The golden arches loom tall over the parking lot. They beckon to the weary, the wasted, the wakeful, and exactly five Janissaries who all look extremely out of place.
The parking lot is full-full. Evelyn is glad that she isn’t stuck with the big, armoured, souped-up Range Rover. Instead she slips the small sedan between two pick-ups parked precariously close to the yellow lines, each presumably belonging to someone working at the aether cold storage facilities. It explains the bumper stickers – American flags, declarations that if you date their daughter they’ll shoot you in the head, stickers detailing their favourite NFL teams, the works.
Eva is hesitant to enter yet another enclosed space with Anastasia. Her relentless prattling about Santiago and how gay he was almost caused an accident a few blocks back, and then her yammering and babbling about how ‘this coin always keeps turning up heads’ and the accompanying flipping of the coin and repeated requests for Eva to flip the coin while she was driving almost caused another.
And when Anastasia steps out of the car, she flips the coin again.
“See! It keeps coming up heads!”
IT’S BECAUSE THE FUCKIN’ COIN IS WEIGHTED YOU FUCKIN’ IDIOT
But instead of carelessly blurting her thoughts out, she instead phrases it a bit differently.
“oh cool”
Evelyn Jackson has a persona to uphold, after all.
“You try it!”
Eva does try it. She rests the coin, worth exactly one vodaruble, heads up – a double-headed eagle and some Cyrillic that might as well have been moon-speak. She flips it through the air with the flick of her thumb and catches it in her palm and slaps it down on the back of her other hand.
Double-headed eagle.
“there”
“Fucking heads again!”
“why do you keep doing it if it bugs you”
“Something is wrong!”
“all right”
“No, it is not all right!”
Eva just looks at her. Its not often that she gets to look down at someone but Anastasia is probably the only person in town who’s stature is below 5’5. Or at least the only person in town whom Eva has regular communications with.
“what am i supposed to do about it then”
Anastasia pauses. Eva doesn’t know what she’s thinking. But she can guess – considering the woman’s upbringing, first at the Tel Aviv-based King Solomon Academy and then at the Saint Petersburg-quartered Imperial Russian War College, Eva figures that it’s something coated in religious-based nationalism. Something about predestination, most likely. Just ripping from Calvinism.
“or what are you going to do about it”
The question shuts Anastasia up. She takes possession of her magical coin back and stuffs it deep into the pocket of her desert-camo cargo pants. The two changed from their ‘formal’ clothes from earlier in the day – considering the probability for negotiations to fail, only a moron would wear a suit-and-tie. If Wolfe-Hohenzollern was right, this was the mafia.
Or, a mafia.
Evelyn was expecting Russians or Italians. It would be worth the drive out here if the building was full of tattooed Japanese gangsters, just for the mental image of them wandering around the Middle East. About as far from water as a fish can get.
The pair’s clothing – pants, long-sleeve undershirts, jackets – were all aether-dipped to form something called Chrysomallos. About as bulletproof as Kevlar, and you don’t look like a paranoid freak walking around in it. Comfortable enough to wear to McDonalds.
Speaking of the McDonalds, it is full to the brim. University students, afternoon-shift workers getting hasty dinners and late-shift workers getting strange breakfasts. There’s the vague smell of alcohol floating below the ceiling. The collegiates all have the affects of business students, dumb and confident, taught that they’re next in line to take the reins of economic power. It is a Thursday, and the American University of Nineveh has no classes on Friday – at least for business students. Pre-gaming, most likely. Evelyn figures that she’ll have to keep Anastasia on a very short leash, lest she slit some poor bastard’s throat for the crime of being American and bugging her in the wrong way.
Seated closest to the exit as possible at Tecumseh and Dimitri and the new kid. They were chowing down on something awful, greasy and salty, burgers and fries. American-style scran. Smelled tremendous.
Anastasia marches her way over, barging through the scattered crowds, and slams both of her palms on their table.
“Did you get me chicken nuggets like I asked?”
Tecumseh, with his pair deep brown eyes set deep in his face so that his brows cast a perpetual shadow over them, looks across at Dimitri, the guy who looks like a recovering heroin addict.
Eva scans the table. There’s a box of McNuggets, a ten-piece. Cyrus is currently working his way through it. Anastasia’s eyes affix upon it. Her strong jaw, perpetually clenched due to whatever nonsense she’s pissed at, slackens.
“Can –”
“Get your own!” Cyrus practically yells at her. There’s more boxes on his section of the table, two Big Macs. And an extra-large paper carton of fries and an enormous paper cup of some sort of soda.
“How much have you had to eat?” Anastasia practically screeches.
“Not enough!”
Tech looks up at Eva. His gaze wavers, if only for a moment. Eva tries her best not to look sorrowful.
“Can you grab her something? I don’t want to deal with this,” he says.
Eva takes a seat across from him.
“no”
She just got out of a compact with her riding shotgun!
Tech sighs. He fishes a black credit card with Ashara Wolfe’s name on it and gingerly hands it to Anastasia.
“youre spoiling her”
“It shuts her up.”
Anastasia gives a small ‘Yay!’ and hurries off to the counter. Cyrus, not yet done his enormous meal, hurries after her. What could he possibly want?
Now that all the noise has moved herself to the front of the building, the three professionals can finally get down to work.
“do you have a plan” Eva asks.
Tech hesitates for a moment. That’s a solid no.
“We’re going to ask politely,” he says.
Eva just glares at him. She doesn’t raise eyebrows like the rest of them. She’s not that exciting.
“What?”
“what”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“is that the best you could come up with”
Dimitri chimes in, working his way through an extra large carton of fries that Tech apparently bought for the two of them.
“There are four of us.”
“five”
“Are we really counting the kid?” he asks. “He got out of a shipping container yesterday.”
“He’s one of us,” Tech replies. The implication of graduating from any Janissary academy is that you know how to handle a firearm. “He’s good.”
“hes a bloody american” Eva responds.
“You sound like Anastasia.”
“how”
Tech grins, puts on his best Russian accent. “I cannot believe we have American idiots on team, sitting at American restaurant.”
The problem is that Tech’s voice is very deep and very smooth and heavily accented. Anastasia has a high, sharp voice, almost squeaky at times. It’s a better impression of Dimitri than of Anastasia.
“its not because hes american its because hes from an american academy”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“He’s probably from one of the good ones.”
“are you willing to gamble your life on that assumption”
Tech hesitates again. This one’s longer than before. Five Janissaries are a hell of a fighting force, but who knows how many people are in that five-story office building across the road? Are they actually mafia blokes, real killers, or just some dipshits hired to protect the building at night?
In the interim between Eva’s question and whenever Tech was going to respond, the two food fiends returned. Anastasia cradled a twenty-box of chicken nuggets and a carton of fries and a plastic cup of some clear soda, probably Sprite. Cyrus carried an enormous Oreo ice cream cup, a fragile-looking wooden spoon sticking out of it.
Seemingly placated, Anastasia sat down right next to Eva, between her and Cyrus. She takes a spoonful of Cyrus’s big-ass ice cream sundae and happily takes a bite. Cyrus, in return, steals one of her chicken nuggets and the woman doesn’t protest.
“We will be stuck guarding McDonalds on Asherbanipal Avenue,” Dimitri says, and Anastasia briefly reverts to the demonic force she was before. She glares at him, the way that sworn enemies glare at him. Or exes who suffered a genuinely catastrophic breakup. The air tastes like hatred, if only for a moment.
Then Cyrus asks her something, under his breath. Probably a “Is everything alright?” and Anastasia nods and takes another bite of her chicken nuggets and is soothed again. Her hand brushes against the necklace she wears – a single, inert 7.62x39mm round, the kind used in AK-47s. There are various tiny scenes etched into it, near-microscopic depictions of farm life, practically Soviet in its romanticism. You don’t get points for guessing which of the seven gave it to her – the only hint you get is that he’s the artsy one of the team. She tugs at it, readjusts it. Her fury seems to dispel.
Poor kid, Eva thinks. He’s already under her spell. The danger of Anastasia Solovyova is that at first, you’re looking at a gorgeous woman; full lips and rosy cheeks, brown-blonde hair that can shine almost auburn in the right light, the curves of a swimsuit model. The black long-sleeve shirt she’s wearing almost looks like it’s poured on – not a wrinkle in sight. She gets you that way.
The Russian leans back against the booth’s cushions. She looks around – the rest of the customers are loud, loud enough for a conversation about murder to float underneath the waves of hooting and hollering done by college undergrads pregaming.
“So, what is our plan?” she asks.
Eva deeply exhales. She can’t wait for her reaction.
Tech clears his throat.
“We’re going to ask them. Nicely.”
Anastasia looks at him. Looks at him. Looks at him. Moves her food to the side, then thumps her head against the table.
All things considered; it could’ve gone worse.
“Ana?” Tecumseh asks.
The small Russian sits back up, a gentle pink spot forming on her forehead. She blows rogue strands of hair from between her eyes and tucks them behind her ear. Eva can see her lower jaw grinding against her upper, the molars on her right side about to shatter.
“Is that, really, our best plan?” she asks.
“We don’t really have any other options,” Cyrus replies. “It’s literally either that or we kill a bunch of people and I don’t want to do that shit.”
“Did you bring three-ton machine on wheels?” Anastasia asks Tech.
“Parked it across the boulevard.”
“Then why don’t we drive it though their walls‽”
It’s not a bad idea, per-se. It’s just, loud, and they’re all in public.
“Why should we do that shit?” Cyrus asks.
“Because it works!” Anastasia stands up. A few buzzed pre-partiers turn their heads to look at her. Keep their heads turned because it’s her they’re looking at. “When I was in Israel, Army drove bulldozers and tanks through houses of Palestinians. Now, there are, ah…” the magnitude of what she’s saying seems to catch up to her. “Well, no more Palestinians.”
“You sayin’ we use genocide tactics?” Cyrus asks. He seems chatty. How he’s not in a food coma is beyond Eva.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Anastasia retorts. Nobody wants to acknowledge it, but she is right. Usually, the best way to get something you want is through force, whether that’s the extirpation of a native population of ethnoreligious minorities or a bunch of Italian dudes. It just, well, feels gross in Eva’s mouth to acknowledge it.
Eva tugs at the braid of her wig. She traded the bright pink bob for something more low-key, dark brown and long enough to tie into that braid. Tech seems to be staring off into space, specifically the space above her head. She takes advantage and swipes a few of his fries.
He looks at her crosswise but doesn’t protest. The fries, chips, whatever, have long abandoned ‘hot and crispy’ and have transformed into ‘warm and soggy’ with far too much salt.
“Thought you weren’t hungry.”
Eva shrugs her shoulders.
“scrans scran”
“Good?”
“fuck no”
“Is there an alternative that does not involve driving an SUV through a wall?” Dimitri asks.
You’d think that out of four and a half Janissaries they’d think of something. He gets silence in response.
“Nothing? Really?” Dimitri asks again.
“they are or were engaging or abetting human trafficking” Eva replies. “i dont really want to take another option”
“So we just, what, kill them all?”
“we just need to kill enough of them”
“And how many is enough?”
“that depends on them”
The group fell into a collective silence. At other tables, conversation is about how fucked up they’re going to get, how stressed they are over midterms – surely there has to be a better way to cope than pregaming at a McDonalds, sports, movies, who exactly that small girl sitting at that table is and is she Anastasia Solovyova, local politics that don’t involve the abject obliteration of Malik ibn Hassan and twenty five hundred other people – property taxes and shit, how dogshit their part-time job is, on and on.
Eva’s late to notice a small crowd forming on the perimeter. They’re all looking at her.
Wait.
They’re looking past her. Anastasia’s too busy dicking about on her phone to notice. They spoke in hushed tones, whispers, all in Russian. Eva’s comprehension of the language is, spotty, at best.
<
<
<
Eva projects an elbow into Anastasia’s flank and the short woman looks up, practically dropping her phone on the table. Displayed is a Wikipedia article on the Japanese embassy hostage crisis in Peru, over a hundred years ago. Eva can’t possibly find a future where an outline of that knowledge helps them.
Anastasia looks towards the small crowd. Six or seven people, barely a ‘crowd.’ Mainly young women, one male. They looked, how could Eva put this nicely, pancake-made-up. Lots of foundation, lots of blush.
One of them steps forward. Tech and Dimitri notice Anastasia looking in the gap between them, both turn in their chairs. Eva swipes another few fries from Tech. He won’t mind.
A young woman, blonde, blue-eyed, gingerly strides forward, unveiling a paper magazine from underneath her jacket. She holds it out towards the group. It’s Vogue Russia, an edition from two or so years ago. And front-and-center is one Anastasia Solovyova, practically airbrushed beyond recognition.
<
Anastasia looks side to side. Eva just shrugs at her. She’s never had this happen to her! Then again, Eva was never the public face of a recruitment campaign for the Voronin Group – an inside-baseball term for the Russian Far East Development Corporation. The Twin Rivers Republic wasn’t the only sovereign corporation; the chaos in Russia has allowed for a whole bunch of bizarre happenings. Effectively a Russian version of the Chinese Warlord Era, and the world was far, far away from discovering the Russian Chiang Kai-Shek.
<
Who else? You idiot.
<
<
The girl looks at Anastasia, who’s returned to her phone.
<
<
The girl looks close, closer, closer, at Anastasia. Back at the magazine, then raises the magazine to eye level. On the cover, Anastasia is airbrushed to hell and back, the blue of her eyes is emphasized, and her wider face and jawline is thinned. The girl looks back and forth for a while.
<
Anastasia exhales when they’re out of earshot.
<
“I’ve never had fangirls before,” Tech replies. “Is it really that bad?”
“If I say yes, then whole mission is fucked,” Anastasia quietly replies. “I am stuck in insipid conversation with teenagers for hours. You are without the most important part of your plan.”
“What part are you?” Dimitri asks.
Anastasia glares.
“I’m shooter number three,” Dimitri continues. “You can be shooter number four if you want.”
Anastasia grumbles something under her breath. Probably some sort of slur or something. He’s getting on her nerves.
“Did you really call Santiago something homophobic to his face?” Dimitri asks.
She ruptures.
“It wasn’t homophobic! It was English translation of pedik!”
“What’s that mean?” Cyrus asks. Eva knows what it means.
“It means weakling, soft, chicken, effeminate, all those things!”
Dimitri has his chin in his hand, an elbow dug into the table. It, very obviously, does not mean those things.
“It means faggot,” he replies.
Cyrus raises his eyebrows.
“Is this Santiago guy, actually, well, gay?” the kid asks. It wouldn’t excuse it. But, who knows, maybe it’d be even funnier.
“No, but,” Anastasia starts. She brings her arms close to her chest, trying to imitate a T-Rex, then flops her hands forwards, no strength in her wrist. “He does that.”
“he did not do that”
“It is, ah, what is the English word, his, um…”
“His vibes?” Cyrus suggests.
“Yes!
“You can’t just call someone a faggot because of their vibes,” Dimitri replies. Santiago doesn’t even have gay vibes! He has billionaire sex trafficker vibes!
“Well, I did not attend Vladivostok School of Kindness and Nice Manners!”
“And I did not go to the St. Petersburg School for Psychopaths.”
“Psychopath‽”
That’s the thing she’ll get offended over?
“I am not a psychopath!”
“You literally murdered a man after saying he could go free yesterday,” Tech says.
“He pointed guns at us!”
“And you made a deal with him, then broke that deal.”
“That is not how it is!”
“I think we should just leave her here. Let the adults handle this,” Dimitri suggests. He wears a fox-like smirk made to infuriate. Eva feels red in her heart and she’s not even the target.
“Adults? You do not even have semblance of plan!” Anastasia stands, leans over the table to try and get eye to eye with her nemesis. If she was about five inches taller, she’d manage to look threatening. Whatever she’s got, it rhymes with ‘Shapoleon Vomplex.’
“We have a plan,” Tech defends.
“What is your fucking plan?” Her volume is rapidly increasing.
Tech takes a moment. The pressure cooker within the small Russian’s heart keeps ticking.
“We are going…”
He lets it sit there.
“…to…”
Realllllllllllllly lets it linger in the air. Anastasia looks like she’s about to explode.
“…ask them, firmly.”
There’s silence from the small Russian. Eva looks at her jaw, grinding against itself again. Her hands wear gloves, black, and if not for those her fingernails would be tearing through the skin, muscle, and sinew of her palms down to the metacarpals.
“I am going, to,” she hisses, seething, speaking through clenched teeth. “Fucking kill you.”
Cyrus looks back and forth between the parties. Then he leans forwards and glances at Eva. He has the oily skin and hair of a teenager, blackheads on his lips underneath his scraggly, wispy beard, a few white-headed zits. In a few years, Eva figures he’ll grow up handsomely, but for now he’s still in the waning phases of teenagerdom. A kid shouldn’t have to deal with this.
“Please try,” Dimitri accosts.
The rest happens in slow-motion.