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Moonshot

Take Turkish Airlines flight 8

You leave the 7-11 with your uniform jacket in a newly-purchased backpack and tell the cabbie you need to be in Dulles ASAP and there's a twenty in it for him. He doesn't question and speeds off while you hurridly book a seat on your phone. Good thing you have your passport on you, a habit you've gotten into whenever you're out of the country after that one time in Dubai - and you haven't been stateside to go lose it at the bottom of a drawer again. With nothing but the clothes on your back you clear security and get into the Airbus at final call. You're wound up like a spring but it's a long flight.

You open your eyes and its daytime as the Airbus starts descending towards Istanbul. Security doesn't come rounding you up and you fill in your immigration and customs forms before exiting into the afternoon heat. You ponder going by car to a land border, but the next Aeroflot is in four hours. A coin is flipped and you fork over the 250 American for the flight to Moscow. You hover around Atatürk International and get some dinner before heading back through security and into the Aeroflot Airbus. Next stop, Moscow.

Without a visa and with almost no documentation the Russians are, understandably enough, not exactly welcoming. But you know the basics of how one goes about requesting asylum and do so immediately and with gusto. You also attempt to convince the Russian officials to send a message to one Colonel Stepan Griyovich, regarding 'Dr. A. Krupkin'. They don't quite laugh at you, but you're clearly being patronized when you're not being treated as a huge hassle.

The following week is not a period of life you particularly want to revisit anytime soon, but comes to an end when a trio of Russian MPs show up and escort you to a small, windowless room in the bowels of Sheremetyevo International. Inside is a man wearing the uniform of the Russian Air Force. He looks you up and down, noting your rumpled clothes and generally dishevelled looks. He dismissed the MPs in Russian, then switches to thick English.

"You are troublesome man, Lieutenant. Dead man walking, as they say."

"Are you . . Major Griyovich?"

A rumble of almost mirth. "No, colonel is dead man like you. But you know this name. Explain fully and you will stay dead man walking, maybe even happy dead man. Lie and you will be dead man six feet under. Da?"

You nod shakily. You've made your decision.

"Good. Smoke?"

You shake your head, then start. The whole story, the crazy moon nazi story, the Russian defector, wormholes, stargates, all of it.

"Ah, Stargate. Hollywood so close, yet so wrong. Still favorite American TV show."

At his request you sketch some of the emblems and insignia you saw on the sheets. After you start to run down he motions you to be quiet and leans back, looking at the slowly rotating ceiling fan while puffing his cigarette.

"Very troublesome man. So. Why run? Why not accept offer?"

[] I don't trust that level of secrecy from my government
[] Something felt off about the whole affair
[] I simply wanted to get out of the military
[] I had my eye on another post
[] I made a bad call at the time
 
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[X] Something felt off about the whole affair

This makes us a person who trusts his instincts, and who isn't afraid to act on them. Making a bad call? Probably more true...but then we become a somewhat clueless fellow who foolishly learned top secret information about a job he turned down and then fled to a semi-hostile country because it seemed like the thing to do at the time.
 
[x] Something felt off about the whole affair

It did. And I wouldn't call 'not wanting to sign my life away for unknown purposes' a bad call.
 
Something felt off about the whole affair

As you sit in the poorly ventilated room somewhere in the off-limits sector of the Russian airport where you're requesting asylum after taking a runner upon reading a bunch of superclassified documents about moon nazis, wormholes and cold war skullduggery, speaking with a Russian major who's only showed up because you remembered an important name and who's eyes are boring into yours, you explain how the entire thing just felt increasingly 'wrong' as events in the Pentagon progressed. There's an uncomfortable silence before the major finally stubs out his cigarette.

"You are either extremely honest or extremely stupid man, Lieutenant. I hope it is former. For your sake." He pulls another cigarette out of the pack and plays with his zippo for a moment, before finally pocketing it with his cigarette unlit. "I shall get better quarters for you. Proper bed, shower. We will speak tomorrow."

A proper bed and a shower sound pretty amazing, and if the Russians wanted to shoot you, they probably would have already. You're marched out by the MPs and put in the back of an unmarked government car. You end up in a small, obviously secured Soviet-era building somewhere in Moscow and are ushered in. The doors lock behind you, but there's running water, a small fridge stocked with nonalchoholic drinks, a coffee machine and a couple snacks. After an hour or so one of the MPs drops off some fresh clothing and a bag of McDonalds.

The next morning the major - Major Stelenko, as he finally introduces himself - shows up with another man in tow, a doctor. The doctor has a satchel with him and he pulls out a few pieces of medical equipment - a laptop, a couple bits of modern-looking noninvasive scanners and a clearly modified portable blood sampler, probably originally one for diabetics. You look at the latter dubiously, but the doctor nods encouragingly as he plugs it into the laptop then strips the packing off a fresh needle and slides it into the machine, then places it on the table in front of you. He says something in Russian, which Stelenko translates.

"It will just be prick. Small blood test. Just use machine."

You hesitate for a second then pick up the testing machine. You turn it around in your hands, delaying for a moment, before finally putting your finger into the correct spot. Ow. There's a dot of blood on your finger.

The doctor hums tunelessly to himself as he works on the laptop. After a minute or two of silence he looks up and says something at length in Russian. You manage to catch one word; зеленый - 'green'. Stelenko purses his lips, looking between you and the doctor.

"It seems you are most special individual, Lieutenant. One in million." You're not sure how to take this complement, or what exactly he means by this. There's another rapid exchange of Russian, before Stelenko switches back to his thick English. "You know of children, learn languages well? Critical period. We can reopen this. Learn Russian in weeks, maybe days." That sounds pretty unbelievable, but so does an ancient magic stargate. "Will be single chemical injection, small one."

[] Boldly accept
[] Demur
 
[X] Boldly accept

Yes, Master Reznov. I obey your commands, Master Reznov.
 
[X] Boldly accept
Carpe diem and all that. You only get the chance to get injected with mind control serum by Soviet scientists... well, I have no idea how often that actually happens, but it's probably not often.
 
For some reason I'm finding our protagonist hilariously inconsistent so far. The US Government wants to make sure I'm basically a career man before offering me the TOP SECRETEST position? Illegally read files and flee to Russia! Sketchy Russian doctor telling me I'm special (one-in-a-million) but brought the necessary stuff to use on me anyway? Everything seems to be in order here, let's go for it! This is really amusing so far.

[X] Boldly accept
 
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