Aleksandra Markovich (Cypher)
The soft ambiance of an American radio played in the background as I relaxed on a plush couch. Why I had been given this juvenile of a room was behind my comprehension. I wasn't a twenty year old American college student, I was a veteran of the Russian Army specifically the Special Operations department of Spetsnaz. My eyes lazily followed the disgusting decor, the entire room was tinted a bloody red from the crimson aviator sunglasses covering my eyes. Eventually my gaze reached a small coffee table, a small grin played across my lips. Sitting on the colored glass was an old friend of mine. A SIG-Sauer Model P225 that used 9mm bullets in an 8 shot clip, it was also semi-automatic. Memories flooded my mind as I picked up the weapon, examining it with a lax curiosity.
A small vibration of plastic on glass distracted me, my cell phone was ringing. With a growl I picked up the device and pressed the answer button, saying nothing.
"Hey Girl!" A chipper voice said over the line. "It's Mika, I'm getting some friends together at Jimmy's Bar on Maple Street. Remember the place? It had some amazing Vodka, anyways see you there!" I pressed the end call button immediately, that was not something I needed to hear this early in the morning. So they finally got a team around, hmpf, Americans. They were always slow when it came to action. A large yawn escaped my lips as I stood and stretched. What to wear? I thought half heartedly pulling on grey jeans, a dark blue shirt, and a black hoodie with fur around the hood's edge. My hand ran along the fuzz, that was my black hair, and ran down my neck. Slowly my eyes fell shut at the feeling of the scars I had earned from shrapnel. Might as well go. I picked up my SIG-Sauer Model P225 and hid it in a pocket in my jacket pocket. They still were Americans, I reminded myself. Lastly I pulled on my black, Russian Military issued, boots. A KB1213 combat knife tucked inside the boot, just in case.
With one last look into the apartment, I shut the door and walked casually down the seven flights of steps, whoever I was meeting could wait. Jimmy's Bar was only four blocks from the building allowing me to walk the streets. Passing shops, people, and cars; I observed everything and admired nothing. Outside the bar I paused, lighting a cigarette. While it wasn't a habit I took pleasure in, it was something that calmed my nerves every time I had a mission in Russia. Eventually it became a force of habit. When I stepped inside, the smell of alcohol filled the air along with the familiar scent of cigarette smoke. From behind my glasses, I eyed the tiny amount of people filling the establishment. No one really looked like an agent considering most were last call drunks. A waitress walked over giving me a wary smile.
"Your friend over there said he's buying if you want to join him..." I looked in the direction that she pointed. A tall male with brown hair gave me a quaint wave and returned to sipping his beer. I nodded to the waitress, walked to the booth. and took a seat across from the man.
"Stolichnaya Vodka," I ordered, my russian accent flowing fluently. Turning back to the agent, I looked him in the eyes. A flash of inquisitiveness in his face. "Yes American, I am a daughter of the Red Star. Is that going to be a problem?" My hand tensed around the pistol in my pocket, maybe things would be a lot more interesting than I thought.