Tactical Espionage Action
Voting and Critique
Welcome to another round of voting!
I encourage everyone that cares about the Contests(and if you don't already, I encourage you to begin now) to read through all of the wonderful entries submitted in the past two weeks, and cast their vote for their favorite! The submission with the most votes will be posted in a stickied "Trophy Case" thread where it will be displayed for all to see, and its author added to the list of Meritorious Writers at the very top!
Of course, this thread is also for critiquing. Note I said critiquing, not shitslinging. Constructive criticism only, please. Feel free to go through any one or all of the entries and give your two cents in helping your fellow writers improve! Those that have entered this contest are absolutely allowed to critique each others' works, contestants can absolutely vote, though not for their own, obviously.
Needless to say, using multiple accounts to vote more than once is NOT ALLOWED, and if an author uses alts to vote for their own work, they will be disqualified on the spot and disbarred from entering any future Contests.
Please vote based on the merits of the work, not for the sake of a clique or just because the author happens to be your friend. And mostly certainly do not attempt to have an author falsely disqualified because you don't happen to like them, because I'll fucking find out and it won't be pretty.
Brown and beige tents were put up in neat rows spiralling away from the big tents in the centre. Soldiers wearing simple bronze chainmail over red leather worked hard to get the camp set up before dusk would settle and lead the way for the evening to come. The air was filled with the smell of moist dirt, sweat and oil; and the sound of talking, shouting and grinding of blades being sharpened.
A soldier walked through the camp, smiling to greetings, saluting superiors. He tried to act naturally, casually, and dropped a bag behind a tent. Without pausing he went in a new direction, his fingers stroking the wood of the handheld crossbow he kept under his cloak. Sure, these people had their Army Destroyer, but his people had been able to downsize crossbows to a more manageable size, without sacrificing a lot of piercing power or range.
His eyes took in the metal-and-wooden structure that was their secret weapon: a moving catapult that was pretty damn accurate and fired big rocks, flaming coal, and flasks of oil at the same time. It was certainly capable of doing a lot of damage, but it wasn’t in the same league as the City Destroyers the dwarves had used during the last war.
The Army Destroyer moved slowly, but surely. It was pulled by oxen, but a set of gears made it easier for the animals to pull it. Another thing left behind from the war against the dwarves, who had invented those. Their machines had run on coal and water and hadn’t needed any animals for pulling. That was something humans hadn’t been able to replicate.
Around him soldiers were talking amongst themselves and he listened to the bits and pieces of the stories and complaint, but his attention was focussed on the moving machine. They had just finished making camp and the Army Destroyer was on its way to the designated location. Steve smiled and nodded to one of the enemy soldiers as he passed him, so far no-one had seen through his disguise. The enemy army was large enough for soldiers to know their own unit by name, the closest units by face and some by name, and the rest, well, it was good everyone wore the same uniform. He noticed how some had removed their chainmail, while others kept it on. And aside from those who had to patrol, most seemed to relax and take their time to clean or repair their armour or weapons.
“Hey, from what unit are you?” someone asked.
Steve turned to face him, taking in the scarcely decorated chainmain and clean leather pants. This man hadn’t been marching. He saluted the officer. “Twenty-four blue, sir,” he said.
“And what are you doing here?”
“Delivering a message to the legas of green ten, sir.” He showed the man a closed letter with the name of the legas on it.
The officer subjected him to a scrutinizing look and after a moment held out his hand. “I will take it, report back to your legas.”
“Yes sir.” Steve turned around and walked back, but when he was certain the man wasn’t looking he snuck between some tents and quickly went back in the direction he had been going in before. That was the only letter he had; it was best to avoid being stopped by anyone else. He moved quicker now, he needed to do this before the Army Destroyer would reach its place and come to a halt. He looked at the machine that towered over everything else, still moving steadily.
Only special troops were allowed near the Army Destroyer, but that didn’t matter. His goal was unguarded. He reached the tree closest to the machine and climbed in.
“What are you doing?” one of the enemy soldiers asked.
“Just getting a good view,” Steve replied as he pulled out his crossbow.
“What is that?”
Steve didn’t answer and took aim. There were two confirmed weaknesses. One only worked if the enemy would approach them on the battlefield, but the other was within range. As someone shouted “Hey, stop!” below him, he fired an iron dart. It pierced the air and buried itself in the gears that allowed the machine to move. The gears came to a grinding halt while the gears on the other side still moved, causing the large weapon to turn. For a moment it seemed the large machine would topple, but the drivers managed to stop the oxen in time.
Too bad.
Two hands grabbed his legs and Steve smashed the crossbow against the tree, to make sure the enemy wouldn’t get their hands on his weapon. He didn’t have any more darts with him anyway, he knew before coming here there would be enough time for just one shot.
They dragged Steve to a tent and pushed him against a pole. Steve coughed as the blow forced the air from his lungs and took in a deep breath as the soldiers tied his hands behind the pole with a rough rope.
The heavy fabric of the tent let very little light in. It took a moment before Steve’s eyes adjusted to the darkness around him. There were very few items here. A table and a chair at one side, a crate filled with ropes. And three poles, one of which was still empty. His eyes rested on the other prisoner in the tent. They looked at each other but didn’t speak.
***
“Grand commander Bendul,” a man barked as he entered the tent. Judging by the ornaments on his uniform he was a high-ranking officer. Steve silently observed him while he addressed the other prisoner. There was some grey in his black hair and despite the evidence of a good life around his abdomen he seemed to be in good shape. “Is this one of your men?”
“I don’t know all soldiers by face,” Bendul began, but was interrupted by Steve.
“I am. And you must be marshal Doruk.”
The marshal turned to him. “Did you really think that little stunt of you would stop us?”
“It should delay you,” Steve replied, his voice calm and he smiled at the man. “But, to be honest, that was just a message from first major commander Andrus. A warning.”
“Andrus,” Doruk grumbled. “I’ll have his head on a stake.”
“He said that you would say that, and if you would then I had to tell you that his left side is his best side. And that if you would place his head so that the sun is always on the left, he’d make a stunning ornament.”
The grand commander groaned, and the face of the marshal turned red. “I will put his head anyway I want to!” he bellowed, turning around and stomping out of the tent.
“Was that why he sent you?” Bendul asked. “So that you could taunt Doruk in his place?”
“No, sir. I came here to rescue you.”
Bendul let out an amused sound. “That’s not really going according to plan, is it?”
“To be honest, sir,” Steve said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he started wriggling and turning his wrists and plucking the rope with his fingers, “after studying the knots they use a lot, Trevor tied me up with a knot they use most frequent and left food with me, telling me that if I was hungry I had to get it myself. It took me a day, but I found a way to untie myself. Then of course I had to do it again, but faster. Then another knot…”
“That sounds like Trevor,” Bendul sighed. “If he’d still be an officer I would have demoted him for that stunt.”
“But he’s not, and that’s probably why the first major commander requested his assistance. The first major commander didn’t know what Trevor did though.”
“Of course,” Bendul said, but they both knew Andrus knew exactly what Trevor had done.
The ropes fell to the ground. “Maybe it is unethical to tie one of your own up and withhold food from them,” Steve went to the grand commander to untie him, “but it worked.”
Bendul decided to let the matter rest, he would pick it up with Trevor personally when he would be back at their side. “I suppose you have a plan to get us out of here too.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve walked to the back of the tent and lay down on the ground. He lifted the fabric and peered through the opening. Three set of boots marched on the other side of the tent and he waited until they were gone. As far as he could see there weren’t any boots or shadows of people within eye range and he grabbed the bag he had dropped there earlier, pulling it into the tent.
“Missionary cloaks,” he said as he opened the pack. “And two daggers.”
Bendul took the green cloak made of plants and feather and put it on. After he pulled the hood over his head, he turned to Steve who also had the cloak on. “Lead the way.”
Pulling up the hood, Steve opened the tent and stepped outside. When he saw a couple of soldiers he quickly made the blessing symbol with his hand and waited for the grand commander to join him. Together they walked through the camp, their hands clasped as all missionaries seemed to do, their eyes cast to the ground. They managed to walk through most of the camp, giving blessings to those who requested them, but they were stopped by a soldier.
“Missionaries aren’t supposed to be in this part of the camp,” he told them.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Steve said, his hand disappeared in the cloak and his fingers wrapped around the handle of his dagger.
“Show your hands,” the soldier said, putting his own hand on his sword.
With a swift movement Steve drew the blade and lashed out, but the soldier evaded it. Before he could shout for help, Bendul grabbed him and slit his throat from behind. The man grabbed his throat, blood oozing through his fingers, and Steve started to pull him between the tents.
"Hey, you two!”
“Damn,” Steve muttered, dropping the dying soldier. “This way, sir!” He started running through the camp, followed closely by Bendul. He pulled down a stack of crates, dove between some tents and rushed into one of them. Quickly he removed the cloak, pushed it in an open barrel, and grabbed another bag as Bendul removed his cloak too. They ran out the other side, Bendul just a step behind him, and sprinted through the camp, diving into another tent and went for the two soldiers who were drinking beer. Being caught by surprise they couldn’t grab their weapons or shout for help before they were overpowered by the two soldiers. With their daggers they stabbed the soldiers as quickly and silently as they could. Blood mixed with the spilled beer, creating a brown puddle and leaving a strong sour and metallic scent.
Steve panted and gave the bag to Bendul, who opened it and pulled out red fabric. “Enemy uniform. Quick.”
They both cleaned their hands and Steve removed his chainmail while Bendul changed in the red uniform. It was good the blood barely showed on his leather armour; Steve didn’t want to explain how it got there. There were orders being shouted on the other side of the tent and Steve listened to what was going on there.
“You were prepared,” Bendul stated.
“I prepared a few things, yes.”
When Bendul was ready they left the tent, carefully closing the flap so the dead soldiers wouldn’t be noticed instantly. Steve looked at a few soldiers who were searching for them, making sure to hide his worry deep inside and keep a more casual pose, as if he belonged here.
“You two,” one of them said, stepping closer to them. “Did you see any missionaries?”
“I think two went that way,” Steve said, pointing to the north. “Why?”
“They killed one of our men.”
“Quick then!” Steve started running in the direction he had pointed to. “They can’t be far!”
Together with Bendul and a handful of enemy soldiers, Steve lead the search for the two missionaries. They looked in tents and behind barrels, but to no avail. At one of the junctions Steve stopped and turned to the soldiers. “You guys go left, we’ll go right.”
The enemy soldiers nodded and ran to the left. Steve quickly turned right and together with Bendul ran through the camp.
“What’s up?” someone asked.
“Two missionaries killed soldiers!” Steve explained. “We’re looking for them. We must bring all the missionaries to the main tent and confirm their identities. Help us do that.”
The soldiers complied and relayed the orders to other soldiers they came across. Steve watched them disperse and turned to Bendul. “This way, sir.”
They reached the outskirts of the camp and when one of the guards asked what they were doing here, Steve told them they were send on a mission by legas Uli. He wanted to drink tea again. The guard rolled his eyes and with a gesture of his head allowed them to leave the camp. The tea obsession of Uli was well known among the soldiers, Steve had heard a few things about that during his exploration of the camp when the soldiers were still putting it up.
Once they were far enough from the camp, Bendul turned to Steve. “Did you plan for transportation?”
“At the river.”
“And what are the current strategies for the upcoming battle?”
"The first major commander decided that the strategy we used against the City Destroyers will work just as fine now.”
“So, he’s letting his men dig really big holes,” Bendul concluded, using the exact words Andrus had once used when he had proposed the idea for the first time.
“Yes sir, we are preparing trenches.”
Bendul showed his approval by nodding. “Let’s make haste, we have to be a good distance away before they find the missionary cloaks in the barrel and find out two soldiers left the camp.”
Together they started running to the river.
A soldier walked through the camp, smiling to greetings, saluting superiors. He tried to act naturally, casually, and dropped a bag behind a tent. Without pausing he went in a new direction, his fingers stroking the wood of the handheld crossbow he kept under his cloak. Sure, these people had their Army Destroyer, but his people had been able to downsize crossbows to a more manageable size, without sacrificing a lot of piercing power or range.
His eyes took in the metal-and-wooden structure that was their secret weapon: a moving catapult that was pretty damn accurate and fired big rocks, flaming coal, and flasks of oil at the same time. It was certainly capable of doing a lot of damage, but it wasn’t in the same league as the City Destroyers the dwarves had used during the last war.
The Army Destroyer moved slowly, but surely. It was pulled by oxen, but a set of gears made it easier for the animals to pull it. Another thing left behind from the war against the dwarves, who had invented those. Their machines had run on coal and water and hadn’t needed any animals for pulling. That was something humans hadn’t been able to replicate.
Around him soldiers were talking amongst themselves and he listened to the bits and pieces of the stories and complaint, but his attention was focussed on the moving machine. They had just finished making camp and the Army Destroyer was on its way to the designated location. Steve smiled and nodded to one of the enemy soldiers as he passed him, so far no-one had seen through his disguise. The enemy army was large enough for soldiers to know their own unit by name, the closest units by face and some by name, and the rest, well, it was good everyone wore the same uniform. He noticed how some had removed their chainmail, while others kept it on. And aside from those who had to patrol, most seemed to relax and take their time to clean or repair their armour or weapons.
“Hey, from what unit are you?” someone asked.
Steve turned to face him, taking in the scarcely decorated chainmain and clean leather pants. This man hadn’t been marching. He saluted the officer. “Twenty-four blue, sir,” he said.
“And what are you doing here?”
“Delivering a message to the legas of green ten, sir.” He showed the man a closed letter with the name of the legas on it.
The officer subjected him to a scrutinizing look and after a moment held out his hand. “I will take it, report back to your legas.”
“Yes sir.” Steve turned around and walked back, but when he was certain the man wasn’t looking he snuck between some tents and quickly went back in the direction he had been going in before. That was the only letter he had; it was best to avoid being stopped by anyone else. He moved quicker now, he needed to do this before the Army Destroyer would reach its place and come to a halt. He looked at the machine that towered over everything else, still moving steadily.
Only special troops were allowed near the Army Destroyer, but that didn’t matter. His goal was unguarded. He reached the tree closest to the machine and climbed in.
“What are you doing?” one of the enemy soldiers asked.
“Just getting a good view,” Steve replied as he pulled out his crossbow.
“What is that?”
Steve didn’t answer and took aim. There were two confirmed weaknesses. One only worked if the enemy would approach them on the battlefield, but the other was within range. As someone shouted “Hey, stop!” below him, he fired an iron dart. It pierced the air and buried itself in the gears that allowed the machine to move. The gears came to a grinding halt while the gears on the other side still moved, causing the large weapon to turn. For a moment it seemed the large machine would topple, but the drivers managed to stop the oxen in time.
Too bad.
Two hands grabbed his legs and Steve smashed the crossbow against the tree, to make sure the enemy wouldn’t get their hands on his weapon. He didn’t have any more darts with him anyway, he knew before coming here there would be enough time for just one shot.
They dragged Steve to a tent and pushed him against a pole. Steve coughed as the blow forced the air from his lungs and took in a deep breath as the soldiers tied his hands behind the pole with a rough rope.
The heavy fabric of the tent let very little light in. It took a moment before Steve’s eyes adjusted to the darkness around him. There were very few items here. A table and a chair at one side, a crate filled with ropes. And three poles, one of which was still empty. His eyes rested on the other prisoner in the tent. They looked at each other but didn’t speak.
***
“Grand commander Bendul,” a man barked as he entered the tent. Judging by the ornaments on his uniform he was a high-ranking officer. Steve silently observed him while he addressed the other prisoner. There was some grey in his black hair and despite the evidence of a good life around his abdomen he seemed to be in good shape. “Is this one of your men?”
“I don’t know all soldiers by face,” Bendul began, but was interrupted by Steve.
“I am. And you must be marshal Doruk.”
The marshal turned to him. “Did you really think that little stunt of you would stop us?”
“It should delay you,” Steve replied, his voice calm and he smiled at the man. “But, to be honest, that was just a message from first major commander Andrus. A warning.”
“Andrus,” Doruk grumbled. “I’ll have his head on a stake.”
“He said that you would say that, and if you would then I had to tell you that his left side is his best side. And that if you would place his head so that the sun is always on the left, he’d make a stunning ornament.”
The grand commander groaned, and the face of the marshal turned red. “I will put his head anyway I want to!” he bellowed, turning around and stomping out of the tent.
“Was that why he sent you?” Bendul asked. “So that you could taunt Doruk in his place?”
“No, sir. I came here to rescue you.”
Bendul let out an amused sound. “That’s not really going according to plan, is it?”
“To be honest, sir,” Steve said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he started wriggling and turning his wrists and plucking the rope with his fingers, “after studying the knots they use a lot, Trevor tied me up with a knot they use most frequent and left food with me, telling me that if I was hungry I had to get it myself. It took me a day, but I found a way to untie myself. Then of course I had to do it again, but faster. Then another knot…”
“That sounds like Trevor,” Bendul sighed. “If he’d still be an officer I would have demoted him for that stunt.”
“But he’s not, and that’s probably why the first major commander requested his assistance. The first major commander didn’t know what Trevor did though.”
“Of course,” Bendul said, but they both knew Andrus knew exactly what Trevor had done.
The ropes fell to the ground. “Maybe it is unethical to tie one of your own up and withhold food from them,” Steve went to the grand commander to untie him, “but it worked.”
Bendul decided to let the matter rest, he would pick it up with Trevor personally when he would be back at their side. “I suppose you have a plan to get us out of here too.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve walked to the back of the tent and lay down on the ground. He lifted the fabric and peered through the opening. Three set of boots marched on the other side of the tent and he waited until they were gone. As far as he could see there weren’t any boots or shadows of people within eye range and he grabbed the bag he had dropped there earlier, pulling it into the tent.
“Missionary cloaks,” he said as he opened the pack. “And two daggers.”
Bendul took the green cloak made of plants and feather and put it on. After he pulled the hood over his head, he turned to Steve who also had the cloak on. “Lead the way.”
Pulling up the hood, Steve opened the tent and stepped outside. When he saw a couple of soldiers he quickly made the blessing symbol with his hand and waited for the grand commander to join him. Together they walked through the camp, their hands clasped as all missionaries seemed to do, their eyes cast to the ground. They managed to walk through most of the camp, giving blessings to those who requested them, but they were stopped by a soldier.
“Missionaries aren’t supposed to be in this part of the camp,” he told them.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Steve said, his hand disappeared in the cloak and his fingers wrapped around the handle of his dagger.
“Show your hands,” the soldier said, putting his own hand on his sword.
With a swift movement Steve drew the blade and lashed out, but the soldier evaded it. Before he could shout for help, Bendul grabbed him and slit his throat from behind. The man grabbed his throat, blood oozing through his fingers, and Steve started to pull him between the tents.
"Hey, you two!”
“Damn,” Steve muttered, dropping the dying soldier. “This way, sir!” He started running through the camp, followed closely by Bendul. He pulled down a stack of crates, dove between some tents and rushed into one of them. Quickly he removed the cloak, pushed it in an open barrel, and grabbed another bag as Bendul removed his cloak too. They ran out the other side, Bendul just a step behind him, and sprinted through the camp, diving into another tent and went for the two soldiers who were drinking beer. Being caught by surprise they couldn’t grab their weapons or shout for help before they were overpowered by the two soldiers. With their daggers they stabbed the soldiers as quickly and silently as they could. Blood mixed with the spilled beer, creating a brown puddle and leaving a strong sour and metallic scent.
Steve panted and gave the bag to Bendul, who opened it and pulled out red fabric. “Enemy uniform. Quick.”
They both cleaned their hands and Steve removed his chainmail while Bendul changed in the red uniform. It was good the blood barely showed on his leather armour; Steve didn’t want to explain how it got there. There were orders being shouted on the other side of the tent and Steve listened to what was going on there.
“You were prepared,” Bendul stated.
“I prepared a few things, yes.”
When Bendul was ready they left the tent, carefully closing the flap so the dead soldiers wouldn’t be noticed instantly. Steve looked at a few soldiers who were searching for them, making sure to hide his worry deep inside and keep a more casual pose, as if he belonged here.
“You two,” one of them said, stepping closer to them. “Did you see any missionaries?”
“I think two went that way,” Steve said, pointing to the north. “Why?”
“They killed one of our men.”
“Quick then!” Steve started running in the direction he had pointed to. “They can’t be far!”
Together with Bendul and a handful of enemy soldiers, Steve lead the search for the two missionaries. They looked in tents and behind barrels, but to no avail. At one of the junctions Steve stopped and turned to the soldiers. “You guys go left, we’ll go right.”
The enemy soldiers nodded and ran to the left. Steve quickly turned right and together with Bendul ran through the camp.
“What’s up?” someone asked.
“Two missionaries killed soldiers!” Steve explained. “We’re looking for them. We must bring all the missionaries to the main tent and confirm their identities. Help us do that.”
The soldiers complied and relayed the orders to other soldiers they came across. Steve watched them disperse and turned to Bendul. “This way, sir.”
They reached the outskirts of the camp and when one of the guards asked what they were doing here, Steve told them they were send on a mission by legas Uli. He wanted to drink tea again. The guard rolled his eyes and with a gesture of his head allowed them to leave the camp. The tea obsession of Uli was well known among the soldiers, Steve had heard a few things about that during his exploration of the camp when the soldiers were still putting it up.
Once they were far enough from the camp, Bendul turned to Steve. “Did you plan for transportation?”
“At the river.”
“And what are the current strategies for the upcoming battle?”
"The first major commander decided that the strategy we used against the City Destroyers will work just as fine now.”
“So, he’s letting his men dig really big holes,” Bendul concluded, using the exact words Andrus had once used when he had proposed the idea for the first time.
“Yes sir, we are preparing trenches.”
Bendul showed his approval by nodding. “Let’s make haste, we have to be a good distance away before they find the missionary cloaks in the barrel and find out two soldiers left the camp.”
Together they started running to the river.
by @Calle
Hazel walked up the winding stairs in one of four tower of the castle. She resisted the urge to rest halfway as she didn't want to keep Fox waiting. He had send her a note that he wanted to see her as soon as possible. The wall was full with shooting holes every ten steps there was one. Glancing outside she wished Fox had let her rest after her previous mission. It hadn't been easy to find the vampire that tried to frame a werewolf colony for the murder on human knight Ger nor did he come without a fight. The short note indicated the urgency so here she was, climbing the stairs to his office high up in the tower.
When Hazel reached the top she took a moment to catch her breath before she knocked on the small but sturdy oak door. A small sign next to it was written in a special code that read: 'Secret Service, supernatural division.' A muffled come in sounded through the door and she opened it. She looked right into the brown eyes of Fox. He wasn't tall for a man but still a lot taller then she was. His red hair was starting to grey in some points but his brown eyes where still sharp as ever. “Fox.” she greeted him as she sat down. She tried to brush some of her hazel brown hair behind her ear but it was not long enough to stay there.
“Hazel.” he responded as he picked up some pieces of paper. “We have a report that followers of Reitrome are making a move to steal the amulet of Friall.” Hazel gritted her teeth when she heard her least favourite name in the world: Reitrome. The ever elusive Reitrome. Hazel's eyebrows arched as she heard about the amulet. “You mean that amulet that is supposed to be hidden away by the Elementals so it would never fall into the wrong hands?”
Fox nodded. “Exactly, that is why I want you on it. You know the amulet and are aware of its dangers. We need to find it and relocate as the Elemental Circle is refusing to relocate it themselves.
Hazel nodded and stood up. “Very well, I'll be on my way.”
“One second Hazel, this time you are not going alone.” Hazel opened her mouth to protest but closed it as Fox raised his hand. “I know you prefer to work solo but Estelle should be an asset to your mission. Hazel thought for a moment. She had heard of Estelle. A witch that hadn't been around as long as she was but she was friendly and pretty good at the job.
A short knock at the door made both Hazel and Fox look at it. Owl came in followed by a woman of average height but still taller then Hazel. The green eyes of the witch locked with Hazels hazel brown eyes before turning to Fox. “I have briefed her.” Owl said as she handed Hazel a shoulder bag. Fox nodded and Owl walked off again. Fox looked at the two agents. “Off you go, good luck.” he said as he waved them out and focussed on a report.
Hazel looked at Estelle and gestured to follow her. She could hear Estelle babbling about the honour of being with her and how excited she was to be paired up with an experienced field agent that Hazel very much tried to tune out.
Once they were outside of the tower Hazel looked at Estelle. “You are informed so I keep this short, the last knows location is deep in the forest so we travel quick.” Estelle nodded. “Hazel, right? Shape-shifter?” Hazel nodded curtly. She didn't mention that she was part elemental too, earth elemental to be exact, if her partner didn't know it already she didn't need to know either now. Fox or Owl would have told if it was necessary. Hazel walked over to the stables and took one of the two waiting horses. Once they were in their saddles they let their horses go as fast as it was safe to go.
Hazel slowed her horse down as she reached the Old Oak crossroad, on the left there was a small inn with a stable. Right in front of them was a side arm of the big river. A narrow bridge led into a big and very old forest. There were a few trails but the horses wouldn't be able to go where they needed to go. Hazel and Estelle brought the horses to the inn. “Let's go.” said Hazel. Estelle adjusted her shoulder bag before following suit.
Silently they followed a trail. Thick bushes marked the edges of the trails and the path was overgrown with ivy. Hazel looked around, listening carefully. When Estelle made a comment about some broken branches she nearly jumped. It was a good observation but Hazel just wasn't used to have others with her. Estelle smiled at her. “I'm sorry, I'll clear my throat first the next time.” Hazel gave a small smile in return. “No, that's all right.” Hazel said. Estelle's smile widened before her eyes narrowed and looked at a point behind Hazel. Hazel turned but couldn't see anything at first, she then noticed a warning sign nailed on a tree. The symbols weren't that often used but she recognised them. “Beware friend your foe is near.” Hazel read out loud, she frowned. “I would have expected beware danger ahead or something.” The witch shrugged. Hazel and Estelle went of the trail when the passed the triple birch. Hazel took a left at the fallen Oak and a right turn when they reached a birch with a branch looking like a hammer. When they reached a clearing both Hazel and Estelle hid behind a bush to observe. The deserted castle in front of them used to belong to a nobleman who had tried to wield the amulet. The Elemental Circle thought it a good place to keep it hidden after placing traps all over it. They didn't see anything moving so Hazel sat back and opened her bag to look at the things Owl had put in there again and after a quick examination and reorganising she closed the bag again and got up. Silently she sneaked up to the castle. Estelle looked at the big wooden doors and tried it. “Closed.” she whispered. Hazel nodded and took a lock-pick from her bag. A special constructed one as it would fit any lock with air pumped into it. She pumped till she felt the lock-pick could stay in the lock without her holding it and she turned it. The door unlocked with a loud click that made both Hazel and Estelle hunker down briefly.
“Let's go” Estelle whispered. Hazel nodded and put her lock away. They went inside and saw a lot of stairs. Estelle pointed to the second from right. “That one.” she said. “I see the eagle mark mentioned in a scroll.” Hazel got up and slowly walked to the stone stairs.
On the top of the stairs Estelle pointed at some paintings. Hazel briefly glanced at them but a movement outside in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She looked trough the window and gasped as she saw a dozen men in Reitrome's colours. She nudged Estelle and pointed at the men. Estelle's eyes widened before she pulled Hazel along. Hazel managed to free her arm from the grip and stopped Estelle. “It's full of traps, we can't hurry like this.” she whispered. Estelle nodded as she slowed down. “Can you cast a spell to mask us?” Hazel asked. Estelle nodded again. “Yes.” she said as she reached inside her bag and chanted words in an ancient language. Estelle blew a powder where they had just walked. “All done.” she said.
“They are in here. Everyone take a stair. Find them before they get to the amulet.” a male shouted. Hazel frowned. They had to hurry. They couldn't go back so they walked on. When they reached a door Hazel tried it. It opened with an awful loud noise that made Hazel flinch. She was sure she could hear footsteps coming closer fast. They quickly went inside and closed the door. Hazel looked around to find something to keep the door closed but couldn't see anything. There was nothing in the room but a few simple chairs and a very rotten table. She reached into her bag again and took out a flask filled with some sort of oil. She smeared it over the door handle. “Ignite it.” she said in a hushed voice. Estelle looked worried. “Do it, it won't burn the castle down but it will melt the doorknob so they cant open it.” “If you say so.” Estelle said not very convinced. She created a very hot spark and ignited the substance. It burned white hot but it was burned up before burning the wood around it leaving the doorknob in a molten mess.
“They must be in here, I heard them but I can't open the door.” Hazel could hear on the other side of the door. “Chop it open!” She heard a second voice say and she quickly turned to walk to the far side of the room. “There has to be a way out of here.” Hazel said. Estelle walked around examining all the walls. When the first chop on the door sounded Hazel gritted her teeth and searched for an exit more frantically.
Estelle walked to the door and sprayed the door with a strange reeking liquid. Estelle drew a line on the ground between the door posts. After chanting a spell she hasted back to Hazel. “That should slow them down.” Hazel smiled briefly, now glad her partner was a witch. She flinched again when some loud chops and cracks sounded from the door. Hazel went to the window and opened the curtains. Hazel took a small mirror and magnifying glass out of her bag and aimed a sunbeam at the wall trying to find the right spot. “Hurry.” said Estelle as the door shattered. The sunbeam reach a small gem in the wall as the two men chopping the door got caught in Estelle's trap, freezing them. A small door appeared and the two females dashed through it. They hurried through the dimly lit corridor as the sound of shouting men followed them. An iron door was blocking their path but a quick spell from Estelle blasted it right open. They skidded to a halt when they entered a big room. Two other doors lead to that room and a ladder was standing right in the middle.
Two men entered through a door
“Hurry!” Shouted Estelle. Hazel quickly climbed the ladder and found herself in a small wooden room with only one door. She opened it and carefully looked inside. Two men were standing talking, she could hear them but not see them. Hazel pressed her finger to her lips and Estelle nodded. Silently they sneaked to a dimly lit stairs. Slowly they ascended the stairs. When a step squeaked they both froze but the men kept talking. Hazel let out the breath she didn't realise she was holding and went on. They gasped when the reached the top of the stairs. A narrow rope bridge was suspended over the room and led to a small safe in the centre. Hazel and Estelle carefully made their way across the bridge. When the reached the safe Hazel cracked the safe. The men shouted, pointed to them and they started running towards them.
Hazel grabbed the box and sprinted over a rope bridge in another direction. “Blast the window open!” Hazel shouted. Estelle did so but before she could think about what Hazel wanted to do Hazel changed into her Harpy form and flew out of the window with Estelle in her arms and the box in her talons. Hazel landed and shifted back. She grinned and held up the box. Estelle grinned too and attacked Hazel with her magic. Confused Hazel looked up. “Reitrome thanks you Hazel, only an elemental could take it.” Estelle said as she picked up the box. “You know it has to be powered with a life and since you were kind enough to get it for us you should get the honour of activating it.” Dazed Hazel watched Estelle take out a ritual knife and chanting the spell. Hazel slowly gathered her power and rested her hand on the ground. Estelle came near to finish her off and Hazel let ivy shoot out of the ground wrapping around Estelle. Angrily Estelle tried to cut herself free. Hazel gathered strength from the plants around her and jumped up to grab the box.
Estelle made the ivy wither and broke free. She shot an energy ball with such force to Hazel that Hazel slammed against a big oak tree. Estelle walked up to Hazel but Hazel shrieked with her harpy voice causing Estelle to flinch, turn away with closed eyes and hold her ears. Hazel closed her eyes and merged with the tree behind her when Estelle wasn't watching. Seconds later she heard footsteps approaching and a male voice furiously giving orders to find the amulet and demanding to know where Hazel had disappeared to. Reitrome. Estelle was whimpering excuses. Exhausted Hazel waited inside the tree till they left, she was safe from Reitrome and magic trying to find her but she couldn't stay here too long or she'd be merged forever. Hazel could hear how they searched high and low for her for hours and how they got increasingly frustrated that they couldn't find her. By nightfall she couldn't hear anyone or sense them on the grass close by. Hazel slowly unmerged with the tree as the tree almost seemed unwilling to let her go. She looked around as she hid behind a bush. Hazel put the box she had in her arms in the shoulder bag and carefully examined the clearing. No one was on this side as far as she could see and hear but she had to be careful. Hazel sneaked to the forest edge and noticed that people had walked there. Hazel decided to follow a different path in the forest with no signs of people on it. She could hear some voices coming in her direction, probably a couple of men left behind to see if she was there. Still sore from the attacks of Estelle she sneaked away from the castle as silently as she could. There was a whole forest between her and her destination and she was sure Reitrome's men were still in the area searching for her and watching the skies.
When Hazel reached the top she took a moment to catch her breath before she knocked on the small but sturdy oak door. A small sign next to it was written in a special code that read: 'Secret Service, supernatural division.' A muffled come in sounded through the door and she opened it. She looked right into the brown eyes of Fox. He wasn't tall for a man but still a lot taller then she was. His red hair was starting to grey in some points but his brown eyes where still sharp as ever. “Fox.” she greeted him as she sat down. She tried to brush some of her hazel brown hair behind her ear but it was not long enough to stay there.
“Hazel.” he responded as he picked up some pieces of paper. “We have a report that followers of Reitrome are making a move to steal the amulet of Friall.” Hazel gritted her teeth when she heard her least favourite name in the world: Reitrome. The ever elusive Reitrome. Hazel's eyebrows arched as she heard about the amulet. “You mean that amulet that is supposed to be hidden away by the Elementals so it would never fall into the wrong hands?”
Fox nodded. “Exactly, that is why I want you on it. You know the amulet and are aware of its dangers. We need to find it and relocate as the Elemental Circle is refusing to relocate it themselves.
Hazel nodded and stood up. “Very well, I'll be on my way.”
“One second Hazel, this time you are not going alone.” Hazel opened her mouth to protest but closed it as Fox raised his hand. “I know you prefer to work solo but Estelle should be an asset to your mission. Hazel thought for a moment. She had heard of Estelle. A witch that hadn't been around as long as she was but she was friendly and pretty good at the job.
A short knock at the door made both Hazel and Fox look at it. Owl came in followed by a woman of average height but still taller then Hazel. The green eyes of the witch locked with Hazels hazel brown eyes before turning to Fox. “I have briefed her.” Owl said as she handed Hazel a shoulder bag. Fox nodded and Owl walked off again. Fox looked at the two agents. “Off you go, good luck.” he said as he waved them out and focussed on a report.
Hazel looked at Estelle and gestured to follow her. She could hear Estelle babbling about the honour of being with her and how excited she was to be paired up with an experienced field agent that Hazel very much tried to tune out.
Once they were outside of the tower Hazel looked at Estelle. “You are informed so I keep this short, the last knows location is deep in the forest so we travel quick.” Estelle nodded. “Hazel, right? Shape-shifter?” Hazel nodded curtly. She didn't mention that she was part elemental too, earth elemental to be exact, if her partner didn't know it already she didn't need to know either now. Fox or Owl would have told if it was necessary. Hazel walked over to the stables and took one of the two waiting horses. Once they were in their saddles they let their horses go as fast as it was safe to go.
Hazel slowed her horse down as she reached the Old Oak crossroad, on the left there was a small inn with a stable. Right in front of them was a side arm of the big river. A narrow bridge led into a big and very old forest. There were a few trails but the horses wouldn't be able to go where they needed to go. Hazel and Estelle brought the horses to the inn. “Let's go.” said Hazel. Estelle adjusted her shoulder bag before following suit.
Silently they followed a trail. Thick bushes marked the edges of the trails and the path was overgrown with ivy. Hazel looked around, listening carefully. When Estelle made a comment about some broken branches she nearly jumped. It was a good observation but Hazel just wasn't used to have others with her. Estelle smiled at her. “I'm sorry, I'll clear my throat first the next time.” Hazel gave a small smile in return. “No, that's all right.” Hazel said. Estelle's smile widened before her eyes narrowed and looked at a point behind Hazel. Hazel turned but couldn't see anything at first, she then noticed a warning sign nailed on a tree. The symbols weren't that often used but she recognised them. “Beware friend your foe is near.” Hazel read out loud, she frowned. “I would have expected beware danger ahead or something.” The witch shrugged. Hazel and Estelle went of the trail when the passed the triple birch. Hazel took a left at the fallen Oak and a right turn when they reached a birch with a branch looking like a hammer. When they reached a clearing both Hazel and Estelle hid behind a bush to observe. The deserted castle in front of them used to belong to a nobleman who had tried to wield the amulet. The Elemental Circle thought it a good place to keep it hidden after placing traps all over it. They didn't see anything moving so Hazel sat back and opened her bag to look at the things Owl had put in there again and after a quick examination and reorganising she closed the bag again and got up. Silently she sneaked up to the castle. Estelle looked at the big wooden doors and tried it. “Closed.” she whispered. Hazel nodded and took a lock-pick from her bag. A special constructed one as it would fit any lock with air pumped into it. She pumped till she felt the lock-pick could stay in the lock without her holding it and she turned it. The door unlocked with a loud click that made both Hazel and Estelle hunker down briefly.
“Let's go” Estelle whispered. Hazel nodded and put her lock away. They went inside and saw a lot of stairs. Estelle pointed to the second from right. “That one.” she said. “I see the eagle mark mentioned in a scroll.” Hazel got up and slowly walked to the stone stairs.
On the top of the stairs Estelle pointed at some paintings. Hazel briefly glanced at them but a movement outside in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She looked trough the window and gasped as she saw a dozen men in Reitrome's colours. She nudged Estelle and pointed at the men. Estelle's eyes widened before she pulled Hazel along. Hazel managed to free her arm from the grip and stopped Estelle. “It's full of traps, we can't hurry like this.” she whispered. Estelle nodded as she slowed down. “Can you cast a spell to mask us?” Hazel asked. Estelle nodded again. “Yes.” she said as she reached inside her bag and chanted words in an ancient language. Estelle blew a powder where they had just walked. “All done.” she said.
“They are in here. Everyone take a stair. Find them before they get to the amulet.” a male shouted. Hazel frowned. They had to hurry. They couldn't go back so they walked on. When they reached a door Hazel tried it. It opened with an awful loud noise that made Hazel flinch. She was sure she could hear footsteps coming closer fast. They quickly went inside and closed the door. Hazel looked around to find something to keep the door closed but couldn't see anything. There was nothing in the room but a few simple chairs and a very rotten table. She reached into her bag again and took out a flask filled with some sort of oil. She smeared it over the door handle. “Ignite it.” she said in a hushed voice. Estelle looked worried. “Do it, it won't burn the castle down but it will melt the doorknob so they cant open it.” “If you say so.” Estelle said not very convinced. She created a very hot spark and ignited the substance. It burned white hot but it was burned up before burning the wood around it leaving the doorknob in a molten mess.
“They must be in here, I heard them but I can't open the door.” Hazel could hear on the other side of the door. “Chop it open!” She heard a second voice say and she quickly turned to walk to the far side of the room. “There has to be a way out of here.” Hazel said. Estelle walked around examining all the walls. When the first chop on the door sounded Hazel gritted her teeth and searched for an exit more frantically.
Estelle walked to the door and sprayed the door with a strange reeking liquid. Estelle drew a line on the ground between the door posts. After chanting a spell she hasted back to Hazel. “That should slow them down.” Hazel smiled briefly, now glad her partner was a witch. She flinched again when some loud chops and cracks sounded from the door. Hazel went to the window and opened the curtains. Hazel took a small mirror and magnifying glass out of her bag and aimed a sunbeam at the wall trying to find the right spot. “Hurry.” said Estelle as the door shattered. The sunbeam reach a small gem in the wall as the two men chopping the door got caught in Estelle's trap, freezing them. A small door appeared and the two females dashed through it. They hurried through the dimly lit corridor as the sound of shouting men followed them. An iron door was blocking their path but a quick spell from Estelle blasted it right open. They skidded to a halt when they entered a big room. Two other doors lead to that room and a ladder was standing right in the middle.
Two men entered through a door
“Hurry!” Shouted Estelle. Hazel quickly climbed the ladder and found herself in a small wooden room with only one door. She opened it and carefully looked inside. Two men were standing talking, she could hear them but not see them. Hazel pressed her finger to her lips and Estelle nodded. Silently they sneaked to a dimly lit stairs. Slowly they ascended the stairs. When a step squeaked they both froze but the men kept talking. Hazel let out the breath she didn't realise she was holding and went on. They gasped when the reached the top of the stairs. A narrow rope bridge was suspended over the room and led to a small safe in the centre. Hazel and Estelle carefully made their way across the bridge. When the reached the safe Hazel cracked the safe. The men shouted, pointed to them and they started running towards them.
Hazel grabbed the box and sprinted over a rope bridge in another direction. “Blast the window open!” Hazel shouted. Estelle did so but before she could think about what Hazel wanted to do Hazel changed into her Harpy form and flew out of the window with Estelle in her arms and the box in her talons. Hazel landed and shifted back. She grinned and held up the box. Estelle grinned too and attacked Hazel with her magic. Confused Hazel looked up. “Reitrome thanks you Hazel, only an elemental could take it.” Estelle said as she picked up the box. “You know it has to be powered with a life and since you were kind enough to get it for us you should get the honour of activating it.” Dazed Hazel watched Estelle take out a ritual knife and chanting the spell. Hazel slowly gathered her power and rested her hand on the ground. Estelle came near to finish her off and Hazel let ivy shoot out of the ground wrapping around Estelle. Angrily Estelle tried to cut herself free. Hazel gathered strength from the plants around her and jumped up to grab the box.
Estelle made the ivy wither and broke free. She shot an energy ball with such force to Hazel that Hazel slammed against a big oak tree. Estelle walked up to Hazel but Hazel shrieked with her harpy voice causing Estelle to flinch, turn away with closed eyes and hold her ears. Hazel closed her eyes and merged with the tree behind her when Estelle wasn't watching. Seconds later she heard footsteps approaching and a male voice furiously giving orders to find the amulet and demanding to know where Hazel had disappeared to. Reitrome. Estelle was whimpering excuses. Exhausted Hazel waited inside the tree till they left, she was safe from Reitrome and magic trying to find her but she couldn't stay here too long or she'd be merged forever. Hazel could hear how they searched high and low for her for hours and how they got increasingly frustrated that they couldn't find her. By nightfall she couldn't hear anyone or sense them on the grass close by. Hazel slowly unmerged with the tree as the tree almost seemed unwilling to let her go. She looked around as she hid behind a bush. Hazel put the box she had in her arms in the shoulder bag and carefully examined the clearing. No one was on this side as far as she could see and hear but she had to be careful. Hazel sneaked to the forest edge and noticed that people had walked there. Hazel decided to follow a different path in the forest with no signs of people on it. She could hear some voices coming in her direction, probably a couple of men left behind to see if she was there. Still sore from the attacks of Estelle she sneaked away from the castle as silently as she could. There was a whole forest between her and her destination and she was sure Reitrome's men were still in the area searching for her and watching the skies.
by @Salenea
There was no context given to the kill order, there seldom ever was. Koronev, the target, was a defector that had been under surveillance for years. The old man shared everything he knew with the British a while ago and retired to a quiet life out in the countryside, but recently he began to offer his expertise and his secrets to certain parties opposed to powerful figures in Moscow, marking him as too dangerous to ignore. When the plan was decided they chose their man for the job, an aging veteran who kept a low profile despite his operational successes, indifferent to the secret awards and his sparsely furnished luxury apartment. He was as violent and unavoidable as the wrath of the Greek gods, and to those that chose him, that was all they cared about.
The identity they gave him was good for only one use only. It came in the form of a Kazakh passport belonging to a nonexistent Aeroflot executive named Mikhail Orlov, the only other traces of him were basic public records and a barebones VKontakte profile. This disposability was the hallmark of the identities made for killers, produced quickly and in great volume, meant for one job and then discarded immediately afterwards. The field support agents handled everything related to logistics, surveillance and communication; they had been refining their strange craft for a long time. A contingent of them was stationed in the country long term, either with official cover or a really good false identity, and they seldom did anything that was hard to deny or carried severe consequences if discovered. They would bring Orlov to the job and then pick him up at a designated point when it was complete, after he gave the prechosen safety signal (adjusting his hat twice). Before the job they gave him the disguise and the tools he’d need, after it they’d have a change of clothes ready and collect all of the evidence to destroy in a prompt and discreet manner. When Orlov got in the unmarked white van he didn’t look at the driver, and neither of them spoke as the van made its way along the winding and hard to follow route through the narrow country roads. All of the pieces were in place.
He came disguised as a contractor asking about the TV License fee. The uniform was an exact copy, and his English accent was passable, good enough to get him in the door. He tracked a little mud inside from his walk through the grass, one leg limping from an injury that had only grown worse as he aged, and took a quick note of the interior layout of the house. It was bigger than the rest of the houses in the neighborhood but still humble in its interior, most spaces were empty and lacked decoration. He closed the door without being asked. Koronev was confused, muttering how he paid the bill while Orlov glanced at the adjoining rooms and listened for the sound of other occupants. Once satisfied and close enough to Koronev, Orlov reached out with a large gloved hand for Koronev’s shoulder and grabbed it as he swept out the leg. Koronev flew to the ground back first and felt pain radiate outward and the air rush out of his lungs, a second burst of pain coming as Orlov pinned him down and wrenched his head upwards, using the force of his whole body. Orlov had no trouble controlling the smaller and older man, easily trapping his arms and rendering his flailing useless. From a hidden pocket Orlov pulled out the tool he needed for the task, a transdermal patch ready to send it’s payload straight into the victim’s bloodstream. He applied it to Koronev’s neck near one of the carotids and held on, feeling his target grow weaker from exhaustion and the drug’s effects.
When Koronev’s movement stopped Orlov rose and looked over the unconscious body. He saw that the man was wearing a belt and knew the next step of his plan. The stairs by the entryway had a bannister that was high enough and sturdy enough for it all to work. He removed Koronev’s belt and tied one end around the bannister, then secured the other around Koronev’s neck after lifting him off the ground and removing the patch. He let the body drop and hang. Orlov watched it, seeing the tightness around the neck and the slow, barely visible swaying. He stared for several minutes, checking that the belt would hold and feeling nothing. It was just another wait, just another confirmation that the job was done, another task fulfilled, another day in his life and nothing more. When he was drinking at the bar he could simulate joy, just as he could portray mourning at a funeral; in those times that was what they required of him, but in the privacy of a dead man’s home there was no one to pretend to. If asked why he was this way he would offer no answer, and no explanation if he had always been like this. In truth, Orlov’s callousness was a learned behavior, a product of a life that asked him to be able to maintain the outer appearances of any identity without regard to who he actually was. There was a doctrine that he was taught a young man and remained with him as he grew older, even after old notions like socialism and progress had withered away, the idea that all that a man was or could be was a product of outside forces, and espionage embraced this doctrine like no other profession. Even a warehouse wanted someone who had an innate belief in hard work, a shoe shop wanted their salesmen to be helpful as a core part of their self-identity, but a spy was never anything except a blank canvas. In this he found freedom, no need to question what he was or what he would become. What lay ahead was inescapable.
In the offices of the metropolitan police they called suspects like Orlov meteorites. They came from nowhere, only appeared long enough to complete the assassination, and then disappeared off into the sky again. There was value in watching for them but not chasing after them, all that would follow is trouble. Their targets were a milieu of mobsters, money launderers, and people with the money to oppose powerful forces but not the sense for how dangerous such a thing was. The sequence repeated and never changed, as unchangeable as the seasons or other fated processes. The only way to differentiate them was the physical evidence they left behind, in this case they found the man dead in his own home, a chair lying on its side by the corpse and some mud on the floor.
Orlov spent the next two days inside his hotel room, never leaving until the confirmation that the job was complete finally came. When he heard the few stray digits over the crackly signal of his shortwave radio tuned to a numbers station he began to pack, knowing they would have a seat on a flight ready for him that evening. His one bag was barely even unpacked from his stay, easy enough to gather together and head for Heathrow on short notice. On his journey he kept his usual habit of checking the surroundings every spare second. The sheer mass of people at the airport made it difficult. He looked for something out of the ordinary, something that called attention to him or seemed different from his past visits. At the Terminal there were police and security, there always were police and security, but he didn’t know if it was always this many. Even his mind was not a calculator, giving exact sums and averages, instead relying on general estimates and “hunches”. His pace to the gate was brisk, practiced to be faster than any average walker but not fast enough to draw special attention, and he kept scanning the crowd as he went. With every turn and step he tried to keep track of who was around him and how close they were, looking for the sign of someone who was always just a little behind him. In the crowd of thousands he could never be sure, with enough people in a small space it was inevitable that someone would be following the same path for innocuous reasons. This dilemma drowned every other thought in his head, forcing him to think, to decide if he was being followed or not.
Both options left him feeling hollow. Either he was an old spy haunted by spectral enemies, or he was feeling the noose slowly tighten around his own neck. He wanted some other way, something to end the anxious thoughts and decide it for him, allowing him to slip back into his more automatic mind. On arriving at the fifth floor he hadn’t decided on either possibility, nor had he determined whether the level of police presence he saw was cause for alarm. Officers were placed at every exit and entrance of the steel and glass building, at vantage points and in places where one would naturally hide, logical places for any police operation. He circled the floor, avoiding any destination and remaining mobile as he thought about what lay ahead. There were three ways a spy’s career ended. The first and happiest was promotion into the higher ranks, something Orlov had refused before; too different from fieldwork, the only job he could ever see himself doing. The second was enemy action, so many forms it could take but the end results were never pleasant. The final way was when something inside the spy broke, they lost their sharp wit, their nerves, or any number of other things they needed and were quietly asked to retire. In his career Orlov had never liked to think about how long he had left before one of the latter two options did him in, but at this moment he felt they were far closer than he had ever known.
His circling gave way to pacing back and forth by the railing, checking his watch and cursing how long he had before the flight arrived. With one of his glances around he noticed a man only a few feet from him, talking with an officer. Orlov avoided looking directly at them, but could see them remain in the spot after their conversation had finished. Slowly, another officer came to join the first. Another walked a foot patrol route that came close to him. Two more moved into the area, reaching the edge of where he paced and then stopping. He kept walking hoping they would write him off as just an anxious traveler, even as his mind screamed at him to do something, to stop ignoring what he saw. When he turned the next time he saw even more, all staring at him and all in a loose half circle. All of the bystanders had left the space, only he remained boxed in. He stopped and stared at the man at the center of it all, the man who first talked to the officer. A short man with a young face and graying hair, dressed indistinguishably from the rest of the crowd. Orlov didn’t know when he had come, how long or even if he had been followed, now all he could see was that unflinching glare and calm expression, like he was seeing something he always knew would happen.
Out of the hundreds who had dealt with the targeted killings over the years, there was one who ignored the conventional wisdom. He had patience and the records he needed, but it was his belief in something higher that pushed him to work and slowly build the connections. Suspect descriptions, flight records, autopsy reports all played a part, building into something greater, giving information and allowing him to stand in the way of the whole Moscow apparatus. Years of work went by without acknowledgement, on several occasions actually derailed by certain interested parties, MPs worried about media coverage or financiers dependent on flows of questionable money. Without any fanfare or whispered rumors, one anonymous inspector had become the realization of a fear long imagined by men like Orlov. When asked why he did it, why he kept at it for so long until he finally reached this point, he had one answer: he couldn’t imagine living with what kind of person he’d be if he chose to give up.
The man spoke to Orlov, calling him by name. He knew both of Orlov’s names, one of the few pieces of absolute truth he had found during those sleepless nights. One of Orlov’s hands grabbed the railing with a strong grip, ignoring the man and thinking for a moment until he finally knew what to do. There was only one course of action that he could see for himself, only one way to escape what lay before him. He turned his back to the man and steeled himself for what came next. With one burst of strength from his aging muscles he leapt over the fifth story railing and aimed his body straight downwards like diver, as rigid as a nail ready to be hammered. His head hit the concrete first and shattered his skull, blood pooling around it as bystanders screamed and ran to make space. The official story in both Russia and the UK was that he was just a suicidal businessman; the clandestine services knew the real circumstances but found the whole affair unmemorable. Neither had known much about the man, and neither cared to until the day of his death.
The identity they gave him was good for only one use only. It came in the form of a Kazakh passport belonging to a nonexistent Aeroflot executive named Mikhail Orlov, the only other traces of him were basic public records and a barebones VKontakte profile. This disposability was the hallmark of the identities made for killers, produced quickly and in great volume, meant for one job and then discarded immediately afterwards. The field support agents handled everything related to logistics, surveillance and communication; they had been refining their strange craft for a long time. A contingent of them was stationed in the country long term, either with official cover or a really good false identity, and they seldom did anything that was hard to deny or carried severe consequences if discovered. They would bring Orlov to the job and then pick him up at a designated point when it was complete, after he gave the prechosen safety signal (adjusting his hat twice). Before the job they gave him the disguise and the tools he’d need, after it they’d have a change of clothes ready and collect all of the evidence to destroy in a prompt and discreet manner. When Orlov got in the unmarked white van he didn’t look at the driver, and neither of them spoke as the van made its way along the winding and hard to follow route through the narrow country roads. All of the pieces were in place.
He came disguised as a contractor asking about the TV License fee. The uniform was an exact copy, and his English accent was passable, good enough to get him in the door. He tracked a little mud inside from his walk through the grass, one leg limping from an injury that had only grown worse as he aged, and took a quick note of the interior layout of the house. It was bigger than the rest of the houses in the neighborhood but still humble in its interior, most spaces were empty and lacked decoration. He closed the door without being asked. Koronev was confused, muttering how he paid the bill while Orlov glanced at the adjoining rooms and listened for the sound of other occupants. Once satisfied and close enough to Koronev, Orlov reached out with a large gloved hand for Koronev’s shoulder and grabbed it as he swept out the leg. Koronev flew to the ground back first and felt pain radiate outward and the air rush out of his lungs, a second burst of pain coming as Orlov pinned him down and wrenched his head upwards, using the force of his whole body. Orlov had no trouble controlling the smaller and older man, easily trapping his arms and rendering his flailing useless. From a hidden pocket Orlov pulled out the tool he needed for the task, a transdermal patch ready to send it’s payload straight into the victim’s bloodstream. He applied it to Koronev’s neck near one of the carotids and held on, feeling his target grow weaker from exhaustion and the drug’s effects.
When Koronev’s movement stopped Orlov rose and looked over the unconscious body. He saw that the man was wearing a belt and knew the next step of his plan. The stairs by the entryway had a bannister that was high enough and sturdy enough for it all to work. He removed Koronev’s belt and tied one end around the bannister, then secured the other around Koronev’s neck after lifting him off the ground and removing the patch. He let the body drop and hang. Orlov watched it, seeing the tightness around the neck and the slow, barely visible swaying. He stared for several minutes, checking that the belt would hold and feeling nothing. It was just another wait, just another confirmation that the job was done, another task fulfilled, another day in his life and nothing more. When he was drinking at the bar he could simulate joy, just as he could portray mourning at a funeral; in those times that was what they required of him, but in the privacy of a dead man’s home there was no one to pretend to. If asked why he was this way he would offer no answer, and no explanation if he had always been like this. In truth, Orlov’s callousness was a learned behavior, a product of a life that asked him to be able to maintain the outer appearances of any identity without regard to who he actually was. There was a doctrine that he was taught a young man and remained with him as he grew older, even after old notions like socialism and progress had withered away, the idea that all that a man was or could be was a product of outside forces, and espionage embraced this doctrine like no other profession. Even a warehouse wanted someone who had an innate belief in hard work, a shoe shop wanted their salesmen to be helpful as a core part of their self-identity, but a spy was never anything except a blank canvas. In this he found freedom, no need to question what he was or what he would become. What lay ahead was inescapable.
In the offices of the metropolitan police they called suspects like Orlov meteorites. They came from nowhere, only appeared long enough to complete the assassination, and then disappeared off into the sky again. There was value in watching for them but not chasing after them, all that would follow is trouble. Their targets were a milieu of mobsters, money launderers, and people with the money to oppose powerful forces but not the sense for how dangerous such a thing was. The sequence repeated and never changed, as unchangeable as the seasons or other fated processes. The only way to differentiate them was the physical evidence they left behind, in this case they found the man dead in his own home, a chair lying on its side by the corpse and some mud on the floor.
Orlov spent the next two days inside his hotel room, never leaving until the confirmation that the job was complete finally came. When he heard the few stray digits over the crackly signal of his shortwave radio tuned to a numbers station he began to pack, knowing they would have a seat on a flight ready for him that evening. His one bag was barely even unpacked from his stay, easy enough to gather together and head for Heathrow on short notice. On his journey he kept his usual habit of checking the surroundings every spare second. The sheer mass of people at the airport made it difficult. He looked for something out of the ordinary, something that called attention to him or seemed different from his past visits. At the Terminal there were police and security, there always were police and security, but he didn’t know if it was always this many. Even his mind was not a calculator, giving exact sums and averages, instead relying on general estimates and “hunches”. His pace to the gate was brisk, practiced to be faster than any average walker but not fast enough to draw special attention, and he kept scanning the crowd as he went. With every turn and step he tried to keep track of who was around him and how close they were, looking for the sign of someone who was always just a little behind him. In the crowd of thousands he could never be sure, with enough people in a small space it was inevitable that someone would be following the same path for innocuous reasons. This dilemma drowned every other thought in his head, forcing him to think, to decide if he was being followed or not.
Both options left him feeling hollow. Either he was an old spy haunted by spectral enemies, or he was feeling the noose slowly tighten around his own neck. He wanted some other way, something to end the anxious thoughts and decide it for him, allowing him to slip back into his more automatic mind. On arriving at the fifth floor he hadn’t decided on either possibility, nor had he determined whether the level of police presence he saw was cause for alarm. Officers were placed at every exit and entrance of the steel and glass building, at vantage points and in places where one would naturally hide, logical places for any police operation. He circled the floor, avoiding any destination and remaining mobile as he thought about what lay ahead. There were three ways a spy’s career ended. The first and happiest was promotion into the higher ranks, something Orlov had refused before; too different from fieldwork, the only job he could ever see himself doing. The second was enemy action, so many forms it could take but the end results were never pleasant. The final way was when something inside the spy broke, they lost their sharp wit, their nerves, or any number of other things they needed and were quietly asked to retire. In his career Orlov had never liked to think about how long he had left before one of the latter two options did him in, but at this moment he felt they were far closer than he had ever known.
His circling gave way to pacing back and forth by the railing, checking his watch and cursing how long he had before the flight arrived. With one of his glances around he noticed a man only a few feet from him, talking with an officer. Orlov avoided looking directly at them, but could see them remain in the spot after their conversation had finished. Slowly, another officer came to join the first. Another walked a foot patrol route that came close to him. Two more moved into the area, reaching the edge of where he paced and then stopping. He kept walking hoping they would write him off as just an anxious traveler, even as his mind screamed at him to do something, to stop ignoring what he saw. When he turned the next time he saw even more, all staring at him and all in a loose half circle. All of the bystanders had left the space, only he remained boxed in. He stopped and stared at the man at the center of it all, the man who first talked to the officer. A short man with a young face and graying hair, dressed indistinguishably from the rest of the crowd. Orlov didn’t know when he had come, how long or even if he had been followed, now all he could see was that unflinching glare and calm expression, like he was seeing something he always knew would happen.
Out of the hundreds who had dealt with the targeted killings over the years, there was one who ignored the conventional wisdom. He had patience and the records he needed, but it was his belief in something higher that pushed him to work and slowly build the connections. Suspect descriptions, flight records, autopsy reports all played a part, building into something greater, giving information and allowing him to stand in the way of the whole Moscow apparatus. Years of work went by without acknowledgement, on several occasions actually derailed by certain interested parties, MPs worried about media coverage or financiers dependent on flows of questionable money. Without any fanfare or whispered rumors, one anonymous inspector had become the realization of a fear long imagined by men like Orlov. When asked why he did it, why he kept at it for so long until he finally reached this point, he had one answer: he couldn’t imagine living with what kind of person he’d be if he chose to give up.
The man spoke to Orlov, calling him by name. He knew both of Orlov’s names, one of the few pieces of absolute truth he had found during those sleepless nights. One of Orlov’s hands grabbed the railing with a strong grip, ignoring the man and thinking for a moment until he finally knew what to do. There was only one course of action that he could see for himself, only one way to escape what lay before him. He turned his back to the man and steeled himself for what came next. With one burst of strength from his aging muscles he leapt over the fifth story railing and aimed his body straight downwards like diver, as rigid as a nail ready to be hammered. His head hit the concrete first and shattered his skull, blood pooling around it as bystanders screamed and ran to make space. The official story in both Russia and the UK was that he was just a suicidal businessman; the clandestine services knew the real circumstances but found the whole affair unmemorable. Neither had known much about the man, and neither cared to until the day of his death.
by @Fiber
