Volokolamsk was honestly surprised when she got clearance to take an official one-month leave on a pilgrimage to her namesake town; in her own lifetime she’d never even seen Earth, much less entered atmosphere. One very, very, very long commercial airline flight from Toyako to Moscow with many, many, many transfers and layovers later, and the destroyer was stepping out with a small suitcase from Vnukova Int’l Airport into Moscow proper at about 1400 hours local time. Being on the outskirts of the Russian capital, the area was honestly unimpressive, though a quick bus ride to her hotel deep inside the city changed her mind massively. Never before had she seen so much life and vibrant culture - her culture - everywhere she looked. It was almost enough to bring the Halberd-class to tears, but she choked them back; no sense embarrassing herself on the bus ride in.
She entered the hotel in dress uniform, chatted amiably with the reception desk, went to her room, and got changed. When she emerged, it was dressed down for shore leave; a genuine black and white adidas tracksuit, the white adidas shoes, sunglasses, and a hefty bag of semechki in her jacket pocket she grabbed at the airport. This was going to be fun... until she forgot her bag, with phone, map, and wallet in the hotel room and promptly forgot where said hotel even was.
“Nu pizdec, how does one even forget something so fucking important as her own bag! Blyad’... I guess I should... ask for directions? Here’s hoping the people of Moscow aren’t assholes.” In true Moscow fashion, yes. They were assholes. After many arguments in Russian and being told off several times (and catcalled several times from local gopniks), a very irate destroyer was walking away from some sleazy old man who tried to grab her shoulder after properly laying him out on the concrete.
“ИДИ НАХУИ, СУКА УРОД! НЕ ПЫТАЙТЕ СКАЖАТЬ МЕНЯ СНОВА!” Then, with a cursory middle finger and additional mouthful of semechki, she rounded the corner and bumped right into the back of a very large woman. Opening her mouth to shout again, she found herself looking up. And up. And up before she could even see the woman’s head, crowned by a long red horn on her forehead.
“Н-ну блядь, простите.” She muttered as an intimidated apology, taking a step backwards. The man had gotten up, a big red mark on his forehead, and was rolling his sleeves up as he approached Volokolamsk once more. There was no kindness in his eyes.
