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Thank you so much! Aye, she's going in for another strike-!

Only acceptable course of action by @mariashades macfreaking bit me. Go read it.

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Originally it was like the spray, but I though the glitter bomb with the tape was more fun 😀 so glad you like it!

Only acceptable course of action by @mariashades macfreaking bit me. Go read it.

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Only acceptable course of action by @mariashades macfreaking bit me. Go read it.

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Only Acceptable Course of Action, Pt 2, Ch 4

Ao3 link here

My thanks to my darling Hubby, who gave me Ideas. I have been waiting so long to spring this one.

Cobra paced the length of the waiting room’s chequerboard floor and seethed. 

Usually she wouldn’t have indulged the emotion for this long, but it was a sorely needed distraction from the cumulative events of the day.  

Before the sun crossed the horizon, she’d been in her office at the Bereznik External Security Agency to finalise the infiltration plans. That Spectrum was trying to lay a trap was obvious - it was exactly what she would have done in their position - but chances were high that Svenson truly had been sent to the hospital, the Biological Warfare Department had assured her their strain of ebola was indeed that bad. The opportunity to both kill Svenson and thumb her nose at Spectrum was just too good to pass up, the generals had agreed, and the mission had been approved.  

What had happened next made Svetlanna stop and grind her teeth. She had been on her way out the door when her phone rang with news that almost made her heart stop: on his way to his job at the Central Bereznik University, Anatoly had been hit by a bus. 

Her decision had been easy. A snapped instruction to Franciszek Sokolov, her aide de camp, ensured the bus driver would be brought to the cellars of the B.E.S.A., and a phone call summoned Anastasia Chmiel to take her place. Anastasia was her favourite assassin and a near enough lookalike that they wouldn’t have to waste time changing the various fake IDs and travel documents. A second call had her car brought around to take her to the Katannia General Hospital. 

Once there, she’d been advised that it was bad. Anatoly had immediately been taken into surgery and wasn’t expected to be out of it for another eight hours at least. She had set up camp in the waiting room closest to the operating theatre and recovery ward, summoned her most loyal agents to put a proverbial ring of steel around the hospital, and Franciszek, truly a wonderful man, proved his worth once again by arranging a string of motorcycle couriers so she could continue to send and receive messages and updates to keep herself busy while waiting for news on Anatoly. 

The long hours had rolled on with only sporadic updates from the surgical team. Unlike some of her peers she didn’t bother them for more, they had her beloved to focus on and she couldn’t distract them. She had been in the middle of dictating a note for one of her procurement teams in Europe when a motorcycle courier had roared up to the hospital with an urgent message: Anastasia had been killed and the mission was a failure. 

Another courier had screeched to a halt only minutes later (which made it obvious there was a internal leak in her organisation, a problem she would attend to in the morning) to inform her that the generals were summoning her to a meeting to explain why the assassination of Svenson had failed twice now. 

She’d indulged in a storm of cursing at being pulled away, but once in the car she’d subsumed her rage, frustration and fears under her ice-cold discipline and made her plans: she had to survive this meeting if she was to see her beloved again.

Once again she strode into the grand meeting room of the military junta and once again she had to endure the egos of men and wait out their dramatics as they castigated her for the failure of the mission. After they’d roared and rumbled and spent enough of their tempers to impress each other with their collective outrage, they’d finally gotten down to business: why had she had sent someone else and not gone personally - the key point in her defence after the first attempt on the American.

She’d had her answer ready. It had galled her to use the Minister for Culture and Language’s  own words against him - the man was the very definition of a letch and constantly undressing her with his eyes - but he and the rest simply couldn't argue against ‘what woman of Bereznik would I be if I abandoned my fiancé when he needed me most?’. It was a key line in a recent movie he'd overseen. Yuri Broz hadn’t been present, but his lieutenant Jan Savinov had been and had voiced his support and agreement - the Cyber-Influence Network had not forgotten her intervention on behalf of their top man. 

That had pushed the generals into the mood to listen as she pointed out that Spectrum and the W.A.S. now likely thought that she was dead - she and Anastasia could have been sisters and they did not have her DNA, fingerprints or dental records to identify her for sure. With her considered dead, they would consider her plan dead along with her, since the plans of failed servants of Bereznik were rarely picked up by another. W.A.S. would drop their guard, she’d told them, Spectrum would turn their attention elsewhere, and they’d slip into the proverbial hen house like a cunning, grey-whiskered fox, raid it, and vanish into the night, leaving the ‘farmers’ none the wiser. 

They already had the raw materials thanks to the B.E.S.A. procurement teams and it would set up phase two and three oh so brilliantly, she had told them, which had pleased the generals so very much. They liked to be cunning and clever, outwitting their enemies with their brilliant schemes. It made them feel so very intelligent and sly, like the master strategists they saw themselves as being. The junta’s egos now sufficiently stroked, a few other points of discussion were tabled and dealt with, she flattered them into generously awarding a ‘hero of Bereznik’ pension for Anastasia’s elderly mother, then she was in her car and on the way back to the hospital. 

Here, safe, she had allowed her temper to rise once again, both purging herself of the emotion and distracting herself. Anatoly was still in theatre, and it had been over twelve hours by now. The agony of the waiting was becoming intolerable, she needed the outlet or she would go mad.

“Cobra, the surgeon is coming,” one of her men quietly warned over the concealed radio in her ear.  

Svetlanna faced the door and composed herself. Calm, serene and unruffled, her face was a blank mask as the heavy door opened to admit a small man with wise eyes, tousled salt and pepper hair, and wearing clean blue scrubs under what was obviously a much treasured white lab coat, going by the way the pockets and cuffs had been repaired. He looked tired, but satisfied.

“Ma’am,” he began, “I am Doctor Balakin. I can tell you that the surgery was a success. He is in the recovery ward and waking up as we speak.” 

Despite herself, Svetlanna sighed in relief. “Thank heavens.” A little shake got herself back into business mode. “What are his injuries?” 

“His pelvis was shattered by the hit, along with his right femur, which we have had to pin together. He had some cracked ribs and a little internal bleeding. Fixing his fractures and ensuring he did not have a perforated bowel or a pneumothorax is why it took so long,” Doctor Balakin informed her. “He will be in hospital for at least two weeks and will need twenty four hour care for at least three weeks after that, followed by physiotherapy and rehab. We will know more by next week, once he has had a chance to start healing and the worst of the infection risk is over.” 

Svetlanna nodded to herself, two weeks would be more than enough time to vet a team of carers and ensure they had everything Tolya would need for his recovery. “Can I see him?” 

“Of course.” Doctor Balakin’s face creased in a gentle smile. “This way.” 

She made herself notice every detail - every chipped tile, every seam in the linoleum floor-  and every face on her way to the recovery ward, using it to ground herself in the here and now and not lose herself in contingencies, planning and the question of ‘what if’ that always haunted her. 

Finally they were through into the recovery ward and the doctor stepped back to allow her access to the bed. 

Anatoly looked like he’d been in a plane crash. His right leg was in traction, there were IVs in his arms feeding blood and painkillers into him, his face was swollen and a mass of bruises, and he looked so small and pale in the hospital bed.

“Tolya?” She hated the wobble in her voice in front of the strangers, but the way Anatoly forced his eyes open and immediately looked for her washed the shame away. 

“Rose!” he croaked. 

“Doctor, a moment, if you please?” Svetlanna gave both him and the attending nurses a significant look. 

“Of course.” 

The staff were veterans of encounters with the government - the room was quickly emptied. 

“You came?” Tolya’s smile was weak but very much present as she sat on the edge of the bed and took his least-damaged hand in hers. 

“Of course I did, love.” Svetlanna didn’t shame herself for the gathering tears. Imagining was one thing, seeing the reality of what had happened to her darling was something quite different.  

“But your mission? Project Stormcastle?” Anatoly's concern was clear despite the slurred words and unfocused eyes.

Svetlana smiled, carefully leaned in and brushed her lips against his brow. Anatoly always mixed up his prefixes when he was drunk, it seemed that painkillers did the same thing. “There was a setback, but I have turned this to our advantage. They'll relax their guard…” 

“And then,” he hooked two fingers to imitate the fangs of a cobra and clumsily lashed at the air, “you strike!” 

She laughed softly. “Yes, yes I will.” Bending down, she touched another tender kiss against his forehead. It was irrational, but she was terrified he’d shatter like cracked glass if she applied any more pressure than a feather-light brush. “As soon as you are well enough we'll go to our dacha in the countryside. Peace, privacy, and beautiful scenery for you to write about.”

“And your company?” He curled his fingers around her’s and looked up at her with pleading, puppy-dog eyes. 

“My company and several days of my absolute and undivided attention,” she promised. “And once this is over, I promise you won't have to get hit by a bus to have it again.” 

“You'll retire?” Anatoly asked hopefully. This had been a long-running conversation for quite some time now.

“I will,” she smiled. “I want babies, Tolya, they deserve to be raised in safety and with both of their parents in attendance, not pulled away by constant emergencies and missions.” She kissed him again. “And Project ‘Stormcastle’,” she smiled at his pout when he realised she was teasing him, “will ensure their safety.” 

End Part 2….

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Tunderbird 1 - Arriving at Danger Zone!

A revisit to my first attempt at Thunderbird 1 from five years ago, trying to re-capture the iconic vertical land from below. Although not fully captured due to perspective angles in certain places and a few little design changes to link both the original and newer tv series, however very pleased all the same.

link to original: https://www.deviantart.com/monkeypoke/art/thunderbird-1-go-418294794

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Who is the best robotic or cybernetically enhanced character?

TOURNAMENT MASTERPOST

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Hi thunderfam!

Quick question for you all: Which of these logos is the correct one?

Logo 1 (https://pin.it/Ly3FSAhpV):

Logo 2 (https://pin.it/3jc0GWZY1):

Thank you!

(This isn't a test or quiz I just genuinely want to know) (I'm pretty sure it's logo 1 but I'm not 100% sure and just wanted to double check)

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Arghhh I haven't got my copy of titanam straigum yet but I want to watch the live streaaaaaam

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Only Acceptable Course of Action, Pt2, Ch 4

Ao3 link here

My thanks to @the-original-sineater for the help with this one!

‘I'm not going to complain about Sickbay’s ‘ugly scrubs’ for at least a month,’ Scarlet silently vowed, ‘and I'll be an exemplary patient for the next two.’ 

He did not like Walter Reed Hospital. 

When they arrived, they'd insisted on putting him in a backless gown like all the other patients and it was only by virtue of Kirimiko taking mercy on him that he kept his scrub trousers, currently hidden by the blanket. He had very good reason to anticipate a fight and he liked to have something on his legs, carpet burns and gravel rash hurt like the dickens and if he didn’t clean the wound before it healed over he risked getting something trapped in his skin, which was a royal pain to fix afterwards. 

‘Time to check the area again.’ Making every movement look as close as possible to the natural shifting of a sleeping person, Scarlet cracked an eye open and turned his head slightly to check on his surroundings. The biohazard ward was, yet again, empty, but in the process he caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the stainless steel cabinets that lined the walls and it startled him for a moment, he just didn't recognise himself! 

‘Blond hair looks so very wrong on me, but the entire process was worth it for the laugh I got out of Adam when I went to the observation window to show him.’ 

They'd tried a wig first, but the feeling of the wig cap pressing his hair into his scalp had scraped his nerves like nails on a chalkboard, so he'd been dispatched to the base hairdresser along with Karen, who knew how to dye eyebrows. Two goes with the bleach and a bottle of ‘Nordic blonde’ later, and he barely recognised himself. A dip into his stash of emergency chocolate to pay Magenta - Pat would ensure the photos Rick took would ‘mysteriously’ vanish - and then he was turned over to the resident expert in medical makeup - James - to make him look like he was on death’s door. 

‘And that was interesting indeed.’ His experience with makeup was 99% of the greasepaint variety - light shades on the low parts of the face, dark on the high parts, and don't forget your ears, neck, and eyelids. When he'd done medical/casualty evac training in the WAAF, that makeup had consisted of pre-made injuries that were tied onto one's leg or arm, rubber body parts bought from post-Hallowen sales, generous sloshes of fake blood, and a bunch of soldiers hamming it up to see if they could make the medics crack - and yes, the lucky ones who got the arterial bleed simulating wounds absolutely tried to squirt people with it.   

This experience was quite different. 

James had rubbed hand cream through his hair to make it lank and greasy, his natural pallor was pushed towards a grey shade, and a dusting of darker makeup under his eyes and in the little hollow of the cheek below the ear gave him a sunken, more cadaverous look. Liquid latex on his lips made them cracked and chapped, a range of bruises of various ages decorated his arms and a couple of spots on his neck and face, and a good dousing with setting spray ensured everything would stay put. Where on earth they'd found the translucent red sclera lenses he didn't know, but fitting them was an experience he could happily say ‘one and done’ about. An oxygen mask and IVs in both elbows completed his guise, a very stale gym towel was found and doubled bagged, ready to be stashed in the room to provide the ‘sick patient’ smell in case someone came in without a suit on, and to complete the illusion he clambered into the infectious disease transport capsule for the flight down. 

The staff at Walter Reed were mostly cooperative - they’d had experience with similar things, considering their patient base included generals, commanders, admirals, spies and presidents - he’d been settled into the ward and the accompanying Spectrum people had been neatly inserted here and there as orderlies, nurses, overt and covert guards. He had his pistol under his pillow, a couple of knives tucked away here and there, an emergency alert button hidden under the covers, the oxygen, IVs, and monitoring equipment were all rigged to either break away or fall off, and Green was haunting the hospital’s security system like a guardian angel.  

‘So far so good… oh hallo…’ 

Someone was in the antechamber to his ward. 

‘Odd. Kirimiko was in just a little while ago.’ 

While the viewport was fogging with the ‘pre-entry clean’ to protect patients from new infections, Scarlet risked a quick glance up at the monitoring equipment to check the time and confirm this was not one of the expected visits on his memorised timetable - half of which were busy work to maintain the illusion of a sick patient and half of which were to check and touch up his disguise. 

It wasn’t either of them.

‘Strike one.’ 

Scarlet tapped the alert button, made sure he had a good line of sight to the door, and that both of his hands were close to weapons. He didn’t grab them yet: he didn’t know for sure who this was or what they were up to, and if it was Cobra, they wanted to take her alive.

The inner door slid open and the person stepped inside. They were dressed like one of the Walter Reed nurses or doctors in one of their sleek, self-contained, pale blue bio-haz suits, a sterile tray in hand. Between how he had to peep at her through cracked open eyelids and the glare of light reflected off the faceplate he couldn’t see much, but he could make out female-like features, a pointed chin and brown hair tied back. : she looked like the photo they had of Cobra.

‘Strike two.’ 

It was really, really, really hard to keep himself relaxed as the woman set the tray on a workstation. If he pounced too soon and she was one of Walter Reed’s staff who didn’t get the memo, everything would be wasted and Cobra would be scared off. He continued to observe as she opened up the packaging on a syringe… ‘...and there’s strike three. That is not sterile technique, not by a long shot.’

She pulled back the plunger and filled it with air before attaching a needle to the end, which removed all possible doubt as to her intentions. 

‘Air embolism. Clever, but not clever enough, Cobra.’ Scarlet waited as she approached the bed, syringe in one hand and reaching for the running line on one of his IV bags with the other. 

The second she was in range, he whipped both hands up to grab her wrists. At the same time the antechamber doors slid back to admit Ochre, Magenta and Grey. Cobra snarled something, dropped the syringe and half-yanked Scarlet out of the bed as she tried to break free of his iron grip, at the same time kicking the work table towards the three men. 

Scarlet snarled back at her, half-fell the rest of the way out of bed and lost his grip on her right arm in the tussle. Lightning fast punches aimed at her ribs and gut had zero effect - she had to have armour on under the suit - then she whipped her body around, he staggered off balance, and pain exploded in his left leg as her foot connected with his knee and snapped it backwards with a sickening wet pop. Not even he could keep his grip and he collapsed to the floor with a howl of agony, clutching his wounded leg as Cobra backed up, her eyes on the other three captains and her hands going for the sides of her suit. 

Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang!

Ochre only blinked when the body hit the floor, his smoking pistol in hand. “Mags, get Kirimiko! Grey, Scarlet!” 

“Captain Ochre, report!” White snapped over their radios. 

“Sir.” Though he was still breathing hard from the adrenaline rush - the fight had only taken seconds - Ochre was ice cold as he moved to stand over the corpse, his pistol trained on the chest and not looking at the shattered faceplate and the bloody mess the helmet contained. “Cobra’s dead. I know we were supposed to take her alive if possible, but they’ve got bio-weapons, she was in a suit and going for something, and I wasn’t going to chance it.” 

“Understood.” And by the colonel’s tone, he did. “Status?” 

“Scarlet’s hurt, Kirimiko…” 

“Is here!” Medical kit in hand, the nurse rushed in and dropped to her knees next to Scarlet, her eyes wide when she saw his leg. “Scarlet, look at me, I’m going to take care of you,” she automatically began the soothing litany as she dug out a pre-loaded syringe with the special ‘knock out a bull walrus’ cocktail that seemed to work on Scarlet. “Let’s get this into you, okay?” 

Scarlet managed a nod, his right arm across his mouth to muffle his screams and his left hand clutching Grey’s in a white-knuckled grip.

“Secure the scene, Captain Ochre, SI is enroute,” Colonel White ordered. “Nurse Kirimiko, the medevac helicopter will be ready and waiting. Captain Magenta, liaise with Green, find out how she got in and backtrack as far as you can. Captain Grey, organise a cordon around the facility, we don’t know if she was acting alone.”  

“S.I.G.” Ochre answered for them all. The body hadn’t gotten back up so he holstered his pistol and turned to holler out the door at the gathering gawkers. “Someone get us a stretcher! We need a hand in here!” 

0o0o0

Six and a half hours later, Scarlet was back in his usual ward, sitting up in bed with a brace on his knee keeping things together while it healed, an experimental, hip-down ring block keeping him comfortable, and a copy of Beowulf keeping him entertained. 

knock-knock

Paul looked up from his book as Rick poked his head in the door. 

“Huh! You haven’t escaped yet!” 

Paul grabbed his pillow and whipped it at Rick. “Sod off!” 

Rick laughed as he caught the projectile with his free hand and tossed it back, careful to aim it at Paul’s chest, not his still healing leg. “Hey, watch the friendly fire! I come bearing gifts!” 

“Gifts?” Paul set the book down and put the pillow back behind his head.

“Yep.” Rick held up the paper bag he was holding. “That french chocolate bread you like so much and an update on the mission. Which do you want first?” 

“The update.” Scarlet made himself as comfortable as possible. 

“According to the listening posts, Bereznik is still quiet,” Ochre said as he sat down on the visitor’s chair and put the paper bag of pain au chocolat on the side table, well within Paul’s reach.  “I think we’ll have made them pull their horns right in with what happened at the hospital.” 

“Good.” Scarlet’s expression was not nice. “Who’s going to follow up on their germ warfare?” 

“That’s still a work in progress, plenty of folks are wanting a piece of it. Last we heard from Mags’ friends at SI the World Intelligence Network were campaigning pretty hard for the lead role.”

“Hn. As long as someone shuts it down, I don’t really care who takes lead.” 

They both glanced in the direction of the iso ward where Adam was still recovering. 

“What about Cobra?” That was what Scarlet really wanted to know about.

“We figured out how she got into the room: she told the guards that the last nurse forgot something in the ward. She had all the right IDs and Bereznik somehow slipped a fake employee profile into the database so when they checked, she came up clean. SI have the body. There wasn’t much left of her face but they’re doing a reconstruction anyway,” Ochre told him. His head tilted to one side as a question occurred to him. “Huh. What do they do with the bodies of enemy agents anyway?” 

“Embalmed, into a casket and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. Every now and again they get repatriated in an exchange, if their country admits it was them and wants them back, that is.” Scarlet rubbed a hand over his face, glanced at his faint reflection in the observation window and scowled. “As soon as I’m out of here, I'm heading to the barber's.” His reflection got another sour look. “Logistics had better have that dye ready.” 

“Not gonna keep it and see what your mom thinks?” Rick teased, grinning. “Oh, hey, you could go red and match Rhapsody. It'd really make you ‘Captain Scarlet’!” 

Paul gave him a withering look, then unexpectedly grinned. “What a good idea,” he enthused. “You'll be quite all right pulling my groundside duties, won't you? Since I won't match my ID until this,” he waved at his hair, “grows out or I get a new ID.” 

Rick pretended to think about that. “You know, maybe not. You haven't got the complexion for red or blond.” 

Paul laughed. “Oh, I don’t know, I could keep it for a month or so, see if I get used to it.” 

“Yeah?” Rick grinned. “Well…” he trailed off, his grin quickly fading. 

Scarlet wasn’t looking at him any more. 

He was looking through the open door at the tannoy in the main area of Sickbay, his eyes sharp and expression intent. 

The tannoy crackled, then, THIS IS THE VOICE OF THE MYSTERONS, rolled out of it. WE KNOW THAT YOU CAN HEAR US, EARTHMEN…

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Thunderbird 4 - Taking the Plunge

Not my best attempt at Thunderbird 4, but given how I wanted the image to look I suppose it could have turned out worse. So here we have Thunderbird 4 deploying into the danger-zone making a big splash.

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Swiggity swagity

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the little glasses, the green top, the over-sized bow...<3

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Friendly reminder for everyone that Jeff Tracy is canonically gen z

You’re welcome

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“You get all that Tracy Island?” “F.A.B, John.”

- - - - - - - - 

Based on the headcanon that John has a little voice recording from their mother that she sent to him not long before she died. She sent it to him because he was particularly disappointed to find he wasn’t chosen for a junior Nasa space programme when he was 10-years-old, and she died later that year. 

Despite it having context, the message is very general and applies to most situations so John plays it all around Thunderbird 5 when he needs it the most, and transmits it down to Tracy Island because his brothers could definitely use it too. The message is particularly helpful on the boys’ sad days, days when they need a little reminder that their mother is always watching.

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Thunderbird 3 … Blast Off.
A simple Thunderbird 3 imahe taking elements from both the 1960′s original vessel and the Modern 2010′s vessel. I’ll admit it’s not quite the right balance of each and I seem to have gotten the Position of the thrusters a little wrong. But it turned out okay.

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Only Acceptable Course of Action, Pt 2, Chapter 3

Ao3 link here

Hours later, once everyone had returned to base, they gathered in Sickbay to update each other - both on what they knew and what they didn’t know yet but needed to. The doctors did not approve, but reluctantly allowed it with a stern command of ‘one hour, that’s it’ - out of all of them, Blue had the most experience with the Bereznik External Security Agency; they needed his insight. 

Even stripped of everything that could be moved, the little room attached to the isolation ward was crowded with the data terminal, four captains, Colonel White and Green crammed into it, but they made it work, and an adjustment on the intercom meant that they could clearly hear Blue without him needing to strain himself. 

“Long story short,” Magenta was wrapping up his briefing on the extensive files he’d gotten from Spectrum Intelligence, “Bereznik is gearing up for something big, but no one knows what. SI have over twenty microfiles and counting of the industries they’re tapping, the groups they’re influencing and what they’re suspected to be importing.” His growl was one of frustration. “Usually we don’t have enough information, but this time we have too much.” 

That got a round of nods and noises of agreement. Information and how to sort it was a fickle beast in the intelligence game, prone to biting you as well as your opponent. If you weren’t careful in how you sifted it and what lens you viewed it through, you could easily find yourself drawing the wrong conclusions. 

‘As my mentor often said, when you want something badly enough,’ White reminded himself, ‘you will find it.’ He didn’t have to look to know that he and his officers all wanted Cobra and Bereznik stopped, they would have to toe the line with care or they’d quickly get lost and disoriented, looking the wrong way and leaving their opponent with a free hand. 

“Mags, filter for aircraft constructed related,” Blue croaked. “Bereznik psychology: they want to be respected and feared like other nations, that means being like other nations. They can only buy so much, they have to be able to build. That’s what they were after last time - the plans and flight data so they could build. Timing’s too convenient, they have to be after the new SPJ.” He sank back into the pillows, and shut his eyes, still terribly weak.

“On it.” Magenta turned to the data terminal. 

“But why are they after the SPJ?” Scarlet had his arms crossed and shifting his weight from foot to foot because he couldn’t pace in the room’s tight confines. “If they’re after our aircraft for their military it would make more sense for them to target the Interceptor, but that one never got tested at W.A.S. They could certainly try to use a homemade SPJ in a false flag operation, but it would be easier to simply ambush one that’s close to the border or send a raiding party to one of our airfields and steal one. We’d be able to put the alert out on the jet’s transponder code and tail number, but they could do a hell of a lot of damage in the meantime.” 

His eyes still closed, Blue waved a hand for attention and fumbled for the bedside intercom. “You’re thinking like a Spec Ops. Not like Bereznik. This has been months in planning and months in execution. It’s bigger than stealing a jet and making us look bad.” 

“How big?” Ochre asked.

“Dunno. Big.”

“Thus far we have four lines of inquiry,” White observed, “if the SPJ is indeed their target or not, what Bereznik are importing, how they are infiltrating W.A.S., and what they could do with a cloned SPJ.” 

That was when Magenta turned away from the terminal, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I have an idea that could answer at least three of those. It’s rough, but it might work, and even if it doesn’t work all the way, it’ll still hamstring their operation.”

“Go on,” White told him. 

“Blue, you mentioned Bereznik psychology. Would you say Bereznik are a proud people?” 

A moment to consider that, then Blue nodded. “Very.” 

“Perfect.” Magenta was wearing a dangerous expression as he turned to the rest of them. “Like my Ma used to say, play the player, not the game. We know Cobra has to be good, she’s one of three women in a high ranking position in Bereznik, and to keep that position she has to consistently deliver excellent results or she’ll be replaced by one of the many men there who think she belongs in a kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. So,” he started counting off points, “we’ve got an utter perfectionist who’s been killing off anyone with a chance of interfering with her plans for W.A.S. So far she’s gotten all but three of them - that’s three black marks on an otherwise perfect record - and I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t have agents looking for wherever Blue’s been squirrelled away. We know Bereznik have tried and failed to get him before, so if she can knock him off that’ll be a double notch on her belt: succeeding where her male predecessor failed.” 

“I think I see where you are headed, Captain,” White nodded slowly. “I approve. How would you suggest we get the information out?” 

“We’ve got journalists on retainer and the attack on the Svenson family drummed up a lot of interest,” Magenta pointed out. “A whisper in the right ear about ‘the recent victim of the libertarian group The Collective has been moved to ‘X Hospital’ for further treatment’ and the media will pounce. We stick a wig and some makeup on Scarlet, ship him and some of us dressed up as nurses and orderlies off to whatever hospital we convince to play along, and we’ve just baited a nice little trap for Cobra or whoever she trusts the most to take care of something like this on her behalf. SI can keep digging, that’s their job after all, while we wait and see if we can lure in Cobra.”  

Scarlet smiled slowly. “Magenta,” he declared, “I like the way you think.” 

0o0o0

Exhausted after a very trying day in the office, being able to go home to her cosy apartment, take off her shoes and coat and sprawl on her three-seater couch was sheer decadence. That Anatoly had immediately handed her his draft book with a big smile and ‘Lana, I have finally slain the dragon! It’s finished! Read this, I’ll get dinner going’ had been the perfect way to pivot between ‘work’ and ‘home’, and she gladly settled in to read her fiancé's latest poem while he turned on the radio and strode into the kitchen with a will and a purpose.  

Warm and comfortable with a smile touching her lips, she read the last line, then set down the book so she could watch Anatoly dance around the kitchen, humming along with the music as he put the finishing touches on dinner. It was so good to see him happy! Writer’s block had been styming him for days now, a dark cloud that had followed him everywhere. But now it was the complete opposite, and his joy was contagious.

She let herself bask in all of it, these were emotions she could savour, and savour them she would. 

“Well, what do you think?” Anatoly asked, grinning at her. A flourishing lift of a pot lid got a dramatic billow of steam off the pasta. “With gusto/ did my words flow/erudite and…” he frowned and dumped the pasta into the strainer. “Hm. I’ll need to think on that one.” A hearty shake of the strainer, then the pasta was back into the empty pot, he took the sauce off the heat, and hunted out a ladle so he could dish up.  

“Later, love, you’ve already bested one dragon today,” Svetlana told him as she got up, turned down the radio and started setting the table. “I loved it, especially your illustration of how even though the rainbow is a prophecy of bad weather, in the same moment it holds the hope of future sunshine.” 

“That was inspired by you, my rose,” Anatoly smiled gently as he came to the table with a laden plate in each hand. “You are the storm, the tempest that rages and blows, but also the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze that kisses the blossoms of spring.” He punctuated his words with a gentle brush of lips against her brow. 

“You charmer,” Svetlana giggled. Lines like that were her weakness and something that he ruthlessly exploited every chance he got. Rhyming couplets scrawled on notepaper and shoved into her locker in school had been how he’d first professed his affection for her, and he continued to hide little notes in her books, pockets and sock drawer. 

“Yes, I am,” he beamed, very proud of himself and rightly so. “Come, Lana, let’s eat before the food gets cold.” 

“It smells so good!” Svetlana fetched the jug of water and a lemon from the fridge. She was about to pour it for them when the telephone rang - not the regular line, but her secured ‘work’ line. 

Well used to scenarios like this, Anatoly took over pouring the water and slicing the lemon into wedges, then sat in his spot and waited while she finished listening to the person on the other end of the phone. 

“Yes… yes… have my car come around,” she paused and flicked a glance at Anatoly, “in the morning, usual time. Have a travel packet ready for me. Goodbye.” The handset back on the stand, she came over and sat down. 

“You’re not leaving now?” Anatoly asked curiously as he picked up his silverware. That was normally what happened whenever there was a call on that phone - they’d quickly eat dinner together, she’d grab her coat and bag and be down just in time for her driver to bring the armoured car around.  

“No.” Svetlana smiled, reached over and squeezed his wrist gently. “I’ve been so busy lately I’ve barely seen you, and the problem isn’t going to be going anywhere. We have time, Tolya, and,” she nodded to the messy pile of notes on the other end of the table, “we still have half a wedding to organise. Let’s eat, finish the seating plan, then get an early night.” 

“As always, my rose, you make an excellent point.” Anatoly smiled. “Eat up, we’ll need fortification for this!” 

“We certainly do.” Svetlana picked up her knife and fork and put the thought of Svenson out of her mind for now. He could languish in Walter Reed Hospital for a day, and then she would gladly help him into the eternal night.  

[spaceshipsoutthepool]

it’s that strange bisexual man again