Godhand: Sofia, Illyana
Mar. 13th, 2009 03:01 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
x-jubilee.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsBackdated: To March 13th, 2009
Illyana and Sofia go after their mark in order to fulfill her commitment.
It wasn't the heat that Viktor Khavekhov first had to adjust to in Istanbul, but the crowds. Unlike his own people, the streets were full of jostling, loud, and agitated people, who shoved and pushed and turned close areas into seas of confusion to his outside perspective. He'd learned to make his way through them eventually, suppressing the desire to lash out at what he'd finally learned were completely impersonal invasions on his personal space.
Still, it didn't make him like it much, and he often choose slightly longer routes using larger and more open streets and parks to make his way home. He had no plans for the evening, and was half daydreaming about the possibilities when he noticed the blonde hair of the woman near him. In a sea of black, dark brown, and deep auburn, the golden colour stood out like a marker.
The young woman belonging to the hair, tall and dressed in slightly shabby denim and a button-down shirt, seemed to be navigating the streets with practiced ease until an accidental nudge by another pedestrian made her stumble. She hit Khavekhov with force and a bitten-off Russian curse, then battled for balance.
"Izvinite" Viktor said, automatically in his native Russian, steadying himself and trying to keep the young woman from falling or losing his briefcase. He sidestepped out of the flow of traffic, letting go of her and switching to his fluent and liquid Turkish. "I apologize, young lady. The fault was mine."
The girl looked contrite but slightly confused, steady now with her bag in hand. ³I¹m sorry I don't speak but you're Russian!² she said, blue eyes lighting up, as though she'd just put his apology through the language center of her brain. Her Russian was fluid, but tinged with a northern country accent. ³It was my fault. I tripped I'm so clumsy in these crowds.² She bit her lip, considering, and then burst out, ³Oh, let me buy you a coffee to make it up. I really am sorry. And it would be so nice to hear a voice from home.² She smiled, half-shy.
"I am." Viktor was slightly shocked to hear the Russian words, having expected the girl to be a typical French or German tourist here. Instead, it was a Russian girl, from the east of Moscow based on her accent, and an attractive one at that. "Please. What brings you to Istanbul? You are a student?"
"Yes," the girl said, naming a small but rather prestigious Russian university. She gestured to a small cafe by the side of the road. "Please, let me buy you a coffee. I've been in museums all day, and I'm here alone."
Alone. That was already a positive sign, Viktor thought. "I can't refuse such a gracious offer." He said, and waved towards the street. "Please, though, let me select the coffee house. Istanbul offers some of the best in the world, but they are well saturated with cheap tourist traps or poor quality local ones."
He led them through the streets, occasionally turning down side streets to avoid heavy traffic and save time. During the entire walk, they chatted back and forth about incidentals, including the entirely fictitious details about Illyana's studies and home. Viktor was one of those naturally disarming personalities, likely the quality that made him such an accomplished spy. He was hard not to like quickly, which made Illyana's uncharacteristic rapport with him not seem suspicious.
Eventually, they reached a medium sized coffee house, largely outdoors, and filled with local businessmen, sprinkled with Europeans. The white smocked waiters carried complex coffee pots and presses to each table, and the windows were stocked high with small burlap sacks of roasted beans.
"Here?" Illyana gestured at a table bathed in warm sunlight.
"Sitting in the sun sounds perfect. It is not as warm as spring usually is, but after Russia, it must seem unusually hot." Viktor held out her chair, and settled into his own. His eyes flickered about, in a manner that Illyana herself had seen many times before from the more experienced operatives in Snow Valley. Zhavekhov was still a spy, and he hadn't entirely dismissed the thought that this 'chance meeting' could be a setup of some type. He dismissed the dark-haired woman at the table across from them. She was actually reading her paper, and hadn't done more than glance up as they sat.
"So," Viktor folded his hands over each other, and leaned forward. "How long are you going to be in Istanbul."
Glancing up at all had been for show. Sofia, large sunglasses, favoured by the locals, covered her eyes from the reflections off the shiny table, some kind of acrylic, and the gentle breeze played tag with each other to send her conversation from the people around her. It was like constantly tuning a radio, playing to find the perfect song, and then merely holding steady. But curiousity was human nature, and if you were to watch any library patrons by the entrance, no matter how best seller their novel was, the opening of a door always raised a gaze.
At least her coffee was good. She sipped at it and wished that this paper would at least come with a number puzzle. While she wasn't any good at them, they could all be solved with enough steady repetition of movements. Soothing, in their own way. That, and it was difficult to be interested in news about something in what she assumed was the business section when one didn't speak the language. Jibberish was jibberish.
"Just a few more days," Illyana said. "I came to see the museums - I'm a classics major. It's hard to get a feel for things in Russia." The sun caught her hair, gold tangled from the wind.
Viktor nodded and smiled, waving over one of the waiters. "This is something that you won't find easily back home." He switched over to Turkish. "Arif, can I get my usual. A cup for the lovely young woman as well." there was a nod in return, and Viktor leaned his elbows back on the table. "There's a process to Turkish coffee, which is why no one really does it properly outside of this country. It's almost like a ritual here to get it brewed properly. One of the reasons I decided to stay."
"Thank you." Illyana smiled. "It is beautiful here."
The coffee reached the table, or more appropriately, the articles leading to coffee reached the table. There was a kettle of boiling water, a seeping tray, an old fashioned grinder, and a coffee pot with press. Arif began to slowly put the pieces in place, and Viktor watched both his hands and Illyana's subtly, just to make sure neither of their movements could cover slipping something into the drink.
They were like little wooden ducks on a pull string, each grain of white powder. It was always white powder. Each grain gracefully falling into the cup on a pirouette. Sofia's eyes still scanned the pages, lending the furrow of her brow in concentration between their words, the poison and now this as extreme interest in possibly cricket. Or maybe a bank robbery. It was hard to tell.
Arif passed the cup over to Illyana first, and then to Viktor with a slight bow. He was thanked warmly, and departed. Viktor motioned with his small cup. "Budem zdorovy! You know, it's so nice to speak Russian out here on a spring day. Turkish is a gorgeous language, but you never truly can leave home behind, nyet?" he smiled.
"I don't think so, no," Illyana agreed, still smiling, keeping her eyes on her own coffee.
Viktor's smile suddenly turned puzzled, and he set his cup down shakily. His hand went to his throat, and he coughed, trying to dislodge whatever he thought was in there. It was like his throat was closing up, and his lungs burned as he tried to gasp a breath. His hand slammed down on the table, getting the attention of the patio as his coffee spilled everywhere and he bent double, choking.
"Are you all right? Oh - oh my God!" Illyana pulled him back from the table, in the classic Heimlich technique. Viktor, now beet red, could only hang limp as the girl struggled to stop him choking. His weight pulled them both to the ground, and Illyana flipped him on to his back, watching his eyes start to cloud as the oxygen in his blood and brain ran out.
She bent over, beginning CPR. Two breaths to fifteen compressions, and again, and again. She laboured to try and get air into his lungs, keep his heart going, and a part of her almost believed the fiction that she was presenting. Viktor's face had gone purple, and the Russian was going limp despite all of her efforts. Arif was hovering nearby, knowing that the ambulance that he'd called would take time, and praying that the girl would be able to save the man. Illyana stopped with a sob.
Viktor wasn't breathing, staring sightlessly into the sky.
"I - I have to go." With a final look at the man, and a frightened glance at the passersby, she stepped back. "I'm - I have to go."
Leaving her change on the table, Sofia backed away into the crowd until she filtered into the stream of fish on the streets. She rounded the corner and settled on a set of stairs leading up to the apartments above the shops, seeming to check her Blackberry. It was only a moment until Illyana joined her and Sofia pulled her forward, stumbling so that her nose met the white tunic at Sofia's shoulder.
She said nothing. To tell her she had done well would be a lie, after all.
Illyana and Sofia go after their mark in order to fulfill her commitment.
It wasn't the heat that Viktor Khavekhov first had to adjust to in Istanbul, but the crowds. Unlike his own people, the streets were full of jostling, loud, and agitated people, who shoved and pushed and turned close areas into seas of confusion to his outside perspective. He'd learned to make his way through them eventually, suppressing the desire to lash out at what he'd finally learned were completely impersonal invasions on his personal space.
Still, it didn't make him like it much, and he often choose slightly longer routes using larger and more open streets and parks to make his way home. He had no plans for the evening, and was half daydreaming about the possibilities when he noticed the blonde hair of the woman near him. In a sea of black, dark brown, and deep auburn, the golden colour stood out like a marker.
The young woman belonging to the hair, tall and dressed in slightly shabby denim and a button-down shirt, seemed to be navigating the streets with practiced ease until an accidental nudge by another pedestrian made her stumble. She hit Khavekhov with force and a bitten-off Russian curse, then battled for balance.
"Izvinite" Viktor said, automatically in his native Russian, steadying himself and trying to keep the young woman from falling or losing his briefcase. He sidestepped out of the flow of traffic, letting go of her and switching to his fluent and liquid Turkish. "I apologize, young lady. The fault was mine."
The girl looked contrite but slightly confused, steady now with her bag in hand. ³I¹m sorry I don't speak but you're Russian!² she said, blue eyes lighting up, as though she'd just put his apology through the language center of her brain. Her Russian was fluid, but tinged with a northern country accent. ³It was my fault. I tripped I'm so clumsy in these crowds.² She bit her lip, considering, and then burst out, ³Oh, let me buy you a coffee to make it up. I really am sorry. And it would be so nice to hear a voice from home.² She smiled, half-shy.
"I am." Viktor was slightly shocked to hear the Russian words, having expected the girl to be a typical French or German tourist here. Instead, it was a Russian girl, from the east of Moscow based on her accent, and an attractive one at that. "Please. What brings you to Istanbul? You are a student?"
"Yes," the girl said, naming a small but rather prestigious Russian university. She gestured to a small cafe by the side of the road. "Please, let me buy you a coffee. I've been in museums all day, and I'm here alone."
Alone. That was already a positive sign, Viktor thought. "I can't refuse such a gracious offer." He said, and waved towards the street. "Please, though, let me select the coffee house. Istanbul offers some of the best in the world, but they are well saturated with cheap tourist traps or poor quality local ones."
He led them through the streets, occasionally turning down side streets to avoid heavy traffic and save time. During the entire walk, they chatted back and forth about incidentals, including the entirely fictitious details about Illyana's studies and home. Viktor was one of those naturally disarming personalities, likely the quality that made him such an accomplished spy. He was hard not to like quickly, which made Illyana's uncharacteristic rapport with him not seem suspicious.
Eventually, they reached a medium sized coffee house, largely outdoors, and filled with local businessmen, sprinkled with Europeans. The white smocked waiters carried complex coffee pots and presses to each table, and the windows were stocked high with small burlap sacks of roasted beans.
"Here?" Illyana gestured at a table bathed in warm sunlight.
"Sitting in the sun sounds perfect. It is not as warm as spring usually is, but after Russia, it must seem unusually hot." Viktor held out her chair, and settled into his own. His eyes flickered about, in a manner that Illyana herself had seen many times before from the more experienced operatives in Snow Valley. Zhavekhov was still a spy, and he hadn't entirely dismissed the thought that this 'chance meeting' could be a setup of some type. He dismissed the dark-haired woman at the table across from them. She was actually reading her paper, and hadn't done more than glance up as they sat.
"So," Viktor folded his hands over each other, and leaned forward. "How long are you going to be in Istanbul."
Glancing up at all had been for show. Sofia, large sunglasses, favoured by the locals, covered her eyes from the reflections off the shiny table, some kind of acrylic, and the gentle breeze played tag with each other to send her conversation from the people around her. It was like constantly tuning a radio, playing to find the perfect song, and then merely holding steady. But curiousity was human nature, and if you were to watch any library patrons by the entrance, no matter how best seller their novel was, the opening of a door always raised a gaze.
At least her coffee was good. She sipped at it and wished that this paper would at least come with a number puzzle. While she wasn't any good at them, they could all be solved with enough steady repetition of movements. Soothing, in their own way. That, and it was difficult to be interested in news about something in what she assumed was the business section when one didn't speak the language. Jibberish was jibberish.
"Just a few more days," Illyana said. "I came to see the museums - I'm a classics major. It's hard to get a feel for things in Russia." The sun caught her hair, gold tangled from the wind.
Viktor nodded and smiled, waving over one of the waiters. "This is something that you won't find easily back home." He switched over to Turkish. "Arif, can I get my usual. A cup for the lovely young woman as well." there was a nod in return, and Viktor leaned his elbows back on the table. "There's a process to Turkish coffee, which is why no one really does it properly outside of this country. It's almost like a ritual here to get it brewed properly. One of the reasons I decided to stay."
"Thank you." Illyana smiled. "It is beautiful here."
The coffee reached the table, or more appropriately, the articles leading to coffee reached the table. There was a kettle of boiling water, a seeping tray, an old fashioned grinder, and a coffee pot with press. Arif began to slowly put the pieces in place, and Viktor watched both his hands and Illyana's subtly, just to make sure neither of their movements could cover slipping something into the drink.
They were like little wooden ducks on a pull string, each grain of white powder. It was always white powder. Each grain gracefully falling into the cup on a pirouette. Sofia's eyes still scanned the pages, lending the furrow of her brow in concentration between their words, the poison and now this as extreme interest in possibly cricket. Or maybe a bank robbery. It was hard to tell.
Arif passed the cup over to Illyana first, and then to Viktor with a slight bow. He was thanked warmly, and departed. Viktor motioned with his small cup. "Budem zdorovy! You know, it's so nice to speak Russian out here on a spring day. Turkish is a gorgeous language, but you never truly can leave home behind, nyet?" he smiled.
"I don't think so, no," Illyana agreed, still smiling, keeping her eyes on her own coffee.
Viktor's smile suddenly turned puzzled, and he set his cup down shakily. His hand went to his throat, and he coughed, trying to dislodge whatever he thought was in there. It was like his throat was closing up, and his lungs burned as he tried to gasp a breath. His hand slammed down on the table, getting the attention of the patio as his coffee spilled everywhere and he bent double, choking.
"Are you all right? Oh - oh my God!" Illyana pulled him back from the table, in the classic Heimlich technique. Viktor, now beet red, could only hang limp as the girl struggled to stop him choking. His weight pulled them both to the ground, and Illyana flipped him on to his back, watching his eyes start to cloud as the oxygen in his blood and brain ran out.
She bent over, beginning CPR. Two breaths to fifteen compressions, and again, and again. She laboured to try and get air into his lungs, keep his heart going, and a part of her almost believed the fiction that she was presenting. Viktor's face had gone purple, and the Russian was going limp despite all of her efforts. Arif was hovering nearby, knowing that the ambulance that he'd called would take time, and praying that the girl would be able to save the man. Illyana stopped with a sob.
Viktor wasn't breathing, staring sightlessly into the sky.
"I - I have to go." With a final look at the man, and a frightened glance at the passersby, she stepped back. "I'm - I have to go."
Leaving her change on the table, Sofia backed away into the crowd until she filtered into the stream of fish on the streets. She rounded the corner and settled on a set of stairs leading up to the apartments above the shops, seeming to check her Blackberry. It was only a moment until Illyana joined her and Sofia pulled her forward, stumbling so that her nose met the white tunic at Sofia's shoulder.
She said nothing. To tell her she had done well would be a lie, after all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}