"Absolutely Not."

Chapter 1: Offputting

I found solace in the form of mountain ranges and the constant change of seasons within the lands of Russia. The unique meals melted on my tongue while the unparalleled scenery grabbed hold of my ankles and planted me right where it knew I would feel safe.

It reminded me of my home, overseas and states away to where I couldn't bother in thinking about returning. I'd get caught, possibly killed on the spot, and my passport that collected dust in my closet would raise too many red flags. The name that had not been spoken, my true name, remained untouched because the threat of just whispering it was just too great. So, I was stuck.

Stuck but safe.

Breathing in the calming scent of pine and dirt, my puffs of hot air coming out in thick clouds, I headed back home the moment the shadows became too thick from the setting sun. To get caught by a predator was one thing, tripping and getting hurt thus possibly not receiving help, was another. Either way, I had accidentally spent too much time this go around following dirt paths and exploring new areas.

Autumn leaves crunched underneath my boots, and I listened to the symphony of heavy breathing and stomped-on foliage as I made the descent back to town.

It never failed to remind me of how I wasn't quick enough, running into the scene of him being tossed to the ground, Shepherd flicking that cigar, clothing soaking up a fire that I never had the chance to try and extinguish.

Up the hill that I'd just climbed down, I'd run like a damn coward from the other Shadows as they chased me. Weaving in and through the trees, pushing my legs the hardest I'd ever gone, I narrowly made my escape from our game of mole and cat.

My scratches created by sharp branches and deeper wounds produced by flying bullets were long healed, some of them becoming scars just to add to my collection of physical souvenirs that I'd collected during training coupled with the time spent in the military.

Skin licked by fire...

The smell of gasoline...

'Nope,' I mentally berated myself as I pushed out the thought of him just as hard as I strained my muscles to keep fighting against the decline of my current hike. With the lack of exercise equipment and general amenities that a military base could provide, nature gave me all that I needed.

After over a year of hiding away in a small town tucked beside the thick of the Ural Mountains, I finally established a liberal routine of occasionally teaching English, spending too much time getting lost in the nearby trails, and assimilating myself inside a vastly different culture to blend in more.

My tongue had been long scraped of rust from what disuse I had of the language now that I utilized it more than I did with English. A piece of me wished that I would forget my native speech altogether in hopes that that would extract unwanted memories, too.

'All or nothing,' I bitched at my brain for being so impossible. Some days were better than others, and on my worst days, I at least didn't have to pretend that everything was fine. I could hide further in my asylum, tucked away by anonymity and foreign lands, and not have to ask any unnecessary questions.

My mental health could take a toll and not be questioned for once.

---------

With flushed cheeks and a ravenous stomach, I entered the tiny, local shop where I was met with a snug atmosphere of earthy produce, simple herbs, and cedar embers.

"Another hike, little bee?" the elderly woman at the counter greeted me, her warmness welcoming me more heartily than the fireplace fighting against the bitter cold beside her. Even when the summer heat thickened the air, I noticed she still liked to keep the fires stoked. Maybe it was the crisp crackling that comforted her, or maybe she was just constantly on the verge of hypothermia.

"Another hike," I confirmed, grabbing a few potatoes to inspect. "Making a stew tonight. Should I use lamb or beef?"

I always gave her some sort of choice to make for me, a sort of maternal advice that I was lacking being so far from home. It worked out for both of us since her own children had grown up, moved out, and no longer needed such guidance that often. She would never know the truth behind me now being her neighbor, but she knew enough.

That I lived alone. That I wasn't originally from her country, my Southern drawl, passed down by my American family, giving me away. That I somehow couldn't return despite my heart aching for it.

"Lamb, of course. Always lamb."

Having most of the other ingredients back home, left over from last night's meal of carrot soup, I just grabbed the potatoes and a small package of lamb and placed them on the counter.

"That is all for you today?" She asked. Her crow's feet deepened when she smiled again.

"Just this today," I gave her a warm smile. "Thank you, Alina."

She began placing my items in the cloth bag she saved for me for the days I'd come empty-handed. "Tomorrow, will you come over for dinner? Borscht is on the menu. Your favorite."

My stomach growled at the thought of hearty beets and seasoned potatoes waltzing on my tongue. "I'll be there." I handed her the necessary amount of money, placing the bag on my shoulders.

"At least take an onion," her gentle protest came from behind me as I walked away without my change. The onion would not be worth the leftover money I'd left in her hands, but I appeased her wishes and tossed one of the smallest onions in with the potatoes and lamb.

With one more passing wave, I finally started the ten-minute walk home. One foot in front of the other, my hands bundled inside my hoodie pocket, the pang in my stomach grew with each step.

Maybe I could snack while cooking so my mood wouldn't feel the effects of hunger.

Maybe I was a dumbass for not eating more than I did before my hike.

Or maybe I could just fix up a batch of carrot soup; it'd be faster than waiting for the stew to stew.

I still didn't know what I wanted to do when I took the step onto my porch, and nothing came to me when the door opened. I'd foolishly hoped when I stepped into the kitchen and placed my gatherings on the counter, I'd have an idea of what to make, but nothing came to me.

Stew it was, I'd ultimately determined when my hand greedily grabbed for an emergency apple, taking the most scrumptious bite out of it that I'd ever dreamed of. My hunger was almost as comparable as it was after an extended mission. Insatiable and wolfish. The apple wouldn't survive long.

My ears perked when a shuffling from the other room caught my attention. Barely audible, a hushed shuffling from someone trying to stay quiet, my heart raced as I heard it.

I squeezed onto the innocent onion as my head twisted to the sound, turning away from the meal I'd have to forget about for now. Gun upstairs, I had nothing to defend myself with. Surprise attack with an onion it was.

Across the hall and to the doorway of my living room, I stealthily peeked around the corner, I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary until I furthered my investigation.

I stepped fully into the room.

Stopped in my tracks, the figure sitting in my armchair and I stared at one another before he spoke first. Ocean blue irises drowned me, and I had the urge to run. I'd run before, I could do it again. I could hide somewhere else, anywhere else, if it meant the ghosts of the past wouldn't find me.

From my fingertips, the onion fell to the ground and rolled, softly hitting the toe of his boot. It was as if time had rewound itself, bringing the two of us to base and resuscitating old memories that I had killed over a year ago.

His British accent felt weird to hear, as did the use of English - offputting – when he broke the silence finally.

"You should really rethink where you keep your spare key," Price said while holding up the key that I'd kept in my hanging flower pot, between his index and middle fingers.

God damn it.