1908/Memories of Winter: A Backstory

Memories of Winter: A Backstory
Date of Scene:	09 August 2017
Location:	Afghanistan, 1987
Synopsis:	Two long-lived hunters meet for the first time when they have the same target, for entirely different reasons.
Cast of Characters:	Winter Soldier, Mystique

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Winter Soldier has posed:
The year is 1987, and the Soviet Union has finally realized it's got its leg caught in a bear trap in Afghanistan. The process of chewing it off is going to be painful, and the blood loss will be part of what kills the USSR in two short years.

They do not yet know this, so they still try to cut their losses. The first thing they do is recall the one thing they cannot afford to lose in the mountains and deserts of the Middle East. Not that the Winter Soldier would be lost. He laughs when he is given this reasoning. His was the hand that helped start this war, and throughout its long, dragging duration he has stood in the shadows of it, brought out and used alternately like a surgical scalpel, or like a tank brigade. The army is not happy to see him go-- Bessmertniy, or so the soldiers call him, is a force multiplier like few others-- but Moscow has greater need of him right now.

There is a certain colonel-general, a general-polkovnik, opposing the withdrawal from Afghanistan. Aleksey Dmitriyevich Petrov is a popular man among the military and among the people, but not so much among those in power. The only thing the powerful like about him is his strong stance against mutants, a stance he uses his own notoriety to promote. If he had his way, he's known to say, they'd be shot the first moment evidence of their twisted genetics comes to light.

That one thing will not be not enough to save his life from the decree of the State. The absolute necessity of withdrawal is so obvious it is thought he is a defector, a saboteur. There is no concrete proof, not yet, but there doesn't need to be any when a man tries to swim against the tides of the USSR. The kill order requests discretion-- but does not frown on leaving enough doubt to sow fear.

Petrov has just concluded a speaking engagement at an upscale hotel in Moscow, which is where he will be overnighting before traveling on to Leningrad. He and his flock of aides are finishing a few drinks at the bar downstairs, and look like they're about to head back up to their rooms.

Mystique has posed:
    Mystique had been at the speaking engagement, having taken on the persona of one Vladimir Ivanov, a soldier known to be loyal to the General within the various ranks, a rising star of the USSR. Or, he was. The real Vladimir was dead, in his room in a bathtub of ice and a 'do not disturb' sign on the door. It would be several days with the tip she'd left before the body would be found.
    She'd watched the speech, and, having -- interrogated -- Vladimir before fully assuming his identity, she knew where the General would be after the speech. Petrov had quickly earned himself a spotlight in Mystique's sight, after his persecution and killing of a mutant within the country she'd been wanting to recruit into one of her plots and schemes. Irene had declared him imperative to the plan's success. Now, Mystique knew that plan would be worthless. She sould have to start over.
    Mystique -hated- starting over.
    As she parted from the speech, she'd shifted from Vladimir's identity into that of a waitstaff in the upscale hotel; the girl was lucky and had been paid by Mystique to 'take the night off' at the last minute. Mostly because Mystique didn't have time to hide the body.
    And, believing the alley was empty - as it probably was, unless one was as highly skilled as Winter Soldier, Mystique checked the small syringe in her hand; a syringe with a fast-acting poison. A poison that would take the general's life within moments.
    It would sow confusion. Chaos. And, revenge.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The general and his entourage finish up quickly enough, after a last story from the man that prompts laughter-- some genuine, some sycophantic. Hard to tell exactly which. The tab paid, they make their way back to the hotel's lobby, the general's aides dispersing as they go to their various different destinations. Soon enough, only one is left to walk the general back to his room. Of course, it's a pretty young blonde.

They pass by the mouth of the alley where Mystique waits. They do not see her there at all. Easily enough followed in.

Now, Mystique finds herself in the unique position of being able to see someone who does not see her, given the particular angled at which she's sheltered by a jutting window. Only movement would alert her that she is not alone, because her sudden company makes no sound; he is only a shadow moving across the fire escapes, several floors up: a shadow that soon slides in through a window and is lost to sight.

Even from this distance, even if she can see no obvious armanents, it's pretty obvious whoever he is, he's not here for the afterparty.

Mystique has posed:
    << General >>, Mystique greets as the woman dressed as the hotel-help, stepping up to the man an in front of him and the blonde woman. She looks him dead in the eye. Then, she levels a gun. Not onto the General. But, onto the blonde. The blonde was unexpected. And so now, Mystique is thinking on her feet. A change of plans. Her accent is thick, her Russian is -perfect-. And, the subtle inflections of it Peterov would note came from upper society. And that means, usually, high-ranking.
    Her posture and tone are authortive, a person used to commanding. She keeps the gun leveled on the blonde woman. << This woman is an American Spy. Sent by their CIA. Her orders are to execute you. >>
    Then, to the woman, she barks, "Be still," in a thick Russian accent, speaking English. She moves her hand to search the girl, pat her down. And, subtley letting the skinfold open to reveal the syringe out of her hand she makes as if she is removing it from the blonde woman's dress. Holding the poison out to the General.
    << You will come with me, General. If you wish to survive. I am Alonya Sokolov. I was sent here to find this woman. She has been plaguing us for years. >>

Winter Soldier has posed:
The blonde gives a little shriek as Mystique materializes almost from nowhere, though the general does not react outwardly. A man who blooded himself as a young man on the Eastern Front of the Great Patriotic War, it takes somewhat more to surprise him-- familiar as he is with Soviet politics-- than an interloper with a drawn gun.

Like, for example, the fact that the gun aims onto his companion, and not him. 'Alonya Sokolov' explains that he has been in the company of an American spy all this time, a spy with orders to execute him, and a quick search produces the 'proof.' The girl starts to shake uncontrollably at the sight of the poison, clearly bewildered at this sudden turn of events and too shocked to even make a sound in her defense. A leaf suddenly caught in a much stronger whirlpool than she could ever anticipate.

"<<You were a good actress, Lyudmila,>>" Petrov presently says to his erstwhile companion, "<<but not quite good enough.>>" And with that he dismisses her from his sight, his gaze resting fully on Mystique. "<<And who would have sent you, Alonya Sokolov? The Komitet? I was not aware they cared for me so-->>"

He trails off, because he's seen something beyond Mystique. Something that pales him to silence.

"<<This is an interesting wrinkle,>>" a cold voice muses, some twenty feet behind Mystique. It belongs to a man dressed in black, features shrouded by a mask, a Makarov held loosely in his right hand. He perches on the overhang over the hotel's side entrance, mantled like an eagle, his elbows slung over his knees, his blue gaze passingly curious.

Mystique has posed:
    From another pocket, Mystique pulls out the end of a silencer. Smoothly it is attached to the end of the pistol, even while she still points it at the blonde woman, poor Lyudmila. She turns to see the man that has caused Petrov to go pale. << We are compromised. >>
    Pfft. Pfft.
    Lyudmila is exected, shot twice in the forehead. Cleanly. Professionally. Mystique then shifts.
    The transition is both disturbing, and enthralling. One moment, a brunette, tall, almost imperious looking in a hotel uniform is standing in front of the General.
    Then, the very next, Lyudmila is standing in front of the general. In a red dress. Lyudmila is /also/ laying, dead, with two bullets in her forehead.
    Mystique only waits long enough for the horror to hit the General's face before she moves forward with surprising speed and efficiency to push the needle into his neck and depress the plunger at the same time. << Your past has caught up with you, General. >>
    She drops the syringe. The syringe, now, with the prints of the girl on them.
    And then, the general is standing in front of himself, still handing the gun with the silencer on it. Removing the silencer end. << Do not worry. You will die quickly. And, at the hands of a peasant girl named Lyudmila. You will be a laughing stock in the miltiary. And, forgotten in a month. >>
    And now, with the general's fingerprings on the gun, the 'General' presses the gun into his dying copy's hand, and forces the paralytic fingers to squeeze the trigger, once to ensure gunpowder is in the offending hand when forensics comes.
    Mystique then shifts once more, even as she's drawing out another pistol. Staring up at the shadow, on the fire escape. And, reattaching the silencer to this new pistol.
    The woman comes prepared.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Swiftly, shockingly, and ignominousl does Aleksey Dmitriyevich Petrov pass: a once-great man, slain by a mere peasant girl. A casualty of Mystique's vengeance.

The Winter Soldier watches this tableau unfold. He could be a gargoyle standing frozen sentinel over the hotel's entrance, for how little he moves. Only his eyes track Mystique's movements -- her startling shifts between shapes -- their gaze blue and cold as glacier ice reflecting the open sky.

He already finished doing all his necessary moving, earlier, while Mystique was in action. The muzzle of his weapon is aimed at her, though it seems merely a defensive reflex. Little about his body language suggests he is interested in firing if he does not have to. His aim on her is a desultory thing, a mere lift of his hand to angle the gun just the right way. He hasn't even taken his elbow off the brace of his knee.

The silver steel of his left arm catches a passing hint of starlight, shot through a momentary break in the heavy cloud cover.

That metal left hand lifts, very slowly, in a 'don't shoot' slowness -- and pats amusedly against the wrist of his right hand in obvious applause. "<<You seem to have done my job. And neatly,>>" he observes. "<<Saves me a bullet.>>" He rolls his eyes. "<<Or however I was going to do it. I hadn't decided.>>"

It's impossible to see, given the mask, but the tone of his voice suggests he's grinning. "<I won't tell on you if you don't tell on me.>>"

Mystique has posed:
    << You were sent here to kill him, then. >> It is not a question, it is an instant conclusion. Mystique was playing games of intrigue and subterfuge before there were any agencies such as the KGB, or CIA. It is the glint of the arm that gives him away, if nothing else. She has heard stories of the Winter Soldier. Who hadn't? Dark rumors in the underworld here, and there. The boogeyman who would destroy you if you got too dangerous for Mother Russia. Internally, or externally. The Siberian Equalizier.
    Even in this revelation, Mystique does not feel afraid. She, afterall, is not his target. And from what she knows while he will, and does kill indiscriminantly, he doesn't do so unneccessarily. Only as a means to achieving his goal. And that goal now completed? She is safe. Unless she changes that equation.
    << Your associate here killed my people. So, we have killed him. Take the credit if you wish, >> she affords, mangniminously.
    << You may call me Mystique. >>

Winter Soldier has posed:
You were sent here to kill him.

<<Yes.>>" The word is an absolute, stated with pride. A pride explained by the bloody star sigiled on his steel arm: a sight well-propagandized east of the Iron Curtain, and cursed bitterly to its west. No surprise, really, that stepping foot into Mother Russia would bring one face to face with her protector sooner or later. He does not hide in the USSR the way he does elsewhere; his own people know very well he exists. The better to fear the vengeful State he represents.

He leans forward slightly, the better to study Mystique. Someone with the ability to change shape. He supposes that's why she is a cipher to him: and if she's not known to him or Soviet intelligence, she must be skilled indeed. He regards her lack of fear, and a certain respect crosses his gaze, and brings him to holster his gun. Her assessment is acute: he has no need to kill, and so does not.

She relates the fallen man's crime. "<<So I assumed,>>" he says. "<<Fair's fair. He declared a war on your kind. Hypocritical, given what I've seen the Soviet Army do. They're happy enough with you -- when it serves their purposes.>>"

He actually laughs when she offers him the credit. "<<That's generous,>>" he says. "<<I think I like your narrative, though. A good story. Appropriately humiliating.>>"

He rises to a stand. "<<A pleasure, Mystique. If your business here is concluded, we'll have no quarrel. If we meet again-->>" There is, again, that impression of a smirk, "<<--you may call me Yasha.>>"

Mystique has posed:
    << My business here is done. >> He has seen what she is capable of, with little effort. And there is no doubt in Mystique's mind he will take the story of her back to Russia. And, they will suspect. And, in their own way, fear. And they should fear her. As they should fear all mutants. << So I have heard, >> she agrees, without any measure of quarrel for how those mutants may be treated, those in the service for their country. There are, afterall, worse things out there for mutants to face. She has faced them.
    << I am certain we will meet again, Yana. May we once again be on the same side. >> She smiles, warmly at him. But she inclines her head in a measure of respect. He is not a man she would wish to cross paths with, if she could ever avoid it.
    And with that, Mystique turns, shifting into an Afghani woman, wrapped in the black cloth, face and body obscured. They make it so easy to blend in. To - disappear.
    And, that is exactly what Mystique does, in the crowd at the mouth of the alleyway, disappears into the small stream of people trickling down the street, going home.

Winter Soldier has posed:
It is a knowledge he will bring back to his masters, assuredly. Perhaps it will inform Russian decisions for years to come, in dealings with the mutants that arise among them.

May we once again be on the same side, she says, in parting, as she turns and steps fluidly into the shape of an Afghani woman. His eyes flicker with amusement. "<<I would prefer that,>>" he says dryly, after witnessing another seamless transformation. "<<May the circumstances of the world allow it.>>"

He watches, thoughtfully, until she is lost in the crowd. Then he turns and takes his own leave, abandoning the two corpses to be found, perfectly posed in their storybook death.