[b]Yekaterinburg, Russia[/b]

The sky overhead rumbled with thunder as night set in. The air charged and bristled with anxious energy as a spring's storm gently rolled over the city of abandon. The wind rested cold and still. The shaggy trees stood limp and still. Hanging from every breath – man an animal – was a expectation of something distant coming.

It wasn't a lie in many senses. The day had been threatening rain for a time. The wind that combed over the city smelled as wet as it was cool. It was a matter of when. A matter of when the sky above would cloud and darken.

Standing at the stoop of his house a skinny Russian stood, arms loaded down with wooden crates of groceries. A light coat hung at his side as he stood, staring up into the sky. Overhead rumbles of thunder sounded with, almost list the expectant roll of drums in an orchestra. The sort of drums that rolled to summon and bait the climax and crescendo of the piece, to crash it at once with a crash of brass and the roar of strings. Every so often, the flash of lightning would spark through the ink blank sky illuminating his large bottle bottomed glasses with bright flashes of bleached white and fainted electrical blue. It'd be a hell of a storm. Like so many expected as word in the east grew dire.

The man could care little for such tired fear. In all of Russia the people had to pick such a thing to be afraid of now. But grumbling between pursed limps clutching a cigarette he lowered his head as he stepped up to the door of his home. Of all the self-killing.

The home wasn't much, or wasn't in better times. But without a broken window or a gratified wall. Without bullets marring the concrete steps as it rose up from the curb of the street, it might as well be a mansion. Lining the street, early turn-of-the-century townhouses marched up and down. Many bearing desperate signs of vacancy and squatters. Graying plywood sheets hung in darkened windows and many doors had been broken from their frames, opening up to the elements the darkened maws of dead beasts. Dogs were the maggots here in this grave yard. But there was a still living monster far more terrifying than the vulturous methamphetamine addicts that scoured the streets, clutching bottles of vodka as the stared with vacant zombie expressions.

Digging from his deep coat pockets the man pulled out his house keys. A ring full of tarnished blackened brass. With steady pale fingers they broke the lock, turning the tumblers as the door was pushed aside with a tired yawn. Echoing down the street the door closed with a monstrous bang, locking behind itself as its master returned.

There was nothing to say as he entered the black throat of the house. More metal clinked and clattered in the inundating shadows before a soft amber light shone in the night. A lit lighter. The light it carried floating with a ghostly ambiance in the frozen chamber of the small, tidy foyer. Like a lost will-o-the-wisp it floated along, coming to land in a small brass oil lantern. The wick caught immediately, growing and glowing with a healthy light as the Russian man tended to it. Fathering out with tender care to where the flame grew.

Washing over the floral wall-paper and the narrow wooden trimming of the doorways the light grew. Reaching up to the wooden ceiling above. Showing the stains once hidden and the few stubborn bits of plaster that had not yet broken down. Cracks and lines ran from floor to roof in fine hairline patterns. The wallpaper peeled back from the combination wood and plaster wall behind. It was not a fine home by any measure. But it was a mansion to the people now. Even without electricity.

“Krasivyy.” he crooned softly. Smiling warmly in the healthy glow of the burning oil. With his free hand he picked up the lamp before turning down the hall.

He didn't go more than a step when he stopped, his heart freezing in his chest as he saw the black shape seated expectantly in his hall. A man coated in black, holding leveled against him on the red arm rest of his favorite chair a monster of a hand-canon. The glimmering, polished plating caught the light perfectly, burning a bright fiery orange as its master stared listlessly at the man. His face frozen in such a haunting expression it froze him solid. The man, distinctly oriental from his narrow chin to his shaved head bore into him with eyes of green contempt. One he noted as being so bruised, the white was red.

“Put down the lamp, and the crate.” Jun growled in a low voice, his Russian was choppy to say the least.. His thumb stroked past the back of the revolver, drawing the hammer back with an affirming click. The Russian nodded understandingly, moving slowly as he put aside his crate of groceries, putting the lamp on the table next to him.

“How'd you get in here?” the man whispered. His voice was rough and strained. His eyes shrunk to pinpricks as he concentrated on the Changu in the agent's hands. His face lost color, even in the glow of the fire.

“That doesn't matter.” Jun said, “You know things.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” the man said with a shaky nervous voice. He rose his arms above his head.

“You do.” Jun answered. His voice carried with the brunt voice of a ram. He stared into the eyes of the man as he spoke, and he recoiled as if shot.

“I swear I d-” the man began.

“I found your name and address in a book.” Jun cut in without giving him the time, “Along with several others I'm interested in.”

“The n-neighbors.” the Russian said with a weak voice, nodding to the gun.

“You got none.” Jun replied.

“Po-” the man started, getting interrupted.

“All day. No patrols.” said Jun, “Too many gunshots today already. I don't think they'll care.”

The man nodded. His breath stuttered. It grew stressed and intense as he followed the line between him and the barrel of the gun. He thought about if he could play patient with him. The barrel could deviate. He'd need only a few degrees, there'd be time to turn and run between the miss. The recoil would give him that much.

His hopes were dashed. Jun knew well enough to see through it. Turning the pistol to the side more he could swear he could almost smell the urine.

“You want my name?” he stuttered, “It's Alexios Danovich.”

“I don't care about that.” Jun said. “Mafiya.”

“I can't do that...” Alexious murmured weakly, “I'm in Hell enough as it is.”

“Then it doesn't matter.” the agent said, “Names. Where can I go?”

“I honestly don't know many...” Alexios swallowed. His voice cracking, “There's Donoto-” he started.

“He's dead.”

“Then he's no good.” nodded Alexious. Sincere pity and remorse shone in those lamp-lit eyes. “Loshad Isetov. Business out of Chkalovskiy Rayon. Old factory off of Shcherbagova. I think it made tanks. I only been there twice. Ruins now. What else?”

“Will he have names?” asked Jun.

“More. Maybe. Yes.” Alexious said panicking. Jun's fingers on his weapon tightened.

“Thank you.” Jun said, drawing a single breath as a loud crash and a bright flash thundered through the hall. A red spike pounded into Alexious chest, spinning against the door as a thick fountain of blood trailed back behind him as he twirled limply against the ground.

His body hit the floor in a slump. Blood pooling up next to his body as he gasped with wet bloodied breaths to stay alive. The twisted dying body of Alexios was nothing Jun pitied in as he rose from the chair he had moved to the hall, loading a bullet back into the chamber as he reached behind the chair for his sparse gear.

Alexios eyes stared up at the oriental. Pleading from dark pits to save him. Cursing him for shooting him. Jun looked down to him, unmoving in his contempt. He didn't emphasize. Not that he understood, but that he didn't care. Alexious coughed as he bled, pleading for Jun to come back as he walked in through the darkness.