. The second the door closes behind her, the world goes silent. She sighs in relief and sets her foot on the first stair. Nadya quickly makes her way up the empty staircase, relishing in the few moments of peace and quiet, before she reaches the door to the second floor. She hesitates, her hand frozen on the handle before turning it and stepping into another corridor. This one is dimly lit with glass wall lamps spaced evenly along the crimson wallpaper. The familiar room brings back memories of walking down this very same hall under very different circumstances. Her body is tense, and the defenseless feeling that she was once so familiar with returns. Her hand strays to the grip of her firearm, the weapon acting as a reminder. The rubber and metal grip feels like the only solid thing in her world. She has a gun, and a will to use it. She has no obligation to stay at the Venus Lounge. She clenches her hands into tight fists and reminds herself that she can leave whenever she wants. She is no longer Scarlett Vyronov, trapped and caged. She is Nadya Arkanova. She is free. Despite returning to this place that she once feared she could never leave, despite having to come face to face with Viktor Sokołow once more, she keeps her composure. Nadya is not the same person she was the last time she was here. She’s different now. 

Nadya reaches the last door at the end of the hall. It’s heavy, dark-stained oak with an ornate brass handle. She raises her hand to knock, but before she can, the handle turns and the door swings open. A man stands on the other side, built like a freight train, and dressed in a tracksuit. His head is shaved and his eyes are void of the light of intelligence. He’s a typical dumb grunt. If a confrontation were to occur, he’d only be a threat if Nadya were unarmed. But she’s not. She resists the urge to let her fingers stray to the handle of her gun. She slows her breathing and fixes her lips into a convincing replica of a smile. Unlike the last time she was in this room, she’s not vulnerable. She wears an armor that is her exact twin, with no chinks that can expose her weaknesses. She turns to the man by the door.

“I’m here to see Viktor Sokołow.”

Before the man in front of her can respond, another man’s voice rings out from inside the lounge.

“Let her in.”

 His familiar, menacing tone makes her shiver. She straightens her posture and walks into the room. Nothing has changed since she last walked through this door. The flowery crimson wallpaper and brass-accented wood remain the same. Her eyes scan the room, as if taking inventory of the dimly lit space. Three red couches, arranged around a central coffee table, a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark city, and a brass chandelier. The lighting has a faint red tinge, due to the overwhelming color scheme, and it gives off both an air of menace and of a strange sort of luxury. A private bar counter in the corner is unattended. Two men stand around the room, of a similar build and dress as the one that answered the door. A third man, with an ample frame, lounges on the center couch. His sparse hair is greying, and his tailored suit is strained at the buttons. His face is that of a well-fed vulture, cruel yet satisfied, like he’s gotten everything he wants in life, and wants Nadya to envy him. This face, which she knows all too well, breaks into a predatory grin.

“Scarlett! I always knew you’d end up back here.”

Nadya suppresses a wince, and against all instinct, steps closer to him.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Vik.”

Vik gestures to a spot on the couch beside him, and Nadya hesitantly takes a step forward, her shoes digging into the luscious, red carpet. He raises his hand and beckons her closer, his will acting as a magnetic pull on her body. She steps a little further, and sees his smile begin to reach his eyes, likely the result of him realizing that he can still control her. She despises herself as she continues to inch closer to him. As if sensing her hesitation, Vik drops his hand.

“Sit,” he commands.

Nadya sits, but not at the spot beside him. Instead, she sets herself on the sofa to his right, leaning sideways against the armrest and crossing her legs. The vulture’s smile sours, but he recovers quickly.

“What brings you back to Krakow, darling?”

Nadya’s body tenses at the use of the patronizing endearment, but she forces a smile.

“I moved back here last year with my… my husband.”

“Husband? You?” Viktor says, raising an eyebrow, “What a waste! We’ve missed having you here, you know.”

“Well, it didn’t work out so well,” Nadya replies, “He was… well, I left him. And he wasn’t happy, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Nadya inclines her head, and opens her mouth to continue, but before she can, Viktor holds up his hand to stop her. As if by force, her words freeze in her throat. She closes her mouth and her jaw clenches. Loathing bubbles up in her chest as Viktor begins to speak.

“So you’re here to return to work, I’d assume? That’s why you’ve come to see me.”

Nadya shakes her head, “No. I’m actually here to ask you for help.”

Viktor snorts and waves his hand toward one of his identical, enormous bodyguards. The man steps forward and leans down towards Viktor. Vik leans in and whispers something unintelligible into the man’s ear. He nods and straightens, crossing the room to the door and exiting. Viktor turns his attention back to Nadya.

“Help you? After you just turned down such a generous offer? No, darling. I don’t think so.”

Nadya tenses, leaning forward in desperation. She clasps her hands and looks Viktor dead in the eye.

“Please. I just need to get out of the country. That’s all I ask for, your protection.”

“And what have you ever done to deserve that?” he asks, cruelty dripping from his tone. His eyes are bright with malicious enjoyment.

“I worked for you for years. Please, I wouldn’t be here unless I was truly desperate.”

He raises his hand and beckons her closer. Nadya slowly rises from her seat, and her skin crawls as her feet carry her towards him. She steps forward until she is standing directly in front of him. Her entire body is tense, and she has to remind herself of the weapon she has concealed at her hip. Viktor reaches his hand towards her face, and Nadya can’t hide the way she flinches at his touch. Viktor seems to find it amusing, and smirks. Nadya freezes as his stubby fingers caress her cheek.

“Go on,” he says.

She swallows her disgust and continues.

“Please, Viktor. I’m begging you.”

“Good.”

As he speaks, the door opens. The man who had exited before re-enters, this time, with another in his wake. They step through the doorway, their large frames making the room feel smaller. One stands at either side of the door, blocking any attempt of hers to escape. 

“Shit,” Nadya whispers under her breath.

Viktor traces his fingers down her face and guides her chin down to look at him.

“You really think I’d let you just walk away a second time? After how useful you’ve always proven to be? Oh, Scarlett. I thought for sure you were smarter than that.”

[exitmusicforastory]

Conventional Weapons fancast!

If you want to help me out:

[exitmusicforastory]

Conventional Weapons: Chapter Two

CHICAGO, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PRESENT DAY

The man on the floor cringes as Markus raises his fist. He’s not a small man, but lying there, helpless, he looks positively miniscule. His rumpled grey business suit is stained with the blood that leaks from his mouth. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, leaving a trail of snot and blood that makes Markus’s lip curl in disgust. He’s pathetic. For a man with so much criminal power, he is pretty damn weak. 

“Where are the rest of the drugs going, Lucio?” Markus snarls, leaning down, and grabbing the back of the man’s neck. He looks his captive dead in the eyes and holds the mob boss's face closer, his very gaze a threat.

“I- I dunno! I swear! I just ship ‘em, I don’t push ‘em!” Markus rolls his eyes and looks around the ornate downtown apartment. The room is furnished with expensive modern decor, but the ensuing altercation had overturned several chairs, and shattered the glass coffee table in the center of the space. Markus relinquishes his grip on the man’s neck and takes a few steps away, his tactical boots crunching on the shards of broken glass that litter the Persian rug. He turns his head, seeing a fuse box nearby. He smirks to himself and turns back to Lucio. The man scrambles back, pieces of glass digging into his palms, but Markus lunges forward and grabs him by the sweat-soaked collar of his white linen shirt. 

“P-please,” he says, “I dunno anything! I swear!” Markus backhands him across the face, his leather-gloved hand leaving an angry red mark, before dragging him toward the fuse box.

“You know how much electricity it takes to keep the lights in here on? A fancy Chicago penthouse like this?” Markus asks as he shoves Lucio’s back against a wall. The coward winces from the impact and stutters a reply.

“I dunno, like… a couple hundred watts? I ain’t no electrician!” Lucio responds. Markus smirks and kicks the fuse box open, exposing electrical components, copper wires gleaming in the dim lighting.

“My guess is at least 50,000 volts. Wanna see who’s right?” he asks, before shoving Lucio to the ground and holding his face closer to the jagged wires.

“I ain’t spillin’!” Lucio shouts, attempting defiance, but Markus simply smirks and presses the man's face closer.

“You know why electrocution is so painful, Lucio?” Markus asks, applying more pressure onto Lucio’s back.

“You see, electricity tends to really like water-based things, and as you would remember if you graduated the 5th grade, your body is over 70% water. So all the electricity coursing through this building would course through your face and then to your chest, overloading your heart and respiratory system until they pop like water balloons. And you’ll slowly melt from the inside out as your guts turn into a disgusting mush.” Markus smiles grimly beneath the bandana that conceals his visage, before pushing Lucio even closer.

“Fine! Fine! They’re going to the east side! A deal is happening in a warehouse by the docks!” The man squirms against Markus’s grip, his breathing picking up, and his voice on the brink of tears. Markus smirks and pulls Lucio away from the breaker.

“See? Was that really so difficult?” he asks, before punching Lucio in the face, knocking him out cold. Markus lets his opponent’s body fall to the floor, landing in a heap on the expensive carpet. He looks down at the man, hatred bubbling in his blood. Dante Lucio is the leader of Chicago’s largest drug cartel. Under his supervision, over 13000 kilos of narcotics have been shipped to various locations around the globe. Over the past two decades, Lucio has accumulated millions of dollars, and hundreds of friends in high places. He’s spent his fortune and influence on owning close to eighty-five percent of all of the city’s nightclubs, bribing various high-profile government officials, and buying as many prostitutes as he can get his filthy hands on. He’s about as disgusting of a slimeball as Markus can imagine. 

The masked man’s gloved hand strays to his tactical belt, his fingers closing around the handle to his sidearm. He shakes his head and releases it. Despite the vile nature of the man, he’s not worth killing. That is a punishment that Markus has always tried to avoid at all costs, both for legality’s sake, and from a moral standpoint. He can’t stand those who kill senselessly. His threats to his captive might be terrifyingly realistic, but they were empty. Lucio might be a scumbag, but he’s human nonetheless, and Markus Sauber is far from heartless. Instead, he moves his hand to his leather tactical vest and reaches into one of the pockets, pulling out a pen. He crosses the room, stopping at a carved wooden side table. Upon the gleaming mahogany surface lies a stationary monogrammed with Dante Lucio’s name in ornate script. Markus picks up the notepad and clicks the pen. Quickly and efficiently, he transcribes the names of every known associate of Lucio’s. Taking down one rat king was easy, but he intended to burn the whole nest. He replaces the stationary on the table and walks back over to Lucio. Pulling handcuffs out of his vest pocket, he bends down, attaching one cuff to Lucio’s plump wrist, and the other to the arm of the expensive mahogany and leather sofa. Markus rises from his crouched position and takes a last look around the room. The destruction is pretty severe, probably over a thousand dollars in property damage. Due to both this and the likely heavy bail, Lucio is going to have an expensive week. Good. The bastard deserves it. Markus smiles grimly, adjusting the fabric over the lower half of his face. Picking up a black leather jacket, he crosses the room, reaching a set of open French doors leading to a balcony. He pulls on his jacket, effectively concealing his tactical gear, and exits the way he entered. Lucio really needs an upgrade for his home security. The illuminated Chicago skyline is hauntingly beautiful against the midnight sky. Markus stands there for a moment, lost in the view, before crossing the balcony and entering the fire escape. He descends, trying to minimize the creaking and clattering of the metal ladder beneath him. When he reaches the end, he jumps down from the ladder, his boots landing soundlessly on the cracked asphalt. 

He looks around the alleyway, taking in the graffiti on the walls, the overflowing dumpsters, and the overall aura of uncleanliness. Amazing, really, that all of this filth was directly beneath one of the most affluent apartment buildings in the entire city. An entire shadowy world hidden beneath a glittering facade. He exits the alleyway, turning onto a surprisingly empty street. He pulls the bandana down from his face and walks down the sidewalk a little ways, passing only a few pedestrians. The sounds of passing cars mix with the loud music that blares from one of Lucio’s nearby nightclubs. He reaches a bus stop and pauses there, leaning against the exterior of the plastic shelter. As he waits, his thoughts stray. Looking at him then, with his tactical gear concealed under a bomber jacket, and a small bruise on his cheek the only souvenir of his earlier altercation, it was nearly impossible to guess that this tall, silent, dark-haired man spent his evenings exacting vigilante justice on Chicago’s most deserving criminals.

Markus clenches his fist within his leather glove and stares down at the pavement. He recalls a similar night, many years prior, where he had also stood at an empty bus stop, on an empty street, with a much worse bruise on his cheek. He had cried that night, but he was much younger then. Young and broken and scared. He remembered collapsing on the bench of the bus stop, hoping someone would stop and help the small, sobbing boy. But nobody did. That was the last time Markus Sauber had ever relied on another person. Every day since, throughout every new foster home, every new school, he had been careful not to grow too attached to any one person. He knew that could only end in further heartbreak. This turned him from a broken child to a troubled, lonely teen, to a dark, even lonelier man with no connections, no friends, and no real home.

In the distance, Markus hears the roar of the approaching 1:15 AM bus, and looks up, his thoughts disrupted. The headlights temporarily blind him, and he holds up a hand to shield his dark eyes. As the bus slows to a stop, he straightens, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and pulling out a teal plastic Chicago bus pass. The doors open, letting out a hiss as the mechanism releases. Markus boards the bus, holding out the pass for the driver to scan. She’s a middle aged woman with poofy platinum blonde hair, a dumpy frame, and a halo of cigarette smoke. Markus holds his breath as he passes her. The late hour leaves the bus slightly less crowded than usual, so Markus is able to find a seat in the back. None of his fellow passengers spare him a second glance. Good. He can’t take any more questions tonight. The moment he sinks into the crappy plastic seat, exhaustion hits him like brass knuckles. He rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window, closing his eyes and blocking out the sounds of the traffic around him.

He jolts awake as the bus slows to a stop. Shaking the fog from his head, he looks at the overhead screen, silently chiding himself for falling asleep. He lets out a sigh of relief to see that he is still three stops away from his street. He straightens and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The bus is nearly empty now, only a few passengers, all of whom are glued to their cellphones. Markus takes out his own phone and glances at the screen. He’s learned not to expect messages- who would they be from- but he hopes for an alert from one of the crime watch forums or news outlets he follows religiously. No luck. Only a blank screen greets him. He sighs and turns his gaze to the window, taking in the view of the city as he passes. The bus has long since exited the nice part of town, and now traverses a much less desirable, much more familiar area. In the daylight, every crack shows through, but now, at night, the dark washes the city clean, hiding the imperfections. It’s beautiful and almost comforting. He rises as the bus stops again, walking down the aisle and entering the night. He crosses the street, the building in which he lives coming into view. It’s by no means a nice building, but it’s also far from the worst on the street. He enters the dimly lit lobby of his apartment complex, completely empty due to the late hour. A single dried up fern in a cracked clay pot resting on a rickety wooden table is the only furnishing in the space. He crosses the room, stopping in front of a single pair of elevator doors. His reflection in the smudged metal makes him wince. He’s always despised his appearance with a passion. There’s too much of his father in his face, and he fears that they share not only the dark hair and eyes, but also the dark temper. For this reason, he hasn’t touched a bottle since he was sixteen. He knows the danger of inhibition.

The elevator doors open, and Markus steps inside, jamming his finger on the button for the seventh floor. He stands there in silence, ruminating on his thoughts before the doors slide open, revealing the corridor that leads to his home. It’s even dimmer than the lobby due to a broken light fixture that was never repaired. He plods down the hallway, passing door after silent door. Only one has any sound behind it- the blaring noise of late-night television. He walks quickly past it, reaching the final door at the end of the hallway. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulls a key from an interior pocket. The gloves hinder him, so he removes them, stowing them away in his jacket before fumbling the key into the lock. The familiar sound of the door clicking open relaxes him, but the second he steps forward into his apartment, he tenses up again. Something is wrong. He can’t put his finger on it, but his senses are tingling. His instincts are on fire, and they’ve never been wrong before. He rests his hand on the handle of his gun, pulling it out of the holster and flipping the safety off. He looks around the dark entryway, seeing that everything in the short, narrow hallway leading to the kitchen is in its proper place. He notices no visible signs of disturbance, but inwardly he knows that something is out of sorts. He ventures further into his apartment, his unease growing with each step. Holding his firearm out in front of him defensively, he finds himself in his small yet tidy kitchen. Everything looks as normal as he left it. Everything, except the man in the business suit. 

The man stands directly in the center of the room. He is shorter than Markus, well built, with wiry grey hair trimmed short and neat. His eyes are also grey; they are the coldest, most piercing eyes Markus has ever seen. They look as if they could cut straight through steel, or to Markus’s very soul. Those eyes freeze him in place, making him feel like the intruder in his own home. He hasn’t felt this intimidated since he was eight years old. He feels his hands instinctively begin to lower the gun and he has to force himself to keep it steady. It’s only then that he realizes the source of his panic. Something about the man’s demeanor reminds Markus of his father. The man’s lined iron face twists into a harsh smile. 

“Welcome, Mr. Sauber.”

“Who are you,” Markus asks, his voice shockingly robust for the amount of uncertainty he feels.

“I’m Agent Nicolas Mason from the Central Intelligence Agency. I’m here to offer you a job.”

[exitmusicforastory]

Conventional Weapons

Conventional Weapons is a high-stakes thriller that delves into the murky world of espionage, betrayal, and revenge. At the heart of the story is Nadya Arkanova, a former Russian operative, whose life is scarred by violence, manipulation, and a haunting past. After being forced to kill a man she once loved, Nadya is left emotionally adrift, struggling with her loyalty to those who betrayed her and the need for vengeance that threatens to consume her.

Her path crosses with Markus Sauber, an elite CIA agent whose own moral code and traumatic past guide his every move. As they both navigate a dangerous web of secrets, their missions intertwine in ways neither can predict. Manipulated by forces far greater than themselves, they must confront their darkest fears while battling the ghosts of their past.

In a world where trust is a luxury and survival is everything, Nadya and Markus are forced to make impossible choices. Conventional Weapons is a gripping tale of love, loss, and the razor-thin line between heroism and villainy, where the weapons are not just guns—but the psychological scars that define each character’s fate.