You Again, and Again, and Again - Apersonfromflorida (2024)

“Kommander, do you think we meet each other in every universe?”

Computer fans whirred to life when Nolan jammed down the power button. After he finished his geometry homework, his dad unlocked his home office and let Andrei sit in front of the monstrous off-white beast that was the family computer.

Thursdays were the only time Andrei couldn’t use the computer after his homework. That was the day that Andrei’s dad talked with his family back in Russia. His dad had emigrated away from Russia at a fresh faced eighteen, and had kept in regular contact with them since moving to Australia. Andrei spoke enough Russian to talk to his aunts and uncles and cousins over the scratchy phone line when he was younger, telling them in a few sentences that school was good, his friends were nice, and he wasn’t causing trouble.

Andrei excelled more at reading and writing in Russian and liked helping his dad write fat monthly letters to Bammy, his grandmother. His uncle Viktor always complained that Andrei was too mumbly when speaking.

When his dad set up the computer in his office, he explained to ten year old Andrei how they could send letters over the phone lines, instead of putting them in their mailbox or giving them to the post office. Bammy could read their letters the next day instead of waiting almost a month. After spending a handful days back in Russia setting up a second computer at Uncle Viktor’s, Andrei began spending afternoons emailing, and later instant messaging, his cousins.

While waiting for replies, he would occasionally stumble across forums for dozens upon hundreds of topics. Video games, politics, recipes, books, tv shows, other websites– Andrei was fine watching strangers help and argue with each other. He did find himself diving more and more into forums about Russia, reading about what was happening in the big, mysterious, snowy country. His dad always had such a sad look on his face whenever Andrei asked him questions about what his childhood was like back in Russia. He learned to stop asking his father about the motherland.

On these forums, Andrei got all the answers he could ever want about Russia. Grainy photos that people uploaded of their streets and backyards and dinner tables. Headlines and news articles that never made it down to Australia. People’s dissatisfaction about the government’s decisions on how problems with America were handled.

A lot of the snarkier posts were made by a user named k0nn1.

Andrei read just about every single post and response k0nn1 made. The user only posted in Russian forums. It painted a picture in Andrei’s head about why his dad would leave his family: western, particularly American, meddling. Downplaying and villainizing ordinary people. How it all led to the collapse of the Soviet Union and why Andrei’s father has to send money back to his family now.

The user seemed to have an answer for every question too, pointing out how politicians could be allocating money to feed people, arm them, and get Russia back to its superpower status. k0nn1 even made his own private forum and invited all like-minded people to join him.

Andrei finally made his own account and joined.

The smell of iron was a permanent fixture in Makarov’s nose even before the sub was sealed. Bloody, bloody oceans that flooded this desolate moon, AT-5, was going to be Makarov’s resting place regardless of his success. He had heard some of the guards taking bets on how he would die: suffocation, implosion, or by the hands of the other convict sealed in the midget submarine.

Makarov had only heard snippets of who the other man was. A prisoner from Australia with a rap sheet almost as long as his own.

There wasn’t exactly time to get acquainted with each other. The two had been kept in separate isolation cells until the submarine was set to launch. They were both shoved into the miniscule space, physically unable to keep their knees from touching, before the hatch was closed behind them. The sound of it being welded shut nearly deafened Makarov.

A red emergency light was all they had to see each other. The window at the front of the submarine had already had a sheet of metal welded over to combat the immense pressure of the depth they were diving to. It didn’t matter, the last time Makarov saw proper sunlight was well over two weeks ago.

The console meant to drive the blind machine sat in front of the useless glass. Four buttons– one to move forward, one to move backwards, one to turn left, and one to turn right– were the only means of guiding the tin can Makarov would die in. He didn’t even know how he would complete the objective he was given.

Honestly, Makarov planned on just sitting at the bottom of the ocean and suffocating to death. He didn’t care about mapping out the floor of this blood ocean.

His reluctant companion didn’t share Makarov’s doomerist outlook. The man, whose shoulders were easily twice the width of Makarov’s own, unfolded a paper map. Makarov had been given his own when he first accepted his deal. Instead of keeping it Makarov ate his copy. There was no option of flushing it down a drain. Makarov wanted this mission to be the biggest waste of resources he could make.

The man kept studying the paper as their sub was lowered. The depth guide near the console maxed out, but Makarov could still hear the metal around them creak as the pressure continued to mount.

They hit the ocean floor with a solid thud that rattled his teeth.

Both of them were silent, waiting for the other to speak first.

“Did they give you a map?” The other man had curled inward as the submarine descended, as if the pressure outside was also squeezing his shoulders together.

“Yes.” Makarov wasn’t going to reveal that it was half-digested by now.

“Oh, uh, I didn’t see you pull it out.” The man had an Australian accent, and spoke English. He looked down at his paper. “We just have to take ten pictures and we’ll be back at the top, yeah?”

Makarov didn’t respond. He couldn’t believe that the man in front of him was delusional enough to think that they would be hauled back to the surface once they followed their orders.

The man shook off his silence. “If you don’t have the coordinates, I can drive. Just take the pictures in the back and let me know if you see anything. We have unlimited film, thankfully, so that can be our eyes down here.”

“I will drive. Give me your map.” Makarov muscled his way to the console. Maybe he can speed up their execution by blindly ramming into a wall.

“You said you had your own.” The man still handed the paper over despite the accusatory tone.

Makarov rolled his eyes, knowing that the man wouldn’t see it. “You asked if I had been given a map. Not if I still had it on me.”

“So what happened to it?”

Makarov didn’t answer. The last thing he wanted to admit right now was that he ate his map. He would like to die with as much dignity as he could on a foreign planet.

“Fine. I’ll take the pictures.”

The man shifted behind Makarov, bracketing the Russian with his legs. There weren’t any proper seats in the midget sub, forcing both men to sit on the floor this entire time, and it was clear that the ship was designed so that the navigator would be able to reach the photo controls without having to turn away.

“I’m Andrei Nolan.” The man introduced himself as he settled behind Makarov. “If we’re going to be working together, I might as well know your name.”

“Vladimir Makarov.”

Andrei Nolan, better known as NolanTravels on Youtube, loved the Russian countryside. He found himself aimlessly driving down country roads here than he ever did in Australia. The scenery was stunning; rolling hills and distant mountains and emerald forests that left him awestruck, compared to the dusty deserts and flat lands of his homeland. He would find tiny towns with family-owned businesses that couldn’t be found any other way during his drives.

With his travel visa for the country extended, he was able to do a much more ambitious sequel for his initial Roaming Across Russia series that initially went semi-viral. He wanted to focus on the Russia you would find outside of its metropolitan centers. Roaming Across Russia was the first time he went international for his travel channel. He only filmed inside Russia's major cities because his visit was only two weeks. Even then, the strain of making content almost broke his miniscule budget a few times, and he had to plan a different itinerary from what he wanted to do.

Before Russia, Nolan kept his content within Australia. There were interesting places to visit in The Land Down Under. He started with a crap digital camcorder in 2008. The amateurish videography gained some traction, everyone and their mother wanted to vacation in Australia, but Nolan focused on highlighting the off-the-beaten-path places that New South Wales offered instead of the tourist traps the travel channel on tv liked to hawk.

Roaming Across Russia was only possible because of Dedushka, his father’s father, who left Russia as a teenager with his family and was never able to return. Nolan would cling to every word that Dedushka spoke about his motherland and the trouble he would get into as a child. The original plan was to bring Dedushka with him when he started to make enough money with his vlogs to the point where they paid for his travel. Unfortunately, Dedushka was declared unfit to travel by their family physician by the time that was a possibility.

Following Dedushka’s instruction, Nolan was able to follow in his footsteps across western Russia, spending most of his time in Saint Petersburg, and send the footage back. (Dedushka also sent money to Nolan so he could get home at the end of his trip. Nolan was a hundred dollars short for his return flight home.)

After that, Nolan’s channel blew up, and he focused on content in Russia. It turned out, tons of people wanted a foreigner's insight on travel there. Eventually it just became more feasible for Nolan to get a multiple-year visa.

He bought a small-ish home in the outskirts of Saint Petersburg, bought a new-ish car to get around in, and continued his Youtube career of finding hidden gems around Russia. Nolan was in the process of getting dual citizenship so he didn’t have to return to Australia after next January.

Which brought him to his frequent drives through the countryside. The roads were harsh, but the sights were incredible. Nolan had already amassed a sizable collection of photos to add to his Instagram when he got home. A few more pictures wouldn’t hurt while he was still out. He kept his stops to scenic outlooks to take pictures since he had a feeling many folks wouldn’t appreciate a foreign-sounding man pointing a camera at their homes.

The explosion that happened nearby, however, became an exception.

It made Nolan slam his car into park, not even bothering to turn it off, and trip across the ditch that ran alongside the road. Oily black smoke coughed out of the barn a couple dozen meters away. Nolan didn’t think twice before charging across the property to help free any trapped animals, or trapped people, that might’ve been in there.

Thankfully, neither was the case. There wasn’t any fire, just thinning smoke, and a man whipping away the smoke from a towering engine coughing profusely.

The man was shirtless, wiry in the same way someone who’s experienced hard times in a rural place. Dirt clung to the man’s sweaty torso. His fingertips were stained black from soot and oil, with streaks of it stretching up his forearms. Nolan was certain that the cloth the man used to banish the rancid-smelling smoke was an old t-shirt.

Nolan waited until the man had stopped swinging the shirt before announcing his presence. It was comical how high the man jumped from a simple “privet”.

“How did you get here?” The man spat back in Russian. He didn’t give Nolan a chance to answer before he fired off another question.“Who the hell are you?”

Nolan held up his hands in surrender. “I heard a noise, and I got concerned. I wanted to make sure no one was harmed.”

The man’s lip curled at Nolan’s formal speech. “Well, I’m fine, as you can see.” He draped the oil-stained shirt over his shoulder. “You can leave now.” The man turned away from Nolan, muttering something rude about foreigners as he stepped towards a workbench along the far wall.

Nolan looked the machine up and down. “Before I go,” Nolan kept eyeing the mechanical monolith in front of him, “What exactly is this?” It stood a little over two feet tall and smelled like it guzzled diesel fuel. The closest comparison he could make was that it looked like five engines stacked on top of each other.

“Bottle opener.”

Nolan almost choked on his own spit. He had been able to speak Russian fluently for almost a decade, thanks to his frequent visits turned semi-residence, but he was certain that he mistranslated what the man had said. “A bottle opener?” He repeated back.

“Of course.” The man turned back, holding two rubber timing belts. “The point was to make the least efficient bottle opener possible.”

“Why.”

When the man was back at the machine he unceremoniously picked off the strips of broken rubber. “It won the poll.” He continued in a more sheepish tone, “I have a Youtube channel. It, uh, I told my subscribers to pick what idea should be filmed next. This won.” The man shrugged and started fitting the bands in place, somehow able to pick out in the mass of metal where they went.

“Oh, uh, me too. I do travel stuff. What is your channel? Maybe we can do a collaboration.”

“Your Russian is too formal.” The man said in English. “Old. Who taught you to speak like that? Your grandfather?”

Nolan furrowed his brows. “Yeah?”

The man then moved to string up the second timing belt. The belt pinched his finger and he let out a number of colorful swears. “My channel is Vladimir Makarov, same as my name. Send me a message and we’ll talk.”

Nolan plugged the channel name into his phone as he walked back to his car, the search taking ages with the limited signal he had. He still had to return back to Vladimir, tail between his legs, because in his haste to get to the source of the explosion Nolan had locked his keys inside of his car.

At least Vladimir was kind enough to also give him a few gallons of gas to make it to the nearest petrol station when he saw that he was almost out of fuel too.

An excerpt of a translated article titled “Welcome Home Nolan! Kamchatka Bear from Australia transferred to Moscow Zoo.” Published Feb. 2024

…Nolan will be welcomed to our bear habitat next month. Nolan is a third generation bear from Sydney Central Zoo, standing at a whopping two and a half meters long and 775 kg. Nolan is a product of the Kamchatka Brown Bear breeding program, with his mother being one of the bears gifted from Sydney to help with the effort. While Nolan himself was deemed unfit to be released into the wild, he had dozens of siblings that now roam the Kamchatka peninsula. Nolan returned with his mother down to Sydney Central Zoo.

His grand return to Moscow Zoo will place him with our own darling Makarov. Makarov was another baby born out of the bear breeding program that was hosted here, but had been recaptured as he continued to approach humans and townships across the Kamchatka peninsula. He has grown fat and happy with his bear buddy Ivan, who was also brought into the zoo for his safety. With Ivan’s tragic passing last year, we’re hoping that Nolan will heal his broken heart and be bear-y best friends with Makarov.

We’ll be celebrating with exclusive shirts, food, and events for Nolan’s arrival later this summer. If you want to join the party, and help welcome Nolan to the Moscow Zoo, day passes will be available at…

“I said Russians only!” Makarov thundered away from the training mat. “I do not care if we are short on pilots, or trainees, or goddamn applicants! I’m not drifting with any western scum even if we were the last two people on Earth!” Makarov threw his weapon behind him, uncaring if it hit anyone.

Ivan spluttered behind him, unable to get a word in. He was the one who managed to catch the staff. He had tried to speak up during the other man’s tirade in vain.

“You can take the goddamn Shatterdome and shove it up your–”

“Vladimir Makarov.” The man who wanted to be his copilot still stood on the mat.

He had survived the harrowing requirements and brutal selection presented to all incoming Jaeger pilots. It was a position of glory and power, and only the best got to fight against the Kaiju that were spat out of The Breach. Makarov had passed the selection as well, scoring one of the highest aptitudes for piloting in the country. He just had to find someone who was drift compatible.

“Too chicken to face me?” The man’s Australian accent grated against Makarov’s ears. He held his own bo staff like it was an arthurian blade.

“Sir,” Ivan managed to finally choke out. “Andrei Nolan has dual citizenship in both Australia and Russia. Surely you can–”

“No exceptions! That–”

“Both of my parents are Russian.” Nolan responded calmly to Makarov’s spluttering rage. “Same with both of their parents.” His boxy frame adopted a relaxed, contrapposto stance. The man was almost twice as wide as Makarov was. “Just admit that you’re too scared to see real combat and want to go back to the cozy, no-stakes of the Jaeger Combat Simulator.”

Makarov saw red. He ripped his staff back from Ivan and stalked towards Nolan. The bastard didn’t have the respect to adopt a proper battle stance as he approached.

Nolan gave a lazy point at Makarov with his staff. “Standard rules, or should we knock it down to two hits so you have more time to go pout in your room?”

“We’ll keep it at four.” Makarov snarled. “Unless you’re too stupid to even win one.”

That provocation got Nolan to finally stand straight. “Watch your mouth. I have a higher ratio with the combat sim. Twenty drops, twenty wins.”

Makarov lowered himself into a fighting stance, keeping his staff at his side. “Twenty lucky shots. I rely on skill when I’m piloting.”

There was a crack of wood on wood as Nolan blocked his strike. The Australian had a sharp smile plastered against his too-square face. “You’re not going to be piloting sh*t if you don’t get someone drift compatible.”

Makarov grit his teeth during the next flurry of blows. Nolan was slower than many of the fighters he had gone against, but his hits made Makarov’s forearms grow numb as he blocked each one. He only figured out that Nolan was toying with him when the man finally broke through his defenses, and held the length of the staff like an executioner’s blade over Makarov’s throat. Makarov couldn’t retaliate because Nolan had also pinned the arm he was holding his staff with.

“That’s one for me.”

He wanted to know who Nolan bribed to get mint-flavored toothpaste. He kept getting flavorless in his supply rations. “Again.” Makarov was released easily enough from Nolan’s grasp, both of them squaring up for the next round.

It wasn’t until later, when Makarov was back in his room nursing his bruises that he realized that he and Nolan had spoken Russian the entire time they shared the sparring mat. Maybe the Australian wasn’t as bad as he initially thought.

There were no species of dragons native to Australia.

A Yellow Reaper egg that fell out of British hands in 1808 was the first dragon to ever claim Australia as its homeland. From there, the acquisitions of dragons had been ferociously exponential. A wide open flatland that hosted a budding cattle industry caught the draconic eye of a number of nations. While countries like Britain and the United States boasted massive draconic forces in their air force branch, Australia didn’t hold the same acclaim.

Dragons filled the interior of the country. Some were retired war dragons, wanting to live out their golden years in a hot, dry climate. Some were ornamental gifts to the government from nearby countries to help establish trade routes and treaties. Many were unharnessed, feral bastards.

Andrei Nolan hated every single one.

Especially the hatbox-sized hatchling that was gifted to the Special Air Service Regiment by Russia that decided to crack out of its shell barely ten minutes into its relocation.

A snowy white Russian Ridgeback sat in the plastic seat next to Nolan in the transport vehicle, his dark muzzle made it look like he stuck his face in a bucket of coal as soon as he was hatched. Inky eyes watched only Nolan as the Australian countryside zipped past. His two siblings (nestmates?) were still safely tucked away in straw-stuffed wood crates. Unhatched, as they should be.

“Kuda idet etot gruzovik?” [Where is this truck going?]

The dragon also only spoke Russian.

“The truck is going back to SASR’s base, where the other eggs will be stored.” Nolan answered listlessly.

The dragon stared back at him as if Nolan never spoke.

As far as Nolan could tell, the dragon only understood Russian. It was a blessing in disguise that Nolan’s Russian was at a conversational level. He might be the only man on base that could understand anything the dragon said. Which means their bond of dragon and captain was practically cemented.

Nolan groaned internally. He had made it this far in his career in spec ops avoiding dragons. Almost everyone at the special operations level was promoted into the branch because they were hand picked by a dragon, elevated to the highest level of combat because of beastly intervention, regardless of actual skill. Nolan grit his teeth, trained his ass off, and proved that he was worthy of his position without needing some scaly prick deciding his fate for him.

The dragon had yet to look away from him. Nolan’s pretty sure he hadn’t blinked ever since it crawled into the seat next to him.

“Ty sobirayesh'sya otvetit' na moy vopros?” [Are you going to answer my question?] The dragon just sounded perpetually grumpy.

Nolan was not looking forward to this ‘til-death partnership. He rolled his eyes and responded, “YA sdelal. Zdes' vam nuzhno uchit' angliyskiy. [I did. You need to learn English here.] You can’t just be talking with me.”

“Ty yeshche ne sprosil menya, kak menya zovut.” [You haven't asked me what my name is yet.] The dragon finally looked away with a pout.

He didn’t know dragons could pout. Then again, Nolan hadn’t really observed a dragon long enough to check. “What is your name?” He asked, following the dragon’s wishes.

The dragon’s brows pinched together.

Nolan sighed again. He would have to inform leadership to have people speak English around the other eggs too. He has a feeling that the Russian’s intended for the eggs to remain unhatched for a little bit longer so the dragons would be familiar with the language by the time they hatched and met their riders.

He bumped his fist against the dragon’s shoulder and placed a hand on his chest. “Andrei Nolan.” He then pointed at the dragon.

The dragon started kneading against the seat, his claws leaving pockmarks.

“Hey, hey–” He reached out to try and stop the dragon from ripping up the seats. Nolan’s ass hurt from the unyielding plastic that was supposed to be blast-proof. The dragon was shredding into the seats as if they were made of soft cheese.

“Day mne sekundu! YA khochu dva imeni! U tebya dva imeni!” [Give me a second! I want two names! You have two names!]

Nolan tried to pry away the dragon’s claws from the seat. He didn’t want to be reprimanded because he couldn’t control the hatchling. “What do you mean two names–”

“Kak skazat', menya zovut?” [How do I say, ‘my name is’?] The dragon interrupted him a second time. He had stopped kneading.

Nolan put his hands on his knees. “My name is.” He left plenty of space between the words and gestured where the dragon would say his name.

“My name is Vladimir Makarov.” The dragon smiled as he spoke with a heavy accent. Apparently, Russian Ridgebacks have black gums and teeth.

Nolan made a mental note to order language books as soon as he could. It would be best to teach Vladimir Makarov as much English as possible in the next six months, which is how long it took Russian Ridgebacks to enter adulthood.

Two rocks are sitting next to each other.

That’s an understatement. To you, and I, and any other outside observer, two rocks are sitting next to each other.

Here, within the swirl of atoms from an explosion the size neither of us can conceive, formed the hot stars and cold planets that orbit them. Pressure and heat and gravity crushed everything together, making recognizable atoms of carbon and nitrogen and helium and hydrogen and every other atomic structure that we can name, that we can recognize. Solar systems still dance across the cosmos here.

But that is too large of a scope for this. Two rocks are sitting next to each other.

Do you have tectonic plates? Where you’re from? So do I. Great shifting sheets of rock that cram mountains together and split oceans apart until what’s underneath tells them not to. Shifting magma that’s dictated by a molten core that magnetizes the very atmosphere–

Too big, too big. We have to focus on the two rocks sitting next to each other.

Life never happened here. You, and I, and any other outside observer, we’re guests that aren’t even allowed to leave footprints behind. Life is never meant to happen here. Was it ever discovered how it began, where you’re from? Someone discovered it in Russia, but the work was finished elsewhere. A sealed flask where half a dozen chemicals were thrown in with water and heated, with periodic volts of electricity blasted through the newborn atmosphere. Most anything can walk if you shock it enough, right? It may have been different elsewhere.

The experiment was performed in Australia for you? See, different scientific circuits can cause things to be discovered and published and shared in wildly different places.

In the absence of that life, two rocks are here. Sitting next to each other.

A human flaw is personifying the inanimate. I’ve apologized to many table corners and door frames and lamp posts that I’ve run into. But there’s something different about these two rocks. I’m not a geologist, far from it, and I have a feeling you aren’t too, and most of the other outside observers who are here with us.

Two rocks are sitting next to each other despite all of that.

Maybe that’s how they were meant to be here.

Vladimir Makarov was a visiting artist at this studio and he was never coming back. He had been tattooing for most of his life, even giving himself and his foster siblings terrible stick-poke tattoos using a pilfered sewing needle and pen ink as a child, but the level of unprofessionalism he experienced here had been unparalleled.

He had been nominated to participate in an international tattooing competition. It was some reality tv-styled show, where he had been flown down to Australia with nine other artists, to showcase their individual skills and styles. At least, that was how the competition had been pitched to Makarov.

Makarov was delayed at customs, both in Russia and in Australia, since he wanted to bring his own tattooing equipment to the competition for luck. He had to convince officials that no, he can’t commit an act of terror with a needle smaller than his finger, then he was able to board his even more delayed red-eye. Choppy turbulence made him sick in the middle of the flight. He vomited up his far-too-expensive mediocre sandwich. At the luggage carousel, Makarov was bombarded by two film cameras and the host as he waited. He almost missed his luggage during the impromptu interview. The uber that was arranged for him got a flat tire as soon as it pulled out of the airport. The second uber driver got arrested. The interior of the third smelled like smoke and the truck rattled so badly that Makarov wasn’t sure it was going to make it to its destination.

This was all before he even got to the dorms that hosted all the competitors. Who were all assholes. Assholes that held international acclaim, but all assholes.

The one from Mexico was loud. The one from Scotland was even louder. The one from England looked at Makarov like the Russian had personally killed his dog, or something equally if not more dear to him.

The first day of filming consisted of “proper” group introductions and pulling individuals aside for individual interviews that would be spliced in to elevate drama. He caught the few sentences that slipped out from the cracked open door as he passed by one of the interview rooms and gritted his teeth. Makarov had been cast as the villain, just like every single thick-accented Russian like him in western media. It didn’t matter how his portfolio stood up with the others present. If he won, he had robbed someone else of their victory.

Outside of the dorm, the show took place in an actual tattoo parlor located on a normal street in Sydney. There were a few grumbles from producers about keeping things authentic. True to form, the parlor was clean, the equipment was on the newer end, and everything was well stocked.

The oppressive heat made Makarov wish that the production was confined to a massive, air-conditioned studio warehouse.

Other businesses slumped next to it on the street, weary from the belligerent Australian sun. A sandwich shop, a bookstore, and a lawn supply store were all close enough to forgo using a car, but far away enough that dying would be preferable than traveling on foot. It was unfortunate that the sandwich shop made really f*cking good sandwiches. Makarov managed to bribe one of the PA’s on the set to pick up his mobile order for him, tossing in enough so that they too could get something at the sandwich shop.

Makarov did well in the competition despite his villainization. He wasn’t eliminated in the first round, or second, or even third. This fourth round, however, was a tipping point.

His tattoo gun broke.

Admittedly, it was going to happen eventually. Makarov should be thankful that it happened after the round concluded. It didn’t lessen the shock of it as it happened.

All of the cameras pointed at him as he got into the face of the Scottish tattooist, who had miraculously made it this far in the competition, spit flying out of Makarov’s mouth as he accused the man of causing his equipment to fail. The host of the competition managed to muscle his way between Makarov and the Scottish contestant before any physical violence could happen.

Makarov stormed out of the building, and swore with each step.

He ended up on the opposite corner of the block from the tattoo parlor. He passed the sandwich shop and the bookstore without so much as giving them a glance. His dark shirt stuck uncomfortably against his skin as the sun beat mercilessly down. Makarov was sure that if he stood in place long enough his boots would have melted against the sidewalk. He stepped into the lawn supply store, unwilling to return to the tattoo parlor with still-fresh wounds of his outburst.

The building was small and smelled like rich soil and cut grass. Makarov expected it to be just as small on the inside since most of the lot was fenced in concrete that displayed rideable mowers and small-scale tractors. Plants overflowed the front, taking advantage of the long low windows. There was an ostentatious display of garden tools followed by a cacophony of flower seeds and germinating plants and fruit tree saplings in tall black buckets. Fence posts and spools of wire and prebuilt sections of fence trailed along the wall beckoned Makarov to move deeper.

He didn’t, because it was barely cooler in here than it was outside.

“Need something to drink?”

The voice made Makarov jump.

“Grab something from the fridge. Normally you have to buy something and you get water for free but,” The man at the counter shrugged.“It’s a real scorcher out there.”

“I’ve noticed.” Makarov grabbed his shirt collar, flapping it to try and unstick it from his chest and stomach. His sleeves were already rolled up from the tattooing competition.

The man eyed the ink on his forearms. “You from that parlor down the street? I’ve been seeing a good bit of traffic coming from there, and a few of my regulars have been asking about it.”

Makarov walked over to the fridge that the man, whose name tag read Andrei, pointed to and grabbed one of the water bottles. It was a regular sized one. Good. Makarov was sick of the mini ones that were on set that could be finished in a few swallows. “They’re filming a competition there. It’s about halfway done.”

Andrei nodded. “Are you doing good in it?”

“Of course.” Makarov scoffed, cracking open the lid of the water bottle. He took a drink and almost moaned at how good it felt to have the cold water slide down his throat. He must’ve been so focused on his piece that he forgot to drink during his tattooing.

He actually missed what Andrei said next, he was busy focusing on how good it felt to finally get some water in him. The piece took over three hours to complete.

“What?” Makarov asked. He had already swallowed down half the bottle and didn’t take a breath.

Andrei let out a polite laugh. “I asked what your name was.”

“Vladimir Makarov.”

“Russian?”

“I thought the accent made that clear.”

There is only one secret Makarov keeps from his men. And it wasn’t hard to keep it a secret. Anyone who was familiar with Konni knew at least two things about the organization: that it was a private military company funded entirely by the Ultranationalists in Russia, and that it was one of the few spec ops teams that was composed entirely of alphas.

With a single, hidden, exception.

Makarov was the only beta in the entire PMC. In the earlier days of the Ultranationalists, in an attempt to get around western tactics that used omegas on the field to incapacitate alpha soldiers, started to train their own forces to fight against their instincts. Makarov had long since altered his own documents. He erased his beta status and wore a cheap, disgusting cologne to hide his cotton and feather down scent. His leadership thought they had recruited the perfect soldier after Makarov caught their eye a few months after he was recruited. They had finally found someone who had the willpower to resist the faux-distress, nauseating, whorish scents used by western omegas.

His forged documents were found out when Makarov had to go through a medical exam in order to get into the Spec Ops division.

Instead of throwing the then-eighteen-year-old to the streets, the leadership inside of the Ultranationalists had a better idea. Makarov showed exceptional aptitude in every aspect of training. His leadership skills were unparalleled. He even outperformed a majority of his alpha peers. The Ultranationalists that ran Konni turned a blind eye to his dynamic, only with one stipulation: Makarov continued pretending that he’s an alpha.

It was easy. Makarov continued to douse himself in strong cologne (now swapped with a better one that had alpha pheromones in it), kept track of when his medical leave for his “rut” was supposed to take place, and trained his way to the very top. The Ultranationalists groomed him to be a perfect leader, and set him at the top of Konni by the time he turned twenty one.

With this leadership position, Makarov was also in charge of handling recruitment and going over applications. The process was simple: if the applicant wasn’t an alpha, they were rejected. Makarov could spot when others forged their documents because Makarov had forged his own so long ago. There were several people faking their health, education, even dynamic like he had. It was cathartic stamping a big red “rejected” on each falsified paper that crossed his vision. He only wanted the best inside of Konni. The best was an alpha soldier.

Until he came across one application that made him pause. The applicant wasn’t even from Russia. Andrei Nolan, an accomplished alpha from Australia, wanted to join Konni.

Makarov went over the application with a keen eye. Nothing looked fake. A few minor online searches lead to more questions. Nolan was on the watchlist for his homeland, his citizenship all but rejected in name for war crimes and acts of terror. The only reason he was even considered Australian at all was so that when he stepped foot back on the continent he would be arrested for treason.

The man was a perfect fit for Konni. This alpha already had a festering grudge against the west even if he was born there. Makarov felt that Nolan’s insight would also aid in how Konni prepared against adversaries with omegas on their squads, since Nolan had trained with those tactics.

Gold had fallen into their laps and Makarov was not going to let it slip away. It took a handful of days to get into contact with Andrei Nolan. The alpha accepted the offer to join immediately.

A block of marble should not have desire. Yet, as Nolan watched the artist putter around his studio, he couldn’t help but want. Nolan had sat inside of the studio for several years as the artist’s clients had passed over him, selecting other towering obelisks or leaning slabs to have their commision carved into instead. The artist, Makarov, as the studio patrons called him, would always lay a warm palm against Nolan’s cold, rough surface and promise that next time he would be chosen.

Nolan didn’t want to be chosen by anyone other than Makarov.

Innumerable days passed. Nolan noticed that Makarov began walking with a defeated slump. As a block of marble, he couldn’t do anything but watch the artist turn more apathetic. The man only perked up around clients. It was an obvious mask to the marble.

Makarov would maintain his suave salesman facade, leading around patrons, commissioners, and connoisseurs around his workshop to showcase his skill and offer wholly original pieces. When the visitors had left, the act was dropped. Makarov poured his attention into whatever piece had just been ordered. The tapping of a hammer and chisel rang through the studio from sunrise to sunset. A handful of days, weeks, months later, the art would be picked up as money exchanged hands. Yet, the work never held the same satisfaction that it did years ago, and Nolan had to resign himself to watching the artist grow more and more despondent.

One day Makarov stood in front of Nolan as the marble block woke. In one hand, the artist held his hammer and chisel. The other hand held a half-empty bottle of vodka.

Nothing happened that morning. Nolan watched Makarov turn around and ascend to his loft above the studio. Something had changed. Makarov would look toward Nolan more often, his eyes traced over him with a level of precision that came from years, decades of stonemasonry. The artist would often pause his current project and stood in front of Nolan’s monolithic shape, his tools in hand.

A week later the artist pressed the wedged head of the chisel against Nolan’s marble. Makarov then brought the hammer crashing against it.

Oh! Oh how it hurt!

Makarov had always spoken softly, hiding the strength in his arms that was needed to keep the driving chisel in place. His hand had moved with grace and certainty as he chipped cracked broken stone slabs into delicate cloth, meaty flesh, figures positioned with strength and poise that any onlooker would forget that it started as a crag of raw rock.

Cracks formed across Nolan’s planes, chunks of marble clattering against the floor as Nolan voicelessly screamed. It wasn’t for the artist to stop. Nolan couldn’t tell what he had wanted. The other blocks of marble had weathered this pain silently. Nolan was better than them, and endured the shaping the artist put him through.

Agony passed with the time, endless and sluggish, as Makarov’s chisel continued driving into Nolan. The marble shorn off of him turned from chunks to chips and eventually a fine dusting of powder. Makarov was breathless and sweating in front of him. It had been days of work. Nolan wanted to tell the artist to forget about him and take care of himself, he had already grown numb to the pain.

Yet the artist continued his work. Nolan had formed beyond an imposing tower. Chest, arms, hands. Face, mouth, ears. Waist, legs, feet. Instead of an encompassing sight, Nolan now had a static field of vision. He hated it because Makarov would leave it to carve the details of his back.

The clatter of tools falling to the ground broke the monotony of tapping. Nolan hadn’t realized how silent the workshop was ever since the carving started. And, for the first time since it started, a gentle touch, a warm hand rested against Nolan’s chest.

He couldn’t move his eyes down, but he could feel the artist rest his cheek against his cold stone clavicle. Makarov pressed against him and wept. It was the first time in days he had done something other than carve. Confessions of bitter loneliness tumbled from the man’s lips, crashing against the statue the same way ocean waves did against seaside cliffs. Nolan could feel the salt of Makarov’s tears.

Makarov staggered away after his tears dried up. Exhausted and filthy, he crawled the stairs to his loft, leaving Nolan alone in the studio. The artist didn’t even bother to pick up his tools.

For the first time, Nolan took a step. And then another. He returned the tools to where he had seen them hang for years. Then Nolan, too, ascended the stairs after Makarov.

The Royal Nationalist, British cranks who wanted to restore their empire to its former glory, had burned down another tobacco field in Australia. The resulting wildfire killed about eight people, two of them Russian soldiers that had been flown down here to join the former American outpost they had claimed in New South Wales. The British had been relentless with restoring their claims on the farmland of former colonies. There were rumors that it was so that the international food trade would be irreparably destroyed, leaving all of them more reliant than ever on the colonial fascists.

Makarov was pissed because the tobacco farm produced good cigarettes for cheap.

Australia had been held as a rare bastion of hope for western reformation. Their agriculture quickly pivoted to growing crops like sugar cane, coffee, and tobacco to combat the high taxes on similar crops that were produced by recaptured countries. Anywhere that didn’t roll over and accept British rule, like the Spaniards and most of South America, were quickly and violently overthrown. Whatever power that was reinstated acted as a puppet, a complete shill that suffocated their own people to appease The Royal Nationalists. Several eastern countries that were former trade colonies with deep histories intertwined with the British, like India and Hong Kong, had become vast military bases. Launching points used to attack and displaced hundreds of thousands of people until their governments bowed to their demands. It was a hellish creep to watch encompass the western world.

All of Oceana, Australia’s New South Wales in particular, was distant enough to be out of mind to British allies. Sydney itself masqueraded as an allied port while smuggling goods. Australia in turn became a bastion of manufacturing, turning several factories into munitions producers and hiding bullets, bombs, and guns in deliveries of tobacco and coffee and sugar into Southeast Asia.

It was one of the reasons Makarov was stationed at this backwoods farm. It produced small-scale munitions that would be shipped north to Cooktown or Darwin or Port Hedland, supplying soldiers with whatever they could produce. After America made its alliance with the Royal Nationalists well known, the import of military goods dried up overnight. American tried to muscle their way into using Australia as a continent-wide military base, but were swiftly detained using their own weapons that they had trained Australian soldiers to use. While the US military bases had all but been abandoned, even the surveillance bases like Pine Gap were under full Australian control. It was a short-lived victory, as now the Australians had a finite supply of munitions with little way to replenish them. The continent was still trying to find scraps that were left behind on abandoned US military bases and using that until they could match the same might of the American army.

They needed to. Chinese weapons rarely made it below Singapore and Papua New Guinea. Russia couldn’t spare much of the weapons it manufactured, holding its eastern border against European forces. The only thing both countries could supply to Australia were men, if that. Any munitions that came with the forces couldn’t be spared to the locals. It was why so many barnyards like this one had turned to bullet production on the side.

Makarov had put out the order for a convoy to pick them up after the fires had been extinguished. If some Spec Ops team burned the tobacco field, that means that The Royal Nationalists know about the other productions here. At the very least Makarov’s team could get one final shipment of ammo out before pulling their equipment from the barn and scrapping what they couldn’t carry. He had to argue with several members of the Australian army that a convoy was needed to get his men out, citing the attack on the tobacco farm as the reason for additional security.

Two days of bated breath and increased patrols later, unmarked vehicles arrived at the tobacco farm. It was a hodgepodge of both military and civilian: humvees brimming with soldiers and sedans with squalling children and rusted out trucks stacked with cages of livestock. There was even a semi truck that had lost its trailer. Dozens of vehicles had been breaking down lately. Any parts that could be smuggled in were faulty, leading Australia barrelling headfirst into another shortage. Only half of the convoy members were in military garb as well. Makarov would learn later that those not dressed in fatigues were fleeing from the village nearby to move to the harsher interior of Australia, hoping to outrun the British and American forces that had apparently set up Melbourne.

One of the men in fatigues, the highest ranking one apparently, approached Makarov. The name patch velcroed to his chest labeled him “Nolan”. Their introduction is brief, and the man is clearly surprised by Makarov’s accent.

“Didn’t expect you guys to be this far out.” Nolan worked beside Makarov as they loaded crates of supplies. Every man was needed to remove any evidence that they had been there.

Makarov shrugged. He had been stationed as far south as Tasmania before soldiers under a Union Jack razed the forests to drive out guerilla dissenters.

“I meant protecting bullet farms.” Nolan clarified, grunting as he lifted the crate he was carrying into the truck bed of some rusted out Ford. Old American cars were used by both sides. Residents used them because they already knew how to fix these thirty-to-forty year old cars. The Royal Nationalists used busted vehicles to try and infiltrate. “Our forces are already thinning up north, I didn’t think we had the resources to spare on…” The man made a gesture to the tobacco farm.

“We didn’t just deal with bullets.” Makarov stepped back, letting the next duo haul their crate of supplies into the truck.

Nolan wiped the sweat off of his brow. “Did you guys fix cars too?”

“No it’s…” Makarov glanced around. “It’s best if I showed you.”

The tobacco farm had two barns: a smaller one where all of their operations took place, and a larger one that served as winter storage. The family who owned the property was gracious enough to give both barns to them, though most people believed that they had only given one. It was a short walk. Nolan lumbered silently behind Makarov as the two of them moved further away from the convoy, shouts of men fading.

Makarov shoved open one of the doors to the further barn. With the heft of the door, the Russian pushed it open a crack, but it was large enough for Nolan to peer in. A thin beam of sunlight draped over the contents that hid inside.

Nolan swore quietly when he recognized what was in front of him. Instead of the usual tractors, plowers, and other large-scale farm equipment, at the center of the barn was an American nuclear missile.

“Now you see why we needed a convoy.” Makarov didn’t bother hiding the smugness in his voice.

An illegal fishing charter hit him. At least, that was the story told to Nolan when he woke up surrounded by sterile blue plastic. Nolan was assured that this was the best Mer Sanctuary in the hemisphere. In as little as nine months he could be released back into the wild. He was meant to stay in an isolation tank so they, the humans who had found him half dead in the water, could make sure he was healing at an acceptable rate.

To be fair, he wasn’t doing so well in the open ocean. Sharkmers were nomadic and solitary. Nolan didn’t have a comparison for how poorly he was doing until now. In the ocean, hooks and fishing line trailed off of his fins. He yanked himself away from garbage patches that encroached as he was sleeping. Nolan had been tangled in multiple nets, each time he chewed himself free with his teeth, but some netting was too close to his skin to gnaw off.

Now, he had been freed from all the trash he was tangled in.

The tank was claustrophobic. It gave him enough room to turn around and that was it. He felt like he was on constant display as workers passed by his tank periodically. Twice a day they tossed a bucket of half-dead fish into the tank for Nolan to eat. Some of them had their fins cut off so they swam in circles, helpless as Nolan plucked them from the water and ate them whole.

Nolan didn’t think his disdain for humans could grow any more.

The only other way he could measure time passing was a thin window high up on the wall. Nolan couldn’t even see out of it if he perched on the edge of the tank. He almost fell out when he leaned a little too far. Nolan managed to catch himself and flop back into the water of the tank. The daring move didn’t provide him with any insight in where he was, and only left scrapes on his palms. He asked a question about where he was once, but the humans only used human terms and locations, and it cleared up nothing for him. He couldn’t even use the stars to figure out where he was since the window turned into an inky black rectangle when night fell.

He had taken to pacing. Swimming in mindless circles so that the sterile salt water could flow through his gills. The water didn’t have enough of a current to let Nolan lay still in it. He could. It made it much harder to breathe. There were times where Nolan had to, because he would be dizzy from swimming in circles.

It was soon after his evening meal when he heard something heavy fall into the water of his tank. He smacked it with his tail as he turned around.

An octomer, tentacles still unfurling in the water, stared at him with wide eyes. The purple color that made up his tentacles stretched down the octomer’s arms and up his neck, matching the purple symbols tattooed against the pale skin on his chest and stomach. The mer quickly regained his composure as Nolan turned around.

“There normally isn’t anyone here. What are you in for?”

The man’s voice reminded Nolan of the few times he saw the remnants of ink clouds in the water. Nolan had never been this close to another octomer, normally they would dart away and hide upon seeing Nolan’s silhouette. Being this close, seeing how the mer’s tentacles stretched and contracted in such an alien manner was mesmerizing. He almost forgot to answer the mer.

“I was hit by a boat.” He paused. “Allegedly. I didn’t hear it.”

The mer rolled his eyes. “Typical. Humans constantly lie. They might’ve captured you and just fed you that story so you would play nice with them.”

That thought hadn’t crossed Nolan’s mind. He despised the cloying pollutants he had come across, but had never directly interacted with humans before the Mer Sanctuary. The only reason he had known that the trash came from humans was that he saw them toss it in the water from their boats. Everything from stinking clouds of waste to colorful crinkling plastic to even some of the metal that Nolan foraged was because some useless human put it in the ocean.

Nolan crossed his arms. “Why would they keep me here?”

“Look, I don’t know. Maybe they deemed you ‘exotic’ or ‘endangered’ or ‘it’s for your own safety’. Whatever human classification they like.” The mer made finger quotes around the emphasized words. “This tank is the halfway point to getting into the bay, and I need to rehydrate before they discover–”

“Makarov!” A human voice echoed down the hall.

The octomer swore quietly.

“Makarov!” A second human voice followed shortly. “You know, we wouldn’t be looking for him if you shut the damned lid of his tank right.”

“I did.” The first voice grumbled. “The f*cker’s getting smarter every day.” They raised their voice again, “Come out, come out, Makarov!”

“I’m not a damned pup.” The octomer, Makarov, grumbled as he searched for a place to hide in Nolan’s barren tank. “Move to the front.”

Two of Makarov’s tentacles wrapped around Nolan’s tail before he could question the octomer. Makarov yanked him around the tank easily, as Nolan thrashed to instinctually break out of the hold. The retaliation only caused more tentacles to wrap around his tail, arms, chest. The sharkmer was manhandled into position over Makarov in a poor attempt for the octomer to try and hide himself. Makarov stuck out like a sore thumb against the blue plastic of Nolan’s observation tank, even if he was slightly bigger than the octomer.

Makarov put both of his hands over Nolan’s mouth to negate all of the splashing that their struggle caused. The two of them waited with baited breath to see if the human’s they heard approached.

It was easy to tell that Makarov was discovered by the humans. The octomer scowled up at the surface and tightened his grip on Nolan.

It took about forty minutes to extract Makarov from Nolan’s tank. Makarov was cursing the whole time. Between swears, Nolan caught a few snippets from the humans; how Makarov was an endangered mer species, how the oceans outside of the sanctuary would be ill suited for an exotic mer who’s used to colder and rockier oceans, how he was kept in the sanctuary for his own safety.

All the same lies Makarov said humans would use to keep Nolan trapped here.

The rest of the night, Nolan couldn’t sleep. He traced the bruised circles that Makarov’s tentacles had left behind. The sharkmer doesn’t know what tank Makarov came from. When he peered out of the water he could only see other tiny, isolating tanks like the one he was in uniformly spaced around the room. Anything beyond that was obscured by gray walls. Nolan only lifted his head above the water when he was certain no humans were around. He didn’t want the top of his tank to be sealed like Makarov’s allegedly was.

As soon as the window high up on the wall darkened, signaling that night had descended again, something large splashed into Nolan’s tank. It was Makarov.

“You need to shut up this time.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the sharkmer.

“Don’t grab me then.” Nolan retaliated. “Listen, I want to get out of here with you.”

Makarov looked him up and down. “This is one of the last pools of water before the loading bay, and you won’t get far on land.”

Nolan opened his mouth to say he could get around fine. Makarov silenced him with a finger.

“Listen. I passed one of the transport tanks getting here. You can sit in that, only if you promise to help open the bay doors. They’re too heavy for me to do it alone.”

“Deal.” Nolan extended his hand for the octomer to shake it.

The two of them made it halfway across the Mer Sanctuary’s parking lot before they were caught by security. The next escape attempt that Makarov made was the following night. This time, when he dropped into the isolation tank with Nolan, Makarov already parked a transport tank next to Nolan’s pool so that the sharkmer could help him again.

A pair of socks are folded together in a drawer.

When Nolan read the request for a travel companion on the Dizzy Dragon Tavern’s help board, he wasn’t sure who exactly he was supposed to expect. The only information on the parchment was to meet at the fountain in the town square. Maybe a fellow paladin was engaging in their holy quest, or a minor lord was looking for protection in his travels, or a rowdy bunch of novice adventurers wanted some guidance on their first adventure. The reward for the job wasn’t very high, much less than what he would make with any other quest on the tavern’s help board. Nolan took the job mostly out of curiosity. He was in a small town and didn’t plan on staying too long anyway.

There was a single man standing at the fountain. He wore a long dark cloak and kept muttering to himself. As Nolan approached, he caught the man tucking a sending stone into his pocket. He wasn’t able to catch any of the conversation.

Their introductions were quick, solid. The man in the cloak was Makarov, and he was a wizard with arcane knowledge that he needed to deliver to an important contact. He would assist in purchasing supplies and paying for board whenever they entered a town. The reward was a hundred gold when he got to his destination. However, there was a catch.

Makarov needed to go to the Northern Kingdom.

The Northern Kingdom had dozens of enemies. Warlike and harsh from the climate, the people, the animals, and the monsters that stalked the blasphemous barbaric barren wasteland. Demons and dragons and desolate ruins dotted the dark forests. Roving bands of witches and wildings and those who are more wicked than anyone can imagine ruled without mercy. It was a death sentence for anyone to enter its borders.

Nolan accepted the quest before Makarov finished going through the list of potential dangers they could face. He had been to the Northern Kingdom before, and knew it like the back of his hand. It was the land of his father’s father and he had sworn to return to it someday.

The wizard tripped over Nolan’s answer. It appeared that he wasn’t prepared for someone to accept the quest so readily, much less a loyal paladin.

Vladimir just turned ten, and he hated how hot and stinky Australia was. He was supposed to spend his birthday in Dubna with Dedulya, his grandfather who was a scientist. Dedulya was supposed to take him fishing at the marina, while bab Mil baked a cake, and Makarov was supposed to come back with a big fish that they would eat for dinner.

Instead, Vladimir was on an embassy trip with his parents. Papa’s job was to be friends with all the other countries, and his Mama was supposed to help. Vladimir was carted off to the embassy playground under the eye of Mr. Ivan.

Mr. Ivan had been the family bodyguard for as long as Vladimir could remember. Whenever Papa had to travel Vladimir often had to stay behind with the bodyguard. It was only when Vladimir got older that his Papa let him join on his many trips around the world. Of course, Vladimir was only allowed to go outside of his family’s hotel room if the bodyguard said so. Mr. Ivan didn’t like Vladimir. Vladimir didn’t like him back.

The sun seared Vladimir’s skin after a handful of minutes, even after Mr. Ivan sprayed nasty smelling sunscreen on his arms and face. Vladimir sat in the prickly grass at the edge of the park still trying to rub off the sticky sunscreen. The metal playground gleamed in the afternoon sun. Vladimir knew from yesterday when he was dumped here that the slide was hot enough to burn him. There weren’t any other kids present today, too.

He ripped up the grass. Vladimir was bored. Even if he went to Mr. Ivan to entertain himself, the bodyguard would ignore him. Vladimir was in the middle of figuring out the best way to get Mr. Ivan’s attention when he heard someone walk up to him. The grass was so crunchy that the footsteps almost echoed. Vladimir didn’t look up, it was probably Mr. Ivan coming to remind him to drink water again.

“I haven’t seen you here before.” A not-Mr. Ivan's voice said. “I’m Andrei. Do you want to play Warrior Cats?”

It was another kid. Andrei was a chubby blonde and talked like everyone else in Australia, so he must’ve lived nearby. He hugged a worn notebook to his chest and looked down at Vladimir expectantly.

Vladimir looked up at him. The kid’s accent was thicker than the adults his Papa always spoke to, so it took him a little bit to understand what Andrei was asking. “What is… warrior cats?”

“The best book series ever!” Andrei plopped down in the grass next to Vladimir and opened his notebook. “I can’t bring any of them to the park, Mom says no reading when I’m supposed to be getting all of my energy out, but it’s about a bunch of cats and they have to protect their territory from the other clans.” The notebook was filled with blocky writing and drawings of cats. Andrei kept flipping through the pages too fast for Vladimir to read anything. “I made up my own and we can pretend to have our own clan. My character is a big tortoiseshell cat who’s the medicine cat but he used to be the deputy but got demoted because he took an oath to never hurt another cat because–”

Vladimir could only catch every other word from how fast Andrei started talking. Whenever he was allowed to be in the embassy with his parents,Vladimir had to stand beside Papa and listen to the men Papa was supposed to be friends with. Everyone sounded like a seal that Vladimir would see at the zoo. He liked how Andrei’s voice sounded. Vladimir was actually startled when he stopped talking.

Andrei looked at him expectantly.

“What?”

“I asked what you wanted your character to be.” Andrei’s notebook was opened to a blank page. It was almost three-quarters of the way through the notebook. The boy held a pencil in his hand, ready to draw what Vladimir said.

“A… cat?” Vladimir’s eyebrows pinched together.

“But what kind?” The boy gave an exasperated sigh. “Tabby, calico, tigerstripe, orange–” The boy’s words started speeding up again

“Let me think!” Vladimir barked. He didn’t like the look of hurt on Andrei’s face, so he looked away. In the brief silence that followed, he thought of bab Mil’s scruffy cat. It always sat in Dedulya’s chair when the old man stood up to get a new cup of coffee. “I don’t know what it is called in English.” Vladimir eventually mumbled. “Black and white one.”

The boy perked up at that, and quickly drew a cat face on the page. He also drew a full cat next to that. The two drawings took up maybe a quarter of the page and looked like it should be in a cartoon. Andrei then handed the pencil to Vladimir and placed the notebook on his lap.

“Color it in.” Andrei said, his eyes glued to the page.

Vladimir did so. He kept the black splotches on the cat as close to bab Mil’s cat as he remembered. It took less than five minutes, but he passed back the book as if he had been burned by it. The book held a weight that Vladimir didn’t understand. It felt important in a way he couldn’t describe yet.

Andrei looked it over. “Cool. It looks like it’s wearing a saddle! What do you want your cat’s name to be?”

He just chose what bab Mil called her cat. “Loshad.” When Andrei gave him a confused look, Vladimir continued. “It means horse. Because of the saddle.” He pointed to the black splotch that started at the cat’s shoulders and stopped at its hips.

“Oh! Like a kittypet?”

“A what.”

Andrei laughed at how Vladimir’s nose wrinkled. “It’s not bad! It just means a cat grew up around humans, or twolegs, and now it wants to be a wild cat. So now you have to choose a warrior name. Maybe you left to be a medicine cat like me!”

“Is Loshad not a warrior name?” Vladimir tilted his head.

“No, it’s like…” Andrei trailed off. “The name has to have two parts, and both parts have to come from nature things. Like animals, water, plants. The only exceptions are babies, whose names end in kit, apprentices whose names end in paw, and the leaders whose names end in star.”

“A horse is an animal.”

“But it can’t just be Horse.”

Vladimir thought for a bit. “Loshadinaya reka. Horseriver.” He translated before Andrei asked what it meant.

Andrei scribbled down the name next to Vladimir’s cat drawing before flipping to almost the beginning of the notebook. “Mine is Spurfoot.” He pointed to one of the few drawings fully colored in. The cat had splotches of orange and black all over its body with pale green eyes. “This is what I look like. Now,” Andrei flipped to another section of the notebook. “If we’re going to do medicine cat stuff together, we have to find cobwebs and gather them up.”

“Cobwebs?”

“Yeah, it’s like cat bandaids.” Andrei stood up, holding a hand out for Vladimir.

Vladimir took his hand.

Necromancy was an art that Vladimir Makarov had perfected. He was a natural anatomist, and had the highest level of necromantic aptitude out of all of his peers. His pale blue veins were prominent under his skin. When people met him they often assumed he was visiting from The Seventh House, the dying beautiful with their cancerous blood, drawing thanergy, or necrotic energy, from their own ailing bodies.

Makarov always scoffed at that, the ability to pull thanergey from oneself. The bird-like fragility of The Seventh House would be their downfall. In The Second House, even the necromancers had to show a degree of physical prowess. He is able to harvest his own thanergy without destroying himself in the process, or relying on anyone else to provide it for him.

However, there were still traditions that needed to be followed. It was why he brushed shoulders with the other (lesser) necromancers of his age on this balcony. He watched the cavaliers below spar and perform their drills because it was the only thing that caught his interest. The building they were all in had slate gray walls. The doors and windows were framed with the same utilitarian black iron as the balcony railings. Gym equipment lined the walls, half of which was being used.

The Second House prided itself on its ascetic nature, rarely giving into the rotting-opulence influences of the other houses in the Solar System. Almost every general, captain, and commander was a member of The Second House, trained from birth to lead The Emperor's military.

Where Makarov stood was usually where visiting leadership would perch and watch lesser soldiers spar on the dull-colored rubber mats.

Makarov had one hand on the banister, the other holding a stemless glass of red wine. Platters of crackers and cheese and slivers of deli meats that were left untouched. His peers chatted about mundanities, blisteringly pathetic topics to distract themselves away from the swordsmen below. In a few short hours they, the necromancers, would be paired with one of the soldiers below.

He was set to have the first pick of those below. His dark eyes kept flitting between the soldiers below, knowing that one wrong move on his part could destroy the careful pedigree he had been born into. Any useless meat-headed lump wouldn’t do. Makarov needed absolute loyalty if he had to partake in this meaningless tradition. His cavalier had to be not only the strongest fighter, but provide him with harnessed thanergy, even at the cavalier’s own detriment.

Makarov took a sip of his wine.

Some soldiers displayed camaraderie, others jealousy, some pain as they pushed their bodies past their limit to catch the eye of the inattentive necromancers above them. Makarov rolled his eyes at those ones.

There were several that still caught his attention. Boxy, brutish builds that slammed into their sparring partners, often knocking their opponent to the floor in a single swift charge. Makarov’s lip curled in disgust. Those fools likely saw every problem as a nail and themselves at the hammer. He raised the rim of his wineglass to his lips to hide his distaste as he kept searching the floor.

Until one practically demanded Makarov’s attention. The cavalier stood by one of the archaic weight lifting machines. He held a water bottle and looked at the necromancer directly. He was just as muscular and thickset as the rest of the soldiers milling about. The sides of his blonde hair had been shaved close to his scalp, while the top had been left long and slicked back.

And he looked directly at Makarov.

Makarov didn’t even know he was holding his breath until the soldier's attention was called away. He placed his wineglass down, watching the soldier that looked up at him with such intense eyes. When it came time to choose his cavalier out of the line of sweaty, panting soldiers, Makarov chose him. The man introduced himself as Andrei Nolan.

Nolan crushed the newspaper clipping in his fist. It matched the address of the building in front of him. The restaurant, Konni, was looking for a busboy. Someone to attend the tables and placate patrons in between dishes being served. Konni was one of those high-end fancy restaurants that only sold one dish for each course, so there wasn’t a large menu that Nolan had to memorize.

The bell chimed as Nolan entered the restaurant. He had called ahead, letting the establishment know that he was interested in the position. The ad that the restaurant put in the classifieds stated that new hires would be employed on the spot. The voice on the other end, the man who said he was the owner, invited him over for a brief interview. His voice was less than friendly, aloof even, and showed no inclination towards how urgently the position needed to be filled.

Inside the restaurant, dull red carpet covered the floor. The tablecloths were a yellowing ivory. Everything was dimly lit. Nolan wasn’t sure if the darkness was because the restaurant wasn’t open yet, or if this was the ambiance that it was meant to have.

“Hello?” He called out into the dining area. The heavy curtains hanging on the walls swallowed up his voice. Someone still heard him.

“In the back.” The other voice said in lieu of a greeting.

Dark double doors opened up to a pristine kitchen. The white tile and stainless steel gleamed under fluorescent lights. It was such a drastic difference from the dining area that Nolan was stunned as the kitchen doors swung closed behind him. The few other service jobs Nolan had taken before were in lower-end establishments. By no means filthy, every restaurant he worked at did pass its health inspection, but this place was on a new level.

“You’re early.” The man stepped in from another door.

“Every second counts.” Nolan’s eyes had yet to adjust.

The man hummed at his answer. “Come into my office. You’re the one that called earlier.”

Nolan nodded in response as his eyes finally grew used to the bright kitchen lights. The man stood half a head shorter than him. A white chef’s coat, buttoned tight, made him seem slighter than what he was. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows to show well muscled, tattooed forearms. The man radiated unquestionable power.

The interior of the office was disheveled. There was only a single window in the office, with a thin band of morning sun that leaked through the drawn curtains, only served to highlight the chaos. The shelves held books and binders and stacks of loose paper. All related to recipes and the restaurant from what Nolan could read from messy scribbles. Opposite of the door he had entered was a mahogany desk, in a similar state as the shelves.

“Makarov…” Nolan read the nameplate that was on the desk. It was half-covered by loose papers listing the ingredients for a baklava. “You’re the one who answered the phone.”

“Of course.” Makarov didn’t spare Nolan a glance as he sat at the desk and unlocked his computer. “I own Konni.”

“You–” Nolan interrupted himself. “That’s why you’re here early too.”

Makarov gestured to the sagging couch. Nolan had missed it with his initial glance of the room. It, too, was covered with books and binders and loose paper. “You’ll have to make yourself a place to sit. The chefs don’t come in for another fifteen minutes to begin prepwork for today’s dish. When the first customers come in you’ll begin training.”

“What are the dishes for today?” Nolan asked as he shuffled a few papers around.

“The appetizer is mushroom julien, the main course is shashlik,” Makarov shuffled a few papers. “The side will be rassolnik, and dessert is zefir.”

Nolan sat down. “It’s been ages since I’ve had zefir.” The last time he had it was when he graduated highschool. His mother wanted to celebrate, and had made blackberry zefir. Nolan remembered how the marshmallowy treat melted against his tongue.

Makarov only hummed at Nolan’s comment, already immersed in the paperwork scattered across the desk.

It wasn’t a busy shift that night for Nolan. Few people came in, and those that did tolerated the extra time it took to serve them. The work still exhausted him. By the end of it, as Nolan gathered his stuff to leave, he noticed a to-go box with his name scribbled on it in black marker. He opened it once he got back to his apartment. Inside was a portion of zefir, the same kind that had been served that night at the restaurant for dessert.

Moscow was a winter wonderland in the tourist districts. But, as soon as you stepped off the well kept streets to take a shortcut, dirty snow clotted the sidewalks. Cold and miserable and gray, Makarov matched the dingy alleyway he stomped through.

He loved Russia. He hated this city. It was the only place he could get a decent pay. Makarov’s bland office job was soulsuckingly dull.

The weight of all the datasheets he had to stare at was reflected in the slump of his shoulders. Any reputation he inherited from his father’s political career post-collapse of the Soviet Union had been negligible, but Makarov felt that it prevented him from getting a fair number of promotions and pay raises. It didn’t matter too much. He made enough to live decently and his commute was a relatively short ride on the Moscow Metro.

Unfortunately, what he had to do on foot often subjected him to the Moscow weather. And right now, the drizzle of almost-snow soaked through his wool coat.

Makarov tried to shield himself from the worst of the precipitation under his briefcase. He had to switch tactics when he remembered that he was bringing a company laptop home. Makarov tucked the cold, rain-soaked leather under his coat, silently praying as he hopped between miniscule dry patches in the alley, the cold water leaking into his shoes no matter how careful he was. He cursed silently when the cold, wet bag touched his skin through his shirt. Makarov’s trousers had been soaked almost up to his knees from the snow slush and he fought against full body shivers.

He managed to step under an awning when the wind picked up. The warm glow behind him only highlighted how deeply the cold had set in his bones. He needed to get out of the cold.

Luckily, the awning was attached to a tiny cafe. The cheery interior looked empty and inviting and, most importantly, open.

The tinny bell sounded when Makarov entered. He almost let out a moan when the warmth of the cafe washed over him. The air smelled like coffee and fresh bread. The door closed behind Makarov without any preamble, nudging him further into the store.

A small handful of tables, all empty, ran alongside the wall. The glass display case was fully stocked with pastries and cakes and candied fruit. Behind the counter was a massive chalkboard menu with coffee options and made to order sandwiches scrawled across it. Makarov wasn’t sure how he always managed to pass over this hole in the wall.

“Do you want to order something?”

Makarov jumped at the voice, his reverie broken. He hadn’t noticed the barista at the counter.

The man’s stature, boxy and comically large, pointed to his profession being anything other than cafe work. The sides of his head were shaved down leaving the blonde hair on top long and slicked back into a ponytail. The man had his arms crossed over his chest, biceps were easily the size of Makarov’s head. If the man wasn’t wearing an apron with the cafe’s logo stitched on it Makarov would have assumed that he was being pranked.

“sh*t, it’s really coming down out there.” The man mumbled in English as he looked around Makarov.

It had been a long, long time since Makarov had heard English. Even longer for that particular accent. He remembered sitting in the living room with his mother, back when he was a child, as the two of them watched The Crocodile Hunter together. His dad managed to bring back vhs’s of the wild Australian when he went on political business trips. It was one of the ways that Makarov learned how to speak English.

The shock must have been apparent on Makarov’s face. The man switched back to using Russian.

“Sit, I will make you something.” His Russian was stiff and formal. It sounded like he learned his Russian from a stern professor. “It will be free.”

Makarov didn’t argue. He shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of the nearest chair as he sat. His clothes were soaked and clung to his skin, a mockery of any measure he had taken trying to avoid such a fate. Makarov unzipped his briefcase, extracted his laptop, and prayed that it was alright as he powered it on. When the screen flashed white he sucked in a breath. The corners were waterlogged. The computer still boots up normally, with his company photo appearing on the login page and the password field blinked into existence.

He let out a sigh, sagging back into the chair he dropped in. His computer breaking saved him one more headache with having to get it replaced through company IT. He snaps it closed and shoves it back in his bag.

The cold and wet of his clothes were slowly becoming just wet, but that didn’t stop his shivering. Makarov folded his arms around himself and looked forlornly out into the street. The not-quite-snow was dirty as it fell from the sky, leaving sooty splotches against the cafe’s window. He frowned at his reflection. His hair had flattened against his skull from the precipitation, his clothes smelled like eau de pollution, and he looked like a half-drowned cat. Makarov ruffled his hair in an attempt to at least not look as pathetic as he felt.

A steaming mug of coffee was placed on the table by Makarov. It was black, with none of the frills that were advertised on the menu board. He wrapped his hands around the mug and pulled it close. Just having the ceramic against his palms warmed him enough to still his shivers.

He could also read the name embroidered over the man’s right breast. Andrei.

Andrei sat next to him. He held his own mug of coffee, prepared similarly, and glanced at Makarov before returning his gaze to the dirty glass. “You looked like someone who takes their coffee black.” He said as he took a sip of his own drink.

Makarov does. He blew at the rising steam before mirroring Andrei. The coffee was delicious. He normally resorted to the lukewarm coffee from the breakroom or his cheap grounds at home, but this tasted borderline gourmet. Makarov let out a pleased hum as he lowered the mug.

“What is your name?” Andrei asked, placing his mug down on the table.

“Vladimir.” He said. After a beat he added, “Makarov. Is my full name. Vladimir Makarov.”

“Andrei Nolan.” The man’s Australian accent came out again when he said his name. “My cousin owns this cafe.”

Makarov nodded. “I’ll have to come by more often.” He replied after taking another sip. “I didn’t know this place existed. And you seem like good company.”

“You will have to pay next time you come in.” Andrei said with a smile.

“Of course.”

One of the stupidest moves Nolan has ever made as a tourist was getting trapped in a country he was visiting. Unlike previous stupid mistakes where Nolan has had to spend a night in prison, or stuck at customs because he lost his passport, or was tricked at a tourist trap that completely voided his travel documents, this one was much more severe.

Nolan wanted to take advantage of the lowered plane ticket prices. Airfare was the most expensive part of travel after all, and flights out of Australia were suddenly dirt cheap. He wanted one last jaunt out into the world before everything closed up for good.

Now, Nolan was stuck in the middle of Russia during the zombie apocalypse.

In his opinion, calling it an apocalypse was a hyperbole at first. Chronic Wasting Disease had been around for decades before it made the jump to humans in North America. Prolonged symptoms made it easy to isolate infected individuals before they eventually succumbed to the weight of the disease. It could only be spread through ingestion of the diseased meat of someone that had been infected with CWD, and the whole cycle of infection took a handful of weeks from what Nolan’s read about.

Hubris blinded epidemiologists from how CWD was also spread through saliva until it was too late.

A number of people had questionable immunity to CWD but nothing could determine how that immunity worked. It made everyone suspicious of who could have been a carrier, and those that had it in their system didn’t realize until their skin stretched taut over their ribs and couldn’t resist their insatiable hunger. Spit and blood became biological warfare. The two liquids drowned the Americas and the rest of the world decided that it was best to quarantine the two continents. Economies spiraled, supply chains choked, xenophobic rhetoric spilled across every street in Eurasia, Africa, and Oceania for a handful of months.

It made travel really, really cheap for a good while. Dozens of people, like minded folk like Nolan, took advantage of these prices before Australia started putting restrictions. Nolan wanted to spend a week in Russia, one of his bucket list trips. Unfortunately for Nolan, on the final day of his trip Russia became a blacklisted country for Australia.

So now he was stuck in Russia with a handful of Babbel classes and a suitcase full of dirty clothes. A trip to a laundromat and a few rubles later, and the latter changed to a suitcase full of clean clothes. Nolan even got another Babbel lesson in.

He overheard at the laundromat that a few dozen people were going to try and caravan to China or Japan; countries that didn’t have travel restrictions yet to catch a boat and get into Oceania before it was too late. Caravans from Europe had already course-corrected and were cutting through Turkey, Georgia, and Azerbaijan. Apparently the borders were starting to close for those countries too.

Nolan kept his mouth shut and finished his laundry. Having an Australian passport might still get him into the country, but he still had to get there.

It wasn’t out of place to trundle along the streets with a suitcase in hand now. Nolan passed by a dozen or so families that kept pace with their toddering elderly or their sleepy children. Many gave a thumbs up to already full vehicles that thundered by. Silent requests to hitchhike. The most heartbreaking sights were when Nolan saw families peering out of their homes: mothers with children too young to travel, elderly couples who sat on their front steps with rifles in their laps, men who unrolled barbed wire or nailed together barricades to protect those that were still inside.

He couldn’t say that he was paying attention to the news as he gallivanted across the city. Maybe things had gotten worse. Nolan kept his head down and thumbed at his passport shoved deep into his pocket. He had several thousand miles left, he couldn’t get discouraged now.

Everyone traveled at different paces. The mass of people from the city eventually turned into a trickle. Vehicles were left abandoned on the sides of the road. A few were towed into semicircles, acting as temporary shelters for all travelers still on the road. Trash in the form of shattered china and splintered furniture and shredded books padded the muddier sections of the road. After two weeks all of Nolan’s clothes were filthy and the rubles in his pocket were worthless. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to trade them for anything when he did reach Australian soil.

Isolated on the road, with blistered heels to keep him company, Nolan kept walking. He ignored the strangely boney corpse on the side of the road as he limped with both legs. There wasn’t a reason for CWD to make it this far inland. Nolan tells himself that it was still a coastal problem.

The day after the corpse he heard the rumble of an engine. It had been several days since he had heard one and almost didn’t recognize the throaty growl of a diesel engine. A military-esque humvee pulled up next to him, and a voice called out.

“Are you going to the █████? It’s a long walk my friend.” A man called out to him in Russian.

Nolan didn’t respond. There were still a few holes in his understanding of Russian. He had studied the language until his phone died, and otherwise kept silent. The fewer people that knew he was foreign the better.

The man was wirey, the same way everyone had gotten these days. “You are not █████████. No problem. I will take you to the next ████████ ████ and you can go with the next ██████. Deal?”

Nolan nodded.

The man halted the vehicle, and Nolan clambered into the passenger seat. Scattered across the dashboard were half a dozen granola bars, with strawberry and blueberry printed in cyrillic on brown wrappers. Military rations, probably.

“Eat. I think they taste like sh*t.” The man offered. Nolan saw that he was wearing a military uniform, albeit more casual than any propaganda poster Nolan had the chance of seeing.

Nolan grabbed one of the bars and ate it in three bites. He couldn’t taste which one he picked. Unlike most of the refugees wandering the road, he didn’t have the fortune of bringing food with him. He didn’t realize his folly until well after he left city limits. He had been getting by with group campsites that shared their food together, but as people grew sparser those events became rarer.

“Sergeant Makarov.” The man said after Nolan wolfed down a second bar. “You?”

It took Nolan a second to realize the man had introduced himself. “Andrei Nolan.” He frowned at how raspy his voice had gotten from disuse.

Sergeant Makarov nodded. The vehicle lurched forward as he pressed on the gas, and the two of them continued down the road in companionable silence.

It had been one year, eight months, and twelve days since Vladimir Makarov had left Earth. He was a part of the first wave to leave the dying planet to live on a self-sufficient space colony that orbited Saturn. Close to a thousand people were in this wave that contained some of the brightest and bravest minds that the planet could offer. Competition to be in this initial wave was fierce, with several would-be candidates assassinated for others to take their spot instead. Dozens of governments had to come together to protect those selected. Of course, as payment, the leaders of the world got to load their own children into the population destined for the colony.

During his semi-isolation, Makarov grew acquainted with the other representatives from Russia that were being launched. One was an accomplished nuclear physicist that was assigned to handle maintenance of the orbital colony’s engines. The second was a botanist who has spent almost their entire life around the seed catalogs of Vavilov’s Institute. The third was an ethics professor who was more disappointed about how he had to give up his recently earned tenure than leaving the planet. Finally Makarov himself, a special operations soldier who was tasked with keeping the entire population safe on the colony.

They had swapped fantastical tales of glory. How they all would prove Russian science and humanities were superior, how they would be the ones who proved their valor among all the other countries, how they alone would make the ship better for everyone else.

The nuclear physicist shot himself four months after they entered the orbital colony. The entire colony learned that there was no hope of them ever returning back to Earth. In fact, that was the final transmission they had gotten from Earth.

After the initial wave of grief rocked the colony. Everyone moved around their stations in a numb haze for months after. Many removed their country’s flag that had been proudly pinned to their shirts. The security sector, what Makarov was a part of, had been instructed to keep people moving in hallways and past bay windows. Dozens of people have been caught staring into the black void in a vain attempt to locate the corpse of their home.

Which is where Makarov stood now.

There weren’t any stars to be seen. All of them were extinguished by the warm lights behind him. If Makarov focused hard enough, he could imagine that he was in some cabin in the distant wildlands of Russia. Once he flicked off the lights he’d be able to see the shadows of the trees that surrounded him.

“Per the Security Council’s order, you cannot stop in the hallways. You must keep moving.” Another guard spoke in tired, accented English.

Makarov didn’t even turn to see who spoke. It was the standard warning that they were all supposed to give when an individual was loitering in the halls. People were often too caught up in their grief to move, and needed to be escorted away from the windows. He just needed a few more seconds and then he could walk away.

The man spoke again, this time in Russian.

It shocked Makarov to hear his mother tongue after all of this time. The common language on the ship slowly became English. A few pockets had adopted other languages as their tongue of choice, but Russian had been filtered out. Makarov couldn’t even speak it to the two remaining Russians on the ship because he never saw them. Even as a culture, he only saw evidence of his homeland inside of his apartment. Many dishes that he grew up with had disappeared from menus on the ship as people stopped making them.

“Are you okay?” The man switched back to English, approaching Makarov. It was against protocol to approach others in distress, but the guard didn’t seem to care.

“Can you speak in Russian?” Makarov asked. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to contain himself if he spoke in English.

The guard sidled up next to him, looking at the inky pane of glass with Makarov. “Of course.” He spoke in Makarov native tongue. “Are you homesick?”

It was such a silly question to ask. Everyone on this godforsaken colony missed Earth. If you didn’t you were a pariah, especially after the final transmission. There were riots caused by a few dozen people who couldn’t stand how everyone was wading through forced normalcy for the holidays.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been able to talk like this.” Makarov said in lieu of any answer. “I feel like I’m out of practice with my own mouth.”

The guard let out a soft laugh. “I’m out of practice too. My mother only knew Russian, and she was the only one I ever spoke the language to.” He turned towards Makarov and held out a hand to shake. “Andrei Nolan. I’ve seen you around the guard stations but I haven’t been able to introduce myself to you.”

“Vladimir Makarov. I’m guessing that’s why you were brought into the colony?”

There were dozens, if not hundreds, of Russia’s finest soldiers that could have been standing in Makarov’s shoes that were far more skilled. One of the main reasons he was picked to represent the country was because he was multilingual; outside of Russian he could speak English fluently, conversational Arabic and passable Spanish. Makarov quickly learned that being at least bilingual was the deciding factor for so many of the residents of the orbital colony. His father’s insistence in attending so many language classes as a young child ended up being a boon.

“No,” Nolan shook his head. “I was a damn good soldier. Good enough to almost be kicked out of the Australian Special Forces before being conscripted to this hellhole.”

“Good enough to be stuck as a glorified mall cop for the rest of your career?”

Nolan responded with a smile. “Almost. Maybe it will get better.”

Makarov finally looked away from the window. “Maybe it does get better.”

“Focus on the mission.”

“Of course, Kommander.”