Post by Irina Ivanova on Oct 5, 2021 19:17:49 GMT -6
Moored in the dead center of the Panama Canal, the Ever Given provided all the cover and concealment Krasnaya Sila needed as they worked with Soviet efficiency to set charges along the canal locks. Viktor hummed a tune that sounded vaguely like the Russian National Anthem; but then again, he was tone-deaf and it could as easily have been “Marushka Had a Soviet Lamb” or the Van Halen classic “Panama.” It was difficult to tell, as all things were where Viktor Romanov was concerned.
The mercenaries worked alongside them, trading jokes and laughter that went unnoticed beneath the steady hum of activity from the nearby vessel. Irina paused after setting a detonator into a block of C4 and glanced up at the ship. Longshoremen worked tirelessly into the night -- but at what? They seemed to have been loading and unloading the same cargo, over and over; it was inconceivable that Black Pyramid needed so much equipment for one show, even a big one. Crate after crate was hefted by crane onto the decks, opened in methodical order, and unpacked into the cargo hold. From her vantage, the Red Angel couldn’t quite tell what was being transferred; her only certainty was that it wasn’t restricted to wrestling alone.
It wasn’t as if, after all, there was much merchandise being moved. Nobody wanted T-shirts depicting the sort of degenerates Black Pyramid employed. The Bastard Warlord and his hideous creation? A half-blind, alcholic soldier of fortune? The BPW World Champion himself? There was supply, to be sure, although the demand had been dramatically overestimated. Unless it was all some Byzantine tax evasion scheme Capitalists seemed so fond of. Irina herself was no stranger to laundering money; when she’d run her own wrestling promotion as part of a deep-cover operation for the KGB, she’d engaged in the activity with an astounding aptitude.
Even so, every instinct told her there was something far more sinister at work here.
Not that it would matter, in the long run. Black Pyramid was a means to an end, and once that end had been achieved….
The sharp bleat of a small goat interrupted her reverie. Irina glanced at their newly-acquired mascot. The goat was staring at something behind her, focused intently.
“Baaa!” it said suddenly, in goat-Russian, then turned and bounded away into the brush growing beside the water.
“Amerikanski!” hissed Viktor, his voice low and urgent.
Highly trained operatives, each in their own way, the Russians faded into the background as two men in dark suits approached. They hesitated, sniffing at the air, then shrugged in unison and proceeded up the gangplank to the waiting ship. The two daredevil mercenaries, known only as Dagger Alpha, emerged from hiding first, their gazes trailing the two American agents.
“That was weird, right?” said one.
“Super weird,” agreed the other.
They turned to Viktor, as he rose from the ground, dusting bits of leaf litter from his sleeve.
“Should we blow it now, Comrade Romanov?” asked the first.
Viktor shook his head.
“Nyet. We wait until time is right. There is more at stake than simply making these Amerikanski look bad in the eyes of the world.”
“What’s more important than that?” asked the other one.
“Tag titles,” Irina replied, cutting off what was certain to be a long-winded answer from Viktor.
Romanov nodded, giving the Red Angel an avuncular smile.
“My Angel is correct, Comrades. Nothing is so vital as those Black Pyramid Tag Titles. Well… that, and showing these Fucking World Order pig-dogs exactly what it means to interfere with the might of the Soviet Union!”
“Oh, no, Viktor,” Irina told him. “We’re so far past that, now. I will make them bleed, but not for the Motherland alone. This time, it’s personal.”
“BAAAAA!” added the goat.
“Good point. Also personal for Goat. They were going to make him a tool of Capitalist agenda,” Viktor translated.
“Terrible. I would only have eaten him,” Magnus commented.
“Magnus!” Viktor sounded apalled. “That goat is comrade! We do not eat our comrades!”
“That isn’t what you said in the Crimea.”
“Well -- “
“Or that time in Ukraine.”
“Yes, but -- “
“Or that other time in Cuba.”
Viktor waved him off.
“That was different time. Different circumstance. Is not same at all.”
“Nyaaah,” complained the goat, and went to hide behind Irina.
“All of that is beside the point,” she told the men. “Which is that there are tag titles on the line. And we are the only legitimate tag team on the Bloc. Our opponents are no more than preening narcissists without a clue how to compete in real combat. For that matter, they were given the opportunity to fight us with absolutely no rules, in a match that would have worked exquisitely to their advantage -- and… they give us goat. They could have brought in weapons, played the numbers game, anything outside of actually shooting us; yet they treated the hardcore match like joke, and paid the price for it.”
“Gold might make them see things in a new light,” Magnus pointed out.
“Of course it will. They’re capitalist swine. What else would you expect?”
The Lion grunted in acknowledgement.
“The question is, how far will they go? There are five of them, and only three of us.”
“Don’t count on me,” Viktor told her. “I am only here to observe and to guide.”
“I was counting Comrade Goat. I know you’re a coward, Viktor. But perhaps a coward is precisely what we need.”
“HOW DARE Y--” he began, then quieted at the flash of red in the Angel’s eyes. Composing himself, Victor cleared his throat. “I am no coward, Irina. I take only the most calculated of risks, and this doesn’t add up. Better you and Magnus eliminate the entire Order of Fuckery yourselves and prove Soviet superiority to the rest of the world.”
“Oh, believe me, Comrade -- we will. Magnus and I were chosen for a reason, a very simple one: We are the absolute best at what we do, and what we do is win.”
The mercenaries worked alongside them, trading jokes and laughter that went unnoticed beneath the steady hum of activity from the nearby vessel. Irina paused after setting a detonator into a block of C4 and glanced up at the ship. Longshoremen worked tirelessly into the night -- but at what? They seemed to have been loading and unloading the same cargo, over and over; it was inconceivable that Black Pyramid needed so much equipment for one show, even a big one. Crate after crate was hefted by crane onto the decks, opened in methodical order, and unpacked into the cargo hold. From her vantage, the Red Angel couldn’t quite tell what was being transferred; her only certainty was that it wasn’t restricted to wrestling alone.
It wasn’t as if, after all, there was much merchandise being moved. Nobody wanted T-shirts depicting the sort of degenerates Black Pyramid employed. The Bastard Warlord and his hideous creation? A half-blind, alcholic soldier of fortune? The BPW World Champion himself? There was supply, to be sure, although the demand had been dramatically overestimated. Unless it was all some Byzantine tax evasion scheme Capitalists seemed so fond of. Irina herself was no stranger to laundering money; when she’d run her own wrestling promotion as part of a deep-cover operation for the KGB, she’d engaged in the activity with an astounding aptitude.
Even so, every instinct told her there was something far more sinister at work here.
Not that it would matter, in the long run. Black Pyramid was a means to an end, and once that end had been achieved….
The sharp bleat of a small goat interrupted her reverie. Irina glanced at their newly-acquired mascot. The goat was staring at something behind her, focused intently.
“Baaa!” it said suddenly, in goat-Russian, then turned and bounded away into the brush growing beside the water.
“Amerikanski!” hissed Viktor, his voice low and urgent.
Highly trained operatives, each in their own way, the Russians faded into the background as two men in dark suits approached. They hesitated, sniffing at the air, then shrugged in unison and proceeded up the gangplank to the waiting ship. The two daredevil mercenaries, known only as Dagger Alpha, emerged from hiding first, their gazes trailing the two American agents.
“That was weird, right?” said one.
“Super weird,” agreed the other.
They turned to Viktor, as he rose from the ground, dusting bits of leaf litter from his sleeve.
“Should we blow it now, Comrade Romanov?” asked the first.
Viktor shook his head.
“Nyet. We wait until time is right. There is more at stake than simply making these Amerikanski look bad in the eyes of the world.”
“What’s more important than that?” asked the other one.
“Tag titles,” Irina replied, cutting off what was certain to be a long-winded answer from Viktor.
Romanov nodded, giving the Red Angel an avuncular smile.
“My Angel is correct, Comrades. Nothing is so vital as those Black Pyramid Tag Titles. Well… that, and showing these Fucking World Order pig-dogs exactly what it means to interfere with the might of the Soviet Union!”
“Oh, no, Viktor,” Irina told him. “We’re so far past that, now. I will make them bleed, but not for the Motherland alone. This time, it’s personal.”
“BAAAAA!” added the goat.
“Good point. Also personal for Goat. They were going to make him a tool of Capitalist agenda,” Viktor translated.
“Terrible. I would only have eaten him,” Magnus commented.
“Magnus!” Viktor sounded apalled. “That goat is comrade! We do not eat our comrades!”
“That isn’t what you said in the Crimea.”
“Well -- “
“Or that time in Ukraine.”
“Yes, but -- “
“Or that other time in Cuba.”
Viktor waved him off.
“That was different time. Different circumstance. Is not same at all.”
“Nyaaah,” complained the goat, and went to hide behind Irina.
“All of that is beside the point,” she told the men. “Which is that there are tag titles on the line. And we are the only legitimate tag team on the Bloc. Our opponents are no more than preening narcissists without a clue how to compete in real combat. For that matter, they were given the opportunity to fight us with absolutely no rules, in a match that would have worked exquisitely to their advantage -- and… they give us goat. They could have brought in weapons, played the numbers game, anything outside of actually shooting us; yet they treated the hardcore match like joke, and paid the price for it.”
“Gold might make them see things in a new light,” Magnus pointed out.
“Of course it will. They’re capitalist swine. What else would you expect?”
The Lion grunted in acknowledgement.
“The question is, how far will they go? There are five of them, and only three of us.”
“Don’t count on me,” Viktor told her. “I am only here to observe and to guide.”
“I was counting Comrade Goat. I know you’re a coward, Viktor. But perhaps a coward is precisely what we need.”
“HOW DARE Y--” he began, then quieted at the flash of red in the Angel’s eyes. Composing himself, Victor cleared his throat. “I am no coward, Irina. I take only the most calculated of risks, and this doesn’t add up. Better you and Magnus eliminate the entire Order of Fuckery yourselves and prove Soviet superiority to the rest of the world.”
“Oh, believe me, Comrade -- we will. Magnus and I were chosen for a reason, a very simple one: We are the absolute best at what we do, and what we do is win.”