Post by Irina Ivanova on Sept 21, 2021 18:58:04 GMT -6
The air was thick, hot, and stifling in the El Salvadoran night as Irina leaned against the balcony railing of her hotel room, wrapped in nothing but a sheer red robe that would leave little to the imagination of anyone who happened to look up. Not that she much cared. Her body was a lithe, toned testament to Soviet perfection. There was no shame; shame was for conservative Capitalists who viewed the human body as a greater sin than boundless greed. In time, Viktor had assured her, they would learn the errors of such thinking.
A breeze stirred listless palm fronds in the surrounding jungle, but did little to cool the sweat glistening on her skin. Her thoughts drifted back to last week. Mexico City.
After a debriefing, Irina had determined that Comrade Tsarevich had become too throroughly entrenched in his cover identity, and far too sympathetic to Western Capitalism. He was sent back to the Motherland, despite his protests, for deprogramming and re-education. Anyone else might have felt a pang of guilt for what he would likely experience; the Red Angel, however, was beyond such concerns.
Her immidiate focus had been on the match. Aliens or not, the team had been dispatched with ruthless Soviet efficiency. Just the same as Las Vegas. Just the same as this week. San Salvador, Mexico CIty, Las Vegas -- the venue didn’t matter. The competition didn’t matter. Krasnya Silya was on a mission with only one possible outcome: total domination.
Soft footsteps crept up behind her. Irina didn’t turn, didn’t react. It was only Viktor, keeping a watchful eye on his charge. After Magnus had vanished mysteriously last week and turned up again in his remote Siberian cabin, Romanov wasn’t taking chances. Events were too coincidental. Irina knew he’d led their superiors to believe Magnus had been taken by reptilians, but to her, in private, he had confided his belief that the real culprit had been Conrad Dukes. Or, at least, henchmen acting on his orders.
“There are spies everywhere, my Angel,” Viktor told her, casually resting one arm against the steel rail. “Spies and saboteurs. They want us to fail.”
“Who does, Viktor?”
He waved a hand vaguely.
“Everyone, Angel. The Amerikanski want to see us fail because it would support their notion that Communism is some flaw in our collective character. Our opponents in the ring wish for us to fail because they are driven by their own need to validate themselves through victory. Our own collaborators, even -- they don’t see how this venture of ours helps the Soviet cause. They conspire against us, Irina. You and Magnus must rely on one another. And on me.”
He gave her a toothy grin, meant to reassure. She repressed a shudder of revulsion and clamped down on old memories of her days under his tutelage, the experiments to which he’d subjected her. Long nights, alone, in a cold concrete bunker with nothing but the rats for company -- and sometimes, food. A test of endurance. Of resolve. He had made her savage, for the purpose of civilizing her into something else. Red in tooth and claw, and in her heart. A dangerous beauty who would do anything to secure a bright, Soviet future.
“Where is he, Viktor? He should have been here by now.”
Romanov shrugged.
“Magnus has his own timetable. Whatever he’s doing just now, it is only in the best interest of our cause.”
“Remind me, again -- what exactly is our cause? How does this little competition help us?”
He chuckled.
“We prove our superiority over these Capitalist running dogs. Week after week. And in front of the whole world, one country at a time. How, when we emerge in glorious victory, can they not see their own folly in rejecting Communism then?”
“Westerners are good at lying to themselves,” she observed drily. “They’ll account it as the result of performance enhancing drugs, just like they did at the Olympics. Plant evidence, falsify test results, and make us look like fools.”
“They won’t. Dukes won’t let that happen. To have such a scandal -- true or not -- would expose him and his conspirators to more attention than he’d like. Interference will be dealt with, of that you can be certain.”
“Where Dukes is concerned, I am certain of nothing, Viktor. He makes a man like you look honest.”
Viktor gave a single bark of laughter at that, foul breath wafting over her in a thick tuna-on-rye miasma. Then, he produced a bottle of vodka she hadn’t noticed before, took a long pull, and handed it to her. Irina took a mouthful, savoring the delicate burn as it trickled down her throat.
“What is your insight into this week’s competition, Angel?”
“Does it matter, Viktor? We know there is only one way this ends.”
“Perhaps. Humor me.”
“Howard Black, who calls himself the ‘Lost Boy’ -- not even a man, yet. Twice triumphant, but against glorified circus performers. He hasn’t yet met a challenge in the ring.”
“Ah, yes. The Lost Boy. Just like in the Soviet fable of Pietr Pan.”
“I don’t think -- “
“Hush, Angel. Listen. Pietr Pan is an obvious metaphor for Russian supremacy. Pietr himself is the czar of his own fanciful country of Neverland, where he is attended by his most trusted retainers, the Lost Boys. Instead of acting as their king, however, Pietr treats them as equals; they share all things in common, with Pietr only offering his guidance as leadership. The boys are free to do as they please, however. Together, they fight Captain Hook and his crew of pirates, who plainly represent the evils of Capitalism with their greed and slovenly behaviors. Things only go awry when Pietr tries to befriend Wendy and her brothers, who are the literary versions of England and Western Europe. Wendy and her brothers fear Pietr’s freedom and initially embrace the Capitalist ways of the Pirates -- until Captain Hook uses Pietr’s compassion for the benighted West against him, threatening to kill them all. Of course, being a fable, Pietr wins the day and frees England and the West from the iron grip of Capitalist evil. But your Lost Boy, Angel, may truly be lost in this hedonistic reality. He exists in a prison of his own making. It’s up to you to set him free.”
Irina gazed at Viktor for several moments, trying to make sense of his rambling tale. At last, she gave up, and simply nodded.
“As you wish, Comrade Romanov.”
“Now, the other. Robbie Hope…”
“Is beyond hope,” Irina told him. “He wastes himself on a pointless quest with no real end. A hunt for a girl who clearly doesn’t want to be found, least of all by him. Who she is to him may or may not be relevant. A lover? A sister? It doesn’t matter. His search will end the same as this match -- in failure. Unless…” she added, a hint of sarcasm in her voice, “you have some wisdom from an obscure Russian fairy tale to impart?”
Viktor waved aside her less-than-subtle jab.
“No need. You summed up the situation succinctly enough.”
“Then what more is there to discuss, Viktor? It’s late. If you want my best tomorrow, I need sleep.”
“Of course, Angel,” he replied, and vanished as quietly as he’d arrived.
Fortunately, he’d left the bottle. She took it and drank again, deeply this time. He was lying, she could tell. He knew where Magnus was, and not telling her roused her suspicions. There was something else going on. Something, perhaps, the two men were plotting behind her back. Time would tell. For now, all she could do was wait, and pretend there was nothing amiss.
A breeze stirred listless palm fronds in the surrounding jungle, but did little to cool the sweat glistening on her skin. Her thoughts drifted back to last week. Mexico City.
After a debriefing, Irina had determined that Comrade Tsarevich had become too throroughly entrenched in his cover identity, and far too sympathetic to Western Capitalism. He was sent back to the Motherland, despite his protests, for deprogramming and re-education. Anyone else might have felt a pang of guilt for what he would likely experience; the Red Angel, however, was beyond such concerns.
Her immidiate focus had been on the match. Aliens or not, the team had been dispatched with ruthless Soviet efficiency. Just the same as Las Vegas. Just the same as this week. San Salvador, Mexico CIty, Las Vegas -- the venue didn’t matter. The competition didn’t matter. Krasnya Silya was on a mission with only one possible outcome: total domination.
Soft footsteps crept up behind her. Irina didn’t turn, didn’t react. It was only Viktor, keeping a watchful eye on his charge. After Magnus had vanished mysteriously last week and turned up again in his remote Siberian cabin, Romanov wasn’t taking chances. Events were too coincidental. Irina knew he’d led their superiors to believe Magnus had been taken by reptilians, but to her, in private, he had confided his belief that the real culprit had been Conrad Dukes. Or, at least, henchmen acting on his orders.
“There are spies everywhere, my Angel,” Viktor told her, casually resting one arm against the steel rail. “Spies and saboteurs. They want us to fail.”
“Who does, Viktor?”
He waved a hand vaguely.
“Everyone, Angel. The Amerikanski want to see us fail because it would support their notion that Communism is some flaw in our collective character. Our opponents in the ring wish for us to fail because they are driven by their own need to validate themselves through victory. Our own collaborators, even -- they don’t see how this venture of ours helps the Soviet cause. They conspire against us, Irina. You and Magnus must rely on one another. And on me.”
He gave her a toothy grin, meant to reassure. She repressed a shudder of revulsion and clamped down on old memories of her days under his tutelage, the experiments to which he’d subjected her. Long nights, alone, in a cold concrete bunker with nothing but the rats for company -- and sometimes, food. A test of endurance. Of resolve. He had made her savage, for the purpose of civilizing her into something else. Red in tooth and claw, and in her heart. A dangerous beauty who would do anything to secure a bright, Soviet future.
“Where is he, Viktor? He should have been here by now.”
Romanov shrugged.
“Magnus has his own timetable. Whatever he’s doing just now, it is only in the best interest of our cause.”
“Remind me, again -- what exactly is our cause? How does this little competition help us?”
He chuckled.
“We prove our superiority over these Capitalist running dogs. Week after week. And in front of the whole world, one country at a time. How, when we emerge in glorious victory, can they not see their own folly in rejecting Communism then?”
“Westerners are good at lying to themselves,” she observed drily. “They’ll account it as the result of performance enhancing drugs, just like they did at the Olympics. Plant evidence, falsify test results, and make us look like fools.”
“They won’t. Dukes won’t let that happen. To have such a scandal -- true or not -- would expose him and his conspirators to more attention than he’d like. Interference will be dealt with, of that you can be certain.”
“Where Dukes is concerned, I am certain of nothing, Viktor. He makes a man like you look honest.”
Viktor gave a single bark of laughter at that, foul breath wafting over her in a thick tuna-on-rye miasma. Then, he produced a bottle of vodka she hadn’t noticed before, took a long pull, and handed it to her. Irina took a mouthful, savoring the delicate burn as it trickled down her throat.
“What is your insight into this week’s competition, Angel?”
“Does it matter, Viktor? We know there is only one way this ends.”
“Perhaps. Humor me.”
“Howard Black, who calls himself the ‘Lost Boy’ -- not even a man, yet. Twice triumphant, but against glorified circus performers. He hasn’t yet met a challenge in the ring.”
“Ah, yes. The Lost Boy. Just like in the Soviet fable of Pietr Pan.”
“I don’t think -- “
“Hush, Angel. Listen. Pietr Pan is an obvious metaphor for Russian supremacy. Pietr himself is the czar of his own fanciful country of Neverland, where he is attended by his most trusted retainers, the Lost Boys. Instead of acting as their king, however, Pietr treats them as equals; they share all things in common, with Pietr only offering his guidance as leadership. The boys are free to do as they please, however. Together, they fight Captain Hook and his crew of pirates, who plainly represent the evils of Capitalism with their greed and slovenly behaviors. Things only go awry when Pietr tries to befriend Wendy and her brothers, who are the literary versions of England and Western Europe. Wendy and her brothers fear Pietr’s freedom and initially embrace the Capitalist ways of the Pirates -- until Captain Hook uses Pietr’s compassion for the benighted West against him, threatening to kill them all. Of course, being a fable, Pietr wins the day and frees England and the West from the iron grip of Capitalist evil. But your Lost Boy, Angel, may truly be lost in this hedonistic reality. He exists in a prison of his own making. It’s up to you to set him free.”
Irina gazed at Viktor for several moments, trying to make sense of his rambling tale. At last, she gave up, and simply nodded.
“As you wish, Comrade Romanov.”
“Now, the other. Robbie Hope…”
“Is beyond hope,” Irina told him. “He wastes himself on a pointless quest with no real end. A hunt for a girl who clearly doesn’t want to be found, least of all by him. Who she is to him may or may not be relevant. A lover? A sister? It doesn’t matter. His search will end the same as this match -- in failure. Unless…” she added, a hint of sarcasm in her voice, “you have some wisdom from an obscure Russian fairy tale to impart?”
Viktor waved aside her less-than-subtle jab.
“No need. You summed up the situation succinctly enough.”
“Then what more is there to discuss, Viktor? It’s late. If you want my best tomorrow, I need sleep.”
“Of course, Angel,” he replied, and vanished as quietly as he’d arrived.
Fortunately, he’d left the bottle. She took it and drank again, deeply this time. He was lying, she could tell. He knew where Magnus was, and not telling her roused her suspicions. There was something else going on. Something, perhaps, the two men were plotting behind her back. Time would tell. For now, all she could do was wait, and pretend there was nothing amiss.