05-05-2025, 01:55 AM
Abandoned Conservatory, Northern Legionaria
Volkov didn’t know how the message had reached him. No one should have known where he was hiding, not even his most loyal remaining officers. Not with the city burning from every direction, not with the Presidential Palace already breached.
But somehow, the note had found its way to him. Three words, written in his native script, folded precisely and tucked into the collar of his greatcoat as if it had always been there.
“Come alone. – S.”
Now, as he stood beneath the shattered glass roof of the Legionaria National Conservatory, once a symbol of pre-Legion elegance, now a skeleton framed by war, he realized he was already late.
She was waiting for him.
Scarlet.
She looked like a hallucination. A vivid, cinematic thing that didn’t belong in the ash-colored world around her. Red peacoat, still somehow spotless, cinched at the waist with military elegance. Black gloves. Black boots. Blonde hair twisted into a careless knot, her face almost too clean. The contrast was obscene. The city was dying. And she looked like she’d just stepped out of a painting.
“Nice of you to join me,” she said, her voice slicing through the air like a violin string.
Volkov stepped into the moonlight, hands visible. No weapon. Just resignation.
“I didn’t think you’d actually be here.”
She smirked. “That makes one of us.”
“You’ve been a ghost,” Volkov said quietly. “Every checkpoint. Every report. Every shadow behind every curtain. I chased you across half this miserable country.”
“And yet here we are.” She tilted her head. “Strange how things end, isn’t it?”
He laughed softly, bitterly. “I always suspected you. Never proved it. You slipped through my fingers like smoke. Bribed, seduced, lied, disappeared.”
“I’m very good at what I do.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“And you’re alive because I want you to be.”
That silenced him. He glanced upward the glass dome had collapsed long ago, the stars now shining cold and unblinking through the ragged metal frame.
“Lazar is dead.” She said it plainly, without ceremony.
Volkov nodded. “I assumed as much. No one has called me in hours.” He looked at her. “And you’re here to kill me?”
“No.” She stepped closer. “I’m here to give you a way out.”
He blinked. “Out?”
“I could let the Etxeans find you,” she continued, soft now. “They’re very creative. Or the Luthorians. They’d take you to some dark little trial and televise your screams. Kalistan wouldn't bother with ceremony; they'd just shoot you and move on. I can't imagine what Davostag would do to you... they remember what the Commissionaries did to their people.”
Volkov said nothing.
“But me?” She leaned in, close enough that her breath ghosted across his cheek. “I’m offering something else. A quiet life. A useful one. One where you don’t die today.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he turned his back to her, taking slow steps toward the overgrown piano in the corner. The keys had rotted, some cracked, others missing. He pressed one anyway. A dull, lifeless note echoed through the empty chamber.
“You want me to switch sides.”
“I want you to survive,” she corrected. “And in doing so, serve something greater than the ruins of a dying ideology.”
He turned, the candlelight in his eyes burning lower. “What would I even be?” he asked. “An informant? A turncoat?”
“A curator of what’s left,” she said. “A man who can identify threats before they’re born. A ghost story parents tell their children when they forget how bad things can get. You are of no use dying for a country that is soon not going to exist. But if you want to live, like i know you do, there are ways.”
Volkov let the silence stretch. Then: “You’re dangerous.”
“I’m inevitable.”
He chuckled. “And if I say no?”
“I walk away, and you take your chances getting out of the iron ring around this city.” She turned slightly, letting her red coat flutter. “But I won’t need to. You’ve already decided.”
He stared at her, jaw flexing. Then he crossed the distance between them, slowly, like a man laying down his sword. “Where do we go?”
She smiled faintly. “Where you’re needed.”
Volkov didn’t know how the message had reached him. No one should have known where he was hiding, not even his most loyal remaining officers. Not with the city burning from every direction, not with the Presidential Palace already breached.
But somehow, the note had found its way to him. Three words, written in his native script, folded precisely and tucked into the collar of his greatcoat as if it had always been there.
“Come alone. – S.”
Now, as he stood beneath the shattered glass roof of the Legionaria National Conservatory, once a symbol of pre-Legion elegance, now a skeleton framed by war, he realized he was already late.
She was waiting for him.
Scarlet.
She looked like a hallucination. A vivid, cinematic thing that didn’t belong in the ash-colored world around her. Red peacoat, still somehow spotless, cinched at the waist with military elegance. Black gloves. Black boots. Blonde hair twisted into a careless knot, her face almost too clean. The contrast was obscene. The city was dying. And she looked like she’d just stepped out of a painting.
“Nice of you to join me,” she said, her voice slicing through the air like a violin string.
Volkov stepped into the moonlight, hands visible. No weapon. Just resignation.
“I didn’t think you’d actually be here.”
She smirked. “That makes one of us.”
“You’ve been a ghost,” Volkov said quietly. “Every checkpoint. Every report. Every shadow behind every curtain. I chased you across half this miserable country.”
“And yet here we are.” She tilted her head. “Strange how things end, isn’t it?”
He laughed softly, bitterly. “I always suspected you. Never proved it. You slipped through my fingers like smoke. Bribed, seduced, lied, disappeared.”
“I’m very good at what I do.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“And you’re alive because I want you to be.”
That silenced him. He glanced upward the glass dome had collapsed long ago, the stars now shining cold and unblinking through the ragged metal frame.
“Lazar is dead.” She said it plainly, without ceremony.
Volkov nodded. “I assumed as much. No one has called me in hours.” He looked at her. “And you’re here to kill me?”
“No.” She stepped closer. “I’m here to give you a way out.”
He blinked. “Out?”
“I could let the Etxeans find you,” she continued, soft now. “They’re very creative. Or the Luthorians. They’d take you to some dark little trial and televise your screams. Kalistan wouldn't bother with ceremony; they'd just shoot you and move on. I can't imagine what Davostag would do to you... they remember what the Commissionaries did to their people.”
Volkov said nothing.
“But me?” She leaned in, close enough that her breath ghosted across his cheek. “I’m offering something else. A quiet life. A useful one. One where you don’t die today.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he turned his back to her, taking slow steps toward the overgrown piano in the corner. The keys had rotted, some cracked, others missing. He pressed one anyway. A dull, lifeless note echoed through the empty chamber.
“You want me to switch sides.”
“I want you to survive,” she corrected. “And in doing so, serve something greater than the ruins of a dying ideology.”
He turned, the candlelight in his eyes burning lower. “What would I even be?” he asked. “An informant? A turncoat?”
“A curator of what’s left,” she said. “A man who can identify threats before they’re born. A ghost story parents tell their children when they forget how bad things can get. You are of no use dying for a country that is soon not going to exist. But if you want to live, like i know you do, there are ways.”
Volkov let the silence stretch. Then: “You’re dangerous.”
“I’m inevitable.”
He chuckled. “And if I say no?”
“I walk away, and you take your chances getting out of the iron ring around this city.” She turned slightly, letting her red coat flutter. “But I won’t need to. You’ve already decided.”
He stared at her, jaw flexing. Then he crossed the distance between them, slowly, like a man laying down his sword. “Where do we go?”
She smiled faintly. “Where you’re needed.”