Back in a place secure from the prying eyes of the Empire, Dirk managed to finally leave the maze of sterile corridors with his assigned equipment and all of his friends, old and new, in tow. Thankfully, and perhaps contrary to his expectations, none of them got roped up in any needless fights with other mercenaries, or Ouroboros personnel, so everything was going smoothly.
But despite the feelings of relief, Dirk also found himself puzzled. Not by his companions, but rather by his surroundings. It hadn’t been fifteen minutes since he was in the heart of an underground complex to rival a real Spire-city in size, but just a brief walk and one short elevator ride later, he was now standing at the edge of a massive quarry, bustling with mercenary activity, and with no Imperial presence in sight. He felt the cold air on his face and saw the moon occasionally peek out from behind thick clouds up above.
It was indeed a mystery how he got here, and an even bigger one how there were so many tents, trucks and guns in one place out in the open. The Empire would never allow it, unless Ouroboros somehow found a way to circumvent the eternal vigilance of the grid.
Dirk was indeed puzzled, and he didn’t like it one bit. He much preferred the stone-cold certainty of a battlefield.
- Damn! - Barbara was the first to break the silence. - I missed that brisk night air!
“That’s what you’re focusing on?” - Dirk fought himself to not say it out loud.
- Da, all that regurgitated shit straight from the conditioners felt worse than smoking a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. - Misha agreed with the woman, garnering a smile of approval.
Jason and Felicia chose silence, their reasons for it differed. Not wanting to ruin the positive mood with grumbling about “trivial” things, the veteran opted to instead look around. He tried to find some sort of starting point from which they could begin inspecting this gathering hub.
According to what they were told at the armory, at “the break of dawn” they would hear an announcement, signaling the convoy's departure. Until then, it was up to each merc’s personal discretion how to spend their time.
After reporting to their respective units, of course.
It didn’t take Dirk long to spot an unmarked tent in front of which many mercenaries were converging. Even if their unmarked nature helped Ouroboros deny any involvement in the gathering on the surface level it sure made a mess of finding one's way around the place.
- I think I found the secretary desk. - he exclaimed to the group. - Gonna go do some reconnaissance, what about you guys?
- I smell some grade-A catering off in the distance. - the Ruskie said with a wide smile. - Can’t meet up with the other members of my illustrious unit on an empty stomach!
- Oh shit, really? - the younger sister couldn’t hide her excitement at Misha’s discovery. - Then I know where I’m going. You’ll brief us on all the deets once you’re finished snooping, won’t you, old timer?
- Yeah, sure. - Dirk decided to ignore yet another jab at his age. - Miss Rand?
- I need to check up on my truck. Don’t think it would be below other mercs to scratch its paint job out of boredom. - with that, she began to walk, with a clear destination already in mind. - I’ll be relying on you like the rest, Mr. Chernobog.
In only a few seconds, just Dirk and Jason remained, with their party split apart. They were alone, even though they were surrounded by a churning ocean of mercs. Nobody paid them any mind as they focused on their own goals and agendas. Thanks to that, Jason could drop the act for a second.
And he did so with a hint of release in his voice
- Color me surprised. You made friends so easily. - he joked in a hushed tone. - How did you manage to be a drunk recluse for so long?
- Bite me. - Dirk started leisurely strolling towards the tent that caught his attention. - That Prusk girl is too friendly for her own good.
- Tell me about it. She even tried conversing with me “mano a mano” during the assessment. There is something seriously wrong with her self-preservation instincts.
- Or maybe she simply has a very keen instinct that managed to see right through your impeccable acting. - the older man smirked, rubbing against a frantically running passerby. - Besides, wouldn’t it be “mano a senora”?
This at first glance simple run-in yielded him a crumpled up pack of cigarettes. So skillfully pickpocketed from an unassuming stranger. He pulled one out and turned towards his living weapon for a lighter.
Even with the gilded helmet on, he could tell the young buck was frowning.
- Firstly, you could have asked me for one. Secondly, why did you do that? Thirdly, you don’t speak Spanish, so buzz off. - the large man enumerated, audibly not amused, while pulling out a lighter and with a flick of a wrist lighting up Dirk’s cigarette.
- Because he was acting like a dick during Tom’s presentation. - Chernobog graced only one of the questions with an answer before strolling off.
Jason looked in the direction the stranger ran off and to his surprise it was indeed the “tank top guy” from before.
- How did you notice him in the crowd? - Jason asked, running up to the old dog. - How did he not notice you?
- Skill and experience. - the smoker responded, letting out a circle-shaped smoke cloud.
- That sure says a lot. - a tinge of disappointment permeated the sentence.
The younger man regained his posture as they approached the tent.
It looked like a typical registration office on some off-road rally or other managed event in the wilderness. Steel tables were connected to form a sort of desk between the employer and the employees, with plastic dividers put in place to ensure that no curious eyes looked directly at what the Ouroboros official was typing, and of course shoddily assembled terminals were also there for data input. On the receiving end of complaints and questions was an oldish looking lady.
Dirk could only vaguely judge her age, as her eyes looked young, but the bags under her eyes and stress-induced wrinkles shaped her face into a mask of white-collar torment. Near her, but on the client side of the reception desk stood a pair of Ouroboros security personnel, they were armed to the teeth and worked pretty well as a psychological deterrent, to ensure that no upset soldier-of-fortune would opt to get physical with the receptionist.
Without further ado, Chernobog took his place in the queue with Argonaut by the side. They stole a few glances from the other waiting mercs, but that was about it.
Everything proceeded like every ordinary bureaucratic process always did - slowly and painstakingly.
The queue moved at a snail’s pace and the Ouroboros’ people didn’t even pretend to care about things like privacy, taking on the mercs’ complaints one by one out in the open without as much as a curtain to dampen the sound.
Dirk heard every possible problem. They ranged from simple complaints about the uniforms being a size or two too small, to missing personal belongings, supposedly confiscated by the company employees. Some people even predictably came in to negotiate bigger payouts, attempts at which were quickly shut down, backed by some pre-rehearsed corpo-speak.
Those whose complaints were rejected, more often than not, grunted with discontent. Undeterred, they tried to appeal their cases with more arguments, some more sound than others. Minutes passed, and a trend quickly became clear, pointing Dirk towards a sad, but not unexpected reality, that this whole place was nothing more than a corner to cry in, and not actually a place to get things done.
It was the beauty of shoving the managerial class into every step of the organizational ladder made material. Everything got talked about, but nothing got accomplished.
Dirk sighed, taking a step forward. It was his turn, and since he lost so much time already waiting, he might as well shoot his shot.
Feeling his annoyance, Jason took a few heavy steps, sticking close by Dirk’s side, making it a point to stare down each guard with just enough bloodlust to put them on edge, but not start a conflict outright.
- Easy, boy. We’re here to talk. - Dirk spoke to the giant in a calm and composed tone, displaying control of the situation.
Despite that, he was just barely able to contain a smile. Intentionally or not, they started the good cop, bad cop routine, with a twist.
The bad cop was substituted for a particularly vicious looking K9.
- Unit, name or callsign, and your issue. - the desk lady uttered, composed as a rock, clearly unamused by the killing machine baring its teeth at her.
Dirk greeted her with a pearly white smile, hidden just beneath his unkempt facial hair.
- Scouts. Chernobog. I’m here to discuss the details of my deployment. I think my skill set would be better suited for another unit. Preferably–
- Denied. - she cut him off flatly, her eyes scanning a sheet of paper she just pulled out of a thick folder.
- May I know why? - Dirk couldn’t help but ask, not letting any concern show.
- Skilled drivers are in short supply in our current lineup, and at the same time critical to the mission’s success. - she shuffled through a few more pages, unbothered by Dirk’s piercing gaze. - By your own declaration, Mister Chernobog, you are a skilled driver, thus your position in the convoy is non-negotiable. Unless you have lied about your skill set to get this job. - she raised an eyebrow, her eyes searching for a hint of weakness. - I see in the report that Mister Holder failed to assess the truthfulness of that statement.
- No. any information I provided is indeed true. - Dirk admitted, neither angry nor disappointed with the way she was pressuring him.
- Then I consider this matter closed, Mister Chernobog. The Ouroboros company thanks you for your cooperation.
Despite her forceful attempt at cutting the discussion short, she made a flawed assessment of the mercenary in question. He might have been quite displeased by the job given to him and agreeing with her put him at a conversational disadvantage.
Role the Ouroboros assigned to him was probably set in stone at this point. Whining and pouting about it would solve nothing and help no-one. He’d just have to deal with the cards given. As much as it irked him.
Then it was time to change the approach. Different avenues of the attack could yield promising results, information that would be vital down the line. Maybe the lady before him was the one with all the information, making prolonged conversation beneficial only to one party.
But there was one thing Dirk had that lady before him lacked.
The privilege of a client.
- I am sorry for prying but could you elaborate for me on the drivers shortage issue? - he continued. - As far as I can tell, the truck which I am going to be driving is a “Taurus”, model “Effluvium” to be exact. Mercenaries hired by Ouroboros company lack driving licenses?
She looked up at him and squinted slightly. As if carefully evaluating every word.
- The whole production line from that year was kinda funky, alongside “Longhorn” and “Rodeo” all the trucks Taurus produced had very obtusely shifting gears and visibility from the cab was shit. - Dirk continued with a warm smile. - But I am pretty sure in today’s day and age most adult men and women can manage getting a machine like that from point A to point B.
Lady said nothing. But her fingers stopped typing on the keyboard.
- Maybe I came off wrong. - the old vet continued the approach. - I’m not here to demand that you change my position, Miss. I sure as hell understand from my previous profession that the paperwork required to request new bullpup pens for your desk would take at least three weeks. - for the first time since Dirk took his spot in a line, Miss “desk jockey” smiled. - Changing an assigned position for a temporary employee a few hours before their shift is something way outside of the scope of your pay bracket.
- You’ve got that right. - she responded, briefly letting her guard down.
- What I wanted was a simple explanation and form to fill out, so I can potentially take it up the chain in a week or few. As I simply think my vast experience and array of skills could benefit the project better if my position was adjusted. Could you help me?
“Could you help me” - such a simple phrase, yet a key to so many doors.
Looking at how long their conversion was taking, other mercs behind Chernobog were getting a bit restless. But none of them really dared to speak up, as Jason turned around, staring them down while his “owner” conversed. Inadvertently retaining order in front of the booth much more efficiently than two Ouroboros goons ever did.
Lady behind the desk exhaled, her door successfully opened. Dirk knew that sound. It was a long held breath carrying way too many hours of overtime on a way too miniscule pay increase.
His ex used to look and sound the same after a night shift at the Central Command. Painful side effects of not fulfilling oneself at your day-to-day work.
- Listen, mister. - she started, her voice much more human now. - I can give you a form 45a, it’s a personnel indefinite transition form. - with that she reached for another file, this one much more robust than before. - You’ll just need to fill pages 2, 3 and 6, all the others apply to official Ouroboros employees.
With that, she placed a bundle of papers on the desk, stitched together with two paper clips. Turned it around towards Dirk and proceeded to show him exactly what to sign and where. Guiding him through the process like one would a child.
It took quite a bit, but once done the old soldier knew exactly what to fill, where to give the file back and what all the bureaucratic jargon actually meant.
- Thank you. - Chernobog said another magic word, a balm for every blue-collar worker in the world. - You’re very good at explaining this whole corpo-speak, Miss.
- Too bad that not many are willing to listen like you do, Mister Chernobog. - she smiled again, this time more genuinely. - If you have any more questions, you know where to find me. I’ll be sitting in the same place during each checkpoint of our journey.
- I wouldn’t like to take up too much of your time.
- Oh no, I insist.
Her response left Dirk a bit confused. But he got the message, aptly reinforced by the desk lady’s stern look.
- Then I’ll finish up this form and come to you for a second-hand assessment of its content during convoy’s first checkpoint. - the old soldier straightened up, putting the file in the company's given backpack. - I’ll bring some coffee with me.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
- I’ll hold you to that. Make it extra strong. - she responded, seeing him off.
After that surprisingly fruitful altercation, The God of War proceeded towards the canteen with Argonaut in tow. Maybe he didn’t get the info he wanted right now, but now outside of Tom, he had another source of breadcrumbs from Ouroboros corporation plate.
- I didn’t know you had such a game. - Argonaut whispered. - Boggles the mind.
- You’ll be surprised how far simple human decency will get you in working class circles. - Dirk answered, ostentatiously.
- Still, you forgot to ask her name.
Dirk fell silent.
- Shit.
- What’s with you and ladies working logistics? Is that your type? - Jason snorted quietly.
- What type? She needed affirmation and I needed information. Our interaction was purely transactional. - Dirk vehemently denied any interest, scanning around to appear busy.
Jason chuckled under his mask, then tensed up, returning to his role as they approached the mess hall. All things considered, it was a nice gesture from Ouroboros to feed their fresh hires even before any work got done. Building a positive rapport so soon almost felt uncharacteristic of a big corporation.
- Tell me if you smell anything funny in the food. - Dirk told Jason as he stretched his arm, already preparing for any nonsense Misha had the time to stir up. Whenever food or drinks were involved, that man never failed to make trouble.
- What am I? A drug dog? - Jason hissed back extra quietly as they passed a few people.
- You can’t do that?
- Obviously I can. So what should I look out for?
- Well, they are a pharmaceutical company. Everything’s on the table.
- Great. - the giant scoffed, stretching his neck with frustration just a bit.
With that, they moved quickly, the sounds of a commotion already reaching their ears. People hooted and hollered, some laughed, while others mocked viciously. Among the voices, Misha’s stood out like a sore thumb.
They approached a massive tent from which warm light spilled out onto the dark dirt under their feet. That light along with the rowdy sounds felt weirdly welcoming, yet Dirk moved with haste, unaffected by the cozy spell.
Managing to squeeze by a couple of rough looking mercs, Dirk had a quick look around the place. The floor was simply dirt, packed tight by moving feet. Now it was rumbling as a small circle of people rhythmically stomped their feet in excitement.
The walls and roof were being held up by a rather thick steel frame, around which black cables coiled like snakes, leading to exposed light bulbs here and there. It looked rough. Almost homely, and almost certainly not within company regulations, whatever those might have been.
- Davay, davay! - a familiar voice pierced through the chatter like a knife through butter, urging now increasingly curious Dirk to proceed.
- I’m gonna crush you, you red scum! - a strained, laborious voice answered with fury dripping from each syllable.
- We’ll see about that, buddy!
“A brawl already?” - Dirk sighed, not really that surprised. Misha liked dishing out punishment to those he deemed interesting, almost as much as he liked his alcohol, and this place was bound to have at least a few worthy opponents. Still, it was bad manners to say the least to start shit where people ate.
Chernobog shook his head and shoved his way into the circle to get a look at how things were going. He had no doubt concerning what was going on, his curiosity only urging him to find out how hard Misha was winning.
It was thus a huge surprise when he saw not a fistfight, but an arm-wrestling match in progress, and an evenly matched one, too.
Misha was up against a young man roughly his size, but with arms that looked like they could break an average man in half. His muscles looked hard as rock and his bulging veins lent him a particularly threatening look. His muscles, however, seemed to be mostly about presentation than substance, as the Russian held his ground against the destructive force of a bodybuilder in action.
As Dirk took his place among the spectators, arms crossed, he saw Morozov catch a glimpse of him, and a smile entered the Russian’s face.
- Come on, Red! I bet on you, don’t let me down! - another familiar voice reached Dirk from the side. He snapped his head there and saw Barbara in the thick of the crowd, stomping her feet twice as hard as everybody else.
- Don’t worry, devochka, I’m just having fun. - Misha called back, a single drop of sweat dripping from his brow onto the table. Dirk only now realized that they were wrestling amidst full plates of steaming food.
- Oh? You too? - the well-built but plain looking lad asked with wild satisfaction on his face. He, too, was sweating.
- Da. What’s your name?
- Want to know who’s going to kick your ass in a second?
- I gotta know whose family I’ll be sending my condolences to.
- Ha! - the man howled out a laugh. - Ted. Ted Lance!
- Misha Morozov. You better remember it!
With that the game was on and as one, both men pushed with all they had. The table shook, and the plates clattered as two unstoppable forces clashed amidst mashed potatoes. For every bit of leverage one man gained, the other made it up twofold, resulting in a dynamic back-and-forth between the two.
But their duel had to end sooner or later, and Misha was in no mood to lose today. Straining his arm like he hadn’t in ages, he pushed, paying special attention to his elbow, careful not to lose his steady footing, and just when it seemed like his hand was about to hit the deck, he fought back and in one explosive push slammed his opponent’s hand into the plate of meat and gravy, spraying those in the audience unfortunate enough to be standing to close.
- Argh! - the plain one growled in frustration, slamming his other fist on the table, though he was obviously holding back. If he hadn’t, there probably would not have been a table anymore. - Damn it!
- A good one, malchik! - Misha said, shaking his pained hand, not even bothering to act tough as he usually did. An act of respect, if anything.
The crowd both cheered and booed in equal measure, obviously signifying a large transfer of cash and valuables between the mercs.
The heap of muscles took his loss with unexpected grace, though, licking his arm clean of the gravy with an expression of both frustration, but also satisfaction. There were more wrestling duels to come between the two, that’s for sure.
He wiped what he couldn’t reach with his tongue using a napkin and shook on it with the old Russian, his eyes gleaming with newfound respect, while Morozov was just having the time of his life.
- Found a new friend? - Chernobog approached the pair as the crowd started to disperse.
Ted scoffed in response.
- Who the fuck are you?
- A good friend of mine, his name’s Chernobog. - Misha explained. - Still, can’t say yet, what do you think, bratuha? - Ruskie turned towards the loser of their duel.
- Don’t make me laugh. We ain’t on a fucking picnic, old man. - with that he let go of Misha’s hand. - You found yourself a rival, so watch your ass. Because on the next stop you’ll be the one kissing the ground.
- Harasho! That’s the spirit! I’ll hold you to that.
With that Ted picked something up from the ground, a bolt-action rifle. After throwing it over the shoulder he started walking away.
- Oi! - the winner of their scuffle called out to him for the last time. - 3rd Team, which one’s yours?
- Scouts. Don’t you forget it! - with that he pushed through the crowd, disappearing between upset gamblers.
That upset was quite palpable as many people who scattered were shooting glances towards Morozov, memorizing his sunken mug as the one which caused them to lose money. In a gathering full of materialistic people it wasn’t a healthy stamp to carry on one’s head.
But it wasn’t all doom and gloom, after all, Dirk managed to memorize a member of his squad without playing any card in his hand.
- You can’t just keep your head down, can you? - Dirk shook his head, approaching his friend.
- Ha! Look who’s talking, Mr. “Last to Finish the Evaluation”. Maybe you aren’t aware, but you have become the lowest hanging gossip-fruit in the convoy. - the Russian sat down, grabbed the spork and continued eating what was left of the food on the plastic platter. - Some know your face, some just the name, but renown truly sticks to you.
Misha chomped on a piece of meat and grinned. It was the face of a man who was relishing in all those little plans of theirs going south. An agent of chaos if nothing else.
- Like stink on shit.
- Now, now, don’t choke on all that vitriol. - Dirk smiled and sat across from him. - Guess it means I’ll have to alter my plans a bit.
- Oh? How exactly?
- In a way very close to how your glorious motherland used to do it. I’ll just use the renown to keep people around me in check.
- The Vanguard unit.
- Exactly.
- Great plan and all malchik, but the news spreading about you aren’t the helpful kind. - the Russian took a pause to chew. - They make you sound like a slacker or a wimp at best. What can you do with that?
- Curses and blessings are two sides of the same coin.
- Chto?
After these words, the old soldier planted both his elbows on the table, leaning forward and cradling hands under his nose with a calculating look in his eyes.
- Tell me Misha… if you heard about a guy taking an exam, and he finished dead last with no time to spare, would that put him in a bad light?
- Da, I just said it.
- What if you saw that same guy finish it with one hand, holding a rabid dog on a leash with the other, and he still passed?
- Rabid dog–
Then the Russian's eyes lit up. Finally catching up, he glanced over to the gilded giant behind Chernobog.
- You might wonder what exactly happened during that examination, but you can never be sure. For all you know, I could have cured cancer right there and then. Who’s to say what did or didn’t happen? No one.
- People’s imagination will run wild, blyat. - Misha added, being on the same page as the speaker.
- Exactly. So all I need to do is let the gossip stir and have Jason follow me around wherever I go, which was part of the plan anyway.
- Damn, you’re quite devious, old man. - Barbara commented, sitting down next to Chernobog.
With her, she brought two trays with steaming-hot food. Same type of gruel as “Red Mill” was currently finishing. A bowl of watered down goulash, some potatoes mashed into a fine paste, and a few measly slices of cucumber. One tray she pushed towards Dirk, leaving the other beside herself, turning around towards the Argonaut.
She smiled at him and patted the bench next to her.
- Thanks Prusk, but Argonaut doesn’t eat in the open like that. - Chernobog said, grabbing his own appointed spork.
- Why not? He’s a big boy, right? He’s gotta eat.
- Of course, but he gets quite territorial during lunchtime. - he started explaining, his voice curiously a bit louder than usual. - If some unfortunate soul were to interrupt him… well, it doesn’t take a genius to imagine what happens when you interrupt a feasting wolf.
Barbara was a bit confused by that explanation, but his long-time friend couldn’t help but chuckle. It was all so stupidly childish, but the simpler the plan, the higher the chance of its success when you’re dealing with simpletons.
- So what, you want the food to go cold? - she looked quite distraught about it.
- No, just give it to me, Argonaut will eat later.
- Nah, no way! - she pushed the tray slightly away from Dirk, shielding it with one arm like a child afraid of somebody taking away their favorite toy. - You’re not getting two. I’m not waiting for your fat ass if you lag behind in the snow.
- Fat? - the old soldier almost flinched with surprise, his eyes quickly blinking a couple of times like a shutter of a camera.
- We’re driving anyway, little lady. - Morozov cut in, his plate already licked clean.
- Now, hold on, who’s little? - Barbara straightened her back with irritation, clearly not seeing the irony of the situation.
- Look who suddenly got all defensive after taking pot shots at a senior. - Dirk scoffed, leaning forward to prop his bearded chin, which obscured his mischievous smile quite efficiently.
- Well, you already seem to have some flab under that jacket, so that area won't get fatter anytime soon. Your "bumper" is a different matter. - she stated. - But me? Have you seen these guns? - the armored suit pilot flexed her right biceps ostentatiously. - I'm way above the female median, both in height and musculature.
- And yet you’re a head shorter than him. - Dirk pointed towards the Russian with his thumb.
- Da, you’re like a child to me. Malenki rybionek. - Misha teased, sensing the direction in which the conversation was going.
- Don’t get coy with me, Red. - she barked at him. - Chernobog looks like a hobo-shaped barrel.
- Oof. Blunt. - Morozov scrunched up his face in mock pain and immediately looked towards Dirk with an expectant gaze. - And an apt comparison to boot.
- My looks are irrelevant. - he shot back, his tone suddenly stern. - Let’s remember that I got hired based on my skills, and in a combat situation, only they matter.
- We’ll see how useful those skills will be when that hobo-mane gets into your eyes during a fire-fight.
- I don’t need to see my target to know where to shoot. - he stated, head full of pride.
- Okay, mister Shaolin monk. Can you survive for a month only on a drop of water, too? Cuz I’m seriously considering taking back that food. - she huffed.
- Why are you even getting angry with me? You started this. - Dirk shrugged, giving Morozov a knowing smirk which he promptly returned.
- It’s true, though. At least pull the hair back. - she puffed, then stuffed her face with mashed potatoes.
- You could use a haircut, now that I think about it. - Morozov decided that today no one would be safe from his ribbing as he rubbed his chin in mock-contemplation.
- Says the hair expert. - Dirk quipped back with a scoff. - Sheathe your blade, Brutus. That’s enough of this nonsense. - he tipped his head to the side, letting Misha know that something was up.
- Shame. It was just getting good. - he sighed, discreetly looking towards the source of his friend’s concern, and saw an unassuming hooded figure two tables over, slowly eating what looked like a bun.
It was just another faceless person in the crowd, but that was perhaps what gave them away. Too normal. Too invisible in a colorful sea of brawlers and other hired guns.
As if on cue, exactly eleven seconds after Dirk noticed them, they took the last two bites of their meal, got up and left without drawing any attention. The only thing that really stood out about them was the composite bow on their back.
- Your fan? - the Russian lifted one eyebrow.
- Dunno. Haven’t seen them before.
- Good eye, though. I didn’t notice.
- Notice what? What are you talking about? - Barbara inserted herself into the conversation.
- We’re getting scoped out. Maybe as teammates, maybe as competition. - Dirk announced, slowly lifting a sporkful of his food to give it a sniff, and consulting Jason on its safety with a single glance. The giant’s lack of reaction was a sign that the food was safe to eat, and the man ate it up.
It was bland, but in a way, pretty comforting. It reminded him how he used to eat in the military cafeteria every day in his early days because it was free. He was just starting out then, and even the worst army slop tasted like heaven as long as it was hot.
Dirk smiled a genuine smile as he chomped down on another bite, a fact which didn’t go unnoticed by Misha.
- I didn’t know getting a secret admirer would put you in such a good mood. - the Russian snickered. - If I knew, I would have made my presence known sooner. - then went into a full-blown cackle.
- Oh, fuck off.