A Hitman's Miss

Chapter Six

or, Our Heroes Get Acquainted

Russia was being boiled in his own skin. It was to be expected: he was wearing a leather and fleece coat, nearly three inches thick, in what might at most be described as nippy weather, and that by someone raised on the equator. His stubbornness and his need for familiarity kept him from taking it off, though, as well as his refusal to carry it or tie it around his waist, because that fashion choice, combined with the ridiculous glasses he was wearing, would make him feel more ridiculous than anything else that had occurred. He hated the owner of the glasses, but their shaded lenses helped as he looked towards the setting sun, at Meri's back.

Russia made a small note of where his car was before he started following his strange new companion. And Meri was a little strange, Russia thought. Perhaps just because of the differences between Americans and Russians. After all, there was much more smiling here between strangers than Russia had known to expect, and on his various stops in getting here, he had been dragged into many conversations without his consent by these strange and excitable Americans. However, Meri seemed a bit different than that. The charm the man had seemed much less nave and far more purposeful. Meri talked to get things rather than give. That was something practical, at least, something for Russia to hold onto.

Meri was shorter than Russia, although that was no fault of his: in general, Meri was a bit taller than average. Meri didn't look older than Russia, but he carried countless more scars than the latter. The more noticeable one was over Meri's eye, a very old burn that prevented half of Meri's eyebrow from growing back and spreading up his forehead. The rest were all so varied in size, shape, pattern, age, and source, that they all blended together over Meri's skin. Russia could only imagine how many were under Meri's clothes as well.

Scars showed experience on top of age, and that made Russia pause in his assessment of Meri.

Even now, he looked up at the man: Meri walked with a swagger that didn't seem natural. He seemed to be forcing a look of comfort and ease, but whether it was to hide the fact that Meri was a coward and a liar or to hide that Meri was far more prepared and knowledgeable than he seemed--... Russia could not say.

Even the name seemed somewhat false. Perhaps it was just a foreign name resting uneasily on Russia's ears, but it seemed odd.

Meri led him to a tall apartment building and up to the third floor until they got to an apartment at the end of a long, grungy hallway. The worn door had a line of locks on it that took up almost a third of its length, of various mismatched makes and models. As Russia wondered why Meri thought he needed that many locks, Meri pulled out a packed key-ring from his pocket and unlocked each one from top to bottom, his fingers nimble with practice.

He swung open the door and invited Russia in with a sweeping arm. "Home, sweet home!"

Russia walked inside. Meri strolled in behind him, much more confident stepping around the wires and trash than Russia was. With Meri getting something from the corner, Russia followed the tangle of wires to its source: a computer tucked into a side room, which it filled the entirety of with its various mechanics.

Russia eyed the computer, not knowing a single thing about what the countless switches and buttons did. "I have a friend that would probably like this," he said as he traced one of the larger chords with his finger. There was a small pang in his stomach. East was probably still angry with him. He probably shouldn't have yelled, if he hadn't wanted that to happen. With that on his mind, he was surprised to see a note taped onto the screen that said 'Call West!' He supposed East or West could be common names, and perhaps North, but Russia had never met someone named South.