#Sokolov Report

[otmaaromanovas]

Pierre Gilliard's recollection of Ipatiev House when he visited shortly after the murders, as part of the Sokolov inquiry

"Together with Sergeeff we visited the Ipatieff house and inspected the room that had the bullet holes on the wall and on the floor. In this house I found two "Egyptian signs" [Swastikas] which the empress had the habit of drawing on various things for good luck. One of these signs I noticed on the wall paper of her majesty's room, the other on the side of the window in a room where, under the Egyptian sign, the date was written in pencil: 17/30 April — the date of the arrival of her majesty in Yekaterinburg.

My attention was also attracted to the stoves; they were all full of various burned articles. I recognised a considerable number of burned things such as tooth- and hair-brushes, pins and a number of small things bearing the initials: "A. F." [Alexandra Feodorovna. ]

I got the impression that if the imperial family had been taken away from Yekaterinburg, they must have been taken as they were, without any of their belongings. All the things they might have taken with them were burned. Nevertheless, at the time I left the house I could not believe that the imperial family had perished. It seemed to me that there was such a small number of bullet holes in the room I had inspected that everybody could not have been executed. When, a considerable time later, I returned from Yekaterinburg to Tumen, Volkoff called on me. I did not recognise him at first, as I had read in the newspapers that after the attempt on the life of Lenin, Hendrikova, Schneider and Volkoff were shot."

Before WWII, the Swastika was widely recognised as an ancient sacred symbol of good luck and spirituality. Alexandra Feodorovna was particularly fond of this symbol, and drew it often. Her last diary, found at Ipatiev House, also has the symbol embroidered on the front in gold. Cars used by the Emperor also bore the symbol.

SOURCE: The Last Days of the Romanovs, published 1920, George Gustav Telberg, Robert Wilton, Nikolai Sokolov, ch. Examination of M. Gilliard

PHOTOS: The Swastika and date written by Alexandra Feodorovna, found in the Ipatiev House. A hairpin used by one of the women, recovered by the Sokolov investigation and currently owned by the Jordanville Museum of Russian History

[stereax]

[romanovsmurdermystery]

On the image: from the left to right Tatyana Nikolaevna and example of her hair colour; Anastasia Nikoalevna and example of her hair; Maria Nikolaevna and example of her hair: and Olga Nikolaevna and example of her hair.

The Mystery of the Grand Duchesses' Hair

Almost a year ago, when I started looking into the circumstances of the Nicolas II and his family 'murder' or rather disappearance, I noticed a certain detail that caught my attention - the box with four types of hair found in the Ipatievsky House on 2 August 1918 by the investigator Nametkin.

[…] a box with the hair of four colours, belonging, as per words of the present Terenti Ivanovich Chemodurov, to the former Grand Duchesses: Tatyana, Olga, Maria, and Anastasia Nikolaevna. […] - from the report produced by the investigator Nametkin on 2 August 1918.

This 'evidence' caught my attention because something seemed very odd about the finding.

Nametkin noted that the hair was of the four colours. This means that the hair in the panniers was long enough to identify the colours, as if it had been short then it simply would have mixed together and it would have been difficult to distinguish the types.

2. The Grand Duchesses had very similar to each other hair colour (see the image) and if their hair was mixed in one box it would be difficult to distinguish their colours. So, it means that the colours of the hair differed enough to distinguish them.

3. The Grand Duchesses could not have had too long hair in July 1918, as in July 1917 they shaved their heads. The hair grows slowly - approximately 1 cm per month, and even it it was 2 cm per month, by July 1918 they would have their hair no longer than slightly above their shoulders or even shorter. The point here is - there was no need to cut the hair even shorter. If it was done there was a reason for that.

4. Nowhere in the diaries of Nicolas II or Alexandra Fedorovna it is mentioned that the hair of their daughters was 'trimmed' in July 1918.

5. The priest who came to do the service couple of days before 16 July 1918 confirmed that the hair of the Grand Duchesses was slightly above their shoulders. This means that their hair was not cut. But if so, then why to cut it on the 16 July 1918?

6. Chemodurov was not in Ipatievsky House in May-July 1918 as Nicolas II let him go and kept Trupps as his valet instead. So he could not have known how long the hair of the Grand Duchesses was in the months of his absence.

7. Chemodurov in a conversation with Gibbs admitted that he did not tell the truth to the investigators as he wanted to make sure that the Family was safe.

Now the question is 'Whose hair was found in the box and why these four people needed to cut their hair?'

The hair colour of the Grand Duchesses was reconstructed based on the testimony of A. A. Tegleva given on 5-6 July 1919 to the investigator Sokolov.

[welldonekhushi]

Sokolov and Belikov Lore

This is about Vasili and Dimitri's bond and friendship throughout the storyline, and in what circumstances these two ended up.

Vasili Sokolov joined the KGB around the age of 22 years old.

Sometime later, Vasili met Dimitri Belikov and they two formed an immediate closure with each other, during a particular mission where the two were sent together.

They both were disciples of General Anton Charkov. Lev Kravchenko was also one of the people who praised the two for their incredible work and service for the Soviet Union.

If there was any other person whom Vasen'ka could trust, it was Dimitri. And one of them was ready to sacrifice their life to save the other.

But, somewhere around the late 60s, Dimitri shifted his allegiance and political ideologies towards the CIA, during a meeting with Jason Hudson to stop a man named "Perseus" from preventing an upcoming threat which was quite imminent, while being a part of the KGB in secrecy.

The dilemma began where Dimitri believed he was doing all of this for the righteous cause, but because he aligned his interest in the West, which would cause Vasili and the rest of the KGB to turn against him and declare him a traitor. It was even worse when later, Dimitri had an order from the CIA to kill Anton Charkov to retrieve the high security card so they can gain access to the lower tunnels and retrieve the list of the names of the spies to stop Perseus, without leaving any evidence. And it happened a few days later, after Vasili's retirement.

Hudson rather suggested shifting the blame to another agent, to prevent himself from getting threatened or captured by the KGB, since Dimitri was their only useful asset. And it did happen, as Dimitri gave the report to Lev Kravchenko about Vasya's indulgence in Charkov's death.

Meanwhile, Vasili was in retirement, but Perseus, who was already waiting for him to leave the KGB so that he could recruit him in his faction with a higher position, according to his stats. Perseus gave him the offer, and Vasili agreed, thinking this could be the new step to his life while working for the Soviet Union. But, Vasili slowly felt himself trapped while trying to align himself with Perseus's ideologies which were most likely about destroying the entire Europe via "Operation Greenlight".

All these memories, of the team infiltrating the KGB base, and killing Anton Charkov after Vasili's leave, were created a memory in his head during his brainwashed state.

Vasili didn't want to believe that he killed his General because the revelation was that the memories were all made up during his time in MK-Ultra, and was also doing research on who was actually responsible for the latter. Which sadly.. was his own friend, Dima unknowingly.

Dimitri and Vasili, both of them were entangled in the strings of the agencies they were secretly working with.. which would have led to a drastic result during their reunion in Black Ops 6.

[xenopoem]

Official Report on The Intransitionalist Chronotopologies of Kenji Siratori (TRS 109)

YOU CANNOT ESCAPE THE INEFFABLE FOREST

Official Report on The Intransitionalist Chronotopologies of Kenji Siratori: Appendix 8.2.3 is a xenopoetic data/dada anthology that documents the activities of the artist collective The Ministry of Transrational Research into Anastrophic Manifolds. The anthology results from an experimental approach to impersonal literary composition. Similar to surrealist definitions, but on the scale of a technical document, members of the Ministry—poets, musicians, novelists, painters, curators, artists, scientists, philosophers, and physicians—were asked to offer a microfiction, poem, essay, fictional citation, or computer code, in the form of a footnote or annotation to a glitch-generated novel by iconoclastic Japanese artist Kenji Siratori; however, each participant wrote their contribution without any access to or knowledge about the nature of Siratori’s source text. After collecting the contributions, the “footnotes” were each algorithmically linked to an arbitrary word from Siratori’s novel. The result is a work of xenopoetic emergence: a beautifully absurd, alien document scintillating with strange potency. Bringing together algorithmically and AI-generated electronic literature with analogue collage and traditional modes of literary composition, the Ministry refuses to commit solely to digital, automated, or analogue art and instead seeks technological mutualism and a radically alien future for the arts. Accompanied by a groundbreaking original score by electro-acoustic duo Wormwood, the anthology offers the radical defamiliarization and weird worlds of science fiction, but now the strangeness bites back on the level form. Readers should expect to discover strange portals from which new ways of thinking, feeling, and being emerge. A conceptual and experimental anthology, Official Report on The Intransitionalist Chronotopologies of Kenji Siratori inaugurates collective xenopoetic writing and the conceit that the future of art will consist of impersonal acts of material emergence, not personal expression. Consume with caution.

AUTHORS AND CONTRIBUTORS Rosaire Appel, Louis Armand, David Barrick, Gary Barwin, Steve Beard, Gregory Betts, Christian Bök, Mike Bonsall, Peter Bouscheljong, Maria Chenut, Shane Jesse Christmas, Roy Christopher, Tabasco “Ralph” Contra, Mike Corrao, R.J. Dent, Paul Di Filippo, Zak Ferguson, Colin Herrick, S.C. Hickman, Maxwell Hyatt, Justin Isis, Andrew Joron, Chris Kelso, Phillip Klingler, Adam Lovasz, Daniel Lukes , Ania Malinowska, Claudia Manley, Ryota Matsumoto, Michael Mc Aloran, Andrew McLuhan, Jeff Noon, Jim Osman, Suarjan Prasai, Tom Prime , David Leo Rice, Virgilio Rivas, David Roden, B.R. Yeager, Andrej Shakowski , Aaron Schneider, Gary J. Shipley, Kenji Siratori , Sean Smith, Kristine Snodgrass, Sean Sokolov, Alan Sondheim, Simon Spiegel, Henry Adam Svec, Jeff VanderMeer, R.G. Vasicek, Andrew C. Wenaus, William Wenaus, Eileen Wennekers, Christina Marie Willatt, Saywrane Alfonso Williams, D. Harlan Wilson, Andrew Wilt

early September release

[withclawandvine]

what we pretend to be, chapter 4

Summary: Azriel was a veteran spy, well suited to the sneaking and solitude that comes with a life in the shadows. He was good at it. He wasn’t good at undercover missions, so he couldn’t hide his shock when new recruit and undercover specialist Elain Archeron was already seated at the conference table, looking beautiful as ever. And then it was dropped on them like a bomb: Azriel and Elain would be sent to the suburbs, posing as a married couple to gather intel on a suspicious man who, according to reports, was in communication with notorious arms dealer, Koschei Sokolov.

Author’s note: aaaand we’re back! and things are finally happening!! i’ve been really excited to share this chapter, which is at least 33% of the reason why it took so long — it just wasn’t living up to my own expectations. BUT i’m feeling pretty good about it now. hopefully we can keep these good vibes going hehe. please enjoy and lemme know what you think!

Tags: SFW, undercover au, fake married, hurt/comfort

Word count: 3.5k

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42105033

prev | start at the beginning

The wheels of the cart were already squealing under the burden of their items, but they couldn’t leave without a coffee maker. The Keurigs were tempting — easy and instantly gratifying. But the coffee the machines produced was mediocre at best, and Elain wouldn’t object to something more sustainable. She picked up a French press and started reading the product description printed on the box. No filters! Easy cleanup! Robust flavor! 

“Have you ever used one before?” Azriel asked, peering over her shoulder. 

Elain shook her head. 

“Then shouldn’t we — ”

“Just trust me,” she interrupted, stiffening a little in surprise as her phone vibrated in her back pocket. She handed Azriel the box and took it out to see that Nuala had finally replied to her text from this morning — an all-caps demand to know if the agent had lost her mind and if she was aware that summer wouldn’t last forever. 

Nuala had been in charge of Elain’s wardrobes for all of her previous missions. She’d always been as grateful for her fellow agent’s ability to anticipate her every need as she was mystified by it. Which was how she knew that her vast new collection of satin negligees was no oversight. 

Don’t be such a baby. Besides, I’m sure Chazen would be happy to keep you warm (;

Elain’s eyes widened at Nal’s message, and she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder to make sure Azriel was still focused on coffee makers. He caught her eye and smiled as he balanced the French press on top of their mountain of homegoods. She managed a quick flash of her own teeth before turning back to her phone.

Excuse you we are both professionals. 

Nuala’s response came through on the way back to the house. Oh come on, E. It’s sooo obvious he’s got a thing for you!!

After deleting the entire thread, Elain peered over at Azriel, looking more relaxed than she’d seen him in days. That much, she could tell. Their first car ride had been all bouncing knees and white knuckles, but now Azriel was leaning back in his seat with one hand draped lazily on the wheel and the other hanging out the window. 

But these supposed feelings for her?

She thought about all of her past interactions with Azriel. It didn’t take long; there weren’t all that many, poking the first hole in Nuala’s claim. On the rare occasions they were both at their desks for the day, filling out incident reports and compiling relevant intel for future investigations, they’d often get up to refill their coffee mugs at the same time. 

And sometimes, instead of going straight back to their respective corners, they lingered, sipping their drinks and trying to find something to talk about. Most of their work was classified, even amongst fellow agents, and due to the nature of that work, neither of them were particularly inclined to be forthcoming about their personal lives. Their interactions, while pleasant, were thin. And there was nothing to indicate that those few minutes had been significant to Azriel — at least, nothing obvious. 

As if he’d felt the weight of her attentions, Azriel turned to look at her. Aside from a slight raise of his brows, his expression was neutral, his hazel eyes unreadable. It was silly to think anything about Azriel could be truly obvious. 

***

The kitchen, while a bit too white and sterile-looking for her taste, was a dream. Flooded with natural light, the open space was home to miles of glossy countertops and appliances so sleek, Elain could see her reflection in them. It filled her with a sort of giddiness as she opened the double-door fridge and started lining its empty compartments with bottles and jars. 

In that aspect, it wasn’t all that different from the little fridge in the apartment she kept in the city. Leased under the name Sarah Gardiner, the rickety studio had no personal affects, no air conditioning, and nothing in the fridge besides black olives and hot sauce. Nothing fresh, lest she get sent to the other side of the country, gathering intel while her broccoli and blackberries molded.  

But now, a rainbow of produce covered the island, and Elain fell into an easy rhythm of washing and chopping and lining it up in neat rows on the shelves. Leafy greens and berries went into containers lined with paper towels, carrots were peeled then submerged in jars of fresh water. 

While she worked, Azriel busied himself with organizing the spice rack, seemingly in alphabetical order. Elain couldn’t help but smile to herself as she glanced over to see him holding up two little bottles, squinting thoughtfully at the labels. By the time the sun set, the fridge looked like it belonged to a lifestyle vlogger, the pantry was stocked, the French press was washed and ready for tomorrow morning, and the cardboard boxes from yesterday had been broken down.

While Azriel took them outside to be picked up for recycling, Elain started setting out ingredients. First thing tomorrow morning, she’d bake and box up a batch of cookies to hand deliver to their immediate neighbors, offering baked goods and an unassuming smile in exchange for their trust. Putting faces to the names in their briefings. 

“The couple right across from us kept staring at me,” Azriel said as soon as the garage door was shut behind him. “They probably think we’re up to something already, just because of how fast we finished unpacking.”

“How fast you finished unpacking.” 

When Elain woke up, the sun was only just beginning its ascent, but Azriel had already unloaded and organized all of their surveillance equipment in the home office, and was in the process of arranging decorative candles on the sofa table. 

“I don’t normally go to sleep as early as we did last night.” 

Elain wasn’t sure she’d consider midnight early. Especially not for someone who also claimed to be a morning person. Although not even she made a habit of being up hours before the sun. But when she pointed this out, Azriel only shrugged, “I guess I’m both.” 

“I think that just makes you an insomniac,” she said, half-teasing.

“Maybe.” His lips quirked in a small, rueful smile. He nodded to the stick of plant butter still in her hand, “Do you want any help?” 

Elain hesitated. Until now, she had no intention of doing anything but showering and going to bed. She was exhausted, and while she would’ve liked to prep the dough and let it chill overnight, she — unlike Azriel, apparently — needed more than four hours of sleep to function.

He was still looking at her, waiting for an answer with a self-conscious hand curled around the back of his neck. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll actually be, but —” 

“You can chop up the chocolate.” 

Elain had been following the same vegan chocolate chip cookie recipe since she learned how to use the oven. By now, each step and measurement was engrained in her memory. She whisked the melted plant butter in with the sugars and added vanilla until it felt right. 

The rest of the kitchen darkened with the sky, but instead of turning on the overhead light, Azriel kept close, so both of them were haloed by the yellow glow of the stovelight. His elbow occasionally bumped into hers as he neatly worked the knife through each bar of dark chocolate at a diagonal, just as Elain had instructed. 

When the final cup of flour made the dough stiff and heavy, Azriel took over. Elain couldn’t stop noticing the muscles in his arm flexing as he folded in the chocolate chunks. 

Azriel was distracted as he helped Elain with the dishes, stopping more than once to stare with what could only be described as lustful eyes at the oven. It only got worse as the aroma of melted chocolate and warm sugar got stronger. 

He couldn’t remember the last chocolate chip cookie he’d had, the milk chocolate and butter in most others was enough to make his stomach revolt. 

Elain winced. “It’s really that bad?” 

“If I was going to lie to you, I would’ve gone with something sexier than gastrointestinal issues.” 

She nodded sagely, “Like astigmatism.” 

“Exactly.” 

When Elain bit into a cookie, it was still delicate with pools of chocolate on the surface. It tasted of comfort and nostalgia — like swatting at Feyre’s hand when she tried to stick her fingers in the dough and late nights with Nesta. Azriel ate his in nearly a single bite, with an indulgent hum that made Elain grateful for the low light. 

Especially now that he was looking down at her, gaze steady and contemplative. She waited for him to say something, but he was quiet as he lifted his hand. Elain felt his warmth against her skin, his knuckles nudging her cheek as his thumb smoothed over the corner of her mouth.  

“You’ve got some schmutz,” he murmured. 

His touch had been slow, but he withdrew his hand quickly, eyes darting around the kitchen before landing determinedly on something beyond her left shoulder. Elain might have mistaken it for embarrassment, if his eyes hadn’t narrowed with suspicion. She turned around, following his gaze through the living room window to see Lynn Forth stepping alone off the Sokolov’s driveway and into the quiet street, an empty casserole dish in hand. 

“It’s a bit weird to be picking up a casserole dish at this time, don’t you think?” Azriel mused. 

Maybe. Lynn might’ve gone over hours ago, then got to chatting and lost track of time. 

“We’re baking cookies at this time.” 

“We’re weird.” 

She grinned. “And vaguely off-putting.” 

*** 

Azriel and Elain had been on their way to the house right across from theirs to deliver a box of Elain’s cookies and make formal introductions when Lynn stopped them in their driveway. Nobody else had showed up on their doorstep since their arrival. They still hadn’t decided if that was strange, if it made the Forths suspicious or simply over-eager. 

As she presented Lynn with the box, Elain lied smoothly that the cookies had been for her and Brian to thank them for the welcome basket, as if there weren’t four identical containers waiting on their counter for the next delivery. 

Lynn said she’d just been heading over to invite them to a welcome party at her house on Saturday. As she chattered about the woes of party planning and all the cleaning she still had to do before the day, Lynn took a bite of one of the cookies. She joked that they ought to make some more to bring to the party — they’d be a hit! 

Elain’s eyes had flickered to Azriel to find that was already looking at her, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Now, standing in the threshold of the Forth’s home, Elain held up a container of only slightly-stale cookies in a tupperware. “Can I put these in the kitchen?” 

“Of course! Everything’s out on the island.” Lynn said. Then, lowering her voice into a mock-whisper, added, “But feel free to stash those in a cabinet.” 

As she moved past Azriel, she ran her hand down his arm, pausing to squeeze his elbow. A fortifying gesture before she left him alone with the neighbors. 

Elain didn’t hide the cookies, but she took her time poking around for a different hiding place. When Azriel circled back later with the recording devices, he’d give her one to leave somewhere in the kitchen. 

Aside from the abundance of hotdishes and slow-cookers that would get swept up by the masses at the end of the night, the kitchen was pristine; no grease splattered the stovetop, a crumbless floor. The usual nooks and crannies weren’t dusty enough for her liking.

At least, the ones she could see. There was a small gap between the top of the fridge and the cabinets above it, too high and dark for Elain to assess its cleanliness. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone, she pushed up on her toes and reached into the crevice, her fingertips dragging over the cool metal as she fell back onto her heels. 

The pads of her fingers were filmed with dust. She brushed them off on her pants as she made her way into the living room, where Azriel was already sitting on the sofa, a proprietary hand on the cushion next to him. 

It was impossible to discern whether or not Azriel was playing up his discomfort for the sake of their plan. While Elain fielded questions about her supposed grad program, and why she chose the small liberal arts school nearby instead of staying in the city, he sat silently beside her. The strain in his eyes and grimacing mouth seemed very, very real. 

“And we’re hoping to start a family soon,” Elain continued, reaching for the hand Azriel had rested on her knee and weaving their fingers together. “This just felt like the right place to do it!” 

The chorus of awws and predictions about how lovely their children would be turned into advice and their own experiences — the school was wonderful, there were a plethora of after-school clubs, the cul-de-sac was perfect for street hockey. 

“Though ever since the Weavers and the Carvers grew up, there haven’t been many little ones running around.” The voice coming from across the room was wistful. 

Another lamented, “It’s been so quiet.” 

“I really thought the Galkins would have at least one baby by now,” someone else chimed in. 

She felt the arm around her back tense, the only indication Azriel was listening at all. His face was still masked with malaise. 

“Oh, I don’t think we’ve met them yet.” Elain said tilting her head thoughtfully, as if she were trying to put faces to the name. 

Lynn shook her head, “You wouldn’t have. Poor Lisa’s been sick all week. I stopped over a few days ago to invite them tonight, and ended up fixing a pot of my chicken soup instead.” 

That could explain the late-night visit. She wanted to know what Azriel thought about it, but when she turned to face her partner, Elain only made her brows wrinkle with concern. “You alright, baby?” 

He gestured vaguely to his head. “I think I feel a migraine coming on.” 

Her thumb smoothed over the delicate skin below his eye, where any real pain would’ve been concentrated. ���Should we go?” 

Azriel shook his head gingerly, the movement nudging his face into the cradle of her hand. “You stay. I’ll be alright.” 

His message came halfway through a discussion about the grass-free landscaping project Demetra and her wife were planning for next year — the first and only stimulating conversation of the evening. 

Did we finish unpacking all the bathroom stuff? Can’t find the Tylenol anywhere.

Sensing someone peering over her shoulder, Elain loosed a chagrined sigh, “I better call him,” and stepped into the hallway. Azriel had been scouting the house from the outside the past few nights, but his description of where the bedroom was made less sense from the inside, so she opened the door to a half-bath and the basement before finding the right one. 

With one last glance over her shoulder, she slipped into the quiet Brian and Lynn’s bedroom. 

Even though she’d been expecting to see him, Elain startled at Azriel’s shadow-cloaked frame looming on Brian and Lynn’s patio, a backpack on his shoulder. She unlatched the door and he stepped in, wearing an almost boyish grin. “Hope you’re not having too much fun without me.” 

Unlike the kitchen, it was easy to decide where in the bedroom to plant the recording device. A stately, and more importantly, heavy-looking headboard dominated most of the far wall. Nobody would be moving it any time soon. 

Elain had to crawl under the bed to stick the bug to the back of the headboard. She wiggled back out, flushed from the effort and Azriel’s bemused expression as he helped her back to her feet. He waited patiently for her to tug her shirt back down and run her fingers through her mussed hair before handing her the second device. 

Just as she was slipping it into her pocket, she heard a voice from the hallway, “... so sorry. I keep telling him to put his damn drink down if he’s got something to say.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Lynn responded, much louder than the first voice. “Just wait, as soon as this little machine does it’s thing, it’ll be like it never happened.” 

Elain barely had time to usher Azriel into the closet and shut the door behind them before Lynn and the other woman, Trina from down the street, entered the room. In the near-dark, Elain could just make out the rows of clothes hanging around them, and a small shelf neatly displaying a collection of handbags and sunglasses. Elain could almost sigh with relief; unless somebody had also gotten a drink spilled down their shirt, the odds of Lynn opening this closet were slim.

The only way to hear all of what was being said would be to press her ear to the door, and shuffling around to do so was not a risk Elain was willing to take. Though the few things she could make out — Bissel, works wonders, eggshell, he says it’s because he’s Sicilian! — didn’t make her feel like she was missing anything important. Anxiety danced down Elain’s spine and Azriel was practically vibrating with tension; he was standing so close she could feel the disturbance in the air around him. 

Within seconds of Elain realizing that Azriel was not just tense, but trembling, the rapid, shallow breathing started. He clamped a hand over his mouth, knowing the importance of staying quiet. Cast perfectly in the sliver of light streaming in from the bedroom, Elain could see that his pupils were blown wide with panic.

She remembered the car, the bashful hand scrubbing the back of his neck. And I don’t really do great in tight spaces. 

In the moment, his confession had conjured imaginings of clammy hands and nervous lip-biting — not this. 

It took Elain a second to gather her wits; the anguish in his eyes was paralyzing. She couldn’t think, only stare back. And she was sure the expression swirling in her own eyes was far from reassuring. 

She knew that reaching for someone on the cusp of a panic attack was uncouth at best, and at worst, like trying to douse embers with accelerant. But she also knew there were still soft voices coming from the other side of the door, and that Azriel was showing no signs of improvement. She needed to do something. Deep pressure could relieve anxiety… or so she’d read once. 

Elain wrapped her arms around Azriel’s body and squeezed.

He went completely rigid, even his desperate breathing came to a halt for one stunned beat. And when he didn’t shove her away, Elain tightened her hold, putting all of her strength into it. His next breath didn’t seem so hard-won. She breathed with him, counting in her head as she went — one, two, three, four seconds in. Hold. Exhale slowly through the nose all the way to eight, tapping each second out with her index finger so Azriel could count with her. 

Gradually, his chest fell into the same rhythm as hers, rising and falling slowly, and the hand Azriel had been using to smother himself moved, curling tightly around Elain’s shoulder, pinning her body to him with his forearm. Her own arms trembled with the strain of holding him together. She listened to his heart slow down instead of the low hum of Lynn and Trina’s voices. She didn’t even notice it fading out, or the click of the bedroom door.

All of her attention was on the hand that had gripped her shoulder, now sliding up to hold the back of her neck, the pressure gentle and warm. Azriel’s thumb worried over her pulsepoint, his gaze heavy. Elain stared back, trying to decipher the storm swirling in his eyes — dread and shame, and something else. Something deep and private and tender. 

He blinked slowly, deliberately. And when his eyes opened again, it was gone, and he was focused only on the small gap in the door. 

“It’s clear,” he whispered, his hand moving down her back, settling at the dip in her spine and using its new position to guide her into the open air of the Forth’s bedroom. Azriel still moved like a man trapped, his steps small and his shoulders stiff as he made his way to the balcony. 

Elain watched his hands — scarred, and steady at last — carry him down the rope. When he hit the grass with a dull thud, she freed the grappling hook from the wrought iron and let it fall at his feet. The din of the party could be heard from outside, but Elain still kept her voice to a whisper, “I’ll see you back at the house.” 

Azriel nodded once before melting into the night.

[stretchyougood]

Operation Father Figure

Chapter 1 – The Plan

Doctors Sokolov and Billingham fidgeted nervously on wooden chairs, they both felt most uncomfortable and each avoided the eye contact of the other. They found themselves in a disused warehouse somewhere along the Baltic coast. It was the first time the Marxist Union and the United States had made any attempt at alliance, their first and only combined project, the top secret ‘Operation Father Figure’ was about to have its first meeting.

The regime leaders’respective governments were flabbergasted by the idea, which came right from the top. The US and the Union allied against the world, it terrifies one to even think it were possible. The same was true of the politicians at the time. The two powers shared an almost morbid fascination with the advance of science. It had been discovered between General Cavell and Administrator Siminov that they had both begun work on similar secretive plots. Cavell had started ‘Operation Double Dad’ at precisely the same time as Siminov began ‘Operation Papochka’. How the two came to know of the others’ exploits History has forgotten.

The US were exploring the possibility of using men to further their ambitions of combating their falling birth rate by using men in the military as breeding stock. They theorised that with advances in technology it may be possible to implant a viable womb inside a man. The subjects would be expected to cope with high order multiple pregnancies as this was seen as the most efficient way of increasing the birth rate. It was thought that men would perform this task better than women given that they are naturally more muscular, larger and were conditioned not to grow as attached to children which would be taken from their birth givers at the earliest opportunity.

The Union were taking a different approach to the same theory. They also had a slightly different plan as to what to do with the male-born children. The Union wanted to create a race of ‘Supersoldiers’ who were bred specifically to be bigger, stronger, tougher, and able to put up with the cruel reality of trench warfare. They theorised that men would be able to carry larger babies for a longer time, leading to an increased birth weight. They supposed that a high birth weight led to a larger, more robust adult. Both the Union and The States were playing a long game.

Dr Sokolov had been in charge of the Union’s research into male pregnancy. He had already discovered through his experimentation that he was able to grow not only a fully functioning womb but also ovaries and Fallopian tubes in his lab. He was yet to overcome the challenge of implanting the womb without damaging the subject’s abdominal wall which would need to be completely free of scar tissue and damage at the eventual birth. Further testing was also currently underway to see whether the ovaries would produce viable eggs.

Dr Billingham had been researching the prevalence of multiple births with the view to finding the key to unlocking guaranteed multiples at each pregnancy. He had been studying the history of the Vassilyev family quite closely, with what little access to Russian records he had. He was very keen to know whether Dr Sokolov had studied the family, albeit extremely nervous about this new venture.

They were eventually led into what would have been the foreman of the warehouse’s office, a drab wooden room from which any approaching person could easily be seen. They were greeted by two officers disguised in local police uniforms. They introduced themselves as the respective heads of the States/Union research divisions. Their brief was, well, brief. They were given the location of a disused sanatorium which was alone on a tiny island in the middle of the Baltic Sea. They were told to each give the other their full cooperation and that a report from each doctor would be sent to the respective heads of state for review on a monthly basis. Although no details were mentioned the two were informed that their instructions were to combine both concepts. Neither doctor was impressed by this news, they and their teams would surely freeze to death on such a desolate rock. The project, however was well funded from both sides.Within six months the derelict sanatorium had been refurbished to an acceptable standard, a military staff base had been established and the whole island was peppered with pillboxes and lookouts ensuring that no wondering eyes caught a glimpse of the taboo within. By this time both doctors had calmed sufficiently to think positively as they approached the blacked-out dock in modern-day Estonia. They had much to discuss but were unable to do so on their journey owing to the rough seas causing them not inconsiderable discomfort...

The weather eerily calming as they entered sheltered water at the southern tip of the island, a narrow wooden jetty was a welcome sight. They disembarked, grateful to be back on terra firma. A black Staff Car was waiting to take them up the winding road to an large building halfway up the mountain which made the island. The building was once white, but years of abandon have left the walls stained with bird droppings and grey with age. Dim light is seen at most windows, and a steady stream of coal-smoke and steam can be seen at the rear of the building, assumed to be the island’s electricity source. The car whines up the hill, the car only just managing to proceed in second gear. Shaking the rain off their overcoats in the green tiled hall of the former sanatorium, they are shown to their quarters by a Union Administrator. They discover a small sitting room with a coal fire burning in the grate, two arm chairs, a small dining table and a sofa. There are three doors, one to a shared bathroom, the other two to their bedrooms.

Having decided to begin their planning the following morning, Dr Sokolov and Dr Billingham both retired early. After breakfast they were shown to the laboratory where they were to continue their research. All their materials and previous writing had been set up neatly on counters that surrounded the room, and hillocks of notes and paperwork adorned two teak desks. Sokolov was the first to talk. “Why don’t we summarise what we’ve each discovered so far? I’ll start. The Marxist Union is in need of soldiers, but we need more than just your standard recruits if we are to continue to bring glory to the Union. Our plan is this: we will make it so that male subjects are able to gestate babies which will grow larger than usual, which will obviously take longer. Our aim is to have our birthing men producing babies between 15 and 20lbs to ensure that they grow in to the biggest, strongest, fiercest soldiers the world has ever seen. Only then will we have true dominance.

Dr Billingham considered the other’s statement for a short while before replying.

“That is very interesting, and I’m certain an idea which is very popular in your Union.

Our plan is as such. We must increase our birth rate, it has been dwindling for some time now. We, as you, plan to use male subjects to produce high order multiple pregnancies every time. Our theory is that the increased size and musculature of men makes them better candidates to carry many children at once. There is also the fact that men are less likely to become emotionally attached to their offspring, making it easier for us to remove the children from their birthgiver as soon as possible so they may begin growing their next batch. What do you think?”

It was Dr Sokolov’s turn to be silent this time. He rubbed his beard in thought. “I think I know why our leaders have put us to work together on this project. If we can combine our theories in such a way that your brotherhood of multiples also happen to produce my Super Soldiers we may be on to a winner. Just imagine, a man 46 weeks pregnant with five Super Soldiers. Both our leaders would be very impressed with our work. We will have to be careful about which test subjects we use in order to get the best results possible from our first attempt. I have actually crossed one of the more difficult bridges in this project already”.

With that he got up and moved to the edge of the room where a dark green cloth was covering a box. He removed the cloth. Underneath was the tank which housed the lab-grown womb that Sokolov had been working on. In the six months since his last meeting with Billingham he had experienced another breakthrough. Not only was the womb thriving in its agar concoction, but the ovaries had also started producing eggs. He explained this to Dr Billingham. He replied:

“Utterly astounding Sokolov, I am amazed. This is an amazing breakthrough. I can tell we are going to go a long way with this research. Have you considered the implantation procedure? An invasive surgical approach would damage the abdominal wall too much to ensure a successful birth.”

Dr Sokolov could hardly wait for the question to finish, he had come up with a plan to get around this on the journey to the island. “You are quite correct Dr, I have devised an alternative method. This particular womb here was grown in agar jelly, however with a proper blood supply it would not require agar. My plan is to attach the cervix to the large bowel before it grows to full size, allowing it to finish growing itself. Using this method we can perform the procedure without compromising the subject’s abdomen, it can be done trans-rectally.” Billingham clapped triumphantly. “My man, you are a genius! We will be well favoured after this!” “This is what I hope.” Replied Sokolov. “But you have yet to tell me what research you have managed to complete!” Billingham had been doing more research into the Vassilyev family having gained access to Union records. He had found that after the famous Feodor, the multiple birth trait had been passed down through the family. He said to Sokolov: “Mostly I have been researching the male psyche and its possible reaction to pregnancy. I have extensive findings regarding men’s reaction to being told they are pregnant which was a most interesting project. My hope is to be able to counsel the men after their births, if I can persuade them it was a good experience they will be more inclined to perform the task again without coercion.Apart from that I have been studying the prevalence of multiple births most closely, in particular the Vassilyev family of Shuya. You may know of Feodor Vassilyev who has so far been the most prolific father of multiple births in the world. I have also been studying the history of the Scandinavian race. With their ferocious ancestry and enormous build they would not only provide an improvement to my people’s gene pool, they would also in fact make fine soldiers. It is my theory that if we can combine a fine specimen of Viking blood with someone who has the Vasilyev trait we could produce the ‘Brotherhood of Super Soldiers’ in great numbers very fast!” Sokolov said: “Ahh yes, I remember studying the Vassilyev’s at medical school, fascinating stuff. I happen to know that here is still a family of Vassilyev’s near Shuya, do you think it would be prudent to -ahem- recruit one of the family members? I have a contact in the Millitary Police, it wouldn’t be hard to find one of them. As for your Scandinavian subject… I’m inclined to believe that a little Viking blood might be just what our Super Soldiers need, they were after all extremely effective warriors!” By this point Billingham was almost jumping out of his chair with excitement. “It’s settled then. You use your contact in the Military Police to track down one of these Vassilyevs. I will consult with our own secret service about finding a suitable Scandinavian!

[london-advocate]

@LONDONADVOCATE: Residents of Tottenham were awoken this morning. approximately 4:58am, by the sound of the London Fire Brigade responding to several small blazes that erupted on Tottenham High Road. Whilst the fires were quickly under control, however, two much larger incidents have since been reported tonight; both in the vicinity of Turnpike Lane station. People are warned to keep clear of the area until the situation has been resolved. Though it has yet to be confirmed, during an earlier interview, the attending Metropolitan Police officer in charge said the possibility of arson seems likely.

The fires, expected by attending firefighters to be under control by the early hours, are reportedly both located at restaurants owned by the same Russian businessman, Aleksey Sokolov. If the cases are confirmed to be arson, it will further contribute to a worrying increase in anti-Russian violence in the borough, which soared to new heights in the month of April.

Further updates to follow.

Dated: 04/05/2023

[site-21]

I should probably tell about myself since I will be posting stuff, i.e. the transcript of the cage match (sorry),

I am Edith Sokolov, but my friends just call me "Angel". I work in the medical wing of Site-21 and am currently working as "Site News reporter", with Heisenberg's seal of approval.

As you all wait for the approved transcript, here's the fighters opinions after the fight.

Question: How are you feeling about losing/winning this fight?

"I just want to go home and sleep" -Researcher Fink (the loser)

"I'm tired newbie, I need to sleep, I'm so behind on work" -Researcher Hans (the winner)

- Edith "Angel" Sokolov signing out ✌️

[foreverinthepagesofhistory]

I've had some success with finding more info about Olga's bracelet!

It's originally from this photo either from the Sokolov report on the Romanov murder, or sold off by the Bolsheviks.

After checking out the Sokolov reports (you can view them here https://www.flickr.com/photos/149552988@N02/albums, but be careful as some of the documents with photos are explicit) this exact photograph doesn't appear in his reports, but some of the items - like Alexandra's emerald Cross at the top left are included, so these items most likely came from Ekaterinburg.

It looks like each item was labelled but I cannot find any better quality versions :(

It might be somewhere in this picture but I can't find it exactly - it's not the best angle and all the jewellery looks similar to me!! If only it was in colour :p

So we know that...

It was found at Ekaterinburg, maybe by Sokolov

It was either sold by the Bolsheviks or kept by Sokolov - some of the items from him are in museums, others have unfortunately disappeared

We don't know who gave it to her but it was most likely someone wealthy - it looks gorgeous!

@russianimperialfamilyy

Omg thank you!!! I hope that Olga would be happy now that it’s in good hands!

[otmaaromanovas]

Sydney Gibbes' recollection of Ipatiev House when he visited shortly after the murders, as part of the Sokolov inquiry

"The house was battered. The stoves were full of burned objects, and I saw many remainders of burned objects, such as portrait frames, all sorts of brushes and a little basket in which the czarevitch used to keep his brushes. A few things were just scattered around, but I did not see much of their personal belongings.

The emperor used to wear uniform trousers and high boots, which had been often patched, and a soldier's shirt. The czarevitch wore khaki trousers, high boots and a soldier's shirt.

In regard to the rubies you [the interviewer] have shown me, I can state that the imperial family had quite a number of them in their various articles of jewelry. The Grand Duchess Olga had a brooch with similar rubies, which was given to her by Queen Victoria. The sapphires looked very much like fragments of the stone that the emperor had in his ring It was shaped the same way, and I think there is a complete resemblance between them. The emperor wore the ring on the same finger with his wedding ring, and he told me that he could not take it off."

Sydney Gibbes later resided in Asia, before settling in England. He became an Orthodox priest, changing his name to Father Nicholas in honour of the Tsar. He lived and died in Oxford.

SOURCE: The Last Days of the Romanovs, published 1920, George Gustav Telberg, Robert Wilton, Nikolai Sokolov, ch. Examination of Mr. Gibbes

PHOTOS: Tsarevich Alexei with the members of his entourage and their children. Gibbes is on the far left in the back row, stood next to the other tutors. The room believed to have been used by the Grand Duchesses in Ipatiev House, with burnt fragments and cloth on the floor

[stereax]

[leon-classfirst]

Windenburg Stories: Crossroads of Destiny

Townies: Sokolov - Denisov (1)

"I suppose it's time for you to refine your fighting abilities," Straud said, his tone firm. Sofia smirked faintly. "Hmm... so my outings as Lydia Rasmussen weren’t enough?"

Leon scoffed at the name. He couldn’t hide his disdain for the chaos it left behind. Moonwood Mill was alive with rumors of the rogue “werewolf” who attacked several of its own. Though when the big names, like Rory and Kristopher, sought out this elusive figure, “Lydia” had vanished without a trace.

Leon crossed his arms, his tone sharp. "Those weren’t just ‘outings,’ Sofia. You crossed a line with people I was trying to build trust with." "Enough. Sofia's merely fulfilling her nature, Leon." Straud's tone was firm. "You are lucky enough to be gifted with the resistance to your nature." Leon looked down. "You're right, sorry, Sofia."

"Back on track. I want you to test your strength against one of the strongest families. The descended from an authentic ancient vampire family."

"Sergei Sokolov," he began. "A vampire with ambitions to rise among the High Vampires, a man driven by power and legacy."

He paused, shifting his gaze. "Then there’s Anton Denisov, a servant to the Sokolov lineage. While he served them dutifully, away from prying eyes, the Sokolov children treated him as more than a servant—he was their confidant, even a friend."

Straud's tone softened slightly. "And Anna Sokolov, Sergei's younger sister. She suffers from a rare condition that amplifies a vampire’s vulnerability to sunlight. Born an albino, her life has been… difficult. Poor girl, burdened by weakness from the moment of her birth."

Leon crossed his arms, leaning forward slightly. “Let me guess, Anna’s the strongest of them all from the way you describe her.” Straud gave a faint, approving nod. “Good guess, Leon. Her weakness does not come without balance. By night, she is extraordinarily powerful—stronger even than her brother, Sergei, and their loyal servant, Anton.” Sofia raised an eyebrow. “Stronger than Sergei? Despite her condition?” “Precisely,” Straud replied. “The night is her dominion. It’s where she compensates for what the day takes from her.”

(Later that day...)

“Why do we attack them? You haven’t said anything about them being bad,” Leon questioned, his tone cautious. “That,” Straud said, relaxing his pose, “is where I explain things to you, Leon.” He locked eyes with the pair. “Caleb has reported that the Sokolov siblings… openly criticized my mentorship of you two.”

Both Sofia and Leon tensed at the revelation. They had always felt special being personally trained and guided by Straud. Now, it all began to make sense.

"This means they have heard of your... stories. Tread lightly."

Straud continued, his voice calm yet commanding. “Their disdain isn’t about your abilities—it’s about mine. They question the wisdom of my choices. I want you to show them why they are wrong. Show them why I chose you.”

“One last thing,” Straud added, his voice softer but still firm. “Make peace with them after you’ve shown your power. You are not there to make enemies, after all. They're good teens too, they'll make good friends for you.”

Sofia and Leon exchanged a quick glance, their unease slightly tempered by his words. Prove themselves, but not destroy bridges—that was the task.

CC Creds

[head-post]

Bulgaria seized heroin worth $38 million at Black Sea port en route from Kyrgyzstan

Bulgarian authorities seized about 436 kilograms (960 pounds) of heroin at the Black Sea port of Burgas, according to AP News.

The district prosecutor’s office reported on Monday that the heroin was stashed in 434 packages hidden inside an officially declared cargo in a trailer. The drug load is estimated to be worth 35 million euros (nearly $38 million).

The cargo arrived in late July via an overland route from Kyrgyzstan to the Georgian Black Sea port of Batumi, from where it crossed to Burgas. The next stop was supposed to be Alexandroupolis in Greece.

The trailer, believed to be carrying cable-laying machines, aroused suspicion due to its strangely long stay at the port, Ivan Sokolov, head of the anti-drug department, reported. According to him, an X-ray examination led to the discovery of hidden heroin. District prosecutor Georgi Chinev stated:

So far, there have been no arrests, and no persons found involved in this cross-border crime.

Drug trafficking in Bulgaria is punishable by up to 20 years in prison. Bulgaria, which is on the route of drug flows from the Middle East to Western Europe, has taken extensive action in recent years to prevent drug trafficking.

Read more HERE

[thestoriesincoffeestains]

"Yeah." Vik didn't go back on her decisions; she wouldn't start now. "I think I need to see it." Maybe it'd give her the sense of closure she was lacking now.

When he clicked the news on, the current story wasn't focused on the Sokolovs, but the Montenegros. "A local staple was targeted in a drive-by today," the newscaster said. "As you can see behind me, the windows of Della Vita were shot out. So far, we have reports of 12 casualties. and twice as many injured.."

Vik barely heard the rest, a frown stretching across her lips.

Blake paused, "You sure?" She was tough, he didn't doubt that, but he wasn't sure if it would make her feel any better about things to see a news segment about her own death. He pushed up out of his chair and grabbed the remote from the nightstand then turned the tv on and turned it to the local news. Blake tilted the tv in the direction of the table then returned to his seat.

[withclawandvine]

what we pretend to be chapter 3

Summary: Azriel was a veteran spy, well suited to the sneaking and solitude that comes with a life in the shadows. He was good at it. He wasn’t good at undercover missions, so he couldn’t hide his shock when new recruit and undercover specialist Elain Archeron was already seated at the conference table, looking beautiful as ever. And then it was dropped on them like a bomb: Azriel and Elain would be sent to the suburbs, posing as a married couple to gather intel on a suspicious man who, according to reports, was in communication with notorious arms dealer, Koschei Sokolov.

Author’s note: oh boy this has been a long time coming. i could blame it on my new job or a number of other Life Things but the truth is i’ve been suffering from bnha brainrot (which if you’ve spent any time on my blog, should not come as a surprise haha) but i really wanted to get this done so i could start working on stuff for elriel month this year! so please enjoy, and let the pining begin babeyy !!

Tags: SFW, undercover au, fake married

Word count: 2.1k

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42105033

As soon as the deadbolt clicked into place, Azriel let himself sag against the door. “Fuck,” he sighed. “I thought they’d never leave.”

From the moment Brian and Lynn Forth had entered the house, a headache lurked at Azriel’s temples. Now, in merciful quiet and with nothing else to distract him, the pain pounced. Not for the first time, Azriel wondered if you could be annoyed into physical pain.

From her place on the couch, Elain looked at him with amusement dimpling her cheek. “They were only here for twenty minutes.”

Although he doubted Elain would lie about something so trivial, Azriel checked his watch. Sure enough, it was barely 8:00. That single conversation had felt like a small eternity, or like he’d died and gotten stuck in purgatory, atoning for his past sins on an overpriced couch, while his neighbors smiled through every sentence. It might not have felt so punishing had they learned anything significant, but as it was, the Forths were as vapid as they were irritating.

Lynn had prattled on about the widely-adored previous owners of the house and their eventual retirement to the coast. How eagerly everyone had anticipated and speculated about who would move in next, the disappointment when the previous buyers had backed out at the last minute. And finally, the surprised excitement when word got around that a young couple would be moving in. And young you are—about our son’s age, if I had to guess. There was a pause, Lynn clearly waiting for them to confirm or deny her suspicions, but Elain had merely grinned at Azriel while patting his knee, “Aww, she thinks you’re young.”

Azriel didn’t have to fabricate the fondness in the roll of his eyes.

“Thirty’s not that far off for you, you know,” he’d said, mostly sure it was true. He didn’t actually know how old Elain was. For all he knew, she was already thirty, but he knew that this was the time to be vague. It was better to deflect with a jest of his own than assign an exact age to her.  

“And she did mention the wife,” Elain added when Azriel rejoined her on the couch, this time sitting down across from her—the cushion still uncomfortably warm from Brian—instead of next to her. That was Alex’s spot.

Azriel would hardly consider information they already had on record much of a consolation, but Lynn's comment about the woman’s age was interesting. There wasn’t anything about that in the files. “If she really is about your age, it might be easier for you to form a connection.”

“Galkin will surely get in the way, though.”  

The poor girl seems lonely—hardly ever leaves the house, with or without Ivan. Lynn had said, shaking her head with a troubled frown. Elain and Azriel exchanged a glance, unsurprised by this revelation, but unsure how to probe further. Brian, perhaps observing the small exchange and misreading it as discomfort, had cut in with an apologetic grimace, Lynn, dearest, they’ve only been here a few hours. Let’s not drag them into neighborhood gossip just yet.  

Azriel drug his hands over his face tiredly before his fingers finally settled at his temples, pressing into the tender flesh.

“You okay?” Elain asked, taking care to keep her voice low.

“Just a headache,” he said, but it made Elain frown, as if he’d told her something deeply troubling.

And then she gave a bit of a jolt, “We haven’t eaten yet today!”

Lack of nourishment was one of several potential culprits; he still wasn’t going to rule out the neighbors.

Elain reached for the welcome basket Lynn just threw together! for them on their coffee table and pulled at the artfully curled ribbon holding the crisp cellophane wrapping in place. Azriel watched her set aside the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a scented candle, and a bag of locally roasted coffee before finding the list of her and Brian’s favorite delivery places and skimming it over.

“Indian or Thai?”

At the mere thought of fresh naan, Azriel’s stomach growled, “Indian sounds great.”

The dining table was still overrun with boxes, so they spread dinner out on the sofa table, promising they’d get to it tomorrow. It was unnervingly real—looking Elain’s messy hair and feeling the ache in his back and arms while they sat cross-legged on the couch, inhaling takeout too fast to talk. Here, inside the liminal space of a half-decorated room and low lamplight, Azriel really could just be somebody’s husband, procrastinating on unpacking.

But then he remembered that the boxes weren’t brimming with tchotchkes, and that getting the equipment inside ready, online, then securely stored could take all day. Whatever couldn’t be mistaken for a personal tablet or basic office equipage would have to be hidden away in filing cabinets or the closet. And that was just the beginning of tasks they had to accomplish to make sure the house was as unremarkable as possible.

Elain dunked a piece of roti in her aloo matar, “We need to meet the rest of our neighbors. Figure out who’s involved.”

“Or if they know anything,” Azriel added. “Even if they’re not working with Galkin.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “At the very least, Lynn seems invested in the neighborhood. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew something.”

Luckily she was also endlessly chatty; getting her to divulge something wouldn’t be a challenge. Anything was better than what they had now. In the grand scheme of things, Ivan Galkin’s connection to Sokolov wasn’t a very significant lead, and one they probably only had because of the risk that came with doing business with someone new. They didn’t know the nature of the collaboration or what either man wanted from the other. They didn’t know what Galkin had to offer that made Sokolov decide it was worth the risk.

With the headache ebbing and his hunger sated, Azriel was painfully aware of his exhaustion. The kind that made his eyelids feel sticky with each blink, the normally thoughtless action becoming deeply unpleasant. It would be easy to blame it on the long day of driving and hauling and arranging, but in all honesty, Azriel had spent the previous night restlessly pacing around his apartment. Half preparing and half wrangling with his anxiety about the mission—about having Elain as his partner. Azriel could count on one hand the missions for which he’d had a partner. It wasn’t just his line of work that made him wary of trusting another person. He’d been a solitary creature his whole life. Hadn’t shared a space since his time in Special Ops, before Rhysand had plucked him out of the military ranks a decade ago.

Despite the anxiety urging him to do so, there was no reason for Azriel to push his body any further tonight. Their equipment wasn’t going anywhere, and even if it was set up, they hadn’t even determined an initial target.

He started tossing decorative pillows from the couch to the floor, but stopped when he felt Elain watching him. He turned to face her where she lingered on the stairs, brows wrinkled curiously.

“Don’t want to scratch a cornea on the beaded ones,” he explained. The one in his hands now looked promising—larger than the average throw pillow, covered in a soft suede.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” she said plainly. Azriel blinked at her, wondering if maybe she was messing with him like she had in the car, calling him baby and asking if he was into roleplay.

“We have a lot to worry about already,” she continued. Perfectly serious. “We can’t waste any of our energy on making sure the couch never looks like a bed, just in case people drop by and see it.”

Azriel could argue that people fought or fell asleep watching Sports Center all the time. But Elain was the expert and his spine knew he wasn’t twenty-two anymore, so he helped her fix the pillows and followed her upstairs.

The owner’s suite, situated at the end of the hallway, was decorated in the same earthy palette as the living room. Mostly neutral with rich woods, offset with more vibrant rugs and pillows of terracotta and evergreen. This was the room closest to being completely unpacked, except for the mound of boxes in the walk-in. The amount of clothes was concerning, more than Azriel had in his own closet. How long did the brass think this was going to take? There were half a dozen boxes just for him—suits and ties, jeans, athleticwear, a coat for every season, and finally, pajamas. He pulled the matching set out of the box, eying the baby blue and white striped fabric with disdain. After another moment of deliberation, he changed into only the pants.

Azriel finished getting ready for bed long before Elain, giving him time to situate himself on the side of the bed closest to the window, as close to the edge as he could manage without looking insane. He sat against the headboard, ankles crossed, staring at the communications device in his lap. So far, he’d only typed one sentence of his report, making a note about their visitors, and the small insight into the dynamic between Galkin and his wife.

What more was there to say? The neighbors smile too much and we can’t decide if we should get a French press or regular coffee maker tomorrow.

The thought of Amren reading an update like that almost had Azriel smiling to himself. He tried to recall any other details about the Forth’s visit, but the most pervasive memory was that of Elain’s hand on his knee, her thumb idly smoothing over the material of his pants, the touch warm and grounding. Azriel couldn’t quite remember the last time somebody had reached for him so casually and he had actually let them—much less been even marginally comforted by the gesture.

It shouldn’t matter. Not flinching away from her affections had served the mission. There was no use in thinking about why it was different, or what it might be like next time. Azriel had encountered plenty of beautiful women, even sought them out on occasion, at galas and buildings he didn’t belong in. Dousing suspicion with indulgent smiles and pouring honeyed words in their ears so they might fill his with secrets. It was a tactic he only used in moments of desperation, when subtlety was just as paramount as information itself, and there was no way of accessing someone’s computer or filing cabinets undetected. He needed to find that level of clarity now—let his body go through the motions and his mind focus on the mission.

He was sending his report when Elain stepped out of the bathroom.

Like him, she was dressed in pale blue. He wasn’t sure if the matching was intentional, because the color was where the similarities ended. Instead of pinstripes, Elain wore a silky nightgown trimmed with delicate white lace. Her thick hair had been loosely swirled into a bun on the top of her head, drawing even more attention to her exposed shoulders and the graceful lines of her collarbones. If Azriel had been able to draw air into his lungs, he might have laughed out loud.

One of her hands came up to fiddle with a thin strap, but it was as if she’d snapped her fingers in front of his face. The small, anxious movement dragging Azriel back to himself. Fuck, how long had he been looking?

He watched the ceiling fan spin while Elain darted across the room and into bed, only turning his head when he heard the rustle of the covers as she pulled them over her legs. The warmth in her cheeks had spread, splotching her throat and chest, in stark contrast with the cool blue fabric it disappeared into. Azriel’s eyes found the fan again, every muscle in his body as taut as the silence between them. Until Elain finally said, “Do you think we have time to stop at Target tomorrow?”

Azriel wondered if despite the mountain of clothing stacked in the closet, this was all Elain could find for pajamas. Summer still clung to the air, damp and stifling, but it wouldn’t be long before the wind chased away the humidity and started to bite. Surely whoever was responsible for selecting Elain’s wardrobe should have thought of that. Or at least of him, right now.  

“Sure,” he agreed, praying with everything he had that Elain would dismiss the strain in his voice as exhaustion. “Whatever you need.”