#Makarov PM

[primal-prevention-kontrol]

Atomic Blonde - David Leitch (2017)

[telogreika]

Pew Pew

[identifying-guns-in-posts]

Mentioned by @camsquirrel

First image: Colt M4A1 (AR-15 pattern, M16 series, chambered in 5.56x45mm) with ACOG scope. Railed handguard but with no attachments, likely Knight's Armament RAS.

Second image, there's a revolver. Identifying it is difficult, however, due to the extremely poor image quality and accessories present on the gun. The hammer also seems to be absent, which is real sus. The best match I could give profile-wise is the Riva Esterina Black Widow (chambered in .22 LR).

The third image presents us with what is most likely two Izhmash Tiger rifles (civilian version of SVD Dragunov, chambered in 7.62x54mm Rimmed); the distinct thumbhole stock on the second rifle is the giveaway that they're Tigers. First one is using synthetic stock and foreend, and the second one has what seems to be a stock and foreend based on the wooden furniture Tiger, but I'm not entirely sure if that's wood at all. Call me crazy.

There's also a similarly decorated Makarov PM (chambered in 9x18mm Makarov) right underneath the "wood" furnitured rifle.

[pedroam-bang]

Anna (2019)

[tactical-weapons]

Kalashnikov Concern JSC - Makarov PM

[justyaraya]

COD OC: Karina Cherepanova

Name: Karina Cherepanova

Nikename: Black Widow

Date of birth: February 12, 1987

Age: 29 (at the time of the events of 2016-17)

Place of birth: Moscow, USSR🇷🇺

Citizenship: 🇷🇺

Rank: none

Specialty: mercenary, Makarov's right-hand man, leader of the Black Widow Squad

Unit: Ultranationalists

Family/Relationships

Mother: unknown❌

Father: unknown❌

Love interest: Vladimir Makarov❤🇷🇺 [Professional relationship]

Reference/appearance

Parameters

Hair: blonde

Eyes: brown

Pigmentation on the body: -

Scars: on the face and hands

Height: 165 cm

Weight: 58 kg

Body type: normal

Equipment

Body armor: lightweight

AK-47 assault rifle

Pistols: M9 and Makarov Pistol (PM)

Cold steel: Tactical knife

Personality

On the surface, it will seem that Karina is calm and harmless, but in fact she is short-tempered and cruel, especially in her methods of unleashing the language of hostages during interrogation. At first, she waits patiently, but the vase of her angelic patience immediately cracks and uses force. She loves to be sarcastic, especially Makarova, and even makes fun of him, she likes his ardor.

Fears - It's hard to say

Biography

Life in the 90s was quite difficult for many people, especially when banditry, theft, robbery, and murder flourished. Karina, one might say, lived in a real hell, in an immoral family, where noisy drunkenness periodically took place, there were fights. Karina does not have a father, her mother found a life partner when the girl was still little. But the one his mother chose was not the one he pretended to be, Instead of a "kind daddy", he showed a cruel man, and his upbringing was beatings, and Karina had a hard time, like her mother, but she believed that she was within the norm, but it affected Karina's emotional state. Due to the turmoil in the family and the lack of money for food, Karina had to work part-time to earn at least some penny, from which she slipped in her studies, graduated from school with grief in half, but then she had to work part-time, and everything in her life turned upside down. One day, unable to bear the anger of her stepfather and the next beatings, Karina took a knife in order to scare, protecting herself and her mother. She was scared at the time, which led to a state of passion, and inflicted a fatal blow on the man, which led to imprisonment for a certain period. The mother did not somehow defend Karina, having been surprised that her daughter was a murderer. Until 2016, Karina became a mercenary.

The meeting with Makarov is rather vague story. Karina decided to try to join his people as a volunteer, even if it was risky, at that moment Makarov needed people. Karina has been training for a long time, on an equal footing with others, and she also trained dogs, making them fighting dogs. Karina also has a four-legged companion, Doberman Fang, the same fighting dog, as well as a guard who always accompanies his mistress. The girl also provided assistance to the ultranationalists by supplying weapons, medicines, equipment, etc. Makarov, although he trembled with her arrogance and barbs, but appreciated her effectiveness in her work, allocated her a small detachment in which she became the leader, and the "Black Widow Squad", a shorter name "Spiders", appeared. They stayed in different parts of the world, Karina had to hide and work in the shadows, because loyalists followed her, which did not always make it possible to deliver a kind of "goods" to Makarov on time. As for her relationship with Vladimir, they are more professional than amorous. She continued to act unflinchingly, as if ignoring all the cold stares and sarcastic remarks, which only increased his irritation. In those rare moments when they were on the same wavelength, a spark of mutual understanding almost ignited the steppe of tension in which they were both immersed. As time passed, and as if in a dance of fate, they began to dance on the edge of a professional relationship, where each step could easily end in collapse or unexpected harmony.

[Biography may be edited]

[xxpinktrapphonexx]

It’s hard to focus on both of them at once.

America is acutely aware that there’s a Makarov PM in his mouth, probably loaded, with the safety off. At the same time, he can feel Russia continually skimming the switchblade over the rest of his body. It’s random and abrasive. The blade scrapes along his skin sometimes, others it cuts into him mercilessly. He has no idea if there’s any meaning to it; a pattern, words, or just whatever spot Russia feels like claiming. All the while he sucks and laps at the barrel of the gun, and Soviet Union’s hand keeps his head rigidly pointing forward. America takes in the military stiffness of Soviet Union’s uniform pants, the absolute stillness of his body. His own trembles.

- Lepidopterology

[fancy-fancy]

Quasi cold war range day

L1A1, P38, PM Makarov, SW 39 (broke, only shot double action) and No 4 Enfield

[klebald]

favourite gun? or do you use a ray gun like every other alien

I DO NOT USE A RAY GUN! Not my favorite! Don't try and "figure me out.", Mellostraight. My favorite gun, at the moment, I would say is a Beretta PMX. 10/22 Carbine comes second, and, of course, I like AKs, my favorite being a 47. For a pistol, I am partial to a Makarov PM. Shotgun, Winchester SXP Field. I am a man of variety. Out of all of those that I listed, the Beretta constitute as the answer you were originally looking for.

[reginakoilos]

Chapter one - Under the skin: Grief

word count: 1236

She was sat in her office, trying to hack few sites as everyday, to maintain her abilities, her right shoulder was hurting and only the sound of the keyboard could be heard in the silence. She was trying to keep her mind far from her thoughts, her grief, her life. Two years, two miserable years were passing slowly from the day she saw her best friend, her only confident killed by Makarov.

She was there when it all happened, she was with them, her drones were guiding them down the fight as she was bracing her rifle after a long time, fighting against the Russians shoulder to shoulder with Ghost and Gaz, as Soap and Price were disarming the bomb down the tunnel.

"They are more than we thought Price! We are running out of time and bullets!" Price rumbled at the other side as the gunshot was flying around "We need you all to resist a bit more, we found the bomb!" She looked at Ghost, feeling her stomach turning upside down. They were fighting the enemy second after second. She was tired as Gaz, Ghost and the squad behind them. "Price we are coming to you both!" Ghost spoke with his low voice to the comms, she followed him with Gaz, they ran to the place the bomb was, other shots, other bullets, Soap was working on the Bomb with Price, his sapphire eyes, his raspy voice, he spoke through the comms, till the inevitable happened, a shot, right to his head. Time was freezing as she screamed "NO!" Tears ran down her face as she tried to save him, Ghost and Gaz followed Makarov and his men, but was too late, he was too fast.

She was trying to do everything she could to save Soap, but he was there, in a pool of blood, staining her uniform as Price and Gaz were disarming the bomb. Few minutes, only the sound of silence, War was lost and she fell down a precipice she would have never thought could ask for her.

She stopped typing for a brief moment remembering that day, tears started run down her cheeks as her heart was still hurting like the first day. her eyes from the screen danced to the picture of them both on her desk and she whispered "I miss you Soap, every day more..." Her voice stained by sadness and grief as her hands were brushing away her tears from her face. She looked at the clock, Two pm, it was time to retire in her quarters, she switched off her computer, walked out her office and returned to her quarters. She saw Laswell down the hallway talking with Price, they were having an animated discussion, she could tell it by the movements of their hands and the expressions on their faces, she passed close to them but didn't care much till she heard Price say "His mission is worst than we thought Laswell" In her mind she started to ask herself what mission, the Team was all there, who was on mission? She shrugged her shoulders giving it not much importance, once she arrived to her Quarters she passed in front of Soap's door, she stopped there and opened the door with her key.

She was the one in charge to clean his apartment, she was the one in charge to keep it in order. She closed the door behind her and walked to his bed sitting there, she caressed his pillow, shaking her head trying to remind herself that she had to go on. Her face was digged in the cheeks, her arms thinner than before, she often jumped her meals, her stomach was clenched and in those moments the only thing she wanted was stay there, in his room, surrounded by his perfume. She got up from his bed and walked to the desk, something jumped to her eye, his journal, she never noticed it, but now she did and the curiosity was taking its toll on her but she shook her head, she couldn't break his privacy like that, she had to respect him also after his departure. Soap didn't want it, Soap' didn't like it and she didn't want to disrespect his memory.

She huffed passing a hand on her hair and spoke once more "Is hard to go on without you...without your smile, your jokes, but why I cannot get into the idea you are dead? Why I feel this thing inside me that tells me is not as it seems? Why?" She whispered and returned to look at his journal, she took it in her hands and spoke "I'm sorry, forgive me Soap"

She started reading his journal, smiling at the drawings inside it, he used to sketch a lot and she remembered the times she caught him drawing, he liked to draw people, but she remained with her mouth agape when she saw a drawing of her, he drawn her as she was looking out the window, with her glasses on, a messy bun and an old hoodie with her legs crossed on the couch of the Messy hall. "Oh Soap...why you never told me that?" She whispered going on to read and she found a page.

This Mission is going to be tough, I will need to disappear and I will need to say goodbye to everyone.

Reading those words she recalled the words Price said to Laswell. "His mission is worst than we thought Laswell" she trembled and closed the journal hiding it in the drawer of his desk, getting out of Soap's room in silence, when she get out she found Price there.

"Hey Hel, you okay?" Helena nodded "Yes, I cleaned his room as always. Needed to adjust few things..." Her voice was uncertain and Price took the hook "What's wrong Helena?" She looked at Price into the eyes and asked "Two years...today Price...Soap, is gone from two years, who is on mission if we are all here?" Price paled to that question so direct, so unexpected "Hel..." Helena looked at the ceiling "You knew...you knew he's still alive and you didn't bother to say anything to us, to me." Her question was more a plead of someone desperate.

Price found himself to face a moment he hoped would have never come "Hel, is not as it seems..." She looked at him with puffed red eyes "No? so how it is then Price?" She asked him "Makarov killed him once, you took him away from me, knowing full well I am in grief since that day, I struggle to go on, to have a life...but still you didn't say a thing to me..." Price posed a hand on her shoulder "Hel, is complicated, more complicated than it seems" "You both sent him in the house of the wolf without cover, alone, to Makarov's mercy, is not complicated is foolish" Her voice was low, a tone up a whisper.

Price tried to find a way to answer but couldn't "Helena...maybe is better you didn't know..." Helena understood his words immediately, what he was implying, Soap was sent to Makarov at his mercy and probably he would not come back. "I trusted you Price...but you failed us all" She whispered walking past him hugging herself with her arms as she walked away, disappearing behind her quarters door.

[khlebs]

Makarov PM - 4.6×30mm

[primal-prevention-kontrol]

-Truth and lies. People like us don't know the difference.  -No, we know the difference. But we choose to ignore it.

Atomic Blonde - David Leitch (2017)

[tf2emporium]

New Multi-Class Weapon, Makarov PM! Vote now on Steam Workshop This item was created by: GoldInk9734 (https://steamcommunity.com/profiles/76561198801437077)

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 08 [Revised]

VIII: SENSE OF DOUBT

At twenty seven, Safin required organ transplants to mitigate the risk of cancer and other long-term effects. Once stabilized, he was transferred out of Severo-Kurilsk’s hospital into Kazan, for further treatments. A subsistence of weaning morphine injections, physical therapy. Relocation to a private clinic in Algeria.

Under the bright, bare ceiling, he continued to subsist. He could move around unassisted, as long as he wasn’t barefoot. He could load a pistol and aim without shaking too badly. These lesions across his face, down his abdomen, arms, would soften with time. He could not raise his voice above a guttural rasp. His first concern, after convalescence, was to go after the ones who took over his father’s company, and eliminated his family.

"You have a visitor," the nurse said.

There must have been a mistake. Safin had no one left to mourn him. He told the nurse to let this visitor in, and pushed himself to stand. Walking slowly over to the desk, he opened a set of drawers, pushing old documents aside, withdrawing the Makarov PM at the bottom.

The man who stepped into the room was well-built, dressed in a leather jacket and cargo pants. His right eye sat inert and glassy in his skull. Perhaps working for the SVR under an alias. Klebb was fond of using illegal agents rather than Russians for operations abroad. More likely, one of Zorin’s men sent to finish him off.

“Before your father's retirement,” the man said, “he worked with an Algerian sponsor, Cipher. Gostan knew his way around toxins, and this Cipher had enough funds to keep things running out of Russian jurisdiction. When Gostan’s wife turned informant to the Russian government, it was Cipher who invited the family to dinner to take their minds off the collapse of the USSR.”

“Foodborne botulism,” Safin said, glancing over at the desk. "That was Zorin's statement."

The man followed his gaze. “You read the reports.”

“At sea level, the spores can survive boiling water. If the bacterium survives long enough to produce toxins, you get botulinum.” A ragged inhale, exhale. His mouth dried up. “Pathoanatomical analysis confirmed the cause as a toxin of vegetative origin. It only takes three-hundred fifty nanograms, about a quarter of a grain of sand.” Safin looked at the man. “Where is this Cipher?”

"A contact of his expressed interest in meeting you."

Safin turned, pointed the Makarov PK squarely at the man's breast. "I don't have friends. Or family. On whose behalf were you sent?"

"Rene Mathis," the man said, hardly flinching. "He's worked with the Cipher and his associates before. He'll be able to tell you more." Safin's hand trembled. He gripped the gun tighter. "You've every right to be angry," the man said. "But vengeance alone isn't going to help you."

Safin cocked the gun. "What are you offering in return for this information?"

"Your father wouldn't have wished to see you rot away in hospital. I'm here to get you where you need to be." The man walked up to him and grabbed his trembling wrist. "You're still recuperating."

“That is a luxury I cannot afford,” Safin said. “There’s work to be done.”

⁂

At thirty six, Safin clung onto consciousness, playing limp on the floor of the hotel room. Dragging himself upright, he touched his ear. "Primo," he rasped, "we've been compromised."

Static his only answer. As if the situation would change, he demanded:

"Primo."

Harsh static in his ears. Safin ripped out the earpiece and wire. Panic closing in, on the brink of violence, he tempered himself. Now was not the time to lose composure. He had to get out of here. It was him or Madeleine now, and given the choice he'd already made up his mind.

The door opened before he could reach it. A hand half the size of his face covered him, lifting off of his feet and shoving him into the same laundry basket. No need to sedate him. Safin couldn't see, buried by laundry. The sound of wheels on carpet giving way to the harsh clatter-and-scrape of bare flooring. The elevator doors closing. The lift shuddered downward. All he could hear past the blood in his ears was his own ragged breathing and the hum of the elevator. Eventually the lift doors opened. Wheeling down a hall, there was an echoing clatter of the wheels on the floor.

The cart stopped moving. The same broad arm plunged into the hamper, dragging Safin out. A non-descript storage room, occupied by Klebb. As Safin was wrenched to his feet, he caught sight of a crumpled body in the corner. The maid met his eyes with a glassy stare. No matter what her saviour had told her, she was expendable. Only in those last moments did she realize the truth.

“She was a useful proxy,” Klebb's voice came from the other side of the room. “But she’s served her purpose.”

Safin had consoled himself with the idea that Blofeld had no reason to get rid of him. Now there seemed no point in denying it. What had taken him weeks to parse out through observation took her only a handful of conversations as he tipped his hand. Remorse had corroded his intentions too far to be forgiven. As long as Blofeld lived to pick apart her head, Madeleine would be as good as his enemy. All she’d had to was respond, initiate, and he hadn’t thought twice.

Hinx dragged him to his feet, arms behind him.

“You've led him to us,” Safin said, wrenching uselessly against Hinx’s grip. "All that's left to do is eradicate him." Klebb said nothing. She crossed over to a table opposite him and Hinx. “I tell you this for SPECTRE’s sake,” Safin said. “Blofeld's operation is running on borrowed time.”

Klebb’s mouth thinned. “If it were up to me, you would have never left Severo-Kuslik.” She reached into the bag and produced a syringe. “But it is not.”

Safin’s jaw set. There wasn’t much he could do, realistically. No point in asking, are you going to kill me. He could buy a few more seconds by reminding her of his loyalties—there wasn’t much point in grovelling. When Blofeld made a decision, it was final. His father’s island would be left in the hands of those who could never appreciate its true potential. Bond wouldn't keep his end of the bargain. But his frustation finally got the better of his patience. "Killing me won't salvage anything!" he snapped. "Your enemy must be dealt with." Hinx grabbed his head and held him still.

“All in good time,” said Klebb. "You have your own debt to repay."

The needle pierced his neck. A sharp, white-hot pain lanced through him but he did not lose consciousness. Hinx shoved his body back into the basket.

⁂

On floor twenty four, 007 and Madeleine were making their way towards the elevators. Between the pair of jilted lovers, Swann seemed to be handling the situation better. The tension in her shoulders easy to miss under that bulky black coat. She was a little harried. Scrutinizing him, not in an unkind way. It was methodical. Even a harsh, cold man could be tipped over into sentiment.

“Ordinarily, I’d say that we ought to stop running into each other like this,” said 007, stepping into the elevator after her, “and that it might give your friends the wrong idea. But I suppose we're past that point. They’ve been swarming the halls ever since that alarm tripped.”

Madeleine said nothing. Her hair still damp at the edges. She kept her eyes averse of his, fixed on a point over his shoulder. As the elevator descended, she gripped the rail tightly.

“I know these events can be rather hectic,” 007 said, “but I can keep you safe if you tell me who’s put you up to this.”

Still, nothing.

“Paloma,” he said, watching her face for a reaction. “She's a friend of mine. You haven't seen her around?"

“We talked briefly before the donor gala, and once when I went back up to my room. That's the last I saw of her.” She held his gaze without fear or hesitation. She'd make a pretty good informant if she lived long enough. Her blue eyes hardened as she added, “This isn’t going to work on me.”

“Well, you can either trust me, or take your chances with whoever is waiting for us downstairs,” Bond said. 

A muscle jumped in her delicate face. “And you are the new guard?”

“Of a sort,” 007 said, as the counter dropped down to single-digits. “I was hoping to get an idea of whoever you’re working for before I have to turn you over to MI6.”

“I'm afraid I won’t be able to help you,” she said. “They don’t tell me much.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” 007 said, closing the distance in a few, deliberate steps. She shrunk back against the guard rail but there was nowhere for her to go. “You've ingratiated yourself with a contract killer. You're already surrounded by men with criminal ties. Perhaps you've gotten this far by playing naive, but there's a limit to how far that will take you. For the sake of your life, if not your lover—”

“You've misunderstood,” said Swann. “I'm just a rubber stamp. If you were after information, you should’ve kidnapped him. All I'll buy you is a few minutes.”

She was bluffing, and remarkably confident. Whether or not Paloma was in on this as well remained to be seen. All of these younger agents seemed to be under the impression that a nice resume and connections could make up for a glaring lack of common sense. Leiter was going to be very unhappy if the events of tonight led them to yet another dead-end. But not as much as M.

The elevator stopped on floor five. The doors opened. On the other side stood a broad man, dressed as an attendant. 007 caught his eyes and offered an easy, mechanical smile that was not requitted. Swann was staring at the man with great concentration. Through the side of his mouth, 007 said, "I'll handle the negotiations. Just look aggrieved and they'll buy it."

Swann glared at him. He found it difficult, as he aged, to extend sympathy. At Safin's age he had desire for self-preservation bordering on nihilism. Drifting in and out of consciousness as Le Chiffre bled to death. The reversal of their roles was not exactly what Bond was thinking of. An affair was one thing, 007 had assessed that tension as soon as they stepped into the elevator. But the possibility of a double-cross made the situation far more delicate than he'd first assumed. He had no idea of Swann's history with Safin other than a recent, turbulent intimacy. She could be spurned, or simply putting on an air to spare him. Bond's strength was in seduction and extraction, and the occasional show of force when the situation demanded. What was a callous and unfeeling response to her was just part of the job for him.

Swann's eyes were lucid, indignance fallen away into fear. 007 turned his body as if to shield her and his hand hovered over the gun at his hip. The man began to advance towards them and 007 said, "This will only be a moment."

On the ground floor, the elevator doors opened. Hinx grasped Madeleine by the arm and steered her towards Primo, waiting by the reception. Swann said nothing as they cleared the ground floor, out of the Raddison Blu and across the sidewalk. She was shivering as he opened the door of the car by the curb and pushed her inside. 

On the other side of the car was Safin. He glanced over as the door opened, but said nothing to her. Hinx circled around the other side and Primo pulled out with the other chauffers. “It would appear,” said Safin quietly, boring a hole into the side of Madeleine's head, "that someone has set us up."

Primo glanced at them. "What was that?"

Madeleine took an unsteady breath. “Klebb took me aside and asked to monitor Safin discreetly.”

In all his time working for SPECTRE or any syndicate, Safin did not allow himself to be misdirected by personal sentiment. Primo was no different. Safin didn't appear to be upset by this revelation. He nodded to himself and said, “What was her price?”

“My loyalty for your life.”

Just like that, fifteen years of service were under scrutiny. The perfect foil, created inadvertently.

“What will happen to her?” Swann asked. "The woman?"

“That’s not your concern,” said Primo.

She took a serrated breath. Her hands on her lap, white-knuckled, but her voice was steady. “You think I don’t know how this works?” Her eyes locked on his working one in the rear-view mirror. “Somewhere down the line, every one of us is expendable.” A look in the blue eyes like she'd been gutted. “My father is my only insurance.”

Primo paused. It wasn’t his business, but a woman like this was going to keep prodding at him until he said whatever she wanted to hear. “You have nothing to worry about.”

The silence held, strained. Her anger felt perfunctory and desperate. She was beseeching Primo with her eyes for something he was unable to reciprocate. She’d armed herself with vulnerability as an offensive. It might have worked on Safin, but Primo’s feelings hadn’t changed since their paths crossed in Guinea.

It was as if he were the only one who could see it. This emotional caveat had diverted Safin from his original cause, to his own detriment. He’d been making Swann an exception from the day their paths recrossed. He never told Primo anything about his past jobs, and Primo didn't think much of Safin's insistence in Zurich. Convincing himself of the lesser evil, while a hassle in of itself, was less taxing than listening to Swann despair about how lucky she was to be alive.

She laughed softly to herself, looked downward. “At least, before, I could delude myself into thinking it was only ego. That he saw me as something to be protected, or won—but I don’t think I ever realised just how—”

“Why don't you ask him,” Primo said curtly.

Safin said, "Drive. We'll discuss this later."

⁂

An hour later, they were in the safehouse. The curtains drawn, but the overhead light was on. Safin felt no nausea or disorientation, or assorted aftereffects. If it wasn't a lethal injection, what else could it be?

The soft scratching of a pen against paper drew him from thought. Movement in his peripherals. She hadn't removed the black coat. Her head turned in his direction and she seemed to flinch at his approach. "I didn't realise what would happen. You must understand that."

"I'm not angry," he said. "Not with you."

Her mouth drew to a line. There was no point for her to argue on. The exhaustion in her eyes and her shoulders remained palpable. Blofeld had taken measures to secure her loyalty, but not her trust.

Unable to retreat into his own façade of indifference. Perhaps in all of her previous affairs, she’d hide herself in plain sight. Never allowing her true nature at the forefront. The power and the thrill of wielding such power usually lent itself to a fleeting thrill and longer-lasting disappointment. She had deluded herself into assuming he would be no different. There was something within her, a trace of that vulnerability worth preserving. The same principle to restore a garden from nothing.

“There is a meeting in Rome tomorrow. On your father's behalf, you will be expected to attend.”

"On SPECTRE's," she said.

"Your cooperation is better than the alternative."

Madeleine scoffed. “What difference would it make if I were willing?”

⁂

The cabin of White's private plane carried a sombre tension. Madeleine had been placed on a separate flight with Marco Sciarra and his wife. It was the first time since Vienna that White had been in the same room as Safin. Aside from the pilot and Primo, they had the cabin to themselves.

“I think it’s a bad idea,” White was saying. “This Heracles Project. Say it goes into mass production under MI6's watch. All the enemy has to do is collect our medical records, take the DNA—and that’s it. We’re history. One of the largest companies the world has never known, and its legacy will be known as the advent of some mistake. A power vacuum the likes of which—oh, hell, I shouldn’t go on.” White glanced over at Safin as though in apology. “What do you think?”

“It’s not important what I think.”

“That’s what cushy men like Denbigh say to get the papers signed,” White said with a scoff. “It’s the last thing I expect from a man on the ground.”

White hadn’t been on-the-ground since the mid-eighties. “Most people are already content to live as they are told and die quietly. Give them an invisible God flowing through their veins, and they'll understand it is better to concede than resist.”

White chuckled, but there was a hint of unease in his tone. “You’d have gotten on well with Gostan.”

“In the right hands, such a weapon would prevent collateral.”

“Yes, yes, always the right hands—and what are the chances it will be misused?” Safin held his tongue while White took his silence as a concession. “Ah, that's the trouble. You're so focused on the potential of this weapon that you cannot give any failsafes, or alternatives to its misuse. I’m surprised you and Denbigh don’t see eye-to-eye on the matter.” An intentional barb. Safin ignored it. Silence gripped the cabin. “How is Madeleine?”

“Unharmed.”

White scoffed, but there wasn’t any humour. “You’ve compromised yourself, pulling her into my dealings. She had no right to know about Blofeld.”

“Blofeld introduced himself into her life before I ever could,” Safin said. “Is that not how he operates with SPECTRE's offspring?”

A muscle jumped in White's thin jaw. “Truthfully, I've never been very fond of her taste in men. I'm not even sure she was fond of them, half the time. Perhaps she was trying to assuage my concerns, whatever she assumed them to be. But none of them ever used her as a bartering chip.”

“It was only a matter of time before her connections were brought to SPECTRE's attention.” The outcome was decided when he opened his mouth in Zurich. Before then, in the car while Klebb looked him in the eyes. Even now, Safin was faced with the same level of detachment which Swann had cultivated and White had mastered over a lifetime. A professional did not resort to petty envy.

“She's cleverer than I,” White said. "But she is a daughter of SPECTRE." The lines in his face stood out sharply. "Just as you are a son of SPECTRE."

"I gave you my word," Safin said. "She won't be harmed."

⁂

Under the arched room of the Cadenza, the same strained tension followed from the private jet. As Blofeld discussed the proceedings, Safin fixed his attention on him casually. When the discussion of the incident with 007 at the Raddison Blu came up, he remained calm on the surface, even as White expressed his interest.

"Are you aware, White, that your daughter has been targeted by the CIA?"

White went very still. In the warm light he had paled. He was looking at Blofeld. "I was not."

The grey eyes held briefly on the face of Safin, two seats adjacent. "You will be thankful to know that she has come away from the matter unharmed. No need to worry. She's proven to be a very resourceful asset."

White's reaction was subtle but immediate. He looked at Safin. He was trying to keep himself in check but coming to an understanding that something else had transpired. Safin held the eyes of Blofeld once addressed and did not stray. He could feel White's eyes digging at him. He did not allow his own tension to show in body language. There was no point in arguing. Blofeld was not a man that could be convinced so much as humoured. This was just about keeping White in check, not bartering for Swann's life.

“Swann has her purpose,” Safin said. “But a temp is all she need be.”

"Well, I see no reason to leave her out of our dealings," said Blofeld. "She has proven that she possesses both the intellect and resourcefulness to be trusted. She will be reinstated at the Hoeffler Klinik in Austria. A promotion, for the job well done in Oslo. There, she will be kept in good condition until we have need of her."

The chair beside Safin's shifted, wood scraping against marble. "She is useful as long as she is malleable," Safin continued, "007 is too great of a wildcard. We've already dealt with the aftermath. It gave MI6 the advantage. In the long-term, she's no different than Lynd." White's hand closed around his arm. Safin reached up and brushed his hand away. “My loyalty is to the syndicate,” he said flatly. 

No reason to expend any emotion. White was frustrated with the uneven turn of events. The outlier was an easy target.

"Mr White," said Blofeld coolly, "is there something you and Mr Safin wish to discuss?"

White scoffed. Wrenching his hand away from Safin, he said, “This isn’t about him, no more than it is about me, or any one of us gathered here tonight. You and I both know that, Franz.” The room was very still. “Since QUANTUM was lost, I have watched you drive yourself mad to make James Bond’s life a living hell. I’ve watched us sink lower. It caught up to Le Chiffre. If James was a genuine threat to our syndicate, you would not have hesitated to get rid of him. We had the advantage two years ago, when Olivia Mansfield still headed MI6, yet you allowed Silva to enact his revenge plot. Now we’re playing catch-up while our enemies bolster their defenses. This goddamned Heracles Project is a pipe-dream. There are too many drawbacks, and we’ve no alternatives! All of this has cost us. Le Chiffre, Greene, Yusef, and—”

“—you're speaking of necessary losses.”

“Appointed by YOU, Franz!” White exploded. He continued in a level voice, “For too long, I've stood by and watch you dismantle what has taken us decades to build, and rebuild, all for the sake of a childhood grudge. You’ve taken more than I can give.”

Blofeld’s face became stony. “You wish to resign?”

White stood up. “With what little dignity I have left, yes.”

Blofeld sighed. “Frederich, I’d advise you to reconsider.” His eyes flickered to the balcony. “Not in front of your daughter.”

White froze where he stood. A look between resignation and cold contempt crossed his features. “Ernst….”

Another one of Blofeld’s favourite games. Pitting two operatives against one another. Their fates were decided by him alone. Safin was looking ahead.

White's breathing changed. His days in the French Foreign Legion were well behind him. Even if he were still in peak condition it would not have made much difference. He grabbed the front of Safin’s suit with fingers that would not obey, to brace his own weight or apprehend the man responsible for his daughter's fate. His mouth foamed, a mixture of saliva and blood. Safin could not avert his eyes. He croaked out a word that was indecipherable, blood bubbling from his throat. Collapsing into himself, he began to seize.

Vogel disguised a flinch and shifted her feet away from the encroaching pool of blood and bodily waste.

Safin turned his attention towards the head of the table, where Blofeld sat, statuesque. His grey eyes glittered.

“Denbigh,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Inform your scientist that this weapon will need a little fine-tuning.”

Denbigh sounded as though he was going to be sick. “It’s still a prototype, sir.”

“Yes, and I kept him talking for quite a while,” Blofeld said with a wave of his hand. “Given Obruchev's description, he ought to have died a few minutes ago.” He signaled to the man behind his chair. “Kestutis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Largo’s release date should be coming up soon. Send him to Dr. Swann. He will replace Frederich before the end of the month.”

“Of course, sir.”

“All of this was possible thanks to the joint effort of our latest fill-in.”

All eyes turned to Safin, who was looking at Blofeld. Blofeld’s attention rose to the balcony above and Safin followed his gaze. “A means of assassination without guns or typical poisons. It is only a prototype, as Denbigh says. But in a few years, along with the Nine Eyes programme, we will have an unprecedented level of flexibility over our operations.”

Frederich Konig died for nothing. Safin was as little a threat to Blofeld's schemes as the temp who'd charmed her way into lowering his defenses. It was no fault of hers. He could be honest with her in a way he could not have before, not while her father lived. But before he explained his true purpose to Madeleine, there was something he must do.

⁂

At short-notice, Obruchev had agreed to meet SPECTRE's benefactor through Primo at a safehouse in London. He had been promised a better sum of money than Shatterhand could offer in return for intelligence about Gareth Mallory's dealings, off-shore. Silva had never mentioned anything about London or Heracles beyond his quest for revenge against Olivia Mansfield. It was possible, then, that Silva had not known or been complicit.

Before he stepped into the safehouse, Safin told Primo, "I'll handle this alone."

Primo bade him entry.

Valdo Obruchev, a balding man of smaller stature, looked up. “My client has informed me that you oversee the Heracles Project in London, is that correct?”

“Since 2011.” Obruchev glanced up at him over his glasses. “I am sorry. Have we met before?”

“My father was a client of Guntram Shatterhand’s.” Safin stepped closer. “I’m here to continue what he started.”

Obruchev looked at his face. A sudden flash of comprehension. “But you’re—”

“Just a can of herbicide.” Safin’s hand in his pocket curled around the butt of the gun. “Three days ago, one of your clients injected me with a strain of Heracles. It was used to eliminate Frederich Konig, alias Pale King.”

Obruchev struggled to find his voice. “Look, I only supervise the other scientists. Is it possible one of the strains was coded to this, uh—Konig.”

“It shouldn’t be an issue to verify.”

“Well, I don’t confer with Mr. Shatterhand personally. If you’d like, I can put you into contact the research team.”

His hand on the desk slipped out of sight. Safin reached over, caught Obruchev by the back of the head, slammed him into the desk. Wrenched him up, knocking his glasses askew. Obruchev yelped but made no effort to free himself. With the barrel under his chin.

“Put your hands where I can see them.” Obruchev scrambled to oblige. Blood began to stream from his nose. “How is Heracles meant to be utilised?”

“Once Heracles is introduced into the bloodstream, the target will exhibit symptoms characteristic of a chemical attack. If a person is inoculated and he is not the intended target, the weapon will do nothing.”

“Can it be transferred?”

“Yes, through physical contact. The nanomachines are crude, but efficient. They should become more difficult to detect as technology improves.” Perhaps Madeleine wasn't the target, after all. What reason would Blofeld have to eliminate his favourite temp? “As technology improves, we would utilize the weapon on a broader scale. Entire families could be eradicated with the right DNA, you see—but at this moment, that’s only an idea!” He winced. “The initial strategy was to target the intended victims under the guise of mandatory inoculation.”

“Such as West Africa.”

Obruchev began to nod before he caught himself pressing into the gun barrel, shrinking back into terror. “Ah—y-yes, that’s correct. The medical staff in Guinea were told they were getting a vaccine. We used their ignorance as a proxy, the perfect circumstance for testing Heracles without suspicion. But—what you’re suggesting is impossible. The bioweapon is under close surveillance, there’s no evidence of it being used outside of MI6’s jurisdiction. Look, I-I’ve told you as much as I can.”

Safin let him drop. He put himself between the desk and Safin. "

⁂

Three days since Rome, Madeleine was already back in Norway. It wasn't enough time to grieve her father. No amount of platitudes or promises from SPECTRE's ilk could soothe the panic that kept her up at night. The very paranoia that had kept her alive was slowing eating its way through her instinct for self-preservation. Alone in the early hours, she could almost fool herself that it was remorse, not survivor's guilt.

A sense of security from the last place she’d ever hope for. She’d been toying with the idea ever since coming to Oslo, but now she was forced to accept it as a lesser evil. In her previous life, she would’ve had the luxury of disdain. In pursuit of that dream of normalcy, she’d do anything to survive. Perhaps there was as much difference between putting her trust in Safin and coming into work as a rubber stamp for liars and killers.

Apart from his job, a few vulnerabilities, she knew as much about him now as she had last time they spoke. For her sake, he’d kept his distance. But sooner or later he'd let his guard down, and the only question was whether he deemed her worthy to live carrying his own secrets. A stranger with no ties to her wouldn’t be coming and going as he saw fit. Nor would she be opening her door to him. Her father never once talked about how he and her mother met. That part of their lives, she wasn’t meant to think of—it would make them human and fallible. As if they could be anything but. She wasn’t a child anymore.

She took no greater pleasure in the constant string of deaths and killings, nor looking the other way. Even with her father gone, that burden of inheritance wasn't lifted with him. In lieu of a target to point all of her misgivings, there was just emptiness. The inevitable, hopelessness of being trapped with another criminal who understood. No way of pushing him away. To be understood by such a man was another violation, as if it had mattered to him in the first place. As though she were really the first person he’d had to break-in for the sake of his clients, no need to flatter herself that he was genuine in his concern. He might be able to lie to himself, but not to Madeleine.

As she stepped into her apartment, the door was ajar. The lights were off, curtains drawn. Her heart skipped a beat or two. She closed the door behind her. The handgun was in the pocket of her trenchcoat, hanging up on the closet door. She reached casually into that pocket, scanning the permiter of the room for any disturbance. 

"There's no need for that." Safin was sitting on a chair, facing the front door. He looked as if he'd been sitting here since this morning. She would have noticed if he had. “Before my father died, he dealt in poisons. He owned a chemical facility on the Kuril Islands. Blofeld bought the island from the Russian government and has been renting it out to potential buyers. The attacks in West Africa, for example. ” He looked at her. “I wish to reclaim what’s been taken from me.”

“For your father’s sake?”

He scowled. “Beyond that. Think of the lives that were lost in Guinea. Your father's death. There will be more before our work is done.” Madeleine shrank into herself under the weight of his phrasing. Blofeld must have known. Her father would have known. Perhaps it was why Safin would elect to keep her out of harm's way. “That senseless collateral you witnessed, it was for the sake of testing this bioweapon. As long as you remained ignorant, you would be an outsider, free to live and look the other way."

"I've strived to lead an uninteresting life. Evidently it was never good enough." She said it plainly, but her eyes peered through him, into another place and time. She was reaching into herself, sifting through regrets, back to the same emotion. “My father would not repent. Not while he was alive.”

“It was for your safety that I kept my distance.” In a silent conflict with himself, Safin got to his feet., walked over to her. "What you saw in Rome was one of Blofeld's tests. I had nothing to do with the outcome."

"I believe you." She’d made a habit of internalizing the lack of her longevity since she was a child. The hitman sent to her door. All of her family seemed to meet the same fate, sooner or later. "But I'd feel safer if you stayed."

All she had to do was sound pitiable enough and he'd mistrust his judgement. Without the barriers of formality there was only desire to assuage. She turned and gripped his wrist, and he seemed to tense up. His expression changed. Eyes darted to her face and held there, but he didn't move and she did not react as her father had. Intuitively, she cupped his face and said, “You’re the only one who can protect me.”

He shivered, her touch a live wire. Their mouths met. His hand swept down her back, drawing her against him. Blotting out her grief. The more secure path to revenge was in the unravelling. As long as he was needed, he would go to her. They wound up on the sofa, and he didn’t close his eyes to kiss. She unbuckled his belt, but when her hands reached the hem of his shirt, he brushed her aside.

“Does it bother you?”

He blinked slowly, as if he’d misheard. He inhaled, exhaled, and said, “No.” As he sat up he held eye-contact. It was not benevolent, but the thrill resonated behind her navel.

He took her hand and placed it under his shirt, coming to rest against his sternum. Mottled and cool, the steady rise and fall of his chest. As she dragged her fingers down his stomach the damage pervaded. It was as though he’d caught a blow, or else been splattered with something chemical.

A mark along his jaw stood out and she pressed her mouth to it. His skin tasted bitter, the way memorial roses smelled. As she pushed him supine, moving down his body, he stifled a noise in the back of his throat without deterring her. Closing her eyes, this could be any man. If not for the cool hand on the nape of her neck and his ragged breath, the lie might stick.

SPECTRE would be watching. Just like any other lover she took home, they would glean nothing new.

[mopeymi]

You Have Terrible Morals and Obligations - Ghost/Soap

Official Part 7

Soap bit against the refusal that bubbled in his throat. Price had just finished discussing the mission plan in it's entirety, explaining everyone's role. Price and Gaz would serve as over watch while Soap, Ghost, Konig, and Horangi would move towards building infiltration. Once inside, Soap and Ghost would head West in the building to sweep and gather intelligence, Konig and Horangi doing the same in the opposite direction.

Soap chimed in, claiming Ghost was their best Sniper and would be best serving over watch, but Price assured him Ghost's hand-to-hand and close quarter fighting achievements were essential.

They had intel that a car would be delivering important documents detailing Makarov's dealings within the last few months around 8 pm, so the boys were to wait inside the building for the cargo to pull up and deal with it accordingly. Gaz suggested Ghost and Soap wait inside of the lower levels to catch the men who entered the building off guard while Konig and Horangi made their way to the roof to provide high support and a better angle than Price or Gaz would be able to from their distance.

Soap cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself. Konig shifted at his side, pressed a little too close but Soap enjoyed the warmth. He could sense Ghost glowering across the table, but he refused to look at the Brit instead looking towards Price and Gaz. Horangi looked over at him from the other side of Konig, leaning forward for a better view.

"Wouldn't it be better for us to stay together? 2 men versus whatever gets out of the car... doesn't seem fair to me." Everyone regarded him carefully, and then Price snorted.

"You and Ghost are not only some of my best operators, but you make one hell of a team. I believe in your abilities." Soap blinked unbelieving. Had the last few weeks just been forgotten? Did Price forget about him collapsing onto his office floor and sobbing about Ghost's non-dead death? Or literally avoiding the man as though he was plagued with some infectious disease?

Words formed in his mouth in the shape of a protest, but he felt a solid hand on his knee. He looked down to see his thigh dwarfed by Konig's large hand, warmth flooding through his body. He snapped his mouth shut and gave a sharp nod.

Over the time that Konig and Horangi stayed at the base - It was only two days. - Soap already considered them close friends of his. Horangi wasn't really the talking type, but he didn't appear swayed from Soap's constant jabbering, even seeking the man out during lunch and free times during the day. Konig on the other hand was simply shy in the beginning, choosing not to talk. Once Soap had broken through his shell though? The man was as talkative as a scientist defending their thesis from a skeptic.

Price went back to explaining the plan, but Soap's mind was elsewhere. Was pairing Ghost and Soap together some type of forced proximity to get them friendly again? Did Soap's emotions on the situation simply not matter? He supposed not, considering he was just supposed to be a good little soldier without thoughts or feelings.

Ghost was perfect in that way; Emotionless, detached, withdrawn. Everything Soap wasn't. It’s probably why Gaz was so shocked when Soap drunkenly admitted his attraction for their superior officer. It felt stupid in hindsight, considering half the base already assumed the two had something going on. Especially after Soap went a little off the rails at Ghost’s apparent death.

“Alright, that’s the plan. Good to go?” Price asked the group.

“Good to go.” Soap responded.

“Yes, cap.” Gaz.

“Ja.” König.

“Yes.” Horangi.

Soap quirked an eyebrow as he waited to hear Ghost’s response. Lifting his gaze, he saw Ghost standing across the room, his arms crossed and gaze unwavering from König. The large Austrian shifted uncomfortably next to him.

“Yes, sir.” Ghost grunted out, and then abruptly left. Soap couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he stood, grabbing his phone and slipping it into his pocket. He took his leave soon after, beckoning König to follow. He extended the invitation to Horangi, but the man simply shook his head and motioned towards Gaz and Price who remained talking about mission plans. Soap merely nodded as he started making his way to the common room.

“I don’t think Geist likes me too much…” König said with a sigh. Soap snorted as he pushed open the doors, slumping down in the nearest lounge chair. The other was quick to follow, sprawling out in the next best seating option.

“He doesn’t like anyone too much.” Soap responded, picking idly at his nails.

“He seems to like you, Seife.” His tone sounded completely honest, a small hint of curiosity laced into it.

“Tolerates seems more appropriate.” Was how Soap chose to respond. He crossed his ankles as he rested his head back and closed his eyes. He could feel a headache beginning to bloom.

“Did something happen between you two?” Soap knew the question was going to come eventually. He opened his eyes and regarded König carefully. The man had leaned forward onto his knees, hands holding up his head. Recently he had stopped wearing the sniper hood around base, opting for a plain balaclava similar to one of Ghost’s. It made his eyes more visible, a pretty green-blue.

“I suppose you could say that. I think I assumed I was more important to him than I actually was. They really mean it when they say don’t fraternize with superiors.” König eyes flew wide open, body language exuding shock.

“Y-you and… Geist, you…?”

“No! No.” Soap snorted and then straightened himself up. His tone became serious, “Nothing like that, König.”

“Why not?” König asked, looking around cautiously for any prying eyes.

“Honestly… we’re too messed up. Our lives aren’t made for the personally complicated things.” Soap’s tone had a sad edge to it, yet he sat stoic. His face showing no emotion.

“Who says lust is complicated?” Soap paused at the words. His brows furrowed in confusion, thinking he may have heard him wrong. Perhaps it was the man’s accent; Lust?

“I- Don’t think I understand ya, big guy.” König laughed lightly at that, relaxing back into the chair.

“The tension, Seife. It’s suffocating. I’m sure the two of you can figure something out? To relieve it and in turn, yourselves?” König had said it like it was commonplace. As if the mere mention of Soap fucking his superior officer wasn't bad enough to get them reprimanded.

"First- First of all," Soap began, stomach fluttering uncomfortably, "He's my SO. I don't know what they do in your mercenary groups, but that doesn't fly in the SAS. Second; Ghost?! Mr. 'Emotional capabilities of a rock who flinches at a mere fist bump'? That isn't happening." Konig belly laughed at that, slightly shrill. Soap was surprised that a man that size could make a sound like that.

"Maybe it's being on the outside looking in," Konig said after catching his breath. A few recruits had looked their way, but Soap gave them a quick glare and they turned back to their own conversations, "But I don't think Geist would be very opposed to a more physical relationship with you." He shrugged. His eyes glanced above Soap's head and he could see the man smile beneath his mask.

"Horangi and I planned on going to the shooting range for some quick practice. Wanna come?" Konig offered as he stood, beginning to walk out. Soap only shook his head and said a small 'Thanks, but no.'

That conversation stayed in his head the entire rest of the night. Soap tried to think of instances where it seemed Ghost was interested in some way, but it really only felt like the man indulged him in all honesty.

Talking over comms in Las Almas? That was just so Ghost had peace of mind his responsibility was still alive.

'Of course, no? 'No-' 'Yes. No one fights alone.' Easily translated into "I had a job to do and you just fell into my line of duty."

No one knowing (Except Price) that Ghost was alive as a way of protecting both them and him? Nope, just another selfish ploy so the lone wolf guy would have a few weeks of peace. Not having to worry about Soap's constant talking or his management - Hell it was a damn paid vacation.

That's what Soap had convinced himself. All of that among other things that painted Ghost as some sort of villain and Soap as some misguided civilian caught in line of fire.

The plane hit a bout of turbulence, shaking him out of his thoughts. He was surprised Ghost had sat as close as he did, only a seat between the two of them. Soap looked across from him, seeing Konig and Horangi talking quietly.

"Been a bit since we've worked with mercenaries." It was quiet, rumbly. Soap gave Ghost a sideways glance.

"Yep." He popped the 'p', sitting up straighter in his seat.

"Getting along with the large one, then?" His tone was even, yet Soap couldn't help but smirk at the thought of Ghost being jealous.

"Yeah." Is all he answered with. He really hoped Ghost would stop talking. It was already bad enough their proximity and then being stuck basically glued to his side on the mission? A form of emotional torture.

"Just remember to keep it tactical, Sergeant. Don't want another Graves situation." Soap's jaw tensed at those words. A rebuttal was on the tip of his tongue.

"Landing in 2." Cut through their comms. A chorus of acknowledgements flooded through.

Mission focus.

It helps that I remembered what I wrote, I just needed to fill in the little bits. How we feeling abt this?

I think imma make some smut along with this, yall good with that? Or would you rather just have mentions of rated-r happenings?

[hirik0]

Back to you part 3

part 1 | part 2

Makarov/Yuri

Makarov | 11 pm Liverpool, England | 2 months later

01:00 am Moskau = 23:00 pm Liverpool | Time zones guys... why did i think the need of time zones is a good idea?

Makarov is enjoying his drink in a high priced bar in Liverpool, and that its the same bar Yuri had frequently visiting is pure conicident. And Jack is constanly looking towards him and Makarov knows that his man in England Artyorm is slowly getting iritated by Jack. "Who is this dude thats looking over?", Artyorm asks, ready to get rid of the staring man on a wimps notice, but Makarov just has a pleased smile on his face. "A nobody", Makarov says very unintressed, but he is enjoying this so much, because it looks like today Jack is here with colleuges. "He looks towards us 15 times in the last 5 minutes", Artyorm points out, clearly not buying Makarov a nobody. "I know", Makrov says with a pleased smile, oh that Jack can't even start shit makes this so much better. "So you know who that is", Artjorm says rolling his eyes. "Yes, hes a idiot", Makarovs answers unhelpfull, before emtyinghis glass. "Boss, who is this and is he a problem", Artjorm presses the matter further. "He is an old enemy from before I started my carrer", Makarov gives a simple breakdown of who Jack is with out mentioning Yuri or a gay marriage. "Do we need to get rid of him?", Artjorm asks ready to order a hitman by now. "No, hes not even in our line of work", Makarov says not being abel to holt back his laughing when Jacks phone falls to to ground. His burner phone told him, that a sertain person just posted about his party night in Moscow. The dropping of the phone also seems to calm down Artyorm. "Why hes your enemy?", Artyorm ask clearly not understanding how such a person could do anything that makes him a enemy to a the boss. "Ruined my friendship with a close friend and took this person out of our workline", Makarov explains because Artyorm joint after Yuri left. "You do friendship?", Artyorm asks suprised, only knowing a cold hearted sastistic version of Makarov that helped him to rise the rangs quickly. "In my old live", Makarov answers not minding the implication. Jack is angrly storming out of the bar and Makarov smiles satisfied oh, his was the best idea he had in a long time because what ever Jack trys to do he will look like an absolute ass if he is rude to him.

When Jack is coming back after a short time in he is fuming, starring daggers towards Makarov who is very pleased with the situation. Oh he needs to ask Milena what Yuri said at the phone, to make the other man getting this visibel angry. The other people at Jacks table start to ask him questions, questions that Jack clearly dont want to answer and is it so clear to Makarov that Jack wants to storm over and scream at him. "Damm, must be a hell of a phone call", Artyorm wispers getting cold shivers about Makarovs extreamly good mode. Their work day was shit, Makarov looked like hes ready to brutaly murder the next person that breaths wrong just 2 hours ago and now he's a kid ripping open presents. "Oh I bet it was", Makarov says toasting towards Jack who looks like is is ready to comid a murder by now. "YES my husband is leaving me", Jacks sudenly screams, hearebale for the whole bar, its clear that Jack can barely hold is rage in check. Makarov smiles just grows bigger oh, this must be a gigantic hit for Jack massively overblown fragile ego to have attmidet this so publicly. Artyorm makes a digusted sound clearly not having a good opinion about gay people. "He married your old friend", Artyorm states his face still showing digust. "Yes", Makarov simply confirms in a tone to signal the topic is over with this, Artyorm opens his mouth as if he wants to say more on the topic, but stops himself.

Yuri | 1 am Moscow, Russia

Yuri is drunk and enjoying the music, looking much healthier then two months ago, slowly building back up muscels again, having goten a hair cut he likes and he stoped crying himself to sleep 2 weeks ago. He is partying with a old friend Milena and her friends who are celebrating a bacherolette party today. Milena, who inharied her late husbands money is giving him another glass of a very colourfull shot. He emptys the shot, midly gaging at the teribel taste that gets worse with every shot before looking at the groupe of Milenas friends dancing or what they call dancing. "Im not drunk enough for what ever they are doung", Yuri says when he looks at Milena again. "Are you saying the soon to be bride cant dance?", she asks him playing to be disapointet in him. "Well not after 7 Magaritas", Yuri states his opinion getting her to laught. "So you meet Vladimir again with the both of you living in the same city again?", Milena asks him sudenly of course knowingthe answer alreadywho else would have given Yuri her number? "Yes, I meet him at 'the box ring' again", Yuri answers giving her all the information she needs. "Oh, did you see Vladimir fight?", Milena ask him getting a suprised look from Yuri. "He still does that?" She nods as a answer no need for the both of them to talk about his in a full club in Moscow. "You have a 'ticket' right?", Milena ask him refering to a entry card to the pit, making Yuri chook on his drink being sudenly reminde that Makarov gave him one of his whore cards. Being to busy planing his way to force Jack to sign the fuckign divorse papers. "He gave me one yes", Yuri answers cant stop his face from blushing and now Milena knows that there must be more to this then Yuri is telling her. "You got on from him personaly? I thought he only ever gives them to 'dates'", Milena says confused, also a bit disgusted. Seriously Makarov need to get his shit together if he want Yuri to stay. "Its only for 'dates' if you give it back, allegedly", Yuri recalls what Makarov shoutet after him while he put on his boots. Milena breaks in a drunk giggel, tears are runnig down her face and she needs to hold her stomach, Yuri giving her a dipleased look just makes it better. "Im.. Im laughting over Vladimir not you", Milena pants out when she gets it back together. "Vlad was speachless when I asked him the about the 'dates", Yuri says before emtying his drink. "No a speachless Vladimir and I missed it, shame", Milena says pouting. Yuri is again looking at the other people they are here. "You think they are done?", Yuri asks some of the woman barely able to keep on their feet now. "I think they are, the bride looks like she is about to fall asleep on her feet", she agress graping her own half full glass, to finish it. Milena looks at her phone how did the other woman get this wasted already at barely 1:30 am before a notification from Instagram is poping up. "Oh, shit Makarov commeted on Instagram", Anna say and Yuri is moving clsoer to her, so they can read it together.

Sombody took the news really bad and embarrassed themself.

They both grin at each other over this comment, till they see the soon to be bride fall over her own feets landing on her ass on the way to their table. "Time to get them home." Yuri can hear how defeated Milena sounds, this will be so not a easy job. Herding a group of clearly drunk woman to their hotel.

3:40 am | Moscow, Rusia

Yuri is done. They needed nearly an hour to get the bachlorette party to the hotel, he needed to carry the Bride for the last 10 minutes. The other woman stayed in row after Milena told them she will not bail them out of prison if they get arested. He just finished his late shower, in Milenas penthousen guest bathroom. Just a towl around his hip and in a drunken thought he craby his phone, taking a picture in the mirror. He then chooses the contact that is simply an M and sends the nude. He is not even sure if Makarov has the phone this number belongs with him or if he's traveling with another burner phone. But drunk Yuri is of the opinion it dont matter when Makarov is seeing it, but that he will see it. He puts on a old T-shirt and a pair of boxers before leaving the bathroom. "Your divorce phone has a missed call. Its from Mr. 3 minutes", Milena tells him, refering to his phone with his british number he is mainly using to talk with his lawyer. "Oh god, why did he called me?", Yuri asks cunfused Jack didnt spend one thought to him for 10 months, why does he start now. He puts the voice mail on speaker, knowing he will have to inform his laywer about this.

"Yuri, you really think you can hide behind your Lawyer? Huh, dont get where you sudenly get this confidence from. You really think your old friends want a worthless piece of shit like you back? Milena is only hanging out with you out of pitty and when she drops you will crawl back to me anyway. So you better get back home where you belong. Oh and you really think I will sign this papers just because your Psycho friend is showing up at my favorite bar? Pathetic, cant even believe he does something like this for you." End of voice mail

The first think Yuri notices is how absolutly angry Jack sounds. "Cant believe you married this douche bag?", Milena comments, giving Yuri a full glass of water to drink. "I was younger und dumber", Yuri says sacasticly. "Okey but who does he mean with pscho friend, im pretty sure he told you all of us are psychos at somepoirnt", Milena says before drinking from her own water. "I think he means Makarov, Jack said 'he does'", Yuri concludes and honestly it only can be Makarov anyway because he is with Milena and is not sure who of his old friends are even still alive. "He sound so angry, wich means he could do nothing with Makarov beeing there", she points out with a big smile. "I think my new voice mail on the british phone also pissed him off", Yuri sniggers, knowing exactly what the what the first part of Jacks rant refered too. "What does it say?", Anna asked before taking another sip from her water. "That I can't reach the phone right now and that if you're my soon to be ex husband to please talk to my lawyer and sign the good damm divorse papers", Yuri say with a big grin on his face making Milena laugh.

02:20 am | Liverpool, England

Makarov finally can finish his work day the last important mail, arived 20 minutes ago. He looks at his phone seeing that he got a text from Yuri 40 minutes ago. Yuri never used this number since he gave it to him in a stalker way, broken into Yuri appartment and leaving a note with his and Milenas phone numbers there. Yuri never aknolege that this happen so why did he now? Makarov feels himself blush Yuri send him a nude. Yuris, nacked chest with water running down, only whereing a towel. And Makarov cant look away, being fully captured. Thinking back to the day 2 months ago when Yuri layed in his bed ogeling. The time the tought about what would happen if he didnt ask Yuri for breakfast, how they all turn him on so much, how he got off on them. And now? Now he had something new for these kind of thoughts he try to squish every time they pop up. "God fucking damm it, Milena was right, I'm having a bi-panic because of Yuri", Makarov curses in to the thankfully empty room. The worst is Yuri just send a picture nothing else so what is he suppost to do with this? Well the not helpfull part of his brain is clearly has a lot of ideas, telling him to look a the picture again. He looks at the picture again, noticing more details, how Yuri is bitting his lower lip, his eyes half closed, how the towel is low in his hips. How easly the towel could slip down because of gravity or Makarov could cause it to fall to the ground, how this would make Yuri grin dirty at him through the mirrior. Makarov is half hard, just from a few thoughts. Oh hes fucked, when the fantasys of the photo and the memory are merching to one big dirty fantasy. He wants Yuri in his bed again so badly and he will do what ever is necessary to reach it, by all means necessary.