Better Class of Criminal
The Nameless successfully guarded the Pendryns and the Lord Governor himself from the machinations of The Croaker, aka Chuck Morgenstern in his new fucked-up alias.
-This was complicated by the presence of a Black Knight and a golden-masked Spirit Warden (formerly a Crow simply called “the Doctor”), the latter of which is lurking in the ghost field as we speak. The Billhooks provided a sort of self-sacrificing cover/fake attack while playing the decoy Nameless (thankfully without losing too many men in the process).
-The Spider nearly went ape at the party but was talked down by a very over-it Katya
-Sizzle had a relatively positive date/time at the party with Valanthe
-Cruncho made his way into the confines of the VIP room under the alias of Borgin Karhowl, Mysterious Heir, and was nearly cut into conversations between the Governor, a Black Knight named Svante, and a disguised Chuck Morgenstern about the fate of the city . . . Until the Croaker stuff happened.
-(Nat knows that Chuck has taken a turn but doesn’t fully believe it)
-Arkin guy-in-the-chair’d most of the operation, until explosively Kool-Aid-manning his way into action via wagon detonation
-Orianna intercepted Nat, distracted The Doctor, and engaged the Black Knight, but her greatest triumph was sabotaging the kitchen of Ignacio, the Canapé Chef (another hated rival to Giancarlo)
One Rule
She falls asleep, as she so often does these days, with Casta gently stirring under her arm. Keeping her there. Katya joked once that it was like a bear trap, that she would have to chew her way out. That’s what it always was. A joke.
She closes her eyes and returns to Severos, if only in her mind. It’s hard to tell how much life in Doskvol has aged her until you put her next to this semi-formed self. The white streak in her hair is gone, but it is replaced by the ombre ends of bleached patches. She’s holding herself up on her elbows and knees, trying to catch her breath as an older, sterner woman stands over her.
“Very good, Katyusha. Although it is not reflected in the health of your ribs, you are improving.” The Blood-Hawk steps with purpose. She only makes her movements known when she needs to make a point. “A quiz for you. You wake in the middle of the night, smoke choking you back to consciousness. Your house is on fire. You realize that you only have time to save one person inside. Who do you choose? Your brother, your mother, or your father?”
Katya closes her eyes, now forced to ponder the question as well as the hairline fractures in her chest. “My brother,” she decides, trying to think through her logic in utilitarian fashion. “As the youngest, he has the most potential.”
If she expected a reward, it did not come. Instead, the toe of a steel boot cracked her ribs again, sending her back down into the dirt. When she looked up, Dr. Fedotova’s scowl was set even deeper. “Yourself, Katyusha. You save yourself. I told you that you could only save one. Are you not a person?” She waits a beat, as if for an answer, but Katya knows better than to respond. “There is one rule in our profession. Anyone who tells you there are more or less is lying. That rule is: do not get attached.”
“Are you not attached to me?”
It’s an ill-advised question, but this time, it is not met with a kick. “I am fond of you, and I am proud. You are my legacy. I have put time and effort into perfecting you, but I know that, although you have been quite the investment, I can always make another. So if the wolves come to my door, I will gladly throw you to them if it means I can save myself.”
The morning is much the same as it always is. Katya wakes up first, her internal clock set to the rhythms of a 9-to-5. She looks to the woman sleeping against her. She thinks of Boris, and Arkin, and Valerie. How their threads have become tangled. How she has broken the singular rule. She waits until Casta leaves and then composes another letter.
To the Honorable Dr. Anastrasya Dmitriyevna Fedotova,
As always, I hope this correspondence finds you well. Our little kunitsyushka is progressing well. She was quite adept in her first field mission, and I look forward to informing you of her progress.
Of myself, I cannot say the same. I am, as I have always been, flawed. I have allowed myself to build connections to the people here beyond what they can offer me, and I feel the snare tightening. There is only one appropriate recourse.
Attached, you will find the appropriate fare for your transit to Doskvol. This is no charity, and I am aware that you can pay your way. It is an invitation. For reasons I will explain upon your arrival, I cannot leave the city without incurring great risk to myself and to what I have built here. I wish to meet you on my ground. To awaken the beast that you saw some fifteen years ago. I wish to shed the skin I have created and become the Iron Wolf. Only then can I preserve what I have built here and, yes, your legacy.
I will meet you at the station and I look forward to the resumption of our training.
Yours always, your flawed and faithful servant, Dr. Yekaterina Nikolayevna Volkova
[Katya Volkova’s trauma has changed from HAUNTED to COLD.]
Downtime
Katya
- Indulge Vice
Don’t get attached. Don’t get attached. Don’t get attached. It’s fine. She’s not attached. This is just an outlet. A physical release, and a good one at that. It’s not love, it’s wearing out a squeaky toy. Once the lust is out of her system, she’ll move on to something else.
- Long-Term Project - Kunitsyushka
This time, there are no skewered practice dummies, no blunted ends on bows. Just Yekaterina Volkova, stripped down to her dress shirt and jacket, with a wolf-claw bracer on her left wrist and the snap-bow on her right. She’s always had a strange, steely look about her, but this is different. More intesne, and yet somehow emptier. “You did well against the madman,” she says. “It is time for the next phase of your lessons. This time against a moving target.” Her pose is almost inviting, in the same way a bear trap invites a paw. “Do not stop until you draw blood.”
- Complete Long-Term Project - Kunitsyuskha
It feels wrong to call her the good doctor, or the honorable, or anything that would indicate her profession is a noble one. Yekaterina Volkova fights like a savage animal, and it seems as if the bloodlust has gotten the better of both her and her apprentice. The professor pushes the hair from her face and wipes the blood off her cheek. “Very good, kunitsyushka. You’ve done well. There’s someone I would like you to meet, and one more lesson to be imparted. This one about trust.”