Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend

[Frankie Guidicini]

Timeframe: Late Afternoon/Early Evening
Date: July 1st, 2030
Place: The Bureau
Status: Ludmila and Frankie, Closed

The strains of Henry Purcell filled the office of the co-director of the BPRD from a small refurbished CD player tucked discreetly away on a bookshelf. The room was snug, to be sure, but no one expected directorship of the organization tasked with keeping humanity afloat to come with a corner office. Bookcases bordered the room, and short ones even sat underneath the lone window that surveyed much of the surrounding mountains. Adjacent the door sat Frankie's desk, folders and paperwork all nearly stacked and color coded with sticky notes. A chipped china cup with the remaining dregs of peppermint tea sat on its accompanying coaster, tarnished silver spoon rested across the edge. Two leather chairs, recently upholstered, sat between the door and the desk. And sitting in the high backed swivel chair sat the director herself.

Short chestnut hair brushed behind her ears and brow furrowed in concentration, Frankie thumbed through the briefing of a scouting mission into what had once been old New Jersey. Activity had diminished in the quadrant over the years, and the scouting party believed that the ruins of the BPRD headquarters could be reached. Frankie would be on that field mission, whenever it happened.

She tucked the folder into what classified as her "OUT" pile and reached for the tea cup, drinking the last of cold liquid with indifference. What time was it? Late. Later than Frankie should have been, but Riordan said he was going out tonight, so no one would be waiting on her.

She snatched the black blazer off the hat stand nestled in the corner and shrugged into it, covering the bare arms her modest black sleeveless blouse presented. She wore black slacks and black closed toe shoes -- there was no splash of color or glitter of jewelry anywhere on her. The immortal reached for her tea cup and saucer to go give them a quick wash when she spotted a report, naked of its folder, straying beneath her piles of paperwork. Immediately irritable of its escape, Frankie grabbed it and was determined to stuff it elsewhere for the moment when the name upon it caught her attention.

Ilyukhin, Ludmila.

Unconsciously, Frankie sat back down and began reading through the paper. She had met the rusalka over a hundred years ago in a secret level of the Winter Palace in Russia. Was it even there anymore? Ragnarök was probably its demise -- but one never knew.

As Frankie's copper eyes zipped back and forth across the words, the lines of a concerned brow furrowed deeper and deeper across her features. Upon reaching the end of it and seeing the date, Frankie decidedly placed it on her "IN" pile and grabbed for the schedule of the security guards' shifts this week.

Her footsteps were quick and purposeful as she strode from her office, and no one bothered to stop her. They rarely did. After a quick search, she saw the flash of fair hair that betrayed the rusalka's identity. "Agent Ilyukhin," Frankie called, her tone formal in case others were listening. "Might I have a word?"

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

Today was another uneventful day. Bureau employees came and went, mostly ignoring Ludmila as she sat behind her counter in the entrance hall. The rusalka yawned, closing her eyes and masking it with one hand. Once again she had only slept for three hours and was now drifting in and out of a sleep and alcohol-induced fog. Occasionally her head would nod and her eyelids would flutter as exhaustion overtook her, but nobody ever caught her sleeping on the job.

A young blonde agent went past the counter, his step confident. Ludmila eyed him with antipathy as he walked by, feeling the nasty sinking feeling she experienced whenever she set eyes upon one of the younger agents. She felt both jealous and inferior, and the sight of any agent was enough to make her sink even deeper into her rut of sadness and failure.

With a shaking hand she reached for her flask, uncapped it and took a swift swig of alcohol. The drink seethed into her gut like a fiery snake, and the rusalka felt some relief. Nonetheless, her body thirsted for more, and her hands started to shake again. Another group of agents entered, laughing over some joke or other. Their mirth made Ludmila's lips curl with bitterness, and her hand tightened its grip on her flask.

Young, perfect she thought bitterly, uncapping her flask and drinking once again. Reality blurred and dulled like a dirty mirror, and the rusalka slumped in her chair. She barely even heard the sound of footsteps approaching her counter.

"Agent Ilyukhin."

The voice jolted Ludmila upright, like a corpse receiving an electric shock. She straightened and looked up, her disheveled appearance becoming more painfully apparent when she realised who had spoke. Frankie Guidicini, the boss. Bloody hell.

"Might I have a word?"

The rusalka swallowed and nodded slowly. "Y...yes madam", she said, running a pale hand through her white hair in a futile gesture.

[Frankie Guidicini]

Sadness and regret were two emotions Frankie knew implicitly. She had felt either or both for more than a hundred years. She felt the familiar pangs now as she surveyed the woman who, once, had been a beautiful maiden (to her, at least), imprisoned in the basement of the Winter Palace and then she progressed into a confident soldier who led men into battle and now... Now she lacked an eye and was sitting behind a counter, looking utterly tarnished in spite of the impressive life she had led.

And in the air were the faintest traces of... No. You are not judging anything until you've talked to her. You owe her that. And much, much more.

Frankie did not put on a smile or slip on a casual air. People were watching, and she knew her reputation of killjoy, frigid bitch, and even (once) ice crotch was how she was identified throughout the Bureau, and it would garner more attention than she desired to start acting out of character now. Not if she wanted to help Ludmila which... yes, she did. Ludmila was one of the few people who had been around longer than her and the only one who had known her before Henry, before all of this.

"Is there somewhere more private we can chat? I know you're on duty, but this cannot wait." The woman asked. Part of Frankie felt almost treacherous for speaking to this woman so distantly, as though they knew each other not at all. But Frankie had a job to do and she had to do it. She had to do it this way and maybe, maybe she could eke the truth out of the rusalka -- whatever that was.

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

"Of course, madam", said Ludmila, standing up like a woman about to walk to the gallows. She wasn't scared. She still saw the bright-eyed woman in a maid's costume whenever she saw Frankie and besides, Frankie was just a woman. It took a lot more to scare Ludmila. No, the rusalka felt sad and resigned as she motioned Frankie to the locker room that security guards used. At this time the room was empty;

"In here", she said, her voice chilly as she pushed the ratty metal door inwards. The smell of old sweat and cigarette smoke greeted her as she stepped into the locker room. The lockers stood with the rigid severity of judges at a trial, and the harsh white light of the neon lamps seemed to glare down on her. As the door closed behind them, the rusalka uncapped her flask and drank again, not even bothering to hide her habit.

"I know why you're here", she told Frankie. As she turned around to face her friend (or former friend?) she didn't bother to keep a straight stance and swayed. Her one remaining eye bored into the English woman's own. "I'm not going to lie to you since you already know. I drink on the job. There. Now go on, give me the talk and sack me. I don't care any more."

She resisted the urge to uncap her flask again and ended up questioning such resistance. Why even bother? Her fate was already sealed.

"I suppose I should hand in my badge and my gun? Although I'd like to keep the gun..."

[Frankie Guidicini]

"Madam."

That word made Frankie feel so foreign, and it sounded unusually stiff to her ears. The director followed in the security guard's tracks, mindful of her posture and facial expression as she did. Thankfully, blessedly, the locker room Ludmila led her into was empty. The odor made Frankie's nose wrinkle for a moment and then relax as her olfactory senses began to get used to it. The scent of alcohol mingled with the tart fragrance of perspiration and the bitter aroma of tobacco smoke. It took Frankie back to that day in Berlin for just a moment, but it quickly faded away when Ludmila spoke.

Of course she didn't skirt around the subject; why would she? Frankie let the woman talk, immediately jumping to the conclusion that the director was here to give her a notice of termination. Her expression remained placid and serene as the rusalka spoke, not a muscle moving to denote any disapproval or otherwise. When Ludmila stopped, the immortal let her words hang in the air for a moment before she replied. "I'm not here to do any of that. At least, I'm not here to dismiss you. I wanted to hear what you had to say on the subject, but it's apparent that you already know things have gotten excessive."

Damn it. Abe was better at these things than she was. He was the bleeding heart, she was the calculating brain. But the icthyosapien didn't have the same history that Frankie did with the rusalka. She sucked in a breath and resisted the urge to cross her arms or take a load off on one of the benches. Instead, she returned Ludmila's gaze with equal tenacity.

"You and I know that we have a problem. Now what are we going to do about it?" The words came bluntly from her lips and Frankie's gaze did not waver. If Ludmila thought that Frankie would fire her over this, let her go for something that was all too common, she had another thing coming. And Frankie was ready to butt heads with the rusalka if she didn't think they were going to do something about it.

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

Ludmila raised an eyebrow in surprise. How could they not get rid of her? She was useless to begin with and her drinking habit had made her situation even worse. She wondered what Frankie was thinking, briefly suspecting that she still had an ounce of affection left for her. The rusalka quickly dismissed that thought, though. The world had changed and so had people. Frankie was probably no exception.

"I...I can't say the drinking started recently", she admitted stiffly, "in Stalingrad vodka was the only thing that gave me enough courage to keep on fighting and obeying orders. After that it just stayed."

The rusalka stopped and shifted uncomfortably. Obviously Frankie wanted her to say more, but Ludmila didn't like to spill her thoughts and feelings to people, and that included old "friends". Could Frankie even be considered a friend now?

"Look, I've been to Alcoholics Anonymous and all that crap, but it always comes back. I just can't seem to give up. And that's not the only thing...I have nightmares too, dreams about my past and all...look, why are you making me say all this? Are you trying to humiliate me? My back's already against the wall!"

Ludmila could feel inexplicable anger rising in her and tried to stay calm. Losing her temper in front of Frankie would only make things worse, but something about the Co-Director's cool and impersonal demeanour only made the rusalka angrier.

"Yeah, yeah, let's poke that useless drunk Russian", said Ludmila, her hands shaking even more, "let's just strip away what little dignity she has left...t'voyu mat, I need a drink."

The rusalka uncapped her flask and raised it to her lips, only to discover that it was completely empty. It was then that she felt the sickening lurch of anger taking control. Her skin flushed and she began to shake, her breathing becoming ragged.

"And now this!", she shouted, "briliant! Absolutely brilliant! Now come on, miss Guidicini, f**k**g give me the boot! Kick me from the Bureau and onto the streets, it's all I'm good for now! I've lost everything!"

Ludmila shook her head and felt her hands ball into fists. Anger coursed through her like a raging flood, uncontrollable and chaotic. All her resentment, anger and unhappiness came out like a thick stream of vomit.

"I SERVED FOR 69 YEARS!", she yelled, "I FOUGHT, I SUFFERED AND I STARVED, I FACED THE WORST HORRORS KNOWN TO MAN AND HOW DO THEY REPAY ME?? THEY KILL THE COUNTRY I FOUGHT FOR AND THEY CHUCK ME OUT ON THE STREETS! THEY TOOK AWAY MY f**k**g CITIZENSHIP!"

The rusalka whirled around, kicking one of the lockers with a loud metallic clang. As suddenly as it had come, the rusalka's boiling anger leaked away and her voice became weak and tearful.

"I used to be a hero", she said, "I used to have some value...now I have none. I'm a Cold War relic, a dinosaur. My time came and went, and now all I can do is wait for it all to end. I've been forgotten."

And slowly the rusalka began to weep. Bitter tears ran down her cheeks and sobs shook her shoulders.

[Frankie Guidicini]

Frankie simply listened, nodding as Ludmila spoke of Stalingrad. She vividly remembered when Ludmila shared her food with her before Vampir Sturm, and the way she drank vodka straight out of the bottle. Heart sinking, the woman almost chastised herself for not noticing, but how could she? Shed been an utter wreck at the time, and she couldn't have helped anyone, even if she did stick around when all was said and done. Abe really was better at all of this, but Frankie at least owed it to Ludmila to hear her out. And she wasn't sure if she could help her; she wasn't sure of anything, really, but she had to at least try. She wanted to try, even if nothing came of it.

She stayed silent, even as Ludmila fidgeted. Now was not the time to talk, she could only listen. Because, after all, this wasn't about Frankie. This was about Ludmila and why she was doing this to herself. Sometimes a person just needed someone else to listen, and that's what the immortal could do for now. Her expression continued in its serenity, giving off no tic, no inclination or approval or disapproval.

And then it began to come out of Ludmila like a torrential flood. Her words were bitten off bitterly and fell like shards of ice from her lips. At her questions, Frankie quietly replied, "I am not." And did not conjecture further. If she said too much, it would turn into nothing but an argument, and one or the other would storm off. That was not going to happen, not if she could help it.

The rusalka's hands began to shake violently, and for a moment Frankie wondered if she would have to call one of Foster's people down here. Her agitation crescendoed into a fury, and all Frankie continued to do was listen as her voice ricocheted off of the lockers and echoed throughout the room like rolls of increasing thunder. Her fists clenched, and Frankie prepared to duck if she swung, mostly because she didn't want Ludmila to break her hand on her bones. Inside her chest, an invisible hand clenched around her heart. She knew this anger, knew this hopelessness, and to see the woman who had once filled the immortal with such awe and wonder and, yes, admiration... It made it feel like everything that the Bureau had accomplished up to this point was just in vain.

Profanity echoed throughout the room, punctuated by the impact of Ludmila's kick to the lockers, and then it slowly simmered away. Frankie swallowed hard, basking in the shockwaves of the rusalka's furor, and as she began to cry, the woman finally moved toward her old friend. She did not embrace her; instead she placed a bracing hand on her shoulder. "I have not forgotten you." Her copper eyes sought out the rusalka's remaining one, peering down because of their slight height difference. "Ludmila, I know that you are better than this." Her tone once again lacked any accusation. "I know... I know what hell is and I know you're going through it every single day. And if I had known sooner..." God, if Frankie had known so many things...

"I remember who you were because it's still who you are. The night I met you..." A rare smile flickered across her lips and the woman moved on. "I wanted to help you then, but I couldn't. Let me help you now. I am not going to turn you out on the streets or sack you or punish you for this. I'm not going to do that to you, because you deserve better from me." Better than what she had given, that was for certain. "Do you want help? Because if you do, I will help you. If you don't, I can't force you. But I know that you are none of those things that you said, save for a hero. I want to help you, at least enough so you don't need to carry around a flask to stop your hands from shaking."

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

Ludmila felt her sobs turn into bitter laughter.

"I charged Panzers with nothing but my rifle and grenades and I felt bullets whip past me like a million deadly wasps, and yet I can't even deal with an uneventful, boring Bureau job", she said.

The crying stopped and the rusalka got herself back under control. Something of her former cool detachment had suffered. Her icy facade had cracked, letting some of the weathering and fatigue show. With a heavy ragged sigh she sat down on one of the benches.

"I tried, Frankie", she said, "I tried not to sink and I failed. I had a dream once, Frankie. I believed in it all: a world with no exploitation, a world of peace and equality where everyone had a place in society. I chased that dream passionately, following the words of Lenin and Marx and in the end...it all came to nothing. It only took a year or two to have my world turned upside down. I lost everything. All the wars I'd been in, all the death. It became meaningless.

"Then you came and brought me to the Bureau. I tried to fit in and adapt, but I never managed. I didn't get any field missions because of my status as a former Soviet agent. Then the Golden Army came and I did what I do best: I fought them. I lost an eye, saw a few more thousand die...then I came back and nobody cared or noticed. They're all praising the younger agents. They're the real heroes. Ludmila? She was on the East Coast, yeah, so what? I'm a relic, Frankie. I've outlived my usefulness."

And with that, the rusalka hung her head and stared down at the floor, her shoulders slumping as if a great weight had been cast upon them. A stray lock of hair popped out of her messy bun and drooped despondently over her face.

"Now I'm just good for checking IDs and telling people not to run in the corridors. Sometimes I even fill in as cleaner. Yesterday I even had to clean out a toilet that someone had puked in."

[Frankie Guidicini]

The hopeless despair that clung thick to Ludmila's voice caused Frankie's expression to finally change to one of gentle concern. She wanted so very much to reassure her old friend that she still mattered, because she did, but it appeared that the rusalka wouldn't see that now. Frankie cursed herself for a moment -- she should have found her off duty, asked her over to the house, anything but this. This just aggravated things; it didn't make them better.

Ludmila's tears subsided, and when she sat upon the bench, Frankie joined her, straddling the surface so she could face Ludmila head-on. At her words about the Soviet Union and its fall, Frankie gently spoke. "Your fight was not for nothing. It counted and mattered at the time -- would the Soviet Union have been the same without your support and that of your comrades? It is not your fault that others lacked your tenacity and gave up on the dream." Frankie had never approved of or entertained Marxist notions simply because they seemed blissfully ignorant of human nature, but she wasn't going to tell Ludmila that. Not when the rusalka and sacrificed and suffered so much for the ideal.

She continued to listen as Ludmila continued on what she had lost during Ragnarök and once more, Frankie fell silent. There was so much senseless loss due to the end of the world. Maggie and Trevor were orphaned, Tabby lost her entire family, Kasim and Sister Angel had died in the final battle. There was so justification for any of that. And you let it happen...

What did Ludmila want? Did she want sympathy or just someone to talk to? She's been using alcohol to mask all this bitter sorrow, and Frankie suddenly realized that one of the reasons why might be that in all of this, she was alone. The man that had given the rusalka a name and been a father to her had died years ago, none of her old comrades were at the Bureau, and Frankie had been busy being a co-director and a mother to even see the signs before the report hit her desk. Just one more thing to be guilty for.

Ludmila needed to feel useful again, she needed to feel valued. Maybe that could ease her off the alcohol.

"Ludmila, I can sit here and argue against everything negative you have to say about yourself because I don't agree with it." Frankie said lowly. "But words aren't going to help. Words are wind." She was silent for a beat and then she spoke again. "You're feeling forgotten and useless. Let me prove that you're neither. Would you like a trial as a field agent? Or would you like to have a hand in training our new ones? Your experience and skill leave you excessively qualified for security and whoever even suggested that you do any of the facility's duties around here is going to have hell to pay.

"So what do you say? Do you want to try something else or do you want to talk more?"

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

Ludmila sat silently for a few minutes, thinking intently about what Frankie had said. For years now she'd lived under the crushing heel of despair, refusing to believe her life could still improve. She'd even even started believing that those were her last years left to live and that trying to drag herself out of the rut she'd fallen into was utterly pointless. Finally she heaved a ragged sigh and looked up at her old friend, her pale face a mask of fatigue.

"I...I don't know, Frankie...I've been told I'm going to lose my apartment and be sacked unless I clean my act up - bloody hell, I'm babbling again. What I mean is that I don't know if the Bureau would give me a chance at being a field agent again. It's a dangerous role and I haven't been exactly trusty over the past few years. I know you're co-director, but it seems a bit much to ask of the Bureau to reinstate someone like me."

A faint glimmer of hope seemed to pass through the rusalka's blue eyes. "But if you could, I...I'd be very grateful."

When was the last time Ludmila had been in the field? Back during Ragnarok, of course. While her memories of World War 2, Vietnam and Afghanistan were fading little by little, Ragnarok was still fresh in her mind. She remembered the day she'd been assigned to a US Army battalion as an "advisor", the odd glances she'd drawn due to the AK-74 she carried, the enormous and unstoppable golden tide that had swept through that unfortunate suburb of Boston in the spring of 2008.

Almost every single man and woman had died that day, save for three fortunate souls: Ludmila, a tank gunner and a sniper.

"I hope they didn't forget Boston", she said, softly touching her eyepatch.