[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/hUm8ue5l.png[/img][/center] [center][sub][sub][h3][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oshON1NsjPY]Казачья колыбельная песня[/url][/h3][/sub][/sub][/center] [sub][sub][h3]Moscow[/h3][/sub][/sub][hr] [indent][indent] A cold wind danced through the Federal Military Memorial Cemetery carrying with it the promise of rain. The gentle wisps sending flashes of gooseflesh across Natasha’s neck. Natasha didn't mind the cold that much, even before the injections had dulled her senses to the elements, it had a comforting familiarity to it; ghostly echoes of a woman's warm voice that came to her in sleep singing [i]Казачья колыбельная песня[/i] on some cold January night. She held onto that strange comfort as she pressed her hand traced the letters carved into the cold granite of the grave marker - [i]Captain Ivan Petrovich Bezukhov[/i]. The service was a very small affair only a priest and Natasha in attendance. [i]Дядя[/i] never had a family of his own besides Natasha, he was a man that was married to his work and to the betterment of his country, and his country repaid him with not even a nod of recognition in return, the inescapable nature of the world of wetwork: it was part of the job to be forgotten, to be lost amongst histories countless pages. Natasha knew that he would of been fine with it, probably preferred it that way. Yet some small part of her still [i]knew[/i] that he deserved better. She caught a glimpse of a face, frozen in time, in the fresh polish of the grave marker. It was a face far displaced from the young girl that [i]Дядя[/i] had rescued from the rubble of an apartment building in Stalingrad. Despite that and even in his old age [i]Дядя[/i]’s wrinkled face would brighten wherever she had a chance to stop by the hospital in Presnya. [i]“Моя маленькая лиса”[/i] Eventually though he stopped remembering. Her face lost to the fog of age. It was hard to lose somebody like that. It was around that time that she stopped going to the hospital. She looked down at the piece of embossed paper that was clutched in her hands. It was one of those prayer cards that the nuns handed out to people on the street. The priest had given it to her after the service. On the front was a depiction of the Crucifixion and on the back was a simple prayer that was supposed to help guide the dead onward. On the very bottom of card was a small sequence of numbers that couldn't be seen but felt through a series of slight indentations - a cypher and one that Natasha knew all too well. The message was simple. [sub][sub][h3]Saint Petersburg - A Few Days Later[/h3][/sub][/sub][hr] Three kilometers up the Fontanka’s rambling path through the center of Saint Petersburg, where the casual passerby are able to catch glimpses of a lost time amongst the aristocratic palaces that clutter the river's embankment, just past the Egyptian Bridge where tourists wrapped in scarves and coats could take pictures next to iron sphinxes and great columns inscribed with hieroglyphics, down the boulevard there is an art gallery called the Сердце - the Heart. The gallery was a small and homely affair, the entire space roughly the size of some of the reading rooms of the palaces that surrounded it. The space within spartan in its sentimentalities: the paintings hung upon bare walls and a single desk were a receptionists typed away at a computer. Outside a small electronic sign advertises their newest show - a selection of up and coming artists from the neo-cubist movement. From the sidewalk staring up at this flashing sign was Natasha. She looked like any of the other migrants that frequented the area: small men’s black t-shirt thoroughly shrunken, a pair of black jeans, and a fur-lined aviator jacket that hung to her frame. She looked down at the watch that adorned her wrist. One last look was tossed down the empty boulevard before she entered the gallery, the soft sounds of a electronic chime ringing out as the door opened. She strode over to the counter and leaned an arm against it, a pair of glasses rose up meeting her eye. The receptionist was a young woman in her late twenties with her hair pulled into a messy bun, she was dressed in a sharp alabaster pantsuit that blended in perfectly with the gallery’s interior. She met Natasha’s eyes with the easy smile that came from years of customer relations. “And how can I help you today Ma’am?” The voice held a pleasant sing-song ring to it. “Ah yes, I was on the phone earlier with someone about an appraisal?” Natasha responded with a mock-heistance. There was a flash of recognition across the receptionist’s eyes as the command phrase was spoken. She nodded to herself before typing some command into the keyboard. She looked back up smiling. “It seems that you do have a scheduled appointment. If you could follow me Ma’am.” The receptionist moved away from the desk deeper into the gallery space. Natasha was lead to the back of the gallery beyond where a passerby could gaze in from the street. There as they came up to a blank wall, the young women pressed an unseen switch which made a section the wall flip revealing a sophisticated optic scanner. Natasha tapped her foot as she waited for the receptionist to lean into the device and for another section of the wall to slide away revealing a door. Taking a heavy key from her jacket pocket the receptionist opend the door revealing a dark space. She gestured with her other hand from Natasha to enter. The door closed behind her as Natasha entered the darkened space. Bright halogen bulbs snapped to life illuminating the space around her. Natasha peered through squinting eyes at a small featureless cube empty save for the single unremarkable chair that sat in the middle of the room and the strange pair of what looked like trapezoidal goggles that rested upon it. With a slight shrug Natasha took a seat in the chair and placed the goggles over her eyes. She pressed in the small switch built into the device’s side. A small hum began to reverberate throughout the room, the hum grew in intensity and pitch swallowing the world around them, and finally the world around Natasha faded away with a flash of supernova white. Natasha came to she was staring at an unfamiliar wooden ceiling as the cries of seagulls filled the air. She quickly realized she was on a bed of some sort the silken sheets clinging to her like a cacoon. She turned her head to trace the sounds of the birds and found an open balcony that overlooked the sea. Unassumed with this whole charade Natasha pushed herself out of the bed and walked over towards the balcony. As she approached she could hear the sounds of two voices talking amongst themselves. Stepping out onto the balcony she could almost feel the wind against her face and the warmth of the lazy noon sun. “It’s amazing how close our programmers have almost come to the real thing isn’t it?” A voice called out on Natasha’s left. She knew its somber inflections well. “It is.... most impressive Director.” Natasha remarked as she regarded the pixelated faux-flesh of her hand before turning towards the voice. There in an old wicker chair sat a older man dressed in a simple navy blue bathrobe tied at the waist keeping his washboard chest exposed to the sun. As Natasha stared at him she couldn't help but notice the slight flickering and shifting as the Director’s face was swapped with another. Nobody, not even Natasha, knew the Director’s face or even his name for that matter. The man, or who they can only was a man given the avatar’s he chose to present himself with, prefered to keep his anonymity in tact. “I am sorry about Captain Bezukhov, I know how much he mattered to you.” [i]“Clearly not sorry enough not to drag me out here”[/i] Natasha thought to herself as she outwardly smiled and give a nod. “You are too kind Director.” “Yes, well we should get down to way I summoned you.” The Director explained as the tonal shift signed to all the time for pleasantries was over. The ever-shifting man gestured towards the older woman, maybe in her late forties or early fifties, in a stainless white lab that sat next to him. There was a familiarity in the face that struck a strange chord with Natasha. It was something about the structure of the face and the lab coat that she was wearing... it almost reminded her of. “You remember Dr. Lyudmila Kudrin do you not?” The Director asked wearing the smile of a man that already knew the answer to his own question. “Doctor Kurdin.... It has been a very long time.” Natasha answered years of training allowing her to suppress the surprise in her voice. The last time she had seem Lyudmila Kudrin, Natasha had been a girl of barely thirteen years, strapped to an operating table to be injected with an experimental drug cocktail. She had always figured that the doctor had died... yet given how those injections had affected her own lifespan, she shouldn’t of been surprised. “Natalia, always one of the strongest and look at you now.” Kurdin’s pride-laced voice came out as a worn smoker’s rasp like sandpaper rubbing against glass. “In recent years Doctor Kurdin had been placed in charge of operations at the Red Room” the Director explained to Natasha. “Recently she came into some information regarding sensitive information pertaining to the Department.” The Director gestured towards Kurdin to continue. “Do you remember Yulia Orlova?” A flash of memories bombarded Natasha: a smiling face, laughter, and tears. Then they were gone. “Yes. She vanished almost ten years ago at this point didn’t she?” Natasha answered trying to pull any information she could from Kurdin’s face. “Indeed, during a shared op between the two of you in Shanghai wasn’t it?” Kurdin pushed with a smile. “There were unforeseen complications.” Natasha answered back cooly. “Don’t worry Natalia, I’m not here to interrogate you about your past failings.” Kurdin explained with a wave of her hand. “Our agents have found Yulia.” “Where?” Natasha answered a little too quickly. “Markovia,” Kurdin replied with a knowing smile. “That is not all it if our agents reports are to be believed she has with her a child.” “A child?” Natasha replied the disbelief thick in her voice. “That is impossible. The injections are supposed to make us...” “Steril?” Kurdin finished with something of a shrug. “That’s what we thought at least. Yet something always manages to fall through the cracks.” The Director who at this point had been watching the exchange quietly cleared his throat. They both turned to look at him. “Romanova, we are sending you in to assist the Doctor in this complicated matter.” The Director explained his composure give away nothing but his tone carried volumes - this was to make up for Shanghai. “What do I need to do?” “Kill Orlova and bring us the girl.” [/indent][/indent]