[b]China, 35,000 meters[/b]

It didn't matter how much he had gone up this high. Staring down from the belly of a dragon at the great Earth below was always frightening. Sailing along beyond the edge of the clouds, where the sun was as bright as knives were sharp. Where there was no gratification in the warmth of the sun's radiation, sometimes stolen away by the breath of cold air brushing past his bubble.

And more so was the conditions of the Earth below. Somewhere over Qinghai now, maybe. It was hard to tell. From the crown of the world, the terrain was an identical series of fractal valleys, where rain streams of water no doubt. But being so high and so distant from it all the streams and rivers were no doubt little less than a brown hair in the dust of a rocky garden. Cast in distant haze, yet to clear up high. Whispy clouds passed between he and the Earth, obscuring any finer details he would hope to see. He could see the profile of lakes, that was for sure. As clear as the mountainous, craggy peaks on west-central China.

Even the settlements of humans were invisible this high up. Or at least not those out here. Pressed against his forehead the body of his cold telescope rested as the airman looked down between his padded legs at his home passing below. He sighed, tired perhaps.

To him, what added more to the surrealism of it all was to look up at the horizon. The belly of the great dragon obscured the sky above him. It only pushed his gaze outwards to the horizon. A golden, orange band of light that followed the clearly rounded shape of the Earth's features. No mountains to break the continuity. Not even the might of the Himalayas that would be growing up from the southern horizon soon. And on the other side of that golden halo of the sun's light beaming off the thick clouds of the distance was the cold darkness of the beyond. An expansive blackness where if he looked just right he could see the faint suggestion of starlight in competition with the harsh rays of the sun.

They were flying to Tibet. The entire wing. The four others like him were too distant on the horizon. But if he craned his neck behind him, to look out under the tail wing of their impossible airplane he could sometimes swear to see the dot of one of their distant, yet near companions.

“How much longer we got?” a voice said in the man's ears, underlined with a harsh buzz. The crew's inter-craft communication. Almost reflexively his hand shot up to his ear for the headphones, intent almost to rip them off out of shock. But he relaxed.

“We've almost an hour yet, Sin Wu.” someone else spoke. The familiar clam demeanor of their navigator, no doubt flying his information by a watch and airspeed read-outs. He could almost see the cigarette-ash strewn map unrolled over his lap as he continually referenced it. “Shen, brother: what do you see outside The Peephole?”

The Peephole was the under-estimate of the decade, or so Shen thought as he looked down again at the landscape passing below. Looking back and ahead he looked for a fix he could recognize. Something geographical he could distinguish from so high up. Through The Peephole. The same hole he sat in, hung just over thick class by a wiry and uncomfortable throne. “I think we're just passing over Donggei Cuona.” he reported, looking out to just under the bullet nose of the airplane. Faded in the horizon, under the clouds, the familiar elongated smudge of blue that was Donggei Cuona.

“Thank you, comrade.” the navigator responded. Communications slipped into silence again.

There was an air of tension in the craft. No one could really say why they were relocating from out of Mongolia to Tibet. Even their captain, the pilot, didn't seem to fully understand the reasons. It was another layer to the voyage. One that mixed with the awe and vertigo of seeing your entire home laid open under neath you. Bubbling up from underneath with a feeling of unease.

Earlier this week, Shen had felt at ease with knowing where his life was headed. He had grown complaicent in the Mongolian steppe, minding the extensive airfield stationed there like many other pilots or the bomber crews. Deep Gobi, as elusive and unknown to the world outside, had become a familiar home to him over his passed three years of service.

Something was waiting for them in Tibet.

[b]Western Hills over Beijing, China[/b]

The patter of rain on the roof signaled the coming of warm weather that washed away the rest of the stubborn late-season snow. The drops pattered like light feed on the tiled roof, flowing off in rivulets of silver as it raced down the outward curvature. Twisting outward as the rushing water pushed itself over the edge and ribboned down to the gravel yard. There was no other sound more relaxing than the sound of rain. And dancing with the wooden clatter of bamboo chimes hanging from the eaves outside as they bobbed in the warm southerly wind the flow and ebb of nature became a light rain song.

House dimmed with no other music, Mang Xhu, the minister of China's industry sat in a rich crimson chair, staring out the window over the city he hoped to someday call his capital. Like star-light, the glow of yellow lights shimmered in the distance between the boughs of trees. Xhu hazarded he had no better view of the city than outside it. Above it. On the hills that shielded the capital from the dry coldness of the Mongolian steppes to the north-west.

China had changed in twenty years. But there was nothing that bugged him more than the passed several years. He was afraid. Afraid for China. Of the outside. For a brief moment the Chinese state had opened to a western power. America. For a brief moment Mang Xhu clinched his teeth shut tight as he looked west-ward over the Pacific, afraid of the vampiric American capital interests that he had brushed shoulders with once upon an ancient time. For that brief moment the American White House felt friendly to China, for whatever reasons they had, Xhu was anxious.

But the efforts of the American people were turned elsewhere. Apparently, they feared China as much as they did the Canadians. What an ironic sort of enemy they had, after so many years. But it was this that saw the regime change in Washington. The one that closed shut their hopeful doors of diplomatic relationships. And the return of their respective ambassadors. And again Mang Xhu could breath.

Zhang Auyi had heralded the brief trading relationship with the US as a victory for China's economy. But Xhu knew deeper. He had learned it in America. Where the people starved as they did here at home, in China. But their destitute were better hidden. Xhu had learned just how dangerous the American concept of economy and management was. Concerned on trying to export, even during that time when the world was weakened financially. There was nothing that bid passion to the inside. Nothing that went inwardly over outwardly.

To be so proactive was, to him, a voluntary self-destructive act. To move the resources better spent on the people and the nation's well being as a whole to someone else. It wasn't strength. It wasn't inward power. It was bowing to someone else for capital that went only into the pockets of a few.

No, China was rich as it was. He could be as powerful as it was. He only had to win. Things would have been smooth, but Auyi had thrown his hat into the ring and now the entire Secretary Office was stagnant. Hou backing out, months retired from Beijing itself and holding his office by phone and courtier. He, trying to secure the succession for himself and the rightful path above others. And now that Auyi was his competition the office felt cold.

It was a tomb for him now. More than anything. One that was waiting for the dead man to be inturned, but one waiting for him to come to him alive. Last visit he made with officers he could feel Auyi's loyalists eyeing him with suspicion.

He rose his fingers to his lips, taking another draw from a sour cigarette. Xhu was by no means a young pup like Auyi. He was round in his age, though hardly fat all the same. His face a boulder that no moss grew from, but fell off of; his hair a stringy ring haphazardly combed over a balding spot dotted with liver spots.

He couldn't claim the cigarette felt good, the hot stingy smoke and ash dancing across his tongue, racing down his throat. But on the exhale his mind felt clearer and at ease. He could think in this moment of being alone.

He felt his succession was almost certain. He had courted the chiefs of the existing design bureaus. They were to rally their working staff on election day. Bring them to the polls. Even if they weren't all convinced they would ensure a passing win, and he didn't need to get out often. Hold a dinner, present some win, invite the secretaries to serve. Put on a show and talk about wealth and nation and smile. Make them feel they were winners and then send them home.

They were his own campaign. But now Auyi was in he felt he was loosing some of them. He was beginning to panic. He was a respected governor in the south. He was a regarded minister – perhaps not as much as he, but still. If he drew the lines as he had been doing, he'd have amassed a larger supporting block than him. But could farmers and cattle herders even be that ecstatic about election? You couldn't shut down a farm like you could a factory.

He drew on his cigarette again, leaning forward in his chair and closer to the window. The eastern face of his home was all glass, providing a rich panoramic view of Beijing. He hadn't been there when it fell. He wasn't a Hou Sai Tang. But he could lie and say he was. He could lie and say he was here, when he was really out west in the heart of the independent communes. He was a mobilizer then, like Xiogang Wen.

And that late in the revolution little cared for the Worker's Congress. Eyes were out east to where the last of the Reactionaries were being laid down and forced to surrender. The People were winning. Progressivism. A national worker's union.

And then Hou had to cut a deal with them. Absolve most of their roles. Sent only the most criminal to jail.

Xhu would have wanted them all purged. Exiled. Executed. Jailed. Now the last of the Old Guard for the Republicans and the Emperor's old officers were coming to the end of their reeducation terms. They'd be re-entering the larger community. They couldn't have that. But that was for another time.

What then was there for the immediate future. Surely there were those that disagreed with Auyi. He'd need to find them. Promise them things.

What of the International? It was a promising thing. But needed to be stronger. Needed centralizing. But would he be able to take control?

Through it, maybe he could force the annexation of those loyal to China. Stand more united. More as one against the West. It was a thought. It was an idea. Would it pass?

Could he then more appropriately force the proper justice on Japan for their actions in China? Break for once the closest power to challenge China's will in Asia. There were plenty who still hated the Emperor. Retribution would be powerful to the public. No more Europe. No more Africa. Just Japan. Then when the Spanish had burned out and raped Africa he would truly liberate Africa. No more Emperors. No more kings. No more Sotelo.

A door slid open behind him, and for a brief moment golden yellow light flashed in the darkened, gray sitting room. The light of the opening door briefly shining in the glass, casting the reflection of a long skinny woman. Soft footsteps drew close to him as someone moved along the red carpeted floor.

Long soft fingers fell across his shoulders, he looked up at their touch. Not smiling as he looked up at the grinning face of the woman alongside him, body wrapped in a white towel. He hair just barely dry.

“What are you thinking?” she said coyly. She was maybe half Xhu's age. She was short, skinny, and gentle. The epitome of the Chinese beauty to his eyes. Her hair – wet or dry – silky and smooth. And even in the dim stormy light of a rainy afternoon her eyes shone with the youthful romance, a certain lust.

“Nothing, and everything.” smirked Xhu, his voice high and cracked. He reached over to the end-table alongside him, extinguishing his cigarette into the jade-green ceramic ashtray there.

“Very philosophical.” she crooned, leaning over him. She was one of his secretaries, one of many. Several owed him such favors, but this one seemed to enjoy it all the more. He couldn't claim to complain.

“How was the water?” Xhu asked, leaning back. Gently her hands danced at his belt. She felt him, and he felt her. He felt warm, it was just a question if she was all the same.

“It was fine.” she said in a soft voice. She sounded like the chirping of a bird, in a odd childish sort of way. “A little cold. But you'll keep me warm, won't you?” she asked.

“I will.” Xhu crooned, his hand raising for the towel. So roughened, bruised. Yellow patches of cigarettes stains between his fingers. It looked like it didn't deserve the temptress that sat on his lap, dancing her fingers across him.

“You know,” he began, “they say that in his hedonism, Mao believed that young, supple, virgin girls were his key to long-life and good health. To see him through to as deep a time as he could get.” Xhu said, his hand rising along the cotton towel. His knuckles gently brushing along the skin underneath, feeling the curvature of her stomach, her breasts.

“Am I yours?” the secretary asked, shyly.

“Tonight,” Xhu said, wrapping his fingers around where the towel was tied around itself, “and tomorrow.” he added, “And maybe next week.” he smiled, pulling his fingers and letting the towel drop, letting it land across his belly as the naked girl opened his pants.

“Let's both have long life then.” she smiled wide, letting her master have her all.

[b]Kalachinsk, Russia[/b]

The clanging of metal. The rumble of motors. The engineer's motor pool was no stranger to activity. Passing through cargo loads with the engineer's logistics corp logo emblazoned on the door. They came with regularity. The pool wasn't just a glorified military shop, as it was a way to register and direct passing motors. With a rain coat and a clip-board a small team of officers hovered on the edge addressing each passing driver on the updates to the battle, or where what amount of shells needed to be.

A light drizzle had fallen in over the small village town. The sky wholly loosing its spring openness and luster and falling into a depressing gray that came with rain so late in the day. It was even more complimentary to the war, and the drab greens faded into the browns and the grays. The only real color was the glowing reds of flags and banners. And the proud warm orange glow of lamplight.

As the light lowered and dimmed, so did come out the lamps. Glowing under the hoisted bodies of cars on wrought steel jacks the men of the attached mechanic's core went to work despite the rain. Dressed in heavy plastic and warm caps they went about despite the cold rain. Even under the jacked-up tank, several scrounged jacks having found their way to its belly to lift the one side off to repair the tracks. The orange fire the illuminated their presence shone off the rain whetted mud and steel. Hoods drawn up over their faces they went at the wheels and the treads with wrenches, welders, and tools Tsung didn't have a name for.

And with the music from the player that sat next to him as he basked in the orange glow of the lamp brought out for him he watched.

They were a soft bunch, he hazarded. Loud, noisy, and proud. Even above the hammering and the grind of metal they talked incessantly over each other and the sound they made. They laughed, jeered, told amusing anecdotes. Even at times turning to engage in conversation with Tsung as one turned away unneeded from the rest, or came to adjust the music.

It had only been the evening so far, but the small squad of men who had greeted he and his fellow crewmen were considerably gregarious as far as things went. And they had introduced themselves quickly in his presence, if on their own time.

There was An Bai, who was the loudest. His voice was noticeable above everything, more so his laugh which came from his mouth at the flip of any joke. It was high-pitched, almost shrill. Fitting in a sense, for despite claiming to be twenty-three he was a man that looked more like a boy than anything. His face smooth and still fat with youth, he wasn't hard or grizzled. A stranger in such company.

Opposite to Bai in physique and mannerisms was the sergeant, third-rank. Though polite he was a hard man to look at. His cheeks shallow and sunken and lips drawn thin and broken. He was sharp in his eyes, and low and quiet in his voice. He was like Tsung's own uncle: calm, collected, and conservative. Also their leader, as far as things went. Bi Wu. Shang Shi Bi Wu.

Guo Jonny was a fairer skinned member of the gaggle of grease monkeys. Taller as well. An echo of European lineage in Chinese lands. He claimed his father was a doctor during the Siege of Hong Kong and sent his then pregnant mother to the mainland with the rest of the excursion lead by Hou. Presumably he was able to use his British citizenship for protection, but he had never heard anything about him apart from stories, as he claimed. He was fair built, and none would tell him apart as Chinese if it weren't for the squat narrow eyes that rested shallow in his skull.

Liu Wu was a the central plains. He was short, squat. But he was nimble. Even at a distance as Tsung watched he was amazed and the speed he had in his hands and fingers. It took him minutes to strip down much of the treads to pass off and begin pawing through the wheels in search of damage. His crooked face bent more misshapen as he peered up through the wheels with a flashlight.

The one to keep the spirits most high in all was a rat of a man by the name of Shu Da. Skinny as a twig, to where his coat – much the same as his uniform – hung loosely from his frame. He darted between the jobs, acting more as a gopher. Acting in defiance of the gloom by shouting crude jokes into the rain. Much to the humor of a bored An Bai.

“Damn, this rain in Russia is so cold it may freeze my soul and turn me into a dumbass!” he called out at the storm, taking on the deep tonal voice of someone very much in that position already. His crude and cocky grin turned up as he ran about with arms laden with tool kits.

“And to Hell with washing the cars, the soup doesn't stick to shit in this kind of weather!” he shouted again, “And damned if we don't know, we're all standing in it!”

Bai's chuckling and hawing was loud enough to excuse the sound of the light drops pattering down onto Tsung's hood as he sat against the wall, impatiently twiddling his thumbs. It's not like he didn't appreciate the attempts at lightening the mood the engineer was trying. But that he was preoccupied. He had come to fear Song, he only knew true anger a few times. He could only bite back and hold his tongue quiet in hopes that whatever was to happen was not heavy.

“So my girlfriend told me before deployment,” Da continued in a flatter tone, “'before you go, could we climb Mount Chomolungma?'

“And I told her, 'baby, if you want to climb the tallest mountain: why not you get on me?'”

“Damn it, Da.” Liu Wu complained, looking out from under the tread well to glower at the patrolling jokester, “Could you really just stop.”

Liu Wu stopped for a brief moment. Staring at him with a blank face. “Da?” he said, “Isn't that what the Russians here use for 'yes'?” he asked.

There was a brief cold pause and silence among the group. “No, that's 'dja'.” sergeant Wu said dryly.

“No, Da!” Da corrected with a wolfish grin, “I'm the fucking Yes Man!” he cheered, laughing loud. An Bai followed suit, and Tsung had to grant him that, it was a quick and smart shot of humor. He himself couldn't help but shake his head and laugh.

“So... uh...” Tsung said, raising his voice, “How ready is it not?” he asked.

“Close to half way if not there.” Wu said, “The old tread plates are off. They only need to be replaced, if we can scavenge some up. We don't have replacements now.” he pulled himself out from under the tank, brushing rain water from his brow with his hand and brushing the grime from his narrow brow.

“You don't have any?” Tsung said, surprised.

“No.” Wu said, shaking his head.

“I can put out a request for someone to scavenge some up. Ask some of the couriers to bring them back after they're pulled from a Russian corpse.” Bi Wu said, voice dry, “It'll be the best I can do, unless Song wants to wait a good week for a whole new tread belt to come from Shenyang.”

“So what did you hit again, a mine?” Guo Jonny asked.

“Yeah...” Tsung nodded.

“Shit, lucky it wasn't very big.” the half-Chinaman smirked, “There's only real damage on the treads. The hull over the belly is fine. Even the wheels and mechanisms in the tread motors weren't badly damaged.” he talked like a doctor giving a prognosis. Cool and calculated in his words, and confident.

“You might at worst hear some grinding from the left side from now on.” he added, “But in a Tei-Gui it doesn't hardly matter.”

“You drove Tei-Guis?” Tsung asked the Hong Konger.

Jonny shrugged, “A little.” he responded distantly, “It's sort of in our training after basic we drive or ride inside most of the equipment you jackasses in the field use. So we're familiar with how they feel in the event you break a toy.”

“Sometimes I wonder if your lot is any better than my nephews.” their sergeant teased, joking, “I'll radio out for an order. If all goes well we could have a new belt to break apart and patch up your damage by morning.

“It's best if you go find a bed,” he ordered, “last I checked they're setting up a field barracks on the other-side of the town square. Best of luck to you, comrade.”

[b]Perm, Russia[/b]

If there was ever to be a reminder that he was between two worlds, there was the very infrastructure of the city of Perm itself to remind. Seemingly defiant in its pride despite the failing Russian state, the city of Perm clung tightly to the concept of it is to be Russian. So old in itself that the Imperial industrialism of Siberia had given way to the old and the traditional. Strong baroque blocks of homes shared the same blocks of street with the colorfully bright painted offices and administrative functions in distant and detached Russian Revivalism.

Though strained and dirtied the heavy block and brightly painted plasters and beams acted out to actively ignore the inequality in Russia, against the decaying Republic and the growing strength of the Mafiya. Between the crossroads of chaos in the east and chaos in the west a city had remained standing to benefit. How so, the Chinese agent couldn't name, or identify. Not on the surface of it.

Hanging above the city of speckled agelessness and modern industry the sun cut through spring-time clouds. Basking the city below in a warmth that melted on the roads. Teasing them and coaxing them to bake and shed the slush and the snow that had fallen this late into the year. Cobbled side-walks bubbled with run off that flowed gushing from rusty gutters. Potholes large enough to drown a tiger lined the roads, exploding in fans of water as trucks and cars careened haphazardly along their highways.

The streets buzzed with a hymn of life, if poor all the same. Though there was rust and trash in the gutter, the roads busted, there was not a nail more final that Jun was still in Russia than the street trolleys decorated in the vulgar graffiti of the post-tzardom. Heavy, scrawling, and so coated over the writing was illegible. And clutching to the darkening brass and reddening iron of hand rails rode the tired frail ghosts of the men that called themselves citizens still. Dark torn coats flapping at their ankles as sunken eyes starred distraught at the passing road beneath the street car as it shuddered and clapped along. The tired workmen unflinching as it bumped, breezing through the warm spring air.

Jun's interests in the city though did not extend to them, and he highly doubt they knew of the distribution network of the Mafiya so he may find his way to the top, and to hopefully take two birds with one stone. Or just as importantly: if there were any allies of use.

Looking down the narrow city street the immensity of Perm became more brilliantly apparent than it was outside the city in the hills, to see it as a hazy forest beyond the trees. Stretching and snapping over and between hills it flew like a skyward blanket, with the rising crowns of its buildings looming watchfully overhead. From somewhere swinging jazzy music played from an open window. More distantly there was yelling, cheering of children. The honking of horns and the sweeping wish-washing sigh of tires on wet pavement.

Despite the wetness, despite the crime, despite the molding whetted political posters and obscenities it was a living city. Perhaps a rarity.

Is feet were numb as he marched down the street, listening to the city as a whole. Behind him something had rolled up. He could hear the muted hum of an engine and the crackling of rubber long loose stones. It cut the uniformity of the city's aura. In disruption. Perhaps it was nothing. Bowing his head Jun continued, carrying himself as apathetically as the local Russians.

But the sound did not abate. It continued.

Shaoquan dared a sideways look. His heart went tense as he caught a corner glimpse of the beaten white fender of a rusted-over van trailing behind him, just on the edge between side-walk and road. The headlamps broken inward. The metal scratched and dented over triply from collision and ruin. The darkened windows shone the reflection of the sun.

Turning back to in front of him he kept the same pace. But he did not see the city, nor hear the city as it was anymore. The van behind him continued to keep its pace. He could hear the pop and crackle as it continued unabated over the refuse of a city. He could feel the hot rumbling of its motor. It was there. Tailing him. Too obviously. It wanted something.

As he rounded a corner, so did the stalker. Keeping up with Jun in spite of the curious eyes of the bystanders around them. The engine turned aggressively, rising from a low hum to a restrained growl. It picked up the pace, crawling up faster to him. There was a sigh, the noise of the window being lowered. The soft realization of music played into his ears as the vehicle pulled up alongside him. He looked to the corners of his eyes, watching expectantly as it pulled in closer to him, the window lowering. The silhouettes of masked men inside.

The faint shimmer of light on a gun barrel.

He threw himself to the ground just before he felt the hot spray of a shotgun blast carve along his back. He dove before its explosive report tore down the city street and torn from the side of the building alongside him a fist full of stone and concrete. Exploding outward as the heavy shot impacted and exploded against the stone.

“Don't be shit, kill the fuck!” someone roared in deep Russian as the report of the shotgun dissipated as he hit the ground. A frantic drumming filled his chest as he turned onto his back to see the door of the battered van swing open, a massive masked man swinging out on the door with a pump-action shotgun in hand.

With a crashing thump the Chinese agent planted both feet into the metal of the door's side, violently smashing it against the forehead of the man as he hung between sitting and leaning to the outside. With a roaring crash the frame cracked him in the head, throwing him back against the hull of the truck with a shudder. Flinching his fingers hit the trigger of the shotgun, a second report exploded in the city's silent air as he fell back. The gun kicked in his hands and fell loose. At once he struggled to grab his rogue weapon, and find purchase on the door.

Scrambling, Jun threw himself to his feet. Grinding his teeth as he lowered his head, the report of a pistol shattering through the windshield glass. He could feel the bullets pass over head as he sprinted down the side-walk. Dancing between shots and feeling the bullets pass too close. Trampling over garbage he swung himself into an alley between two homes, darting through the darkened and dirtied pathway as he fled.

But he heard the roar of the van. Enraged shouts echoed between the walls as a full steam roar charged along the road behind him. It screamed like a dragon. Bellowing like a lion. It was primal, hungry, and pissed. He was half-way through as he turned, seeing the rusting and flaking van slide down the road, dragging screaming tires along the pavement and breaking aggressively about to angle itself for an attack.

Jun felt the blood rush from his face as he realized what was happening. Without hesitation he turned on his ankles and broke into a full sprint through the alley. The van roared behind him and he heard the crashing of metal on stone, and metal on metal as it slammed itself into the narrow alleyway after Jun. Loud crashing pursued him as he ran. The drumming clanging of trashcans sang over his head as the determined vehicle barreled at him. Its screaming grew harder as it drew closer. 

In this moment, Jun was terrified. Never mind being shot at, or stabbed. Dropped down cliffs and frozen bitterly in the heart of Russia. He had his lack of pills to ignore these ills. But there was nothing more absolute or more over all debilitating that being ran down.

He tumbled out from the alley and onto the street on the far side once again, reaching out for a startled woman and pulling her aside as he turned course. Throwing her as he rolled out of the way of a rocketing van that exploded out of the cavernous alley. Hot on his heels and peeling metal and sparks as it scrapped the stone of the twin buildings. Screaming in shock the woman threw herself to the side and hugging the porch of a town house and Jun continued his flight. Charging blindly for a square not far ahead, a rising white and domed church loomed just ahead.

The van was persistent, and regardless of the traffic it spun to the side, turning to find and face Jun once again. Oncoming traffic screamed and scattered as the persistent monster mounted their roads and turned to breath fire. In a full sprint down the side-walk Jun flew down the side of the street. The stripped-white van roared and spun its tires over the road as it ground down the road after him.

The roar of the engine neared on Jun. It was labored. But it was fast. Realizing it was gaining fast, Jun knew he had to act fast. Keeping forward, he came to run alongside a wall alongside the side-walk. It'd have to do to try something.

From the other corner of the building he saw two side doors swing wide open. He'd need to do it.

Jumping up he kicked off a stone in the wall and clambered up its face, reaching out for the top of the garden wall as below him another shotgun blast tore a crater into the stone, exploding in a plume of fire. The hot tongues licked at his feet as sticky flames bloomed under him and he threw himself over the top.

Jun landed with a hard oomph, collapsing in the tangled brambles of a a twisted bush. Even his sensation to pain muted, he could feel the dull throb of the thicker knots in its branches pressing into his sides and ribs as he rolled off the barren bush, pulling from the young twigs the sprouting new leaves of spring and falling into the greening grass.

On the other side of the wall he could hear the shotgun thunder as the motor sped ahead. Hurriedly, he pulled himself to his feet and ran to the other side. The distinctive choked blaring roar of the engine echoing in the near distance, and drawing near again as he ran to the far side of the urban yard. From somewhere near the house Jun heard a woman screamed distressed, “Oh God, the Chinese!”

He paid her no head as he threw himself on the far wall, and clambered up it. Pulling himself to the top he looked down the road. The same white van was charging his way again, having rounded the block. Forcing aside wayward traffic it half charged along the sidewalk, and half into the street. Leaning out the side door a beast of a man dressed in steel leaned out the side, combat shotgun cradled in a thickly armored hand to Jun's position.

Jun dropped down as a load of fire crashed along the top of the wall where he was. Splintering the stone and raining down watery spattering of watery fire and sharp concrete shards. Jun dropped to the grass, rolling back and tumbling onto his feet, tripping across the fire-poked yard. The van behind the wall crashed against the city traffic. Horns blared and metal crashed as Jun threw himself on the other far wall, throwing himself over the side and landing with a hard thud on the other side. Breaking back into a sprint he continued to run.

For the sound of chaos, it was expected the area would have cleared so fast. Gunfire and mad cars had the power to do that. Abandoned at the road, empty cars ran idle in the street has Jun ran dry-mouthed between them. He needed to find cover, or a funnel. In that way he may perhaps deal with the man in armor. He doubted his handgun could take him down at the ranges he wanted.

Stuck or lost, drawing his hunters into the church seemed like the better idea. It stood at the far side of an open park almost invitingly. But dark. There was something off about it. But Jun didn't have time to think about it. Weaving between cars he ran out onto the green. Making it between the trees it drew closer. He checked behind him to check his pursuers, only for in that moment to have the rush of fanning shrapnel scream by his face. The rush sounding like a rocket passing just alongside his face.

He ducked instinctively at the sound. Rolling behind the partial safety of a metal park bench littered with papers. Peering out behind he looked to see the hulking man in iron marching across the far corner of the square. The combat shotgun hugged to his chest as he loaded shells into the chamber. The barrel smoked cherry red hot. A small armory of others hung across his back like wings, and thick belts of fresh shotgun shells crossed in heavy X's across his chest. His face obscured with a replated and bolted welding mask. The dark visor shone in the afternoon sun as he loaded the last shell and shouldered his weapon to fire.

He ducked into a roll as the iron bench rang with the pounding sound of shotgun pellets raining against it, scattering the littered papers into an explosive ring of fire. Whipping around a tree he shot to his feet as another crippling blast from the shotgun tore a deep fleshy, wooden gauge from the tree's trunk and leaving a ring of fire in its wake, charring the rest.

Jun went back to sprinting. His legs kicking off the ground as he threw himself out of the way of trees and lamp posts. The explosive rush of the shotgun rang in his ears at each unplaced shot from his pursuer. He could hear someone swear behind him, but could not make out the words as he staggered up the stairs, feeling marble and concrete pepper his legs as he lunged for the heavy wooden door, throwing them open.

With a slam they shut behind him as he stepped into darkness.

[b]Urals, Russia[/b]

The fire crackled alongside Ulanhu. The home given to him temporarily was small. But with Jun no longer sharing the same quarters there was more space to it. But not nearly enough to properly stretch out. In a way, he felt he had more room in his apartment in China.

But there was a luxury here his home did not have. The southern Urals moved slow. It was peaceful. His home in Hohhot was active, almost at every time of day. Even for one of many Chinese back-water cities there wasn't a moment the blare of horns, or the incessant reporting of the public loud speakers on the news did not break into. He had grown familiar to it, and was deaf to it. But being away from it he realized just how much it had filled his life with noise.

Here he had time to read books, shuffle through reports (predominately Russian). A radio in the corner gave a report on the progress in the east, on the war. Though it was considerably stinted to Russian favor, dramatizing the situation to create empathy. All the same, it was the most readily available source of information he had. He wondered if they truly had set ablaze to Omsk by now.

Near by it the more conspicuous military radio sat silent. It was on, but there was no activity on the channel. A channel shared by he and Jun, and the regular recon aircraft that flew out this way, specifically to collect short field briefings. The last of such aircraft had passed nearby only a few short days ago, and it wouldn't be for a week more another would fly by. But the regularity would no doubt become questionable with war in the east.

Still though, he had not heard anything of Jun in too long. He wondered for him. Not worried: he knew he was a capable person. It was just a matter of why he wasn't reporting in. Surely he couldn't have gone so far he'd be out of range so far?

Never the matter, it was a waiting game. The anxiety would need to be bottled for now. A calm veneer kept as to not grow insane with cabin fever. The winter snow had lifted and the Russian countryside was experience a spring rebirth.

There was a crack on the radio. Ulanhu stopped his reading, looking up at the radio tucked in the corner of the tiny wooden kitchen counter. The needle on its face jumped as a light squealed popped and faded. Ulanhu furrowed his brow. What was this about? Was this a mechanical failure with the ECGs?

It popped again, there was static. Something that sounded like speech.

Ulanhu's heart jumped in his chest and he shot up from his seat. The chair falling to the ground as he pushed himself hastily around the corner of the table, dashing to the radio. Grabbing the palm-sized receiver he rose it to his mouth. “Hello. Come in? Over.” he said.

There was a watery grumble from the other side. Someone was playing with it. “You don't need to play with the squeal. It should have been alright when you set out. Over.” Ulanhu said testily.

“Who?” a voice said grumbling on the other side. The voice was heavy. Deep. It was cut, like scars in the throat. Unfamiliar.

“Jun?” Ulanhu stammered foolishly.

“Jun?” the other end said, “Not Jun. Hell.”

“W-wait what?” Ulanhu nearly shouted into the receiver, “Who the fuck is this? Speak up!”

“Nightmare.” the voice said. It sounded like it was smiling.

“How did you get this frequency?” Ulanhu demanded.

“No need to know.” the response said, “All need know is: we found you.”

“[i]Tilli tilli bom.[/i]” chirped in someone else.

“No, I demand. Who are you!?” Jun demanded into the receiver. His palm shook and sweat beaded on his brow. His voice rattled in his throat. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

No response came.