“Shut that pretty little face of yours, or I’ll shut it for you!” Dragon Lady said in hushed, seething tones—yet the damage had already been done. Vivika heard the sounds of angered agreement from booths nearby, and the sound of a few chairs sliding away from tables.
“You don’t own me…” she continued, gaining steam with the sounds of agreement, “…you can’t own me, because I’m not a thing that can be owned! I’m not just meat. I’m not just a brain attached to legs and arms—things that you can bend and break, hurt or demean. I’m my thoughts and I’m my own loyalties. I’m my memories, my ideas, my experiences, my knowledge, and I’ve come to my own conclusions. Moreover, I am the conclusion that I’ve come to—including the realization that you are worthless fucks, and that you are now irrelevant to me! I’ve concluded that I will never stop thinking what I want to think. I will never stop hating you. I will never stop resisting you. And even if I’m just one person, that’s enough… because I will never stop inspiring more people just like me.”
“Will you please keep your voice…” Dragon Lady seethed nervously, as Red Hat’s face went white. Suddenly, what had begun as a murmur, evolved into angry shouts of agreement as the inhabitants of the café rallied to Vivika’s impassioned outburst. Several of the men in the further booths stood and began walking over, angrily cracking their knuckles.
“Make no mistake,” Vivika continued with excitement and conviction in her voice, “If ever I have the chance, I will absolutely slit your fucking throats like the pigs you are. But if I never get the chance, there will always be someone who will try. And if no one succeeds, you will forever live in fear of the possibility. Because as long as even one of me exists… it is a possibility. And as you pace in your houses, waiting for that possibility to come crashing in to kneecap you, I hope you realize the cruel irony… that we are a possibility, which means that we own the future. One of these days, in your lifetime, we will win, and we will murder you. That means that we own the future! Not the other way around!”
“What’s the problem here, miss?” one of the closer men asked Vivika, towering over the Dragon Lady.
“Back off!” Dragon Lady hissed as she attempted to stand, “I am an Officer of the Secret Police of the German Democratic Republic! You are in violation…”
“You’re a what?” the man asked her.
“I’m an Officer of the…”
“You got a badge?”
“Yes of course…” Dragon Lady said angrily, as she quickly fumbled through her purse for her badge, before producing it. With this, the man yanked it out of her hands and casually tossed it behind the cafe’s bar.
“Doesn’t look like you have a badge to me. Anyone else here at the table got a badge?”
“Sir, I will see you…” Red Hat began, before another man’s fist slammed into his jaw so hard, flecks of blood and saliva smacked into Vivika’s face.
As a large crowd began to gather around Vivika’s table, hands began roughly grabbing the Dragon Lady and the now-unconscious Red Hat, pulling them back into the crowd. Voices reached a furious tumult as the threat of violence in Vivika’s honor loomed.
“Tell me young lady,” one of the bigger men with a large wart on his face said, “are these two causing you problems?”
“Yes sir,” Vivika said acidly, without an ounce of pity. “One stood by as his friend raped me, and the other is threatening to kill me.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem very decent to me.” the man said, cracking his knuckles and slamming his fists together as the sound of Dragon Lady’s voice began shrieking from the angry crowd. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”
Pantheon
They moved silently. Despite the thick, dry underbrush, their combat boots made not a sound as they crept through the dense, night-time forest. No animal was this stealthy; no predator this lethal. Not even panthers, genetically predisposed to this sort of night-time fare, could hope to be this disciplined. For panthers sit at the top of the food chain, wanting for nothing and fearing even less. The panther grows sedate on his perch, assured of his success and true to his violence. These men had no such weaknesses.
Their training—rigorous. Their discipline—unmatched. Their mission—classified. Silent as the grave and far, far deadlier, they stalked through the blooming fauna the way a hot knife slices through butter… and the same way it does through flesh and bone if used correctly. Every man of the Green Beret team was prepared for that possibility. They were blooded, branded, and bonded together into a band of brothers so perfect in planning and execution, they couldn’t help but know exactly where they stood. It was their birthright… their calling.
These weren’t the men to accept their place. They trusted only their Brotherhood of high-carbon steel and armor-piercing lead. Their gear was tried and trusted—yet they carried backups. The night vision worked—but so did eyeballs when allowed the adjusting. Their commo was the best and most encrypted that money could buy—yet remained unused in favor of hand and arm signals unique to them alone. The night was dark; but nothing could be dark enough to forego charcoal paint on what few spots of skin lay exposed to the elements. No stone lay unturned, and no detail went unchecked. With hardened soldiers like these, trust wasn’t earned; it was briefed before chutes deployed. Everything else was to be shot on sight.
They walked mere meters from each other. They had cover, of course. The snipers had been in place hours ago to cover their grim procession into the night. Their mission was simple: wait, watch, and if need be, react without pause or mercy. They were here because He was here: the Man… the String-Puller. As grim as their duties were, His were far more important, with unprecedented and far-reaching consequences. He would make it to His meeting, and He would make it out—there wasn’t a cost the Green Berets wouldn’t pay to ensure that eventuality. It wasn’t just their lot in life. It was their honor, and they would happily die knowing their fate ensured the sound sleeping of millions who never knew how close things might have come without these grim sentinels.
Hours passed, yet time was irrelevant to them, with attention to detail pinpoint despite the chill. Still the hours passed, until finally the objective lay in sight. There, one-hundred meters ahead, lay an old barn rotting with time and long-since forgotten. This would be the only possible place for His meeting—dignity be damned, it was the damnable face of politics that determined it. He was The Man, yet he was here to meet Another: the other String-Puller. This was the only thing both parties would be expected to agree on: the location. Thus, the Green Berets, and their East German counterparts, who were no doubt posting in similar fashion, proceeded.
One-hundred meters became fifty, fifty became twenty, and soon the small team was stacked up outside of the barn door, prepared for an entry that must be perfectly executed. Military diplomacy—threats without determinate outcomes. They must be earnest, but they must be sure of their target. Any less would risk it all.
“Five coming in!” one soldier shouted.
“Five coming in!” a strong voice responded in broken English from the other side.
“Archangel entering.” the soldier breathed into his comms. The snipers would never respond unless bullets needed to fly. To respond would be to give up their position to the GDR-snipers that lay in wait a few hundred meters the opposite way.