A Hitman's Miss

Chapter Twelve

or, the Metamorphoses

"Wake up, sleepy bones!"

The voice pierced through Russia's consciousness and he blinked awake for the second time in the past five hours.

"I'm running off o' spite 'n' four cups o' coffee," Meri said, his face inches from Russias.

"Y-yeah?" Russia mumbled.

"And we're going t'NATO t'day."

That had Russia springing out of his seat like a spring hare.

However, "we're going t'NATO t'day" actually seemed to involved Meri going to NATO, and Russia staying outside. Meri told Russia that Russia wouldn't have been able to get past the security, which made sense to Russia, as he had no previous connections with NATO, nor did he have any identification or passport, nor was he here legally. That would be a cause for concern for any governing body.

Meri said that he was going in to investigate possible ways into the building, but also to overhear "some o' the local gossip." Russia agreed to all of this, as long as they got to go back soon. Meri agreed.

When Meri came out of the nondescript building, which Russia would never have been able to find on his own, Russia sprung on him.

"Well? Anything?" Russia said.

"You remember my job, right, kid?"

"Yes, assassin."

"Well, the way it works when I do jobs for NATO is that I get my assignments from the whole council's decision, and all those li'l oligarchical leanings that it has. Then, once I come back to get my pay, generally, the person who needed and wanted it most will thank me personally and pay me a li'l extra t'keep quiet, you know?"

"That makes sense."

"Apparently, there's a Russia spy that's been creeping around, and someone in NATO wants him dead. Either I kill 'im, and find out who thanks me, or I bring you along, and you ask him who he's investigating and why," Meri said.

A spy? That made sense: his father was always sending over spies. If it was a long-term mole in one of the governments, though, that would explain why someone had tried to kill his father. The mole and the various people being sent over were getting close to something big, some underhanded dealings, and so the person being investigated decided to cut off the agents at the source and just kill Soviet.

Russia didn't want to kill any Russians, though.

"I will come along and ask him. He will know me, and know he is to answer me," Russia said firmly.

Meri nodded slowly. "Very well."

They got back into the car, Meri driving, as usual, and Russia hunched over in the passenger seat. The western clothes that had always seemed so foreign and strange to him were, he admitted, quite comfortable, and he was already used to wearing them. The large sights and sounds, too, were less jarring than before, and Russia could imagine himself living here quite comfortably. His past self, only a few days past, would have gawked at the thought.

"Do you want to listen to the radio?" Meri asked, breaking through his thoughts.

"Yes? What news is there?"

Meri snorted. "Music."

"Music news?" Russia furrowed his brows.

"No, just music. You never listen t'music on the radio?" Meri said, lifting a hand from the steering wheel to gesture.

"I didn't know it was there. My father usually controls the radio. And he listens to the news."

"Well, then, I won't bother asking you what genre you like. I'll just go with--..." Meri hummed slightly as he turned the dials. Then, he finally settled on a rock station and left that playing. Russia had heard all sorts of music, but normally only when other people were playing it, overhearing it at parties or dinners. His father didn't approve of much music or noise in the house, so Russia had never gotten intimately acquainted with that sort of thing. It had him bobbing his head, though, the dashing guitar solo and the unrestrained voice of the vocalist. It had deep freedom to it, a rebellion. Russia didn't know much of that, and that's what drew him to it even more.