Knock-knock. [Raushan/Domi]

[Tristan Herman]

Never in his life had a he shared a bed with someone. Not once. His Mother had never held him as a child when he was frightened by a dream. Never had a brother or sister to snuggle up with. Never been so brave as to sweep a seductress off her feet and carry her to bed with a certain kind of intent.

Tristan's eyes drew open like stage curtains, awaiting the lights to flicker on from the booth. Yet, surprisingly, it was still the wee hours of the morning judging by the lack of sunlight and total darkness of Roseline's hotel room. He drew a shallow breath, turning to look longingly on the woman he'd given his virginity to. She was so very...peaceful. So elegantly afloat in her dreams. Tristan, more or less pinned by Roseline's nude form, brought a gracious kiss to her forehead as something of a quiet thanks for being there when he woke up; he'd heard enough stories to know that it was a common happening to wake up alone.

Rather than returning to sleep, he caressed Roseline's exposed hip-bone for close to a half hour, simply enjoying the air and tone of the scene. He'd lost his virginity. To a stellar woman at that. This was the landmark of manhood he'd heard a thousand times. But he didn't really feel any more manly. Nor did he feel accomplished. He simply felt happy. Happy that someone had given even an ounce of their time to care about him as a human being. Not as a “comrade” or a “brother” or an “acquaintance”, but as a person. A lover. A companion. As something more than a passerby. It was a kindness Tristan doubted he could ever return to her properly.

As the clock across the room slowly approached what appeared to be five in the morning, Tristan conceded that, while he no intention of simply leaving, he should at least be clean should she insist upon their parting that morning. Herman slipped out from under Roseline, lowering her down onto her back upon the mattress. He couldn't help but gaze upon her as he stood at the foot of the bed. The curves, rises, and falls of her body would never cease to hypnotize him. He imagined somewhere, somehow, a man was trying to find a way to perfectly preserve the effect such a sight had on the mind. It was a feeling, much like the allure she had, like none other.

Tristan stepped into the bathroom, closing the door quietly, and hopped into the shower. It was only just then that it occurred to him: neither Roseline or himself had bathed after falling into that presumably filthy lake. With some added haste, he turned on the hot water, and proceeded scrubbing himself with an almost scientific thoroughness; so like him were the various mannerisms of his daily life.



[[This is a continuation of "Liebe ist Die Droge" if you are keeping up with the duo's plot line.]]

[Raushan Ilyinichna Kaptsova]

I don't regret this... though Raushan as Tristan slept soundly under her nude form. Whatever happened the night before was acted more on her impulsiveness. Regardless, Raushan didn't regret any of it. Not wanting to be parted from Tristan, she somehow had managed to tangle herself against him, hazily watching his chest rise and fall with every breath he took.

Playfully she began drawing invisible lazy circles against his bare chest. Trying to memorize every single detail of this moment with him as seconds seemed to pass by in a hazy daze. Even time seemed to come to an utter stand still. The whole atmosphere around them seemed more of a dream than reality. Whatever it was it gave her a sense of euphoria. No drug could compare to how she felt at this moment...not even words.

She felt content laying against Tristan, his form beneath her gave her some sort of security or some sort of safety from the world around them. Even the boundaries between their loyalties didn't affect her. Here, she was just another human being....in his eyes maybe something more.

Preferably, Raushan wanted to be called by her own name when around Tristan---but, knowing that could potentially be dangerous for both of them she decided to keep quiet about it. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind, a small smiled tugged at her lips. Finding her way up to his cheek (without disturbing him), she pressed her lips against it before comfortably resting her head against his shoulder.

Raushan let out a slow breath, drawing her eyes closed, letting Tristan's steady breaths lull her into a dreamless slumber.

Normally, under any circumstances she would have left someone once they had fallen asleep. With Tristan...she couldn't bring herself to do that to him. Not when he practically saved her life.

Soft breaths escaped her slightly parted lips as she slept, not stirring even once as Tristan began caressing her exposed hip or when he pressed a kiss to her forehead. The simple gesture pushed her deeper into slumber---she began stirring a bit as Tristan lifted her off of him. She reluctantly let him untangle her from him curling up against the mess of sheets. She was too tired to protest or keep him in the bed with her longer. Right now she just wanted sleep.

Raushan jolted awake upon remembering she needed to replace the papers she had lost in the lake. She sat up a bit, hearing the water running in the bathroom. She blinked away the sleep from her eyes, swinging her feet off the bed and on to the floor. She dully rubbed the back of her neck as she began to stand, groaning a bit---she felt a wave of utter soreness creep out of nowhere. She wobbled a bit to find her stride picking up some of her discarded clothing, hastily slipping something presentable when she meets up with at least one of her moles.

As she slipped on one of her trench coats, she turned to glance at the bathroom for a second, calculating how much time she had before Tristan realized she had left the room. She knew she had to be quick...if she really wanted to see him again she'd still have to be there. She sighed and quickly slipped on a pair of shoes--hastily walking out of her hotel room.

"Hopefully I can replace my papers quickly..." she mumbled to herself, running her pale hand through the bird's nest of hair that she happened to be sporting.

Raushan made her way to a cafe that was a block away from her hotel. It was still pretty early in the morning, there weren't as many people on the street...well, except for a few drunken people who happened to fall asleep on the sidewalk. She stood discreetly against the side of the cafe, catching a glimpse of a shrouded figure.

Raushan straightened out her posture in defense as the figure got closer. He smelled strongly of cigarettes when he casually came to a stop near her. She scrunched her nose a bit...rather not fond of the smell this man was giving off.

"Орел" grumbled the man.

She arched her eyebrow slightly upon hearing her code-name. She smiled slightly, "Do you have what I need?" she asked not once turning to look at the man behind her.

She heard a bit of rummaging before being handed some new identification papers and a ration card. As she tried to pull it away the man gave it a quick jerk, "I heard whispers you brought a German back to your room....am I right." he muttered before letting go.

Raushan shoved the papers into her inside pocket, "What? No...of course not."

"Don't lie to me...if you are, you have to get rid of him. Do not compromise this mission." he growled.

"I wouldn't dream of it." she replied with the same amount of coldness. With that she turned and began to walk back to the hotel.

Without her noticing her mole began to follow her closely from behind. Raushan felt rather uneasy after her meeting with her mole. She decided to brush it off as nothing and continued on to her hotel. As she opened the door to her room a huge driving force forced her against the wall.

As she began to regain her vision she noticed her mole had her pinned against the wall, forcing his hand against her mouth. His dark eyes burning holes into her head, "Where is he?" he roared.

[Tristan Herman]

Upon stepping from the boundaries of the white porcelain bath tub, Tristan immediately took to wrapping himself in one of the ornate towels, seemingly too decorative to be of any real use. It took some effort, but after some shimmying and scrubbing, he was able to dry the better part of himself off. It was a small, passing moment of fleeting nature that he couldn't help but enjoy. Tristan had spent far too much time in the past two years trying to scrub himself clean with a woolen rag and melted snow. It was a nearly forgotten feeling for him to bathe in hot water; so scare it had been at Sevastopol.

It was the first time he'd really thought about the war since he'd met Roseline only hours earlier. He'd forgotten, really, that anything had ever happened to him. It wasn't so much that it hadn't happened, but more so that he didn't care that it had or was happening. Here he was safe. He wasn't about to be shot in the head, or stabbed in the gut, or shredded by an airburst. He was just safe here.

The young man, all of twenty-one, slipped on his now relatively dry pants. He knew he'd have to get them properly washed, or replaced along with his great coat, at some point in the next day or two. A brief once over in the mirror confirmed that he looked a great deal more presentable than he had prior to bathing; vanity may not have been his sin, but he certainly hated looking a mess.

As he prepared to slip on his boots, the door to the room distinctly opened and closed. Had Roseline left? Or was she coming back in? He quickly received his answer, much to his dismay, in the form of the door bursting open from beyond the bathroom. A brief scuffle and a squelched cry preceded the voice of a seemingly gruff individual. In slurred German, it barked (presumably to Roseline): “Where is he?!”

It was all the indication Tristan needed to confirm that she might be in trouble. Nearly ripping the door from its hinges, Herman leaped at the man, wrapped in a trench coat. The first thing he went for was the neck, hooking an arm around his neck, and yanking his head upward. The assumption was that this would quickly disorient the kind gentleman. On the contrary, it caused him to panic as Smiles yanked him backward into the confined space of the water closet.

He was met with a quick jab to the rib by an elbow, forcing his arm to at first lock around the man's neck even tighter, and then release as he stumbled back. Tristan recovered in time to narrowly miss a swung sucker punch from the assailant. In return, Tristan launched an uppercut at his jaw, connecting with evident power as his teeth snapped together audibly; it was a deafening sound, and he was disoriented. A follow up body slam into the opposing door frame seemed to further knock the wind out of the man.

However, Tristan in turn felt a quick head butt rattle his cage, forcing him back again. A further punch to the face was received, and then the gut, collapsing him to the floor. Go for the legs he thought, grabbing out frantically. He lashed out with his leg, smashing into the hard face of the man's shin. The pain inflicted gave Tristan ample time to scramble back to his feet, and lash wildly out at his face.

There was, however, a sudden sharp pain as a blade, barely visible, was drawn from within the trench coat to slide down the length of his arm. The gash was nigh crippling. Not terribly deep or long, but enough to cause a recoil from Tristan and a clenching of teeth. The knife came at him again, blocked instinctively (and painfully) by his forearm. It stuck, penetrating into his flesh and muscle tissue. While painful, his attacker lost the weapon as Tristan retaliated with another assault to the head; it remained buried in his arm.

A quick glance at the sink gave Tristan a clear way to finish the scuffle quickly. Another hammering to the man's skull, and Tristan grabbed him by the back of the collar. With both hands, he forced his head down to meet the edge of the sink. There was loud thump as the man's skull reverberated against the porcelain. Another slam, and his skin split along the forehead, spraying blood. A third, and he was knocked unconscious, spattering blood across the sink once more. The fourth and fifth seemed to kill him, with a loud crack of snapping bone signaling his passing.

Releasing the individual, Tristan stepped back, letting the corpse slump to the floor. He panted, his chest heaving and covered in blood; his own and his opponent's. A shot of pain from his arm, and a forced cringe, forced his attention back to the knife some three inches in his arm. Grabbing an unused towel from the wall-mounted rung, Tristan took a seat on the covered toilet, and slowly pulled the blade from his person, allowing the weapon to clatter to the tiled floor. He quickly pressed the towel against the deeper of the two wounds, attempting to soak up and stop the bleeding.

Finally, he asked the burning question:“Who was that, Roseline?” His breathing was still heavy as he ushered the question out.

[Raushan Ilyinichna Kaptsova]

Her stormy blue eyes widened in horror and awe at Tristan's strength as he ripped the man off her as if he were just some sort of rag doll. She dizzily slumped against the wall, sliding towards the floor in utter shock...she really took him and possibly his rank for granted...but, she was thankful Tristan didn't leave her when she was out. She rubbed her neck gingerly feeling as if he might have bruised it somehow. Well, she had to admit...for a drunkard mole...he had quite a grip and the intelligence to catch even her off guard. She spat a curse in Russian...it was no use in hiding that at this point.

She let out a breath lifting her stormy blue eyes watching the conflict unfold before her eyes. Before she knew it Tristan had pulled the man into the bathroom. She couldn't quite see anything due to the positioning of the bed...all she could make out what was muffed yelling and something breaking.

Seconds seemed like minutes....minutes seemed like hours. She blinked slightly, rising to her feet slowly. Whatever was happening in the bathroom had died down. She finally stood finally able to see what had happened in the bathroom. Her mole laid on the bathroom tile motionless, with a pool of blood forming just below his cracked head. Her eyes glided over the pieces of the porcelain slink lay in pieces next to the mole then lastly on Tristan. A sense of relief seemed to come over her seeing that he wasn't too badly hurt. She began to walk towards him when he said “Who was that, Roseline?”.

She stopped midway not really sure how to explain her situation to Tristan. Her eyes shifted a bit before she closed in the space between her and Tristan. She took hold of his wounded arm, "Are you alright?" she asked trying to brush off his question.

Honestly...Raushan was quite scared...for once actually. She wondered if she told him what she really was...he'd leave her out of fright. She knew he wouldn't kill her or report her to the Gestapo...no Tristan wasn't that type of man. She could tell.

[Tristan Herman]

Roseline's inviting presence, while soothing, did little to distract Tristan's mind from the events just prior. Granted, her soft, soothing fingers gliding up his arm with a comparably cold touch was nothing short of settling in the utmost sense. Wincing as her fingers danced across and around his injury, he mustered a reply: I've had worse.

His utterance was more so to fill the sudden void in activity than to genuinely settle her. But it incited Tristan to the thought of whether or not he truly wanted her to answer his question at all. Roseline had dodged his question quickly enough. Blatantly ignored it, really. Whatever the answer was, it wasn't pretty.

His mind skipped across possibilities. A crazed ex-lover? Very possible considering how...well endowed she was. Did she owe someone money? No, she was staying in one of the most upscale hotels in all of Bavaria. Gestapo? No, the man seemed to know her. Whoever it was, they'd been watching the two of them since the night prior. Why had he waited until now to attack? Was he even attacking? Why was the assailant looking for Tristan in particular?

With every possibility exhausted, and both his state of worry and interest piqued, Tristan pressed the question once more, placing his hand over hers own in an attempt to instill a sense of faith and trust.

“Who just tried to kill me, Roseline?”

[Raushan Ilyinichna Kaptsova]

Raushan looked up at Tristan her eyes focusing into his hazel eyes. She could see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to figure out who the man that attacked him was. Her eyes dropped from his for a moment and began to tend to his wound to the best of her knowledge. She began taring pieces of cloth into strips and began dressing Tristan's wound...doing so to distract herself or conjure up a lie or some sort of excuse. Perhaps he didn't hear her mole yell "Where is he!?".

Her eyebrows furrowed forward when Tristan asked again. Of course he must have heard...he wouldn't be asking if he didn't. Raushan shook her head slightly knowing she couldn't weasel her way out of this nor fool Tristan. He was obviously smart enough to see right through her...mostly; or so she thought. She jerked a bit seeing Tristan place his hand over her's as some sort of comforting gesture. The subtle warmth from his hand, made her feel a small sense of comfort. She realized that Tristan was making an attempt to get her to trust him.

She really did. Honestly she wanted to. She chewed her lower lip a bit, thinking she had no other choice but to tell him. She knew she would have had to tell him sooner or later....but, not this soon. After all, she just met him a few hours ago...not to mention shared a bed with him.

She cleared her throat, "I'm afraid the question you're asking..." she paused for a moment before continuing, "The answer I will give you might not be to your liking." she said in a rather serious tone, tightening the makeshift gauze harshly into a tight knot, "Not everyone are what they seem comrade." she said dropping his wounded arm as if it were some sort of ragdoll.

"For starters...I guess proper introductions should be placed before I explain who that man was." she said taking a step back; placing her delicate hands on her waist, "The woman you know as Roseline may or may not have existed...most likely would have been killed during allied bombings...who knows." said Raushan simply as she turned her back to Tristan, "To put it in more simpler terms...I am not Roseline..."

She tilted her head towards Tristan before facing him completely, "I am Raushan...or should I say Орел Агента НКВД."

[Tristan Herman]

Opel agenta. Tristan knew but three languages: German, French, and English. Russian, while certainly not a proficiency, was not exactly foreign to him (in the non-geographical sense, of course). It was a moment before his mind clicked. Before the gears in his skull ground and buckled against one another: Roseline just spoke to him in Russian.

“No, no, no that's-,” but he cut himself off. It was real. It was really happening. He'd slept and fallen for the charms of a Russian spy. He had gone and committed the single biggest “no-no” short of climbing under Stalin's desk with a pair of knee-pads. It wasn't treason verbatim, but he would definitely be sitting in front of a Nazi tribunal with a predetermined disposition for the gallows if word got out.

The gears heaved and snapped and shifted and, finally, burst back into frantic motion. Thoughts moving at a thousand miles a minute screamed through Tristan's head. He was caught somewhere between anger, confusion, disbelief, and anxiety, every last one of them tugging at him. He wanted to give into the anger, to emulate his father bouncing the small boy from wall to wall with the back of his hand. He felt his fists tense, his muscles swell, his face brighten in anger. He wanted to rise and strike her. Throw her against the wall, scream in her ear, make her feel the betrayal.

But instead, he simply closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. He erased the notion. He ignored it. Cast it aside. It was not something he would let himself become. Not to someone he at least believed he still cared for. He took a solitary moment to compose a pure, unbiased thought for a moment.

What now? he thought to himself. There were two pressing issues to solve: what to do when the management invariably came to investigate the noise, and how to dispose of a dead body in a police state. He was a man of intelligence, but certainly not a magician. He could lie, steal, and muddy the truth as much as needed, but moving the body of a two-hundred-something pound Russian, covered in blood in an likewise destroyed bathroom would be nothing short of a Houdini-style disappearing act.

Opening his eyes once more, Tristan rose from his seat on the toilet and gently nudged Raushan to the one side by a shoulder. He looked to her for a moment, affirming that, while perhaps not scared, she was certainly worried by the situation. It was all the confirmation that young man needed to acknowledge that he was certainly crazy for that woman.


“Do you have any suggestions? We're going to need to take care of him, for starters...and I imagine the staff will be by any moment now.”

[Raushan Ilyinichna Kaptsova]

Raushan took a step back letting Tristan soak up what she had told him. Her stormy eyes looked him over trying to deduce the situation or his current state of mind. She guessed he was having a bit trouble accepting it by the way he stuttered for a second. A cold feeling washed over her as she watched him struggle a bit---truly she didn't want him to find out this way. Her full lips forming a straight line in irritation, feeling as though Tristan at any moment may get up to strike her.

He must have felt betrayed...or something around those lines. Then again Raushan wasn't a very truthful person to begin with. She was trained to be an exquisite liar; it was part of her job and god was she good at it....but not now--not with him. Those eyes that looked at her with love, she could never find any other man that would look at her that way, and here she was about to lose it all! All because she didn't get rid of Tristan.

The thought of killing him crossed her mind again. Killing him would be an easy way out....make it seem like her mole shot Tristan before killing himself. Just one bullet through the head...he wouldn't even see it coming. A clean kill---no pain, quick death. While lost in her thoughts, her hand slipped into the deep pocket of her trench coat, feeling the cool metal of her lugger beneath her fingers.

Her rose up from the floor and eyes froze on Tristan. Waiting for him to do something...anything! She watched as he just sat there on the toilet seat silent as death. She bit her lower lip, turning the pink into a pasty white color as her dark eyebrows furrowed forward. Finally, she gripped the lugger in her pocket preparing to make his death as quick and more importantly painless as she could. She couldn't afford to have her cover blown..nor could she let him get into trouble with his superiors.

Just as she was about to pull out her lugger, Tristan opened his eyes and rose from the seat. She felt a relieved breath escape her lips as he held on to her shoulders. The same look in his eyes were still there....the same look that he gave her the night before, "I-I'm...." she began to say, but was cut off when Tristan asked what they were going to do about the corps.

She blinked a bit, tarring her gaze from his to the corps that was on the floor, "We don't have a lot of time if what you said was true.." she said pausing, "It would take about 15 minutes for the staff to get here and about 4 or 3 minutes for them to alert the police or Gestapo." she said, "So it leaves us very little time to get rid of the body and clean up the place....I doubt we could do that in such a small time frame." her voice trailing off into every possible outcome.

[Tristan Herman]

He was crazy. That was the only rational explanation to any of the circumstance befalling him.

“Fifteen; you're being really rather conservative,” Tristan began. As he thought further and further into the possible repercussions of his going along with...Raushan...it also occurred to him, quite plainly, that it would not matter if they hid the body. There was blood everywhere, porcelain covered the floor, and blood was dripping from the walls. Not to mention, it was nearly time for the morning rush. They wouldn't be able to move a body. Not in a city this big, not in such an upscale hotel, and not so far downtown.

As his eyes darted across the scene, he made a quick grab for Rose- Raushan's wrist, tugging her along, out of the bathroom, and into the room proper, urging her toward her belongings.

“Forget the body. Get everything you need, and do it quickly,” Tristan half-commanded. He was back to the good old survival mentality Raushan's people had taught him so very well. Fast as he could go, Tristan donned his uniform once more, only to be reminded of his still bleeding wound. No time for a bandage. Clothed once more, Tristan hurried to the bathroom again, checked himself over in the mirror whilst wiping away and touching up any marks as best he could with a towel. By now, blood was spotting through the fabric on his forearm. Something had to be done.

Perhaps there was but one thing the dead oaf could do to better their situation. Tristan took hold of the mole's wrists, and dragged him across the floor, into the bedroom. As Raushan continued to round up her bits and pieces, Herman removed the man's relatively unscathed and unblemished jacket, tossing it onto the unmade bed.

“Matches,” Tristan inquired, receiving them via a quick toss from Raushan. It was lucky she'd picked such an upscale accommodation; there were three bottles of complementary wine sitting on the dresser, unopened.

Herman set about drenching the room as best he could in the liquid, making a particular effort to inspire the investigators to blame faulty copper wiring by drenching the better part of the closest wall in Devereaux '89. It wasn't going to stand up to scrutiny, but it would definitely cover their tracks for the time being.

As he finished, Tristan threw open the window, tossing the empty bottles into the street below, the glass breaking audibly (and thankfully injuring nobody it seemed). Satisified with their destruction, he scurried back to the bathroom, obtained the late assailant's knife, and deposited it in the drain of the sink.

Breathing for the first time in what seemed like an hour, Tristan filled his lungs with cold, fresh air wafting in from the streets. He closed his eyes once more momentarily, his fingers thumbing the matches in his hand idly, contemplating his actions over the last fifteen minutes. It was something entirely different from combat to commit a murder. Granted, it was more self defense of course. But the secrecy, the evasion, the distinctly bad taste he had in his mouth. This felt almost wrong.

No time to turn back though.

Tristan ripped one of the matches from its book and scrambled back into the room itself, readying the match to be struck, pinching it between the covers of the matchbook. Tristan turned his head to the side, eying Raushan with a mix of ire, compassion, and anxiety.

“Ready?”

[Raushan Ilyinichna Kaptsova]

Raushan gave Tristan a slight smile in response when he stated that she was being rather conservative. Her eyes glanced around the room, there was too much blood....too much blood to cover up and hide. Too little time to get rid of the corps. This was a very tricky and difficult situation Raushan had place herself in. And for what? Now she was gonna die...all because she let herself get caught up with an enemy of her country. A German. Not only was her life in danger...so was Tristan's.

"Well...Shit..."she muttered to herself as she forced her palm against her forehead. The first person she actually had feelings for was gonna die for her mistake too. Perfect...just perfect... she thought miserably.

Her mind was clearly running a blank. She couldn't come up with any clever ideas to get them both out of this situation alive. She sighed remembering the cyanide pill she kept hidden in her trench coat pocket. The pill was discreetly sewn behind a thin wall of fabric against the pocket...all she had to do was bite into it and the toxic acid should do the rest.

Her secrets and any information she possessed would go with her. Her plump pink lips formed a thin line as she dropped her hand back into her pocket. Before she could manage to wriggle the pill free, Tristan took hold of her wrist, urging her towards her clothes and other belongings.

The moment he told her to forget the body and get everything she needed, her body seemed to kick into survival mode. She grabbed her Gladstone Bag and began shoving her clothes into it and whatever information she had gathered from her time in Nazi Germany. Simultaneously she tossed Tristan a small booklet of matches when he requested for them, "Here." she said as she continued to get her stuff together. She smiled to herself, glad that she packed light.

She flung her bag on to her shoulder, the blue storm of her eyes staring straight back at his before falling on the booklet of matches he held. She swallowed dryly assuming the smell of alcohol and the commotion he was doing earlier was him drenching the entire room in the Hotel's complementary drinks. Was he was planning to burn the evidence?

Ha...that would be a stupid question to ask, she thought her as her lips quivered slightly.

"Yes I'm ready." she said finally, "Have any plans of escape when you light this place aflame?" she asked, as she gazed around for some sort of fire escape.

(OOC: Sorry Herman! >A< School killed my muse greatly.....)

[Tristan Herman]

There were no words between them as Tristan struck and tossed the match into the spilled alcohol, and he'd already grabbed Raushan's wrist and the dead man's jacket from the bed by the time the humble flame licked the floor, bringing the room to a burn. Just as quickly, the young man ushered his supposed love out the door, slamming and locking it in a haste.

Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic, don't panic, was the only thing going through his mind. Down the hall, descend the stairs, out in the door, and nonchalantly down the street. That's all he had to do. Easy. Rather, easy when you're not attempting to hide something. He chose to ignore the pain in his arm and the increasingly annoying sensation of warm blood wetting his flesh. With the wool sleeve of his jacket covered by his deceased assailant's own article however, no one but he and Raushan were the wiser.

Practically racing down the corridor at a pace somewhere between a brisk walk and jog, Tristan took but a single moment to steal a look at the woman he'd decidedly taken as his charge. It was a fleeting second, but in that solitary moment he was met fully with the gravity of the situation. This girl he'd just given himself to the night before after knowing her for a mere few hours. This girl that he had just killed a man for. Who was the enemy.

His lack of experience in such matters was Raushan's saving grace. More so the indescribably horrifying and wonderful feeling of her company and continued existence. Maybe it was all an excuse to remain in her company. He had no idea what he was doing, really. None of his actions thus far were would he would normally refer to as being “sensible” in any fashion.

Nearing the lobby, Tristan eased up his pace, fixed his hair to gain composure, and took Raushan by the arm in a gentlemanly manner. They proceeded down the grand staircase nonchalantly, and made it to the door with no incident. The first step onto the street was met with the cold bite of winter air, chilling Tristan wholly. A brief look up and down the street presented to him that, as usual, the morning garrison was late to rally.

Aside, Tristan spoke to Raushan as they moved at an almost hurried pace down the sidewalk,

“Is there a safe house anywhere in Munich?”

[Raushan Ilyinichna Kaptsova]

As soon as Tristan dropped the lit match into a pool of alcohol, the fire seem to come alive; licking up anything in its path in a hoard of crimson and blue flames. The young Soviet Spy let out a slight gasp when Tristan took hold of her wrist. Without a word she followed him out the door--the hotel door slamming shut as he proceeded to lock it as quickly as he could. She stood watch, her storm of blues scanned over the perimeter....cautiously looking for any hotel staff that might have been alerted by the ruckus they caused.

She heard the door click---assuming it was locked now, she quickly matched Tristan's pace and continued down the corridor. Honestly Raushan wasn't all too sure why Tristan was helping her...it would have been easier to turn her in or actually kill her on the spot. He would have been considered a hero to the Third Reich!! What the hell was he planning? Or was he just plain stupid!? thought Raushan irritably. She really couldn't figure him out....Tristan was as much of a mystery as she was to him.

They were enemies....under normal circumstances one of them would have had to die. Which in all honesty it might have to come to that....Raushan knew how much danger she was putting Tristan in. He was risking so much for her own sake? All because of one night? She felt her chest throb slightly....she cursed herself for allowing her feelings to get in the way of a job. A job. This was all suppose to be strictly work....she knew. Her mole was right. She let her feelings for Tristan fog her judgment.

It didn't matter if her life was in danger....hell she lived for these kinds of adrenaline rushes, the reason why she took the job in the first place. Though since she met Tristan all those things didn't seem to matter anymore. Here she thought what she did last night was done out of mere curiosity and her dam impulsiveness...no, although she hated to admit it. She did in fact harbor feelings towards this young German officer.

The thought of him dying made her feel sick---she suddenly felt his arm around her's as they neared the lobby. She slowed her pace down as well till they made it safely out of the hotel. The cold air felt nice against her face---she let out a breath feeling that she had been holding it the entire time. But, she knew that she couldn't relax....not yet at least. Not until both her and Tristan were safe.

Slowly she quirked one of her chocolate eyebrows...honestly she was surprised there wasn't a "welcoming party" for her and Tristan. A smug smile crossed her pale pink lips playfully---as quickly as the smile came it left in an instant when Tristan finally spoke up.

"If you know where to look." she replied in a somewhat witty manner.

Although her tone seemed something short of a tease, her eyes said something else. Focused and aware---her eyes flicked slightly, resembling the coldness of one's of a bird of prey. She didn't get the nickname "eagle" for nothing. She's a hunter...a predator...a killer---killing her prey and disappearing in an instant was her specialty. It was her life. The only life she knew that is...

"Try and keep up with me. Don't look at people in the eye. Keep your eyes forward. And whatever you do don't look back." she murmured.

She gave Tristan a squeeze and began to weave with him through a crowd.

((ooc: FINALLY GOT MY MUSE ROLLING! WOOT!! Sorry it took me so long to reply Herman XD BLAME HAKUOUKI. ))