Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Nineteen: Truth

Our... Affair, it had to remain a secret. I was willing to bet what we had was an offence punishable by death. Mutiny; establishing an ensemble under the radar. And reliance, protectiveness, elation: they're all symptoms of humanity, something they'd tried to extract from me a long time ago. Humanity was the biggest threat to their regime. 

Weeks, we spent; sneaking around and engaging in drinks and conversation. The war rooms were almost never occupied, with their rickety tables and dusty maps posted in pigeon holes. One map was always unrolled and spread across the table top: a detailed map, terrain marked in with indicators of highs and lows of the Soviet States. Markers like the ones in monopoly resided atop: flags indicating countries conquered, and tokens that looked like tanks and missiles.

The generals used the war rooms, plotting their attacks; fleets of tiny tanks in lines on countries borders and telephones dotted about: one a direct line to Moscow.

But there were cabinets crammed with documents, some marked with the most curious of subjects: none of which I ventured to open, though I was tempted and had the adequate training to open. Any vault, any drawer, any door: give me a paperclip or a hair pin.  

But the stash that we raided was the cupboard with the liquor: the best, most expensive Russian vodka. We’d drink evenings away, joking of breaking free of the facility (the grim reality was the impossibility – but everything seems a little more feasible with the right amount of alcohol), grins stretched across our faces; he knew how to make me laugh. Other days I’d sob with the bottle to my lips like a pacifier, trying to drown the sorrows, his arm slung around me like a blanket.

It was tremendously fucked up. We were tremendously fucked up. Two master assassins, dwelling the rooms used to plot massacres, still laden with weapons (some days splattered with blood), sneaking around like children, living in a world of make believe, where kissing behind closed doors eased the pain, and a dash of vodka drowned it.

But of course, roving eyes and a devious mind managed to figure out our game eventually. Roving eyes and a devious mind which came in the form of Yelena Belova. She had it in for me. She always had. From the very moment we'd met eyes in the bunk room. 

I painted myself into a corner. 

Explosions, sounding off all around us; the city was being blown to high heavens in an attempt to euthanize protesters. I unloaded my cartridges, discarded my guns, and lead my personal spy through an archway into a secluded alleyway, where protesters daren't tread. He was my kind of therapy and anti-depressants; with the taste of his lips the sanity lost killing people was regained.

Figments of shrapnel still rolled in and floated on the air, but it was of no care to me. I’d been covered with worse things in my life.

My hair was dotted with flecks of grime and my cheeks smeared with the dank dusty colours of war. He was painted in a similar state; streaks of ash weaved into his dark hair, lines of mortar and clay smudged on his face. His tabard was looking beaten, buttons loose and the leather straps sagging. 

"You know we should be working," he scolded, hands cradling my hips as he steadied me against a wall. “This is a little risky.”

My head rocked back against the crumbling brick, the sounds of shouts and screams blocked out as I diverted all of my attention to him.  

“I thought you liked risky?” I reminded him of hiding behind a row of cabinets, kissing like a pair of teenagers whilst officers collected files from the room – ready to be caught red handed at any seconds.

“You’re such a bad influence,” he hissed, hands roaming my body, tracing my fluid curves and angles.

"Oh, says you." I retorted playfully, he was so easy to tempt and taunt. I nibbled my bottom lip and he looked agonised. “Stealing bottles of vodka, stealing me...” I flashed him a grin. “Encouraging such delinquent and juvenile behaviours...” I tsked, and cradled his jaw, my thumb settling on his bottom lip.