If Mahan Could See Us Now

"The only opportunity I'm looking for is the chance to find peace. I doubt I'm going to find that doing any favours for Major Beresev." You snap, emphasising her rank as if it's some protection. It's not like there's anyone around to hear you anyway, even the crew are busy serving dinner or eating their own.

You can't help but feel nervous. You're alone, confronted by a stranger and he seems more than a little confident. Your fingers itch. You look him in the eye and try to project a little more presence than you're feeling.

"I'm not a hero by any stripe or measure. All I did was my duty."

"Well, wouldn't you like the opportunity to serve your nation again? You've been so dutiful before, it would be a shame to see such loyalty wasted." His smile has gone from pleasant to threatening seemingly without moving at all.

You wonder, almost idly though not so idly at all, whether he is carrying a weapon. He would be a fool to on an airship, surely. Surely he must know the dangers of carrying a firearm, what with the thin skin of the ship and all the gasses. It's not like a ship at sea. No armour this high in the air.

He could be carrying a knife though, some small traitorous part of your brain whispers, an ice pick that could punch through your ribs without much force behind it. And he can definitely put some force behind it. If you refuse, will he pull some wicked blade and leave you bleeding in the bathroom? You draw yourself up to your full height and glare. You will not be intimidated if that's his game.

"I have served my country and I have given more than you can imagine for it." You step towards him, finger coming up to jab him in the chest. The clunk of your prosthetic against the deck is the perfect punctuation, "I should be able to travel without interference, especially from a group which I had done nothing but prove myself loyal too."

He actually has the gall to laugh directly in your face. It is neither long nor loud, but it is infuriating and you feel the hot burn of anger in your chest. If you weren't so terrified that he might have orders to remove you, you'd be tempted to swing for him.

"Is that so, little bird?" His grin is sickly sweet as your stomach drops through the floor. You can't see it but you know all the colour has just drained from your face. They can't know. They can't possibly know. He reaches into a pocket and you freeze just long enough for him to pull a small square of cardboard from it, offering it forwards. "Well, you and your… companion, you enjoy your trip. And if you do happen to discover anything that could be considered important to the welfare of our great nation, well. Now you have my address. Don't forget to write."

With that, he pushes past you and into the bathroom, the door shutting and locking with a sharp click., leaving you, sweating and shaking, alone in the corridor.

It takes a few minutes for you to collect yourself and, fortunately, the man does not emerge in that time. You look at the card he's handed you. The address is some nondescript location in the capital with nothing to mark it out as anything special, even the area code that it's in. It's probably some abandoned flat with a letterbox that gets checked every couple of weeks.

The dining section of the airship is as opulent as the rest of the vehicle, all thick carpets and sharply pressed linen tablecloths. It is certainly the most comfortably you've ever sat down to eat in your entire life and you can't help but smile as you slide into your seat opposite Sasha. She smiles back, the pair of you only looking a little out of place in your inexpensive civilian clothes. It is still almost strange seeing her without a weapon in hand and dirt on your face. A distinct memory of a night shared in a dark bunker makes you wish you had a cigarette to light. But, sadly, you'd had to surrender your lighter for the duration of the flight and what use is a cigarette without one.

"You were gone a long time, dear one." Sasha asks, affectionate tone covered by the buzz of other languages present in the dining room. "I was beginning to worry you'd never join me." Her smile is demure, elegant. You wonder how she so effortlessly seems to have managed to slide herself into this world of grace and style without seeming out of place as you do. You may be - have been, you correct yourself - an officer of His Majesties Navy but you never really grew used to the silverware and small talk that came with attending the dinner parties. And for all that you were some several thousand feet in the air, this definitely felt like a dinner party even if most of the attendee's were ensconced in their own conversations, their own worlds.

You take a sip of deep red wine before answering, allowing the rich fruits to roll across your tongue.

"I just had to freshen up." You keep your language light, carefree, careful not to look around for the man who'd confronted you. Do they truly know something or was he just being suggestive? But that phrase he'd used, it meant so much more.

It is still illegal to be a woman of your sort both in Varnmark and Europa and that went doubly so for Sasha, not just a tribade but a woman who had chosen womanhood as well. If either of you were found out, you could face arrest and imprisonment and no medal on your jacket nor history of service would save you from the harsh judgement of your peers. You've wondered before how Nikita has managed to survive so long, how he hasn't fled for some distant land that finds your kind more agreeable. There are books you've read in the backs of public libraries that speak well of furthest Lydia and North Ophirius and even a poor Europan can be rich in those places.

But it wouldn't be home, would it. That's the thing that almost kept you in Polyapavlosk when every other bone in your body wanted to force you to leave, to run for the hills and never look back.

Fortunately, you'd listened to every instinct except for that one.

"Do you know, I was certain I would be ill the whole way there." She says, making idle smalltalk as the main course is served. Beautifully cooked steak and steamed vegetables in a rich sauce you can't identify. You have no idea how they've manage to fit what must be a relatively capable little galley aboard ship but nonetheless, here is the evidence in front of you.

You hum in agreement, barely looking at her, concentrating on your food. You chew slowly, enjoying the delectable taste. When you look up, she is not chewing. She is looking at you with a worried expression.

"What is wrong, Koshka?" she asks, cutlery held gently in motionless hands.

"Nothing." You say, waving her away, "Perhaps I have not been so lucky with the illness, my stomach is a little unsettled, that's all."

She looks very pointedly at the piece of steak speared on the end of your fork and then back to you, an eyebrow raised delicately.

"Are you sure?" She asks, her tone as questioning as the look on her face. You blanche, red rising in your cheeks without there being anything you can do to help it. In the six months in which she has made herself part of your life, or rather, in which you have welcomed her into it, you have yet to be able to withhold anything but the simplest of things from her sharp eyes and quick tongue.

"I'm certain, Liybimaya." My love. My heart. She smiles and you pray that others conversations cover your words. You mean every syllable, rolling it across your tongue as the wine had but… you would be lying if you didn't admit that it also served a useful distraction.

You go to say more but the soft chime of a knife on glass interrupts you. An old man with an extremely fine moustache dressed in what must be an exceedingly expensive suit stands, holding the crystal wine glass and silver knife he tapped it with, with an air of expectation as the conversation and the sound of clinking cutlery dies.

He begins to speak, but you cannot understand a word. You realise after a moment that he is speaking Dyske and, although they're your homelands closest neighbour other than Caspia, you've never picked up any of the language and little is shared between that and Kevian. Sasha, though, seems enraptured. You nudge her with a foot under the table and she holds up a finger, listening closely.

The man seems exuberant, ruddy in the cheek and his laughter is infectious to the point that you almost chuckle despite knowing nothing of what is going on. Eventually, he bows to a few tables, surveilling the room as if it is his own kingdom.

That is until his eyes reach your table and you in particular. His smile widens even more and he points at you.

"Oh! Miss Mikhailova." He says in passable Kevian though his accent is atrocious. "You speak Dyske?"

You shake your head, blushing again. All the eyes in the room seem to be on you.

"A shame." He babbles something in his own language to the room at large and they chuckle before he turns back to you. "I was saying that we have a fine patriot amongst us and I was ignorant enough to speak a language she cannot understand."

"I, um." You wring your hands, suddenly nervous, "I hadn't imagined I was recognisable, Sir."

"Your picture was on your homelands papers, how could I forget!" He gestures for you to join him, "Come, come. You are a brave woman, Miss Mikhailova. A hero, I understand they call you?"

You look at the diners from your suddenly lofty position standing by a man who you have no idea who is but who seems to have their attention. You look to Sasha who smiles so effortlessly from her seat. You look at the man who looks back, expectantly.

I… I…
[ ] I am a patriot, sir, yes, but not a hero.
[ ] I mean no disrespect, sir, but who are you?
[ ] There are no heroes in war, sir, and I hope the people of Dyskeland know that.
[ ] I wouldn't be a hero if I didn't introduce Sasha...