In the Shadow of Evil

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

Timeframe: Evening.
Date: January 14th, 1946
Place: Berlin
Status: Frankie and Ludmila, closed.


1st of May 1945:

The city of Berlin was shrouded by black smoke. The sound of artillery and gunfire echoed in its war torn streets as the last of the German defenders battled the Soviet juggernaut. Amidst the chaos of battle, a small team of soldiers was stealthily approaching a large building to the North of Unten den Linden. All wore Soviet uniforms and carried Pepeshas and Mosin-Nagant rifles.

The soldiers took cover behind the burnt out wreck of a Tiger 1 tank, and one of them glanced cautiously out towards the museum.

"No sign of the Fascists", said the soldier in a distinctly female voice, "it should be safe for us to approach the building."

"We'd better watch out for snipers, comrade Ilyukhin", said another soldier with a telogreika and a bushy black beard. Ludmila nodded silently.

"Da...now move out!", she barked.

The group cautiously left cover and began to approach the building. Ludmila felt her grip tighten on her trusty Pepesha, and she gave darting glances at the building's rooftop, looking for any suspicious activity. Surprisingly, the group reached the building's entrance without encountering any resistance.

"Odd", said Ludmila, "I suppose the Germans are putting all their men into defending their precious Reichstag."

The rusalka edged towards the building's great wooden doors, which had escaped miraculously unscathed from the shelling and Allied bombing. Above the door large carved letters spelled out "Ägyptisches Museum". Without further ado, the rusalka delivered a savage kick to the doors and, to her surprise, they fell open with a great bang.

The soldiers filed into the building, which was plunged in darkness. Flashlights were switched on and light cast into the museum's dark halls. Ludmila jumped as she saw an expressionless human face staring at her from the shadows beyond her torche's beam. Thankfully, it was only an Egyptian statue sitting in a display case, and the rusalka heaved a sigh of relief.

The Soviets searched the museum's rooms but encountered nobody. Only the ancient Egyptian statues greeted them, their unreadable gaze staring off into infinity. Just when it seemed that the museum contained nothing of interest, the Soviets ran into something rather unusual. As they entered a room containing several sarcophagi, they saw that one of the painted wooden coffins had been taken out of its display case and set atop a small metallic stand.

"What the hell is this?", asked one of the soldiers. Ludmila approached the sarcophagus and saw several fine wires extending from certain points of the object. All of them were linked to a weird black box with dials, knobs and buttons of unknown purpose. The rusalka also noticed the the floor was covered with Egyptian symbols and hieroglyphics.

"Something bad, I bet", said Ludmila before adding: "everyone on alert! I don't want anything to jump us while we have our backs turned."

As the Red soldiers held their weapons ready and diverted their attention away from the sarcophagus, there was the dull creak of wood followed by a clatter. Eyes widening in realisation and horror, the rusalka turned around and saw that something had emerged. It was a dessicated corpse wreathed in green fire, rotting bands of linen still hanging from its ghastly body.

"T'VOYU MAT!", shouted Ludmila, "OPEN FIRE!"

As the order echoed, the ghoulish creature lashed out and caught a soldier in the belly. The poor man was instantly eviscerated and green flames consumed his body in seconds.

"URRA, POBIEDA!", yelled Ludmila before opening fire with her Pepesha. The bullets smacked into the corpse with satisfying force and effect, knocking the hellish creature over backwards. The sarcophagus tumbled to the floor and caught fire. The Soviet soldiers never stopped firing.

"Cease fire!", shouted Ludmila when her submachine gun clicked emptily. The soldiers stopped shooting, and the rusalka cautiously approached the ruined mess of rotten flesh and fabric that had once been some kind of undead creature. A quick examination and a kick to the creature's (shattered) skull confirmed its final status: dead. The rusalka sighed and plunged a trembling hand into her coat's pocket, pullinh out a small cigarette case.

"We need to contact Varvara", she said, lighting up her cigarette, "I have a feeling the Nazis have a few more nasty things in store for us..."


Several months later, 14th of January 1946:

A little girl in traditional dress, an uncomfortable-looking rusalka with a gun. Thus was the odd couple who stood in a dusty room at the back of a warehouse in Soviet-controlled Berlin. The girl was oddly calm, humming some childish tune as she sat on an old desk.

"It seems the Americans are late", she said, looking over at her companion. Ludmila shifted, trying to ignore the girl's unsettling gaze, and answered as calmly as possible:

"It could be that they are having trouble with our checkpoints, comrade Varvara."

"Possibly", said Varvara with a toss of her golden locks, "but I am looking forward to meeting this professor 'Broom'. I have heard some very interesting things about him and his activities."

"Indeed, comrade Varvara", said Ludmila. God, she hated that little girl. Varvara ran the Special Sciences Service with a hand of iron and a heart of ice. Rumour had it that the girl had worked for the czars long before the rise of the Soviets, and that Stalin considered her an invaluable asset to his Special Sciences Service. To Ludmila it was clear that the damned child was everything but a child. In fact, she was not even human.

"You seem tense, Ludmila", said Varvara, smiling at the rusalka. Ludmila felt her insides churn.

"Just a little tired, comrade Varvara", she said, "I've been having trouble with battle exhaustion lately."

Just then, the faint sound of a jeep came from outside the building. Ludmila almost heaved a sigh of relief.

"Ah! The Americans must have arrived!", said Varvara, clapping her hands in delight, "go and greet them."

The rusalka promptly left the room and closed the door behind her. Glad to be let out of Varvara's claws, she strode quickly through the warehouse, going past large crates stamped with strange markings and codes as well as unusual ancient objects. Soviet soldiers guarded the interior of the building. As she exited the warehouse she removed her cap and readjusted her comb, which sat nestled in a bun of golden blonde hair. She did not want to reveal her true nature to the American delegates and wished to pass herself off as a simple Soviet soldier.

Outside, Ludmila saw the American delegation getting out of their jeeps. As she approached them her eyes were instantly drawn to one of them, a youngish, well-dressed man with bushy black hair and a small well-trimmed beard. She approached him slowly and saluted.

"I am sergeant Ludmila Ilyukhin", she said in very accented English, "Varvara sent me."

[Frankie Guidicini]

A little over a fortnight before had marked five years. Five wretched years since Henry had been killed doing what he did best: saving people. Frankie couldn't get drunk because of her cursed healing factor; if she could she would have died of alcohol poisoning by now. Instead, the woman had spent the night huddled in the belfry of a ruined church lighting matches just to watch them burn. Each one was born anew in a shower of red and gold, but how quickly they were snuffed out by a gust of wind, or her own breath, or just burned to nothingness. Just like Henry.

You could go back, a voice often whispered in her ear. Go back to your daughter and your brother, leave Germany behind. But Frankie would not. The Soviets and the Allies had taken Berlin and Hitler had killed himself, like a coward. To the rest of the world, the Second World War was over. But it wasn't for Frankie. Not while the Nazi menace still survived, hidden from prying eyes, and continuing their plans to infect the world with their malice.

It had been sheer luck that Frankie had learned of this meeting between the Soviets and the Americans. If Frankie hadn't been paying attention, she would have missed the idle chatter between two men in Hanover, both taking a piss in an alley after too much beer. She left the Black Forest and had actually thought of heading home to apologize to her daughter, but the phrase Vampir Sturm had caught her attention. Frankie adjusted her course, arrived in Berlin before the Americans, and bluffed her way into their group with a set of forged papers, a false name, and the lie that she had been sent as an afterthought. The young man who led the group, something Bruttenholm, had welcomed her. Frankie received the impression that he was kind and trustful. And that could easily get a man killed.

Henry had always called her pretty, but five years lurking in the Black Forest and killing Nazis had changed the woman. Never very buxom to start with, the brunette had become something akin to a walking skeleton. Skin was pasted onto her bones, the hollows of her cheeks were deep enough to hold water, and the dark circles under her eyes told of uncounted sleepless nights. But none of that mattered now as their convoy of jeeps slowly but surely lurched through checkpoints to come to a stop outside of a large warehouse. Frankie shouldered her pack and slipped out of the back seat of her own vehicle, arching her back until bones popped once her feet touched the ground.

Someone had come out to greet them, and Frankie did not pay her much mind. The key to passing when one wasn't supposed to be there was to avoid eye contact unless it was required and become absorbed in what one was doing. Frankie helped carry a crate of equipment from the back of the jeep as the blond woman met with Professor Bruttenholm.

The young man returned the woman's salute in a quick but clumsy manner, and replied, "A pleasure, Sergent Ilyukhin." He offered his hand. "Professor Trevor Bruttenholm. Apologies for the delay, but it could not be helped. Shall we continue this inside?"

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

"Welcome, prafiessor Brum", said Ludmila, wincing interiorly as she struggled with the man's name and title. The professor, however, only smiled and complimented her on her English.

"I learned English from downed RAF pilot in Leningrad", she said with a hint of pride, "but follow me, comrade Varvara does not like being kept waiting."

With that the rusalka turned around and began to march back to the warehouse, Americans in tow. The professor immediately started asking questions, most of which Ludmila answered bluntly:

"Niet", "is classified information", "am not allowed to discuss this", "ask comrade Varvara".

The group entered the warehouse, and the professor's interest was immediately captured by all the artefacts and crates hidden there. When he asked questions about them, Ludmila answered once again with all the softness and tact of a paving stone:

"All this is confiscated material, but also classified. No questions."

Finally they reached the room where Varvara was waiting, and Ludmila felt relieved that she would no longer have to serve as a guide.

"Comrade Varvara is waiting for you inside", she said, "but only prafiessor Brum can go in, others will have to wait outside."

The professor nodded and thanked Ludmila before entering the room and shutting the door behind him. Ludmila stepped in front of the door and grabbed a cigarette from her now very battered and worn case. She also took a cigarette holder from her pocket, the smoking accessory having been stolen from a dead Nazi officer in Stalingrad. She lit up and soon grey blue smoke drifted slowly into the dark air.

As the rusalka stood guard, she eyed the Americans. All were obviously military personnel, and knew to keep to themselves. One of them, however, was definitely not a soldier. She was a small and frail-looking woman with dark hair and a face made thin and bony by exhaustion and hunger. The rusalka eyed the woman for a while, her face shrouded in cigarette smoke. She looked familiar, but Ludmila couldn't quite figure out why.

"You", she called out, her Russian intonation making the word as harsh as winter, "do I know you? You seem familiar."

Her cold gaze bored right through the skinny woman until suddenly the rusalka remembered. A lonely day spent beneath the palace of the czars...her tank...a female intruder...

"Frankie", said Ludmila, her face slowly split by a grin. As she grinned she kept her cigarette holder clenched between her teeth, lending her a strangely roguish air. "I never expected to see you here. It's been a while."

The rusalka took off her cap and plucked her comb out of her golden hair. Almost immediately the human faded away and was replaced by the emaciated and pale features of a rusalka.

"Remember me? Petrograd, Winter Palace, 1916?"

[Frankie Guidicini]

The harshness of the woman's accent in speaking English was something that Frankie listened to intently. Unsure why, she had always enjoyed the sound of a native Russian speaker, and it was a faint pleasure now. No, not really a pleasure, more of a memory of something she once enjoyed. The woman shifted the crate in her arms, kept her head down, and followed the feet of the person in front of her. When the darkness enveloped them, she followed the bouncing beams of the flashlights.

Professor Bruttenholm's questions were denied answering at every turn by the woman, something Frankie did not blame either party for. The war wasn't truly over, and after this madness, who knew what the future would bring? The Soviets were harboring common sense in not revealing whatever was classified and confidential to this man who was young enough to be Frankie's son. That vague thought, meant to be a censure against Bruttenholm, sent a pang through Frankie's heart. She gritted her teeth and continued walking.

They came to a stop, and the professor went alone to meet with someone named "Varvara." The briefings that Frankie had sat through and the papers she had read lauded Varvara as the group's contact, but she knew little more and care even less. Frankie was here to help them put down these Nazi sons of bitches and stop their twisted scheme. Whatever happened, Frankie was sure she'd survive it. And if not, there were worse things in life. Much worse.

She sat down the crate and had thought to busy herself looking at the equipment inside, but the harsh Russian-accented English drew her attention -- and that of several others. Frankie's face was a mask of serene ignorance. "You must be mistaken." She told the woman. "I don't know any Russians." Not anymore. They were all dead, or damn near.

But the Russian was persistent. Frankie thought of being rude and telling her that she couldn't understand her accent if only it would make the woman leave her be. But then... she said her name. Frankie's copper eyes fixed on the comb just before she pulled it from her hair, and all of a sudden, Frankie was that naive girl in a housemaid's uniform for just a split second. Her mask of calm broke for a moment, showing astonishment and joy and... relief. "You got out." She whispered in Russian just as the blond woman's appearance turned to the emaciated visage of the rusalka that Frankie still remembered to this day.

Others were looking, so Frankie regained her composure and jerked her head away from the group. Her cover could not be blown, but she wanted to speak to the rusalka. After years of strange faces and bodies and blood and loneliness... Frankie was overwhelmed by a familiar face, which brought a keen pain upon her that was all its own. Different from grief, but filled with guilt and remorse and a foreign feeling that was somewhat similar to happiness.

"Of course I remember you." Frankie whispered in Russian once they were apart from the main group. She did not believe any of her false comrades spoke Russian, so she was unafraid of being overhead. She looked to the pale milky eyes of the rusalka, her lips parted in sorrow. "I tried to come back." The woman confided. "But there were people, and then the Romanovs went to Tsarskoe Selo, and then the abdication came..." A smile did not curl her features, but nonetheless, Frankie was sincere when she said, "I am so happy that you got out."

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

Ludmila smiled and took a puff on her cigarette.

"I waited for you", she told Frankie, "but I understood that you couldn't get past the guards. Then they shut off the basement and left me in the dark for months. I thought I was going to die."

The rusalka took another puff on her cigarette, two fingers loosely holding the end of the holder with the casual demeanour of a seasoned smoker.

"But then they came. The Bolsheviks. They put dynamite on the door and blew it up, then they went into the basement. That's where they found me, and they let me out."

So much had happened since 1916! Ludmila felt like a completely different person now, and Frankie certainly looked like she had undergone a good deal of hardship. The woman's frail appearance gave Ludmila a pang of guilt and sympathy.

"But you look terrible, Frankie. So tired and weak. Here, have some food and drink!"

The rusalka reached for her mess kit and took out a piece of black bread and some sausage, both of which had been pilfered from a cellar somewhere in Berlin. She also took out a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, uncapped it and sniffed the contents with relish.

"Ah, vodka, the only drink a soldier needs", she said. She had lost count of the litres of vodka she'd knocked back since the war started. She set the food down on a nearby crate and took a solid swig of vodka.

"AH!", she breathed, feeling the familiar burn of the booze going down her throat. Then came the hit and the warmth she relished so much. "Anyway...", she said, resuming her story, "the Bolsheviks got me out of my tank and out of the palace. Then they gave me to a man named Pyotr Ilyukhin. He took me in, cared for me and all. He even gave me a name and said I could call him papa. He's a good man and a good Communist, so he taught me how to read, how to write..."

The rusalka seemed delighted at the memory. Writing and reading were still like magic to her, like some sacred secret language reserved only for the initiated.

"Then I was made an agent for the Special Sciences Service. When the Fascists invaded our Union, I was sent to the front. I've seen it all...Leningrad, Stalingrad..."

As she said those two names, the rusalka got a far away look in her eyes. Stalingrad and Leningrad still haunted her with visions of otherworldly horror and human suffering. She'd never thought she'd see that many dead humans before. Stalingrad had proven her wrong. To wash the pain away, Ludmila patted the medals pinned to her chest and smiled proudly.

"I was awarded the Hero of the Soviet Union and the Order of the Red Banner", she declared, "for invaluable and heroic services done to the Soviet people and Socialism."

But then the rusalka's expression darkened. "Frankie, what happened to you? You look like you've been locked in a basement for months without food or water or sleep!"

[Frankie Guidicini]

Guilt, a very familiar emotion, gripped Frankie's chest as the rusalka described what happened when she didn't come back in succinct and clear sentences. And when her rescue by the Bolsheviks was stated, Frankie could not bring herself to smile, even for the rusalka's sake. Frankie's failed mission to save the Russian royal family still haunted her. She remembered thinking, at the time, that she truly was a poor espionage agent, for how could a good one be found out twice?

Even though she could not smile, Frankie did her best to vocalize her sincere pleasure that the rusalka had not been left to rot in a tank. "I am so pleased, so thankful that they did. I just wish that there had been some way to free you sooner." But British secret agents had been pulled out as soon as Nicholas II abdicated, save for Frankie. She had informed her superiors of the rusalka, requested assistance -- any assistance -- to free her, but Britain was facing an economic downturn with the war. They were eager to get their resources out of Russia and not willing to go back in for a rusalka, even if Frankie was willing to do the grunt work.

Almost refusing the food, for Frankie had drank from an America's canteen and nibbled at an offered cracker in the jeeps, the woman thought better of refusing the rusalka's hospitality and accepted the bit of bread and meat offered. "Thank you." Frankie obliged, holding her portion between her thumb and forefinger. The hearty, coarse flavor of the black bread and the salty, smoky flavor of the sausage almost overwhelmed her with a single bite. She'd been surviving on scraps for the last five years, eating only because she'd most likely starve to death if she didn't. Or if a creature such as her could starve to death. If she could, Frankie would prefer to find out after the Nazis were eradicated.

She watched the rusalka enjoy a glug of vodka and felt somewhat jealous. She wished she could drown her sorrows and enjoy the burn without counting down the minutes until acid began bubbling up her esophagus. But then the rusalka further detailed her rescue from captivity. When she described the man who cared for her, the delight was palpable on her features and in her voice. Frankie did manage a smile this time, though it looked foreign on her lips and was a thin and broken thing. "That sounds lovely. I remember the last time we met that you did not have a name. Has he given you one?" It would not do just to call her 'The Rusalka' for the rest of eternity, would it?

The shadow of a smile was wiped away from Frankie's face at the mere mention of Stalin- and Leningrad. Frankie would have whispered, "Dear God," five years ago, but not anymore. Instead, her copper eyes went dull and her expression turned monotonous until the rusalka indicated the decorations on her chest. Pieces of shiny metal were all well and good, but did they count for anything when you were dead?

"Congratulation. Those sounds like very honorable commendations." Frankie lauded earnestly. "Again, I'm so glad you're free, and it seems that you have been met with success. It's wonderful." She took another bite of her food, carefully chewing the pungent bread and sausage as she considered what words to say in response to the rusalka's question. She was speaking Russian, so her false comrades wouldn't know, but just remembering who she had once been and what she once had was extremely difficult.

A breath of air escaped her in a hiss once she swallowed, and Frankie slowly spoke. "I married after I left Russia. I had a daughter. But my husband..." Her voice didn't seem to want to work, and Frankie had to pause to keep her grief from welling up and overflowing. "He was killed during the Blitz." She could hear the knock on the door, see the hesitant expressions on the faces of the men who came to tell her. They wrung their hats in their hands. Henry's body was badly burned, his wedding ring little more than a scorched piece of metal on a crumbling black hand.

"I came to Germany to kill Nazis. That is all." Frankie's copper eyes met the rusalka's blank ones. "I have been killing Nazis when i could for the last five years and finding shelter in the Black Forest. That is all." If Frankie divulged any more, she would not be able to keep the cap on her grief, and she could wait for that until after they were done here and she had slipped away from her false friends.

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

As Frankie told her story, the rusalka's previously cheery demeanour vanished. Her expression darkened and her eyes filled with pain. She'd heard of the terrible suffering the people of Britain had gone through, but hearing of it on such a personal level was harder than any radio broadcast. Not one for words, the rusalka simply stepped forth and pulled Frankie into a vigorous hug.

"I'm very, very sorry", she finally managed, withdrawing from the embrace. She then raised her bottle and added: "Here's to your husband."

Ludmila took another stiff swig of vodka. For every man or woman who had fallen she drank. Evidently, there was now no counting the times she had had such drinks.

"But is your daughter okay?", asked Ludmila before hastily adding: "I suppose I shouldn't pry...I don't like talking about the war. I suppose nobody does. But anyway, since you want to fight Fascists, I can let you in on what's been going on for the past few months."

Ludmila glanced furtively around her to make sure nobody was watching or listening. The Soviets were not keen on letting information slip out. When she had made sure that nobody was eavesdropping, she turned back to Frankie and whispered:

"As you probably know, when the war officially ended we'd overrun large areas of Poland and Germany. I was at the front of it all, and I can tell you this: we found a lot of very fishy things in former Nazi territory. Hitler built an enormous bunker in Poland and we found some rather worrying information stored inside. Plans and directives regarding certain 'doomsday' projects."

The rusalka puffed on her cigarette and glanced around her once more. Her attitude was now one of cool professionalism.

"Most of them didn't lead anywhere, though. Lack of funding and resources or the participants fleeing the Red Army and bringing things to a stop. However, we found some more worrying things going on here, in Berlin. In fact, we have reasons to believe that the Nazis had been preparing for defeat in more ways than one."

Ludmila leaned forward, her voice dropping even lower.

"We found documents speaking of the delivery of large quantities of liquid nitrogen to an old mental asylum outside of town. The thing is, that asylum's been closed since 1939, and those deliveries took place in 1945, a few months before the war ended. Some have suggested it was just a planning error, some paperwork gone wrong and all that...but it simply doesn't fit. Something was going on at that asylum, and whatever it was it wasn't good."

[Frankie Guidicini]

The embrace took the brunette by surprise. Her first instinct was to freeze up, which her body accommodated accordingly, so the rusalka did little more than hug a stiff and silent statue of a woman. How long had it been since anyone had touched her? Frankie didn't know. And even though her body was still pulled taut with surprise, slowly, Frankie's hands reached up to touch the back of the other woman's arms in a broken gesture of returning the hug. Her reply to the rusalka's condolences was a melancholy but curt nod. "Thank you." The words brushed over her lips in a whisper.

"I left her with my brother." Frankie stated. It was mostly true; when the air raids hit London, Henry and Frankie both decided that sending Stella to Northumberland was for the best. But what had happened after Henry's death, Frankie couldn't say. "I'm sure he's looked after her." But honestly, Frankie was sure of nothing. "I sincerely appreciate your consideration and your sympathy. I really do. It's... rare for me to find someone who remembers me as a girl anymore. Or lived through the years we have."

Face turned attentively towards the rusalka and head inclined conspiratorially towards her's, Frankie listened with as much zeal as her expression could muster. She'd much rather take her mind off of what was left of her broken family by focusing on this monstrous war. There was plenty of pain accompanying it, but nothing so acute as Frankie's personal life.

"That son of a bitch." Frankie hissed in a whisper, biting each word off like it was poisonous. Sorrow was replaced by rage and the woman almost began pacing like a caged beast as she continued listening to all of the rusalka's information. Why did this surprise her? The Nazis were sheep being led by an egomaniacal mass murderer who thought nothing of sending people off to die in grotesque and varied ways, or of engineering a master race. Why was it surprising that this blight upon the earth had plans to create a Doomsday?

"Thank you for telling me." Frankie said, remembering her harsh deterring of Professor Bruttenholm's questions. "And I suppose that once Bruttenholm and this Vavalka -- Varvara? -- are finished speaking, that's where we're headed?" Liquid nitrogen. Frankie was no scientist, she was a spy (or at least she had been), and could not deduce what it would be used for. "Cannot nitrogen be used as a preservative? I don't know why the Nazis would need it... but I'm guessing that there are others who know more about science than I."

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

"Da", said Ludmila, dropping her now finished cigarette to the floor and crushing it under the heel of her boot, "we believe that it was used as a preservative in this case, but for what I have no idea. Not for anything living, I'm sure."

The sound of a door opening echoed in the musty warehouse, and voices reached the rusalka's ears. Bruttenholm and Varvara had obviously finished with their little "entretien".

"Sounds like we'll be moving out soon", she told Frankie, "Varvara wants us to act quickly."

As if to confirm the rusalka's words, orders in Russian and in English rang out, followed by the clattering of boots on concrete and the rustle of gear being moved. Ludmila cracked a half-smile at her frail English companion.

"Better get going, devochka", she said, "duty doesn't wait!"

And with that, the rusalka ran off, her submachine gun clattering against her back with each step she took. Outside the warehouse was a large number of transport vehicles, all jeeps and half-tracks as well as a few motorcycles. Ludmila watched the preparations for a moment, noticing that several odd canisters attached to small hoses were being loaded into the trucks. It didn't take long for her to figure out what she was looking at: flame-throwers. She felt an unpleasant tingling sensation creep up her spine, and was reminded of some of the most brutal episodes of Stalingrad.

"Seen our new gadgets, Ilyukhin?", said a child-like voice. Ludmila stiffened and looked down to see Varvara, who was smiling up at her with a mixture of childish glee and innocence.

"Not entirely new, comrade", said Ludmila.

"Oh, seen those before?"

"Da...in Stalingrad."

"Then you must know that things might get a little bit nasty out there", said Varvara with a wide and terrible smile.

"If I may ask...how?", said Ludmila uncertainly. Varvara shrugged.

"Oh, I don't know exactly what's waiting for us at that asylum. I just chose to take some extra precautions. Being taken unawares and unprepared is so unpleasant."

With that, the child-like thing skipped off to the nearest jeep. Ludmila stood frozen for a while before gathering the strength to join her comrades in one of the half-tracks. Without further ado, the column lurched off, engines roaring.


------------------------------------


The journey out of Berlin was uneventful. The Russians sang and chatted to pass the time and ease the tension while Ludmila kept to herself. After driving along a muddy track that snaked its way through a large forest of dark pines and thick underbrush, the convoy finally reached its destination. The back of the truck was thrown open and the Soviet soldiers leaped out one by one, their boots crunching faintly in the thin snow.

Ludmila was one of the last to get out, and when she did she looked around her immediately. They stood in the shadow of a large and decrepit building, a multitude of barred and filthy windows staring down at the soldiers like ghostly eyes. The area immediately around the building was slightly overgrown with brambles, and the rusalka noticed a rusting wheelchair tangled up near the doorway.

"Charming place", she commented. By the looks of it the building and its property had been abandoned for years. Slowly she unslung her weapon and approached the building's entrance. Two heavy metal doors barred the way and a chain and padlock kept them closed. Interestingly, neither the chain or the padlock showed signs of rust.

She walked away from the door, giving out orders to knock it down, before going to look for Frankie.

[Frankie Guidicini]

Anything living... Despite herself, a shiver tingled down Frankie's back. Hitler had his henchmen perform atrocious experiments upon those sent to the concentration camps and, by the rusalka's new information, had Doomsday plots. Why would Frankie be surprised or taken aback by this information? The man had long since proved he possessed not a single shred of humanity any longer.

The sudden sound was almost startling, and Frankie quickly ate what bread and meat she had left in two bites. At the rusalka's words, the woman gave a nod. "Thank you for the food. I'll see you there." She rejoined the Americans she had ridden in the jeep with and, at their arched eyebrows, did not bluff that she and the Russian had met as girls.

Frankie busied herself once more with the crate she had lugged into the warehouse and followed the Americans outside. Bruttenholm's speech was excited as he informed his people of where they were going: an asylum. He was not cheerful, but that did not diminish the zeal in his voice as he directed his people to follow the Russians and prepare for anything.

Frankie had not seen this Varvara that the rusalka continued to reference, but as she slid the crate back into the back of the jeep, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Casting a look around, her copper eyes fell on the diminutive figure of a child, grotesquely out of place among all of them. Another shiver ran down her spine as she slammed the gate of the jeep closed.

The inside of the jeep was hazy with cigarette smoke by the time that the convoy arrived. Frankie had gathered her lank hair into a bun at the nape of her neck while her pseudo-comrades jokes to ease the tension and checked their firearms. A man who had hair the same color as Henry when they were young handed her an M1911 pistol for use as a sidearm. The woman tucked it into her waistband and murmured a thanks before she stepped out of the vehicle.

The very essence of decay and derelict club to the asylum. The windows yawned open like the mouths of its former inhabitants, screaming silently at them. Frankie shrugged deeper into her pilfered overcoat and could feel her bones anxiously slither beneath her skin. Orders in Russian were barked out, and Frankie saw that they came from the rusalka. As her subordinates jumped into action, their eyes met and Frankie left the company of the Americans for hers.

"I did not know you had a chain of command." Frankie informed her old acquaintance, though her uniform should have informed Frankie of all she needed to know. "Do you find your rank pleasing?" She asked by way of chit-chat before her speech was interrupted by the screaming of metal as the gate and padlock were eradicated.

[Ludmila Ilyukhin]

"Loyalty served me well", said Ludmila, "it got me where I am now. I don't really enjoy giving orders to people, but discipline and authority are necessary in any war. Had I balked in my duty my comrades and I surely wouldn't have survived facing the S.S."

The heavy doors of the asylum were pulled down with an indignant squeal of metal, exposing a black hole where the hallway was. A quick glance from her position was enough to send a chill down Ludmila's spine.

"Bloody hell it looks dark in there", she muttered. She turned her head away at the sound of an engine and saw a truck pull up beside the other vehicles. As soon as it stopped, several familiar figures jumped out.

"Speaking of comrades...", she said before stepping away from Frankie and shouting a loud and coarse greeting: "About bloody time you arrived! I was beginning to wonder if you'd found a case of schnapps."

The first of the newly arrived men brushed a hand through his bushy beard and shouted back: "We wish we had! It would have made seeing your ugly heathen face a little easier!"

The rusalka laughed and clapped the man on the back, causing a small Orthodox rosary to bob on a chain he wore around his neck.

"For a man of God you've got a filthy mouth", she said.

Another man wearing a bulky suit arrived next. He carried a heavy helmet under one arm, leaving his hideously burned face out for everyone to see.

"Commandant", he rasped, giving Ludmila a loose salute. Ludmila smiled and jauntily returned the man's salute.

"Comrade Krilov", she said, "I trust you'll light the way?"

"Oh, that and more", said the man in a voice like hot ashes. The air seemed to heat up inexplicably and small flames began to dance around the man's gloved fingers.

"Where are the Professor, Partizan and Timu?", asked Ludmila.

"Prof's been requisitioned for work on some captured Fascist technology and Partizan's off on some classified mission or other", said father Klimenko, "Timu's in Poland, not sure what he's doing there but it seemed important."

"So it's just you, me and Sparky", said Ludmila before turning back to Frankie, "oh, this is Frankie. She's an old acquaintance of mine. Frankie, this is father Klimenko and Krilov."

"It is a pleasure to meet you", said Klimenko. Krilov simply nodded.

"We should move", said Ludmila, nodding towards the asylum, "that way we can get this over and done with and we can all go back to base and have a good drink."

With that she cocked her Pepesha. Krilov screwed his helmet on and father Klimenko unshouldered a German-made machine-gun, the barrel of which had been carved with various incantations and Christian imagery. The three Soviet agents advanced resolutely towards the door and entered the dark hall of the asylum. A sizeable flame appeared in Krilov's palm and Ludmila took a torch out of her coat's pocket.

"The others are already checking the ground floor and the upper floors", she said, "so that leaves us with the basement. Go!"

[Frankie Guidicini]

Frankie nodded at Ludmila's words. Any command that was not garnered by following orders and showcasing competency quickly crumbled or ended in death -- either of the commander'a subordinates or the commander themselves. Ludmila had not displayed much physical strength when Frankie had first met her; her mental brawn was obviously sturdy to ensure decades of almost solitary imprisonment and remain same. Frankie felt a warmth seep throughs her breast that she had not felt in years when she thought of Ludmila's accomplishments. "Congratulations." The frail woman lauded. "It's very impressive and, I imagine, gratifying."

Darkness seemed to seep from the asylum, threatening to engulf those without as soon as their only obstacle to entering was removed. At Ludmila's statement, Frankie turned back to the American's vehicles and pulled a helmet with a small lamp mounted above the brim onto her head. She did not want a handheld source of illumination: her arms and hands would be useless with a lantern and she didn't want to fumble and find herself blind when she dropped a torch.

More vehicles arrived, and Ludmila's demeanor immediately brightened as she greeted those who stepped out of the vehicles. Jealousy poisoned Frankie's thoughts for a moment, but they cleared when she looked at Krilov's scarred face. Jealousy was a stupid thing to think right now. Her eyes glanced over Father Klimenko's rosary, and Frankie straightened to attention as Ludmila introduced her.

"Likewise Father, Comrade." The immortal returned the pyrokinetic's nod with her own lackluster greeting, since the words she had planned to say had already been murmured by the priest. The pyrokinetic reminded her, if only due to his ability, of a similar man she had met before she had been sent to Germany. Fantastic people could be found everywhere, if people only opened their eyes...

At Ludmila's direction, which Frankie was far more eager to follow than that of the Americans, she switched her headlamp on, but left the gun tucked into her waistband. The beam of her headlamp bounced around every time she moved her head, and at Ludmila's words that they had been given the happy task to search the basement, the woman nodded.

Empty gurneys, shattered syringes, soiled bedclothes, and an empty wheelchair were just some of the items littering the inside of the asylum. It looked as though the place had been emptied in a hurry -- for what, Frankie couldn't say. Her headlamp bounced as she looked at signs in German, but found no arrow pointing out where the basement might be. Instead, Frankie foraged ahead to the stairwell, where beams bounced and voices echoed from the others already searching the upper floors. The door leading to the basement wouldn't budge.

"Over here." Frankie called to her companions. She put her shoulder into it, bracing her unimpressive weight against the door, which still refused to budge. "Has to be locked from the other side -- or blocked." Pulling up the sleeves of her right hand, Frankie watched as a thorn-shaped bone slithered from underneath her skin, gleaming ivory in the light from her headlamp. Without a word, the woman punched the wood at the top of the door, about six inches in from the side with the lock. Cutting down, Frankie sliced through the wood as a ship's keel cut through water. If she hit any snags, Frankie's pace and expression didn't indicate it. Instead, she smoothly reached the bottom of the door, and gave a shove against the wood once more. The remains of the door swung in, and on the other side, locks, deadbolts, and chains were revealed as the culprits for the closed door.

"Who wants to take point?"