Caves of Germany, shores of France. They all sounded like this man was a hound for the old and valued that all sat beyond the cordons of the Reich- and so, game. She watched him light up and reckoned then he wouldn’t mind if she had another herself- while she had smoked regularly in the army before, chainsmoking had come to her naturally after a long night flying without a copilot in the dead altitudes over that dreaded German land. After her dishonorable discharge, she’d fled almost immediately with the Patriot, stopping only to see her father. In his office in downtown Moscow, Captain Averin was shaking from the cold and the waste of age alike, fire in his eyes as he told her, “Zhenya, do not come back until you’ve killed a thousand Nazis.”
She strode into the room and sidled into the seat as soon as she saw him do the same- to do so any earlier would betray her military instincts, which currently put this man, diminutive as he was, in the position of a superior. He went on to speak in English, leaving Averina’s brain to regear and catch up as he poured the drink and she took it, grateful for something stiffer to sip while the man talked. She rarely got this far in interviews, took it as a good sign. The drink burned a strong, robust and sweet burn all the way down, more flavor than she was used to. “This agreement sounds...” Damn, what was the word? And was he always going to switch out? “Favorable,” she said. There it was. “I ask you fuel Patriot, also. If we use it. And keep it in air... service. Is strong ship, but needs maintenance. I see it fair if you take portion of my stipend for this, say, £100.” She coughed a bit, drinking a bit more. “Was shot at when I leave motherland.”
He took a couple long puffs on his pipe in thought. "That's fine lass, though you'd know more about the damn thing than me. I'm better with the small personal equipment. I'm no fucking use with a goddamned airship. You point me at the fuel and parts and I'll see to them out of your stipend." He was curious however about why she was shot at. He took a long pull from the drink, hardly feeling it slide down his throat; it was so much smoother than the rot gut and rye he usually drank. "By the by why were you shot at leaving the motherland. I know the red army has a habit of executing those who run from a battle but those running towards the enemy border with a loaded airship?" He let the question hang there in the air and pipe smoke.
She shifted uncomfortably in the chair, feeling the lush surface accommodate her size and discomfort. A long pull of her cigarette put a temporary smokescreen between her and the archaeologist, enough to put her thoughts together. "Patriot is semi-rigid airship made to patrol border at Volga. Volga is border, then..." she felt her thoughts darken with that preternatural anger of the thought. "Stalingrad, run by fascist pigs. I maybe let go of steering wheel and let Patriot drift by wind over border a few times, see how they live. And I maybe open fire on team on Nazi cars." She finished her drink then. "Red Army was not happy in break of 'peace', and discharge me. With gunfire." She shrugged and put the glass down, drumming her fingers on the table in feigned composure. It still kept her up at night- they'd shown her how to live like a civilized human, and did better for her father: they'd sobered him up. And here she was, still in their coat and still with their ship. She wasn't comfortable revealing all this, in the end. "You, why do you seek artifacts? Is old things, and you risk your life. This isn't about money."
He took a few long puffs on his pipe, letting the smoke hang in his lungs for a moment before blowing it through his nose like an ancient dragon. "You're right lass, it's not about the money. It's about the thrill. I'm what some would call an adrenaline junkie. The thrill of the hunt and the excitement of the discovery. Rappelling down a rock face into an unknown abyss. Diving into a frigid lake after a 'magical' dagger with only a rudimentary rebreather strapped to my back." He shudders and smiles broadly, smoke still curling from the corners of his mouth. "The more crude among our profession could say I get off on the danger, but I call it addiction. Plain and simple. And of course the money is spectacular for the right artifacts. Some people will pay anything for any old crap I pull out of some rock."
She rolls the word around in her mouth a little bit, figuring it out. Adrenaline junkie. It's a term unique to the language, but adrenaline is a word that translates easily. This man likes war and adventure? She wonders at it. Well, he is older than she and still alive; if he has made it so far and is not a liar, then she will respect him. 'Get off' is a term she isn't familiar with but she comprehends quickly enough. Foul mouthed, small archaeologist will either be a very good beneficiary or a ruinous wretch. She shall see. "There are worse things to be a junkie for," she admits. "Tell me when we leave."
His eyes flashed behind the glasses briefly, it looked as if he’d finally found someone worthwhile. Then again, the last worthwhile person he’d found had left with half his shit, so he wasn’t putting much stock in that judgement. At least there wasn’t a ring sealing this deal. He stood and tapped the pipe out in the ashtray, dumping the ashtray into the fire before he spoke. “Tomorrow at noon, theres an artifact I’ve come across in northern Scotland. Now I know that’s not Nazi killing territory but it is being searched for by a not very friendly clan of local bumpkins.” He tucked the pipe back into its place, and cracked his knuckles again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run and you have an airship to prepare. Here, an advance on this months stipend.” He produced a wad of bills from an old cracked leather wallet and handed them to her. Tipping his head to her he left the room, assuming she could find the door herself. He slid back into his chair and continued with what he was doing before the Russian entered. Which was brooding, drinking, and looking at a fairly worthless crystal that he was going to sell to American tourists for a ridiculously marked up price.
Closing time came and he deposited the days earnings into the floor safe. As he stood his back made a rippling series of cracks, signaling the end of the day. “Lock up if you would Walter, I’m going home to prepare for tomorrow. Thanks for the help.”
“Of course sir.”
“STOP CALLING ME SIR YOU LIMEY FUCK,” Geoff roared in exasperation. Walter just smiled wryly and bustled Geoff out of the store. Rubbing his temples the Irishman didn’t stop grumbling until he reached his home. His house was across town on the edge of London. It was a slightly sprawling estate he’d taken over after the previous owner had disappeared during the blitz. Since the war he’d filled it with relics of bygone ages. The entrance was lined with floor length mirrors and ancient suits of armor. As he passed the mirrors he took a moment to look at himself, again thinking of who he’d become. He’d gone from a lanky freckle faced bundle of hair and fire into the image he saw before him. Standing at 5’6” he was wiry with tightly corded runners and climbers muscle in place of the usual lifting muscle or paunch his compatriots seemed to sport. His fiery red hair was kept cropped short on the sides and only slightly longer on top and combed back and to the left. He kept a perpetual three day beard, somewhere between full and scraggly. He was still freckled but because of how much time he spent outdoors they’d faded as he’d, unlike others of his bloodline, tanned. His chiseled angled features gave him his well-earned stubborn look, his jaw perpetually set in slightly forward position. As if he was jutting his chin out in defiance, which he usually was but that’s beside the point. But he noticed none of these features. What he did notice were the deep bags under his eyes from countless sleepless nights. The slightly bloodshot eyes from days spent drinking and staring at minute details of ancient objects. But what stood out most was a flaring red scar that ran along the underside of the right side of his jaw, to the center of his chin then across his neck towards his shoulder, disappearing under his cardigan. The scar ran all the way to just below his armpit, a souvenir of the last man who’d ditched him.
Snorting derisively he sped through the foyer into his study. Plopping down into his desk he poured himself a measure of rye. Taking a sip he started to pour over the collected documents on the artifact they would be searching for the following day. He’s already prepared his equipment, he was just making sure of the location now. Before long though he had slipped from the realm of the living into the land of dreams. Though his were conspicuously absent.