Stranger in a Strange Land [Open]

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

OOC: This is open to potential friends as well as enemies.

Country: UK
Area/Setting: A tavern in a town a few miles from London

Current Time: 20:00
Weather Conditions: Heavy Rain

Nikita had been aimlessly wondering about this town for hours, the architecture and people were new and strange to him. His curiosity was almost like that of a small boy with a new toy; he inspected every angle of every building, and observed the townspeople silently from a bench in a park near the middle of town. It was his first visit to England and everything felt odd to him.

He was here to serve as Colonel Gavriil Tikhonov's translator. Tikhonov was one of four Soviet officers here to discuss war plans with their British counterparts. They were in this little town because London was unsafe as it was full of German spies and had come under rocket attack recently. The fresh air of this little town was refreshing after Nikita have been confined to Army Headquarters in Moscow for the last month.

The world darkened in a matter of minutes; the blue sky quickly conquered by ominous dark towers in the sky, a single crack of thunder the the only warning before the sky let loose a torrent of rain. Nikita managed to duck into a near by tavern before he became too wet.

The tavern was dimly lit, but a cheery atmosphere pervaded the room. Conversation was a hushed roar, just loud enough to audible over the pounding of the rain above. A counter stretched the length of the wall opposite the door spilling over a little onto the adjacent walls. Their were two fireplaces on either side of the room with a semi-circle of nice leather chairs surrounding each. Tables were spread haphazardly throughout the center of the tavern in no discernible pattern with three barmaids gracefully weaving their ways through the masses.

All conversation withered and died as the eyes of everyone in the tavern fell on Nikita. His uniform stood out like a panther in the middle of a flock of sheep. With pressure of hundreds of eyes on him, Nikita wound his way to the bar and took a seat in a deserted corner. Voices slowly rose back up to their original volume but a tight tension had gripped the patrons and didn't seem to have any intention of letting go.

A barman worked his way down the line of patrons toward Nikita, stopping every now and then for a word with someone. When the barman stepped into front of Nikita there was a momentary pause, a hesitation, before he asked, "Do you speak English?"

The question amused Nikita but he didn't allow it so show through, he simply said, "Yes. Have you any Vodka? I am terribly homesick." The barman was caught off guard by Nikita's flawless English and slight British accent, but quickly laughed off his surprise. "Yes, yes we do. Let me fetch you a bottle." The barman disappeared into a room behind the bar for a moment and reappeared with a rather large bottle. "This is all we have. Enjoy it." As he said this he brought up a small glass from a shelf behind him and filled the glass to the rim. Nikita smiled and nodded gratefully as he downed the first glass. The barman refilled it and wondered off back down the counter leaving Nikita alone with the bottle to empty at his leisure.

Nikita took up his glass again and turned to face the rest of the tavern, sipping at his drink as he scanned the room. The first thing he noticed was the surprising number of uniforms. He hadn't been aware of any bases around here and hadn't seen many on the streets. The absence of officers worried him slightly. He'd been told the Americans could get quite rowdy when officers weren't around and their were at least twelve gathered around a table in the opposite corner near one of the fireplaces playing cards and trash talking each other loudly. A smaller group of British soldiers was drinking quietly at an adjacent table sharing stories of sexual conquests.

Nikita found the hobbies of these cultureless buffoons amusing. He himself had attended the opera and ballet at every chance when in the Motherland, he'd even seen a few shows here in London during his short visit. But these oafs didn't seem to appreciate that kind of sophistication.

The hawk-like eyes of Leytenánt Nikita Alkeav continued to survey the tavern for any potential threats and gather as much information on the habits of these soldiers as he could. One can never be too careful. If the treachery of Hitler against the Soviet Union had taught him anything, it was just how quickly allies can become enemies.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Another day, another tavern, and Lief was safely back in Tiverton. He would be cared for until Niamh came back by her cousin, Robert, who had no children of his own. Niamh couldn't have Lief with her all the time - she had to work, and the wild has no place for him. Sure, he had enjoyed his time riding on horseback, eating pheasant roasted over fires and and sleeping in a tent, but he had not witnessed the brutality of the world. Well...maybe he did, back in his own country, but he had not seen how people treated the Pavees. It was best for now if he was kept naïve to such truths, and that he did not know of the racist attitudes Niamh's people suffered under. Lief had come to the United Kingdom to be free, and not to watch more of humanity's darker side be shown.

Cursing under her breath as lightning cracked, the English rain coming down in sheets as usual, Niamh quickly ducked under a nearby overhang. Beside her was the door of a tavern, much to her relief; she had been working since six in the morning, helping load cargo on and off the supply ships headed to France. She hadn't planned on visiting any drinking establishments that night, but a good glass of orange juice or even water seemed nice. As for alcoholic beverages...well, if anything was a lesson on avoiding them (especially with a low alcohol tolerance), it was the incident in a certain bar weeks back.

Upon entering the tavern, Niamh could not help but stiffen. The air was...tense. It was like someone was breathing down the neck of everyone in the place, and it was almost chilling to feel. Something was up, and if something was up, then there was a bigger chance of conflict arising from it. The Pavee would have to tread lightly, and would also have to keep a low profile - she recognized some of the soldiers from previous bars. Some of them were decent, but some had a mild distaste for what they considered to be "Gypsies", and some just wanted to kill her without a second thought because of her ethnicity.

Coming up to the bar's front, Niamh leaned on the counter. "Oi, barkeep! Not'ing alcoholic, justh your non-alcoholic sthuff, please," the woman said to the nearby bartender, who nodded and went to fetch a menu. This allowed Niamh to begin surveying the place with her mismatched eyes - her brown one hardened to look like a pebble, while her amber one became not unlike a hawk's. She was going to get to the bottom of this before someone got agitated.

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

The door of the tavern swung open once more. The roar of rain cascaded over the room drowning out all conversation, and a refreshing blast of cool air banished the harsh smell of drunkenness for a moment before the door closed again. What took the place of the door drew the attention of most who's eyes had moved to the sound of rain.

The girl now walking across the room drew almost as much as many dirty looks as he himself did. And for the same reason, as well. Her clothing was far more colourful than anything else in the room. Most of the wardrobes around were muted colours at best. This girl's clothing reminded him of his mother and sister's glorious hand-made linens. Now that took him back, for a moment she even looked like his mother.

The memory of her death crept into his mind and cast a shadow over his heart. He quickly dispelled the thought as he noticed the hatred in the some of the gazes following the newcomer. The dirt visible over her clothing, face, and hands hinted at something that Nikita couldn't quite place his finger on, it was something familiar and distant, something from the village in Arkhangelsk during his childhood. Nikita hated when this kind of mental block occurred, it drove him mad for hours, even days sometimes, until he dredged it up from the recesses of his mind.

He needed to solve this problem, and judging by the looks of the the patrons he may not have long to confront her, she seemed just as unwelcome as he was. Ваше движение, Никита, thought Nikita. It seemed the girl needed protecting before things got too out of hand, and besides a pretty woman should never have to drink alone. Nikita smirked at that last thought.

Placing his glass over the top of the bottle and taking his cap under his arm, Nikita slid off his stool and glided down the bar to take a seat next to the young woman. As he approached the light from an overhead lamp caught her eyes which shone brightly in two different colours. Now that was interesting, "Как странно…" he pondered on whether or not that had something to do with how the locals were treating her.

"Oi, barkeep! Not'ing alcoholic, justh your non-alcoholic sthuff, please," Her accent was strange, too; It wasn't like anything he had come across when studying the language. Then the actual meaning of what she said registered in his mind and he felt a slight twinge of embarrassment because of the bottle in his hand. Too late now.

"I hope you do not mind my intrusion, but you seem to have attracted a large amount of... negative attention, yes?" Nikita beamed the least off-putting simile he could conjure up and settled onto a stool next to her, placing his cap and bottle on the counter. He nodded politely to the barkeep eyeing him harshly a metre to his left. "Something we have in common, apparently" he muttered more to himself than her, as he poured himself another shot.



-----------
Ваше движение, Никита
- "Your move, Nikita."

"Как странно…"
- "How strange..."

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Niamh was no stranger to the looks, neither the words that described her - tinker, gyppo, pikey, and all the rest. The giggling nearby Americans also didn't surprise her, although her face turned slightly red. They were from the bar incident weeks back, and they recognized her, pointing and whispering like small children. The woman's eyes flickered to them dangerously for a moment, but then fell back down to the bar. She couldn't really put all the blame on them - her pride had been the cause of the failed drinking bet in the first place.

"I hope you do not mind my intrusion, but you seem to have attracted a large amount of...negative attention, yes?"

"Hm?" asked Niamh, turning around in her seat to see who was talking, nearly jumping backwards when she saw who it was. It was a soldier, although his British accent had a...heaviness to it, and his uniform was foreign. The nearby whispers suddenly turned sour, and Niamh wondered what kind of remarks they were making now. It was no matter, though, seeing as how a complete stranger had asked her such a question in such a crowded place.

Niamh looked around, and noticed the stares getting more heated. It was time for these soldiers to see how tolerant she really was. Looking the seemingly-foreign man dead in the eye, Niamh said evenly but heatedly, "Ith is no business of yours, good sir, the kind of aththenthion I aththracth. If you've happened to notice the people of t'ese thimes, you'll see t'at t'ey can be quithe t'e suspicious loth. I have no quarrel wit' t'em, and if t'ey wanth tho be nosey, t'ey can say, ''Ello,' tho t'e heel o' m'booth. Yes, you loth, shove off!"

The last sentence was obviously directed towards the soldiers. Some did as they were told, but many just ignored the Pavee and continued to stare. Returning with the drink list and handing it to her, the oblivious barkeep went to serve the American Privates, saying that he would attend to Niamh in a couple of minutes. The woman nodded, and read over her options, now ignoring the foreign soldier's presence unless he addressed her again.

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

Her dual-coloured eyes blazed with a ferocity that he'd never seen in the eyes of a woman outside of Russia. It was almost refreshing to see such independence in a woman, most of them here were cowed so easily. Such a thing would never happen in Russia, a woman could and often did put a man in his place when the need arose.

"You are quite right. Where are my manners," He stopped to take a drink, these English-types were very sensitive to their 'manners' and 'politeness', none of this rubbish was important in Russia. "My name is Nikita, Nikita Alkeav. Lieutenant of the Soviet Union." He took another drink, the tension in the room was getting to him and the alcohol calmed his nerves. He could feel the heat from the soldier's glares on his back. He'd had enough.

Nikita poured a third glass. He turned in his seat to face the soldiers, resting his back against the bar, and returned a calm glassy gaze back into their eyes. He met each of their eyes in turn, most of them averting theirs back to those immediately around them. All the while, gently sipping from his glass. Интересно... these soldiers were almost as easily broken as their women; he filed away that information in his mind.

He causally felt above his left hip with his free hand, reminding himself of his knife tucked neatly away under his tunic. The cold steel against his fingertips was reassuring. Should any of these men get rowdy, Nikita would be prepared. He didn't see any weapons lining the walls or around their table, that was a relief.

He felt so alone here. The rest of the Soviet delegation was miles from here all crammed into a small inn. His comrades from Moscow were all fighting valiantly through the Motherland reclaiming the sacred land tainted by German boots. He longed to be there with them, spilling his blood along side his countrymen on behalf of the defenseless villages that had no doubt been ravaged by those barbarians. But that was not to be.

Instead, he was in England with the possibility of a needless bar fight with his 'allies' increasing with every passing second. And the only other stranger he could find in this place had rejected conversation immediately. It was going to be a rough night.

-----------
-Интересно
Interesting...

[Niamh Dunlevy]

So he was a Soviet - that explained the stares. From what Niamh had heard from the English grapevine, the Russians weren't very loved by many. All of the things she had heard about the Soviets had been mostly negative, and scathing criticism of Stalin was often in the greatest amounts over a heavy drink. Niamh, however, was no soldier, and knew what it was like to be constantly offended wherever one went.

"Laddie, I said ith was none o' your business when you asked 'bouth t'e looks," Niamh said with a smile. "I didn'th say ya had tho sthop thalkin', Nikitha."

By the way he was sipping his drink at every given moment, the Pavee could tell he was nervous. Who wouldn't, though, in a room filled with soldiers as drunk as a drowned rat? More then once had the odd-eyed Traveller seen a soldier's more vicious side, and more then once had she been given the scars to show. It was one of the reasons she mostly avoided a soldier's company, except for the nice ones she had met, such as Stephen and Nathan.

"I'd thake ith easy if I were you," Niamh said, placing her menu down on the counter. "Barkeep! A Coke, please!"

"You got it, little lady," the bartender said merrily, trotting off into the kitchens to get the requested drink. Niamh fished around in her pocket for a pound, placing it on the counter afterwards but keeping her hand on it. She wasn't about to risk someone swiping her hard-earned money, no matter how small the amount, from right under her nose.

"But yeah," she continued to Nikita, "thake ith easy. T'ey will leave ya alone if ya relax afther shovin' 'em off. An' if t'at doesn'th work, I usually kick 'em where it hurths. I'm a loth more civil t'en t'at, t'ough, an' t'at's only fer a lasth resorth. Justh roll yer shoulders an' loosen up a liththle."

To demonsrate, Niamh arched her back, stretching out her arms a little, but not enough to get into anyone's personal space. She rolled her wrists, then her shoulders, and let out a long sigh of relief. Next, she rolled her neck, then leaned onto the bartop, a soft smile forming upon her lips.

"See? 'Tis easy. You thry."

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

Relax? The mere thought of it seemed alien to him. Nikita had never been one to relax, he was always on guard and ready to react. This environment did not help matters either. No, he would not relax, but he would back down. The best commanders are those who know when to fight and when they have no chance of victory. He took one last sip of his glass and turned to face the bar again.

Nikita placed his glass over the bottle again. He'd drunk too much, too fast and was starting to feel a slight buzz. He needed to keep his wits about him and thus surrendered his glass to the bottle. That was a trait that Russians seemed to have inherited over the centuries, a high alcohol tolerance and the will power to put a drink down.

The conversation from the girl (upon closer inspection she seemed to be younger than he originally thought) next to him was welcome. He didn't know her name, but names were unimportant to his people. Someone only asked for your name if they were very fond of you or were going to kill you, one of the many cultural differences between Russians and the rest of the world.

The dark drink the waitress brought her was very odd. She had asked for a non-alcoholic drink but this fizzed and bubbled a lot like any beer he'd ever seen. What had she called it? A 'coke'? He thought about trying one but decided against it.

"I'll be needing a glass of water," he said to a passing barkeep. The barkeep nodded and continued on his way. He spoke without looking at her, the eyes of a Russian were like windows into their souls and what he said was a lie, "Those soldiers do not worry me. They are merely insects to be swatted away." In addition to tanks and vodka, the Russians also had excessive amounts of pride and Nikita felt his was being threatened. Losing face was bad enough, but losing face in front of a female was one of the greatest embarrassments he could imagine.

Her accent still bothered him, too. He couldn't match it up to anything he'd encounter when learning the language. Nikita had never attended any kind of school, because of this he became very agitated when he came across something outside of his sphere of knowledge. "As a student of English, I must ask where that accent of yours is from."

[Niamh Dunlevy]

The Pavee could not help but laugh softly. Her companion seemed to be on edge - it must have been the alcohol talking. She was tempted to pull the bottle of vodka and the used glass away from him, but decided against it. After all, he was a soldier, and probably had more knives, guns and other dangerous things hidden somewhere in that uniform of his.

"Insecths, eh? Good choice o' words," Niamh said, swirling her cola around her glass before taking a swig. "T'ey buzz 'round in yer ear an' t'en t'ey bite ya in t'e worsth o' places. Buth, I've meth a good few, an' I owe a couple o' 'em, thoo."

Taking another long swig of her fizzy drink, Niamh's eyes did a quick sweep of the room once more, falling on Nikita's face for a moment. He was nervous, although he was trying to hide it. Many of the soldiers near the pair had begun to speak in hushed tones, and the Pavee woman figured they were whispering about her and him. If he kept trying to look on guard, then something would happen. He needed to blend in better, unless he wanted to make himself a target for some drunk soldier with plenty of fight to spare.

As soon as Nikita asked what her accent was, Niamh replied with, "Irish, laddie. Mine's preththy t'ick, an' ith's always been t'at way. I couldn'th really thell your accenth at firsth eit'er."

Once more, she took a sip, then placed it back down. She would then tap him lightly on the shoulder, and look him dead in the eye with her eyes hard like rocks.

"Look lad," she began, her voice low, "I'm sayin' t'is tho warn you: calm down. All t'ese soldiers are payin' aththenthion tho t'e way you're lookin' ath 'em - one dodgy move, and t'ey'll say ith's a good reason tho thake somet'ing out back. Even if you don'th, justh loosen your shoulders a liththle an' lean ontho the barthop. Thrust me, ith'll work in t'e long run."

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

He returned the harsh look into her eyes. He didn't like it, not one bit. He glanced over his shoulder to the soldiers and met the glazed eyes of a rather intoxicated American. His eyes were seemed lifeless yet full of hatred. Nikita couldn't understand why this poor victims of capitalism harboured so much resentment toward him and the Soviet Union. They should be brothers-in-arms against their oppressive political and economic masters. But this would never be, they were too brainwashed by what they called "The American Dream". Such foolishness almost enraged Nikita.

He cast aside the thought before it got him into deeper trouble. He looked back at the girl. Her were eyes still on him waiting for him to let go. She was right and his chest hurt as he felt his pride take a hit. "Oслабьте, Никита. Oслабьте," he coached himself silently. He took a deep breath and released it as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter top. He loosened his muscles a bit, trying to release some tension is his body.

"Ireland? I have heard that it is a beautiful island. I was hoping to visit it before I left. One can never take in enough beauty." The barkeep returned with a large glass of water. "Спасибо.. ah... Thank you," he quickly corrected before taking a gulp of water. He hoped the water diluted any alcohol that hadn't already been absorbed into his bloodstream. "You have much spirit in you. It is good for the soul to meet someone with such independence and kindness."

He felt more at ease now, though he couldn't tell if it because of the conscious effort or the alcohol. Nikita allowed his eyes to wonder down the bar scanning the faces of those a few seats down. There were a few very drunk men and a couple to his left, both groups seemed oblivious to the tension on the other side of the room. Nikita was a bit envious of them, ignorance is indeed bliss. Nikita's experiences however did not allow for ignorance, he was all too aware of just how much evil pervaded the world.

He took another sip of water, the cool liquid soothing the fire started by the vodka. His eyes wondered even more taking in the room through the reflection in the various mirrors lining the walls. He came across his own reflection. His sunken features and pale blonde hair stood out almost as much as his uniform. He looked so unusual in comparison to those behind him. The girl looked different as well, though mostly due to her eyes. She was a pretty girl, but unfortunately much to young for himself. He guessed she was almost a decade younger.

"What brings you here from Ireland? If what I hear about it is true, then I cannot see why anyone would leave such a place."

[Niamh Dunlevy]

"'Beautiful' is an understhathementh," the young woman replied with a smile. "Ith's one o' t'e mosth gorgeous places you'll ever see in your life. Everyt'ing's so green, and t'e sea glows ath nighth, if you look close enough. T'e only t'ing t'at's annoyin' is t'at ith rains, and ith rains a loth. T'at's preththy much how England goes, t'ough."

Noticing his wandering eyes, Niamh followed them with her own, watching with a neutral expression as he saw himself in a nearby mirror. He looked almost...depressed...gazing back at himself. The woman frowned, biting her lip. Why was it that every soldier - every single soldier - that she came across was so unhappy? That is, when they weren't drunk or smoking or with a woman clinging to them. Maybe she was stereotyping a bit, thinking soldiers were only happy when they had those things...she remembered Stephen, who had looked so happy when she told him he was kind.

"Oi, I can see you stharin' at me back here," Niamh said with raised eyebrows as Nikita stared at her reflection. "I'm noth much of a romanthic, sorry tho bursth yer bubble."

"What brings you here from Ireland?" Nikita asked, still looking at his reflection. "If what I hear about it is true, then I cannot see why anyone would leave such a place."

"T'e world is my home," the Pavee replied with a grin. "I don'th have any parthicular place tho sthay. I like thravellin' 'round and workin' on sthuff. Shoeing horses, loadin' cargo, fixing wagons and t'eir wheels...t'at's whath I do. An' I love every moment of ith."

Niamh turned her head to look behind her, just in case anyone was listening in on her explanation and getting suspicious. Luckily, everyone nearby was drunk enough to be oblivious to her presence, and she silently thanked herself for being a teetotaler most of the time. Unlike these sorry men, she would not be suffering from an evil hangover in the morning.

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

OOC: Sorry if this is sub-par, I had to throw it together sentence by sentence while writing an essay.

Nikita laughed aloud as she caught him in the mirror. "You need not worry, romance is the farthest thing from my mind," he said this to her face allowing her to see the sincerity in his eyes. Her next comment brought a torrent of thoughts.

"T'e world is my home. I don'th have any parthicular place tho sthay. I like thravellin' 'round and workin' on sthuff. Shoeing horses, loadin' cargo, fixing wagons and t'eir wheels...t'at's whath I do. An' I love every moment of ith."

Gypsy!

The word sprung into his head the moment she finished speaking. That's what had been just beyond his grasp when she walked in. That also explained why she seemed like such an outcast here. City people, or those that lived close one, seemed have a natural aversion to those with no permanent residence. He'd never understood why. Those that came through his village in Arkhangelsk were never disrespectful or particularly deceitful. In fact some of the most interesting people he had met in his childhood were these perpetual travelers. He was also certain that they were the source of his mother fantastic threads.

Her furtive glances over her shoulder served only to confirm his conclusion. A gypsy and a Soviet, a very odd pair in a bar in the middle in England. He smiled at his reflection and its white fangs smiled back. He had no quarrel with her kind of people. They had his respect if anything.

"So that is your problem," He whispered without looking at her, just loud enough for her to hear. Should she ever cross him, he now had ammunition to use against her. He doubted it would ever become necessary, but it was always good to have something to fall back on. He took a sip of water. He turned to look her in the eyes again, "You will find that I am no enemy, in fact, I am quite the opposite. One must wonder and explore the land to appreciate its true value."

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Her posture became rigid as he spoke, the blood draining from her face. She felt her fists clench, and her mismatched eyes fell to her lap, several Irish curses ringing throughout her mind. As she mentally went over the words she had said in her mind, Niamh couldn't help but curse near-silently. The way she had described herself, it sounded like some stereotypical "Gypsy" jabber coming out of the mouth of a country person.

"You will find that I am no enemy, in fact, I am quite the opposite. One must wonder and explore the land to appreciate its true value," said Nikita, his voice sounding sincere. However, his reflection showed a wolfish grin, and Niamh scowled with a glare. He looked to be one of those people who would use a person's secrets should said person say the wrong thing. Why had Niamh said something so...so...attention-getting, for lack of a better word?

"Look here, you liththle weasel," Niamh growled quietly, leaning forward, "I'm no 'Gypsy', if t'at's whath yer t'inkin'. My people are t'e 'Pavee' - t'e Gypsies are t'e Roma. We're differenth, buth everyone t'inks we're t'e same, an' t'at we're uneducathed lil' t'ieves outh tho stheal women and children. We're noth."

Leaning back, Niamh softened her expression - but only just. Turning her head towards the bartender, she yelled, "Barkeep! Can I get anot'er Coke over here please?!"

Within minutes, the order was filled, and Niamh was pushing a glass of Coca-Cola towards the Soviet Lieutenant. "I saw you lookin' ath m'drink earlier," said the Pavee. "Ith's called a 'Coca-Cola', a 'Coke' or 'Cola' fer shorth. Ith's fizzy, like beer, and ith's got a...burn-y punch tho ith, like rum..."

She paused, wondering what to say next. Her eyes lit up as it hit her.

"Yeah, t'at's ith! Ith's like a fizzy rum, buth wit'outh the alcohol! Ith's really sweeth and good, thoo! Thry it."

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

Nikita felt a pang of guilt as he watched her deflate next to him. She leaned forward and hissed "Look here, you liththle weasel. I'm no 'Gypsy', if t'at's whath yer t'inkin'. My people are t'e 'Pavee' - t'e Gypsies are t'e Roma. We're differenth, buth everyone t'inks we're t'e same, an' t'at we're uneducathed lil' t'ieves outh tho stheal women and children. We're noth."

The smile quickly faded from his face he'd let his impulses get the better of him, and he didn't appreciate being called a weasel. "It was not my intention to offend you. It is simply a belief I possess." Before he could say more she plopped one of her strange drinks in front of him. He just... stared at it for a moment. The ominous dark liquid belching bubbles up at him. He looked at her suspiciously, "Coke, eh? This is not some sort of trap is it?" He immediately regretted saying that as she laughed at him. At least someone found this amusing; he didn't find it funny at all. He shifted his eyes back to the drink. He hesitated for a moment before picking up this glass and put it to his lips.

It was very sweet, her description of it had not prepared him for how just how sweet it was. He swirled it around his mouth for moment. It felt as if the liquid was attacking his mouth, but it was oddly pleasant. He swallowed and felt the sensation continue down his throat. He wasn't sure whether the experience was positive or not.

"That was... strange," he was unsure of how to continue. He didn't have anything to offer in return. After a moment of silence, he mumbled a 'thank you' and sipped the "Coke" again. "Again, I'm sorry for offending you a moment ago. I meant no disrespect," he said. He voiced dropped in volume, "I have met many 'travelers' in Russia, and I have no misconceptions of them. As I said before, It is refreshing to meet someone with your level of kindness and in my experience that goes for most of those like yourself."

Nikita felt he needed another drink and uncovered his bottle pouring himself a fresh glass. He felt her eyes on him, "I am sorry. Would you like any?"

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Giggles betrayed the young woman's amusement at the question. "A thrap? Why would I bring ya intho a thrap? I ain'th a Jerry, I goth no reason tho thrap ya," Niamh replied, shrugging. "Go ahead, sip."

For a moment, Nikita looked suspiciously at the drink, as if the bubbles would leap outwards and bite him. Then, he put his suspicions aside, and took the drink in his hand carefully. After taking a mouthful, he swirled it around like mouthwash, and the look on his face told Niamh that Nikita was examining the taste. He swallowed, and his face was somewhere between neutrality and confusion.

"Well...?" the Pavee asked, looking expectantly at her companion.

"That was...strange," said Nikita, sounding like he wasn't sure of what else to say. The woman could not help but laugh again.

"Don'th worry, you're noth alone. I felth t'e same when I firsth thried it. Ah well, ith thakes a lil' getthin' used tho."

Nikita then went on to apologize again for accidentally offending the Pavee. He then lowered his voice, and explained that he had met many travelling people back in his native country. When he said it was "refreshing" to meet someone as nice Niamh, and that he had met many people like her with the same amount of kindness, she blushed a little.

"Ah, t'anks...yer noth bad yerself. Thruth be thold, yer t'e firsth Russian I've ever meth. Yer English is thop-nothch, thoo; I can barely thell you have an accenth," she replied with a shrug. "Where'd you learn ith, if I may ask, Nikitha?"

Suddenly, a realization struck Niamh. She had not yet told the Russian Lieutenant her name. Clearing her throat, she added, "By t'e way, you can call me 'Niamh'. T'at's pronounced, 'neev', if you ain'th certhain. Sorry I fergoth tho menthion ith before."

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

The blush on her face brought a simile to his face. What brought that simile was the gratitude embedded in her rosed cheeks. It was the blush of someone unaccustomed to appreciation or compliments. Nikita guessed that he was probably one of a handful of people to ever return any kindness to her outside of her own kind. It was a shame that someone so beautiful was almost universally snubbed those around her. A terrible, terrible shame.

"Ah, t'anks...yer noth bad yerself. Thruth be thold, yer t'e firsth Russian I've ever meth. Yer English is thop-nothch, thoo; I can barely thell you have an accenth. Where'd you learn ith, if I may ask, Nikitha?"

"I am glad I have left a favourable impression, not many have given me the chance to do so here." Nikita gave her another sincere smile and continued, "We have a few British officers... left over..." he said carefully, searching for the most delicate words, "... from the British invasion of my country." He tried not to meet her eyes, she didn't need to be burdened with those vermins' fates. He took another drink of the 'coke' as she gave him her name.

"Niamh... an interesting name. Very simple, yet elegant. It suits you. You remind me of my sister. She was a ballet dancer in Moscow... many years ago." He took a drink of his vodka after that last comment, he needed it. It wasn't really a lie, more of a partial truth. Images of the corpses of her and her murder sprung into his mind, the vodka always helped drive them out.

Nikita's ears perked up as the noise in the room subsided. He instinctively tensed again and took stock of the area. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed nothing amiss. The soldiers were all still sitting at their tables doing the same things... only quieter. What was wrong? Something had changed but he couldn't grasp what it was. Another soldier walked in the door and slight breeze blew in.

The rain had stopped. Nikita let out a relieved sigh and downed the rest of the 'coke'. He glanced at his watch and his heart sank. He was late. Colonel Tikhonov had wanted to go outto London tonight and enjoy the nightlife. The translators had all drawn straws to determine who would escort him. Nikita drew the short stick. And now he was late. Tikhonov was not going to be pleased.

"I am sorry, Niamh, but I must go. I am late for a very important meeting. Thank you for the drink and your time, I have enjoyed our short time together, we must meet again. Allow me to pay for your drinks." Nikita stood and pulled out a billfold, removing a few notes. He still hadn't quite figured out how the currency worked here and was stumped for a moment staring at the money in his hands. Time was running out for Nikita, he needed to leave. He handed Niamh an indescriminant amount, they were all tens but he didn't have the time to count them. His typical scowl took over his face as he spoke again, "You may keep all that is left over. Again, I cannot express how sorry I am for leaving you in such haste."

Nikita took his cap and left her at the bar weaving through the tables on his way to the door. He noticed the looks from the Americans again "Good Evening, gentlmen," he said over his shoulder as he passed through the door. The crisp air swept over him, it was nice after being stuck in a cramped bar for so long. Nikita placed his cap snuggly over his pale blonde hair and began his jounery back into the waiting jaws on the Colonel.