M A T A

MASHA VETROVA ARCHANGEL Technopath || Forty-Three Hell hath no bounds when it wears the skin of a gentle woman.

[halsteadss]

ladies meme

[5/5] rogue badass lady cops/agents ✿ nikita mears

[soracities]

Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”, Leaves of Grass

[Text ID: “Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.”]

[nikitamearsgifs]

[vetrovareign]

IRINA ???-

At first, when Irina had heard Mateo and Anastasia were in the hospital, she told herself that she should stay put.  What good could she have done them by going to the hospital?  But the Reaper hideout was still a mess of tension after finding out that the Angels had waltzed right in.  So many eyes were on her, full of suspicion.  There were too many whispers in the halls and around the corners.  Could she have betrayed us? Clods.  If any of them had even a lick of sense, they would know that after three years she was on their side to the bitter end.  Which led to why she–despite her better judgement–was still at the hospital after hours.  

In her time there, she had managed to confuse three nurses, snag a clipboard with a patient chart, steal a pen, drink five cups of coffee, and snag the badge of a doctor she vaguely remembered from previous hospital visits.  An alarm had gone off inside the building, just a flight of stairs up from where she currently was, and Irina hurried up the stairs to investigate.  Her blood froze when she saw the Reaper guards that were supposed to stay at their damn posts.  There was no time to rip them a new one on how guarding was supposed to work.  She stepped into the elevator and pushed the button to get herself up to check on her friends, praying that she would get there in time.

When the door opened, the last person in the world she expected to see stepped inside.  oh shit.  Irina didn’t have a weapon on her.  Irina had a clipboard and a pen.  She should step out—too late.  The doors shut unnaturally quickly, and it was everything Irina could do to keep from wincing.  She glanced towards the buttons, noting that the elevator was now going down.  She was doing an internal risk-benefit analysis in regards to stabbing Masha with the pen she held when Masha spoke.  The normally composed Masha was clearly pissed off, and Irina could count on one hand the number of times she had witnessed emotions breaking through.  

“Oh! I, uh, I’m afraid I can’t help you much there.  I work in pediatrics.  But I did hear in the break room that the new ones in on the 6th floor are lucky to be alive.”  She wasn’t lying.  She did hear the nurses say those exact words during her second cup of coffee.  Irina just had to buy enough time to get off as soon as possible.  Her grip on her pen tightened.

.

She’s been in this game for longer than anyone still alive. Yelena was perhaps the only exception to that rule, and in that case Masha had played better. Those long years in Rosnovy had given her more than just a taste for the cold. Her eyes were sharp, gut instinct always informed by a cool awareness of the facts around her. Even now with uncommon anger radiating off of her, she was far from rash. The added adrenaline in her blood instead only honed her senses. As the doctor spoke (nerves evident in his voice) her eyes idly surveyed him. She noticed more than she expected to. Noticed that despite his claims, this paediatrician had been heading away from that ward, the button to floor six still illuminated. Noticed that he had no technology on him; no phone, no hospital pager. Noticed that he was gripping his pen as if it was a lifeline, so tight that it would surely bleed ink onto his palms. 

There’s something about that grip that she cannot move her eyes away from. Perhaps it’s the way he holds it incorrectly, ring finger stretched out and pen balanced against it. She’s seen it before, in the hands of a girl - a writer - whose ring finger had blistered overtime from the mistake. A woman who just so happened to be able to shed skins as easily as she shed loyalty and family. Or perhaps Masha’s adrenaline really has made her paranoid; annoyance clouding judgement in a way she typically chastises others for. 

After a few moments of pause, she finally snaps her gaze back up to his face, one that’s reflected in the silver walls of the elevator. “There’s no such thing as luck” she replies easily, trying to hide the irritation from her voice. As she speaks she leans against the wall to her back. The contact isn’t necessary, but it makes it easier. Easier to make sure the doors don’t open as they go past another floor. For good measure, she makes the whole elevator suddenly slow. It’s not quite a halt, but it nonetheless make a jolt as it switches from its own programming to her’s. “Besides,” she adds, eyes unmoving from his face, “Did the break room gossip not identify them? They’re responsible for more causalities in this place then I could count. Unlucky for us that they live, no?”

[vetrovareign]

WHO: Masha Vetrova & ???,  @irina-of-volkova

WHERE: Rosnovy Medical, 6th floor, outside Mateo Reyes’ room.

WHEN: July 15th, 21:48

She catches the door as it swings closed behind her, prevents its inevitable slam. Her anger had never been loud or brash, but it was there to anyone who knew. There in her clenched jaw and the tap, tap, tapping of her nail against a diamond ring. Mateo Reyes had achieved a rare thing in angering Masha Vetrova, and it seemed he hadn’t even intended to do so. But she isn’t thinking of Mateo as she paces down the bright corridor of the hospital, sweeps down one flight of stairs. Instead, her mind is on a woman at ‘the side of a mountain’; on questions she’s oddly hesitant to ask.

An elevator ding snaps her back to reality. It’s going up - but her anger makes her impatient. By the time the doors have slid open, it’s going down. (And if those doors seem to snap back together as soon as she’s stepped on, a person would be wise not to mention it.) There’s only one other in the lift - a doctor, she presumes. He’s staring, a reaction that she’s used to but ill-timed with her irritation. She turns away sharply, but can still feel his eyes repeatedly flicking onto her back. He should know better. “Doctors are meant to be smart,” she says, pivoting slowly to face him with a pointed look. He had made the mistake of paying her attention, and now he paid the price of having all of her’s in return. “Tell me. Sixth floor, Reyes and Sokolova - know their case?”

[divinepoison]

MASHA VETROVA + CHARACTER ANALYSIS

(from top left to bottom right: name meaning, hogwarts house, archetype, zodiac sign, d&d alignment, mbti type, patronus, surname meaning) @vetrovareign​

+ extra

[vetrovareign]

BUBBLES-

Although it is far too early for her tastes & she has never voluntarily allowed visitors to her home before 9am at the earliest, there is no shock present in her eyes as they land on the figure on her couch. If there is someone in Rosvony who has the rightful gall to defy her orders, it is the woman currently inside her home. So, she regards Masha in silence as she speaks. Well, right until her mouth stretches open and a yawn slips past her lips. “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional of me.” Her gaze moves to the floor temporarily, just as she covers her mouth again to conceal another approaching yawn. “It won’t happen again.” Raven lifts her eyes, now meeting the gaze of their leader. Regardless of her sleep-deprived state, she does mean it. Even though Francesco had tinged it with their occupation by mentioning Masha’s name, her hurt was personal. She would shove it aside like everything else and do her duty as expected of her.

Silence continues permeating the air as Raven moves forward until she stands before the sofa opposite of Masha. With cautious movements, as if she desires to go unnoticed, she places her makeup next to her intended spot before she turns and sits down. “Do you mind if I—?” She gestures toward the makeup kit; but before the other woman can reply, her fingers grab one of her brushes and generously dip it into her favorite blush. That, perfecting her makeup for the day, becomes her central focus; if only to distract her heart from yet another pang of hurt Masha’s words send coursing through her veins. “Is that what he told you?” No need to elaborate who exactly she’s referring to, for they both know. “I discovered an unpleasant past and ran from it.” The open admission of her thoughts brings her movements to a halt; her brush stopped in the middle of its path and now resting against her cheek. Such an oversimplification of her thoughts and emotions. A version so dumbed down she hadn’t expected it from someone so close to her heart ( but then again, had she seen Francesco’s revelation coming either ? ).

She draws in a breath. “Well,” Raven continues, her lips curving upward into a smile, “it seems we have discovered a game the illustrious Gamemaker can’t play.” The brush hand lowers itself until her chosen shade of pink coats the brush. A twist or two ensures its coat is thorough; and then, she lifts her hand and resumes her previous task of adding some pink to her pale skin. “Who knew?” She chuckles, though the thought she sends Masha betrays the playful image the sound paints. His observations of what transpired are incorrect. A slight pause. Please don’t force me to elaborate.

.

Raven looks.. sleepy. An unfamiliar state, Masha’s been bone-tired for as long as she can recall. Decades spent in a life where time is too valuable to be spent on sleep. She’s grown numb to it now, barely notices the deep ache of her eyelids and bones. Watching Raven stumble down the stairs, talking about professionalism as she yawns, Masha can’t help but remember that her consigliere is only twenty-five. Young. And cut from something a shade softer than most of her Angels. That doesn’t make her any less capable. “It can happen again,” she corrects, brows raising as Raven sits, “but perhaps not when Reapers have crawled through our home, hm?” By her age, Masha herself was underboss with two young adoptees in tow. She remembers the looks some dared throw at her, looks that said she was too young, too quiet, too womanly. They should have known better, Rosnovy drains all the softness out of a person before they even notice. 

So she would never deliberately emulate that mistake, project those judgements onto Raven. But, by the way the younger woman tenses at her words, perhaps she already has. The hurt in Raven’s voice is controlled but rings clear to the mother of angels. She closes her eyes as she listens, lets her head fall back against the couch as one hand rises to massage her temples. It’s a swift transition from boss to Masha, as far as that distinction was even possible. She lets Raven talk (and think) out her irritation, doesn’t react other than the occasional sip of tea. Is that what he told you? Masha tries not to think of her son’s exact wording; Raven doesn’t need to hear those thoughts - internal spat, dramatics, she ran- directly. “I’m not here to mediate a quarrel”, she replies through sips of tea, sounding more tired than annoyed. That’s not quite true, Masha seems to be cast in the role of referee frequently these days. “But do not think I take Ryker’s perceptions as gospel.”

Neither the gamemaker nor his shadow face the particular burdens that Raven faces, that Masha used to. The assumptions that you’re less cutthroat than you are, less capable. Ryker has always been - how could she put it? Cocksure. What else could he be, both Voight and Vetrova in nurture? She loves him, respects him, would die for him happily, but she’s not so blind that she cannot see his faults. Raven is important, a slice of empathy at his side. “There are rooms I’ve run from”, she says eventually, eyes cracking open to look at her advisor with a soft smile, one hand raising to gesture that she get’s it, Raven didn’t run. Many rooms, if she’s being honest.“You hear thoughts, Raven, neither of them - nobody- will ever be able to understand what’s that like.” Loves and hurts and conversations that go forever unaddressed inside her mansion. Not for the first time, Masha wonders how many she’s privy to. “Thoughts in a place built on discretion.’ She pauses, pushes the other tea cup towards Raven with a pointed look. “It’s been quite the feat to keep this from you, actually.” A confirmation of her part in it all, admitted gently but easily as she leans over to stir the cup in front of her companion.

[vetrovareign]

ZEPHYRA-

    She keeps their assembled and awed audience in her periphery, logging away every shift in posture, calculating every flutter of their darting eyes. After all, she is nothing if not a predator, and a predator must consider all the pieces of her surroundings, even as she dedicates her immediate attention to the ever-difficult task of anticipating Masha Vetrova’s next move - a skill that their enemies have not learned, a language they fail to comprehend, much to their detriment and doom.

    To the onlookers, the two women must look similar: cool and calm, almost nonchalant in their ferocity and their brutality. Perhaps the outward appearance matches the inside for Masha, but for Sofia, it merely masks the tempest raging within. Dirty, she’d called it. “You know I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

    It’s that same tempestuous rage that fuels every kick and every punch that she doles out. Masha’s fast, quick as a viper, and she manages to duck the force of the blow - but Sofia’s fist manages to clip her shoulder anyway. I hope she feels that tomorrow. She’s about to follow it with an undercut from below with her left fist, her body shifting easily to reverse her defensive stance from left to right, but Masha - well, Masha is fast. Sofia smiles even as she grunts, the thrill of a challenge spiking her blood as the air is knocked from her for just a moment. It’s a move that’s brought down many of their opponents before, and like clockwork, Sofia’s on the ground too.

    Without another word, Sofia launches herself forward, grabbing on to Masha’s arm around her neck to make sure that she goes down with her. When they both rise again, Sofia hurls herself at Masha’s torso, wrapping her arms around the other woman’s waist and throwing all of her weight in pushing her to the ground - even if that means Sofia’s back on the ground with her. There’s no finesse here - no fine-tuned movements, no graceful striking. It’s a move born from street-fighting, relying on brute strength instead of skill. . She bites her tongue by accident, and her mouth fills with blood. Sofia manages to grunt, but just barely, out her next response to Masha’s words. “Would be more pleased alongside you,” she spits, “not on some a low-level, bullshit bust with them.” And there it is: an admission of want and of wounded pride. Sofia turns to the side and spits the blood-stained saliva from her mouth. Her lips are tinged with red. “But who am I to question his wisdom and yours?”

.

They fall again - not that it could really be termed as such. Sofia bowls into her with pure weight. These movements are scrappier; instinctual. They speak of the hungry girl she bumped into all those years ago, of her bite and.. lack of finesse. It’s no bad thing, she’s watched as Sofia has tried to install that same bite into some of their recruits - and failed. It’s an instinct that can’t be taught, only learnt. It made Zephyra one of their strongest fighters before she’d ever developed the abilities that earned her such a codename. And it’s these (untamed) moves Masha struggles to predict, even now. Her back hits the floor, head whacks and really - Sofia had never needed powers to knock the breath from someone’s lungs.

Her teeth grit with pain, but her sharp exhale of breath sounds almost amused - pleased -through the wince. She’d already anticipated tomorrow’s bruises, the glint in Sofia’s eyes as she’d stormed from their meeting promised as much. Now pinned under her weight, Masha can only meet the hard eyes staring down at her with a cool gaze of her own. The teeth above her are bloody now. They must be giving the recruits quite the show, but Masha’s forgotten about their presence. Merely watches Sofia’s breath, waits patiently for her to spit out the retort that she’s paying in bruises to lure out. And sure enough it comes. Would be more pleased alongside you. She cannot unpack the depth of that anger now, not pinned down - not two days before a complicated operation. “A necessary bust”, she corrects, tries to keep the frustrated sigh from her voice. “You can do it and do it well. I trust you with it - with them”. Them. An echo of Sofia’s words - Angels without the abilities that both Masha and Sofia can’t help but revere. Trust. A conditional version of it, a statement compromised by agenda. 

It’s her final question - mocking and bloody - that Masha has really been waiting for. It’s déjà vu when it comes to this. Oldest friend and oldest child, the oldest headache of her life. The question hangs in the few inches of air between them, and she lets it stagnate in pointed silence for a few moments before moving. Brings her arms swiftly to her side, bucks her hips upwards with a low snarl to knock the other forward, off balance. She needs only that moment to hook her foot around Sofia’s leg, shifts her weight so that their roles reverse. One arm raises to pin her down against her neck, though they likely both know she didn’t have the strength to keep Sofia down for long. “Keep your pettiness between you” she murmurs, and if there’s a slight look of exasperation to the way she studies her, it matches her weariness.  “It’s not Ryker who calls these shots, Sofia.” Not his wisdom she questions. She releases her press of her arm, tension leaves her tone and gaze as she does. Looks instead at Sofia - the same face she used to automatically place at her righthand side- with an unreadable expression. “Since when has my wisdom led you astray?”

[vetrovareign]

GAMEMAKER-

Distance had meant nothing, it never did. It was their silence. The Reapers silence was savored like comfortability. Savored, and a form of a shield. If they kept those objectionable mouths silent, there would be no reason for any Angel to walk upon “ their ” ground ( never theirs ). But they just had to make too much noise. They cut a little too deep, and now there was blood all over the Angel’s pristine floor. They made Rosnovy bleed. And they held onto their silence no more. Their shield was taken and, with that, the Angel’s saw no need to allow the Reaper’s another peaceful moment or thought of security. They did not intrude, but simply walked into the lower part of the city that was still the Angel’s and strolled, without fear, without worry, into the so-called hideout of the dead ( it was never hidden from them ). It was merely an unfavorable extension of their city. 

And while Theo wither’s in the back of the group, Raven listens, and Masha claims ( scents ) with her touch… He sees. His fingers don’t move to touch his gun. He doesn’t feel an ounce of alarm in this kingdom of the damned. He merely looks. Gazes upon hell and scoffs in the face of the skeletal reaper. It was as hideous as he imagined it. But, he didn’t come solely to deride or dance upon the floor ( graves ) of the dead. He came to look at the layout, its exits, and plan for any future excursions south — there would be more. All he needed was a few minutes to scope the place out. One walk through could give birth to a siege like no other. Something brutal, almost unrecoverable. But it wouldn’t be today. Today he only wished for Theo to detonate one of their stock warehouses as a reminder: they could burn their empire down to nothing but ashes and metal if it so pleased them to do so. 

Masha’s voice brings him back down to earth then; to this base level of an abandoned mall and his fellow angels. He looks to her. He at her side and never the other way around. “We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” A laugh to a scorn at her expectations, or lack thereof. He follows her gaze to the statue and how the blade of the scythe curls dangerously around the reapers head. What a pity it would be if a reapers head were to roll by such a stance as that. “I thought it would be… taller.” Is all he says, unimpressed, before turning to get confirmation from Raven that he wouldn’t have the joy of shooting a reaper today. At the nod of both Masha and Raven, he begins to climb the stairs to the second floor. 

.

There’s a fluidity to the way they move. All of them, but none more so than boss and underboss. He co-ordinates himself around her, and she him. He is her child – in all ways but admitted – and the protective instincts are mutual. A deadly sight, but not here to kill. -Though, by the way Ryker had stared at the statue, that plan was contingent.- Here instead to feel the wiring of the place, to turn maze into map. She knows her son is doing the same, familiarising himself with the board of future games. She cannot bemoan him of them now, not when Faulkner so arrogantly crosses lines that are not his to cross. Not when Reapers dared to snap too close at heaven’s gate, touched what they didn’t understand. Games had never been her style but if it came down to a quickdraw -- well. Nobody was faster with a gun than Masha Vetrova. 

As she follows him up the stairs, Masha flashes one last smile to the Angels they temporarily leave. Theo and Raven -- neither the strongest of fighters, but a risk (and a small one at that) worth taking for the stealth of this team. Not that Masha was concerned with stealth, she ascended the stairs with a grace more suited to a mansion’s grand staircase than here. Her fingers gently drag along the wall leaving one long line in the dust. She could turn the cameras away from them, but does not. Let them see. Let them see the ease with which they were graced by angelic presence. Let them see that Masha had no reason to hide; that no place could be hidden from her. 

Though as they walk down the first corridor, turn into a room with mattresses in, it becomes more clear that this really is a hideout. She understands why they keep trying, keep vying for her power; compared to the luxuries of the Vetrova Mansion, this was living in dirt. She leans against the doorframe, eyes wash over the room (old shop?) in front of her, follows Ryker as he moves around inside. “Two of them?” she suggests idly, casual though her gaze is acute, detail-orientated. She cannot quite suppress the instinct to check whether anything is recognisable, to see if it was Volkova who now crawled back here to sleep in shadow. There’s nothing to note - apart from the sense of a semi-automatic.. under a mattress? With the pull of her fingers it dislodges, shoots up to hover in front of Ryker to take as she raises her brows in mocking disbelief at him. If this was calibre of Faulkner’s recruits, they had wasted their time in coming.

It’s that second that she gets a message, an alert felt instead of heard. Her gaze snaps from Ryker to the screen adorned to her wrist, reads the words there. Supernova: Ambush. Shadow shot. Her eyes slide back to her son in just milliseconds, so quick she hopes he won’t have noticed, her expression unfaltering. Ambush hadn’t been the fucking plan, but it couldn’t disrupt this one too. Such information could not be dealt with now, better to keep it momentarily unshared. Especially after just passing a gun into the hands of a Voight. She looks away from him and back out the doorway, pushes herself out and away from the only gaze that can make her falter. “I want Faulkner’s”, is all she murmurs as she does, expression slightly more stiff, irritated, than it has been. “Where would a Tsar stake his claim, hm? My bets are on central, up a level’. That seemed most likely, the brazen fool.

[vivienvalentino]

Being The Mom Friend™

[airfierce-deactivated20201208]

I was right.

[vetrovareign]

SOKOLOVA-

♞

𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄, picking at her food, largely uninterested in the meal set in front of her. In the deep recesses of her mind, she remembers how food used to be such a family affair, happy, inviting, warm. 

It’s a good thing there is nothing warm about Rosnovy.

Even huddled outside of the Melting Pot after her lunch, swathed in her oversized coat, she shivers, but fresh air is better than no air — precisely the situation in her apartment where the goddamn window had stuck itself shut two weeks ago. Birds are not meant to be caged inside, pressure cooking in her minuscule apartment.

And yet, she is entirely too aware of her injury. The pain pulsates like nothing she’s felt before, and she pulls out a bottle, popping a single pill into her mouth, swallowing it dry. From her other pocket, she pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Ana didn’t smoke, not usually, but the medications had made her awfully tired. Nicotine is the only way she stays awake past nine o’clock.

A single puff of her cigarette later, her eyes fall on a cloaked figure, all angles and darkness. Swooping down, the woman doesn’t even wait for Ana’s answer — why should she, anyways? All becomes clear when it’s clear that the woman is none other than Masha Vetrova, the rightful queen of the Scarlet Angels themselves. Inhaling sharply, Anastasia bites her lip, shrugging. “I’m fine, thank you for asking,” she replies, quiet tone edging into hostility. How could the woman just sit there, when she’s the one who caused it? Of course, there isn’t any proof that her lackeys had been the one to shoot her, but who else could it be? Taking another puff of her cigarette, she finds her hands in fists on her lap. “Let’s skip the niceties. How do you know what happened to me?”  

.

Others might have missed the faint wince that flashed across Sokolova’s face, but not someone as seasoned as Masha. That injury was, after all, the very thing she’d come to ask about. It had to be admired though, the way she tried to hide her pain, spoke to the archangel as if she was strong enough to start any kind of fight. Whether that was because of her sense of dignity or vulnerability, Masha wasn’t sure. Either way, she only smiled lightly as she scrutinised the hardening face opposite her. Really, she shouldn’t be surprised to be greeted by an Angel. Masha had made it more than clear that this city was her’s.

“Such a question is hardly a nicety,” she replies lightly, her own tone casual against the animosity of Anastasia’s. An observer would think they were just two old friends sharing a meal, unless they happened to notice the intensity with which Masha was watching the other. “It was, after all, a day of peace guaranteed by the Vetrovas - by me. I was as hurt as you by the turn of events, and even more curious about them”. A flash of a tight smile at her own half-joke, though it’s more true than humorous. It was not her flesh but her control, her reputation, that was wounded. Considering that no gun stood a chance against Masha, this was the best injury her enemies could hope for. 

She ignores the question asked of her, only smiles in response. How does she know? Shadows and whispers and footage and the fact that she owns every square foot of Rosnovy. Instead of answering she leans over - closer - and lands her fingers on the other’s cigarette box with a questioning glance. “Besides,” she adds, voice softening just slightly, “Ivan is worried, I thought I’d placate him”. Not exactly the truth of the matter, but poetic license was necessary. Before any permission was given she drew a cigarette from the pack, placed it between her lips and glanced towards the lighter still by Anastasia, waited curiously for a response to both the unspoken question and spoken statement. 

[vetrovareign]

WHO: Masha Vetrova & Raven Mirsky, @telepcth

WHERE: Mirsky residence

WHEN: 15th July, 07.30.

The maid who’d opened the door hadn’t looked surprised to see Masha Vetrova standing there. Perhaps, as Masha had suspected, Raven had hauled herself away here for the last few days. As she stepped in, it dawned on her that she hadn’t been to the Mirsky mansion in years, perhaps not even since a fateful night years ago when she spoke smooth words to a grieving, gifted girl and promised to never lie. Technically she’d maintained that promise, and given much more. Elevated that girl - now young woman - to a position of power many would envy. She’s often wondered if Raven ever really wanted such a gift.

She’s sat on a sofa in the lounge, a china cup of tea in her hand and another placed on the table. The maid had also brought up some breakfast pastries before scuttling away to alert Raven of their guest. It’s all very civil and dainty, if not for the actual identity of the person sat, waiting. It’s rare - incredibly rare - that it’s Masha who has to go out of her way to meet with an angel. Usually she calls and is graced by their presence. It had all made sense after talking to her son, but even so, two days was long enough.“You can’t be unavailable for this long. I’m owed a report.” she calls out, softly, at the sight of footsteps descending the stairs. There’s only kindness in her voice, though it is true that her consigliere should not so easily sip away. After a pause, a sip of tea, she adds another gentle statement, “And you cannot run from histories that you do not like.”

[vetrovareign]

ZEPHYRA-

    They walk in formation, while Sofia stands alone. Her eyes narrow at the sight before her. The arm on the shoulder, the murmured words - oh, to be a fly on the wall, to hear what goes on in that room where it all happens. But those doors remain closed to her now, forevermore. (In her few moments of clarity, she wonders who had closed the door on whom.) This is how she must make herself known, now: smearing another’s blood on the white painted wall and on the polished marble floor, like a child tracking mud through the house just to vex their mother.

    When Masha turns her attention to Sofia, when she feels the other woman’s hand upon her, Sofia holds herself as still as a statue. There was a time when she felt the warmth of her almost-sister’s fingertips - a ghost, a whisper, a suggestion of care that Sofia, in all her naivety, had taken for granted. Then the fall-out: her return, and what Sofia had been so quick and so stubborn in deeming a betrayal, and from that moment on, any touch from Masha had felt like ice piercing into her armor. But now it’s worse, so much worse than it’s ever been. Because she does not feel warmth, and she does not feel cold, either.

    She feels nothing.

    “They couldn’t hurt me even if they tried,” she says, shaking her head. Sofia holds still, lets Masha inspect her skin, sallow as she comes down from her adrenaline high. “And they tried.” Her voice is filled with pride. Even now, she seeks approval like a starving dog seeks scraps. Like a sudden tidal wave, anger washes over her - at the ambush, at herself, at Masha, she doesn’t quite know anymore. All she knows to do is to fight. “Though I suppose it would have been better if this were my blood, right?” Her eyes flash and she pushes her frame off the wall, closer to Masha. She hopes the metallic tang that’s pierced her nostrils ever since she carried Francesco back overwhelms Masha. Sofia lowers her voice. “Can’t lose our precious spymaster, but I could’ve taken that bullet or twenty?”

.

So quickly does Sofia turn to unconcealed anger, gives into the raw emotion inside her. That’s never been Masha’s own style, such obvious emotions belittle a person. Turn human into wild animal, dangerous but careless.They must look polar opposites: one openly sticky with metallic blood, the other casually wiping away the stain on her fingers with a white handkerchief. She does not offer it to Sofia, knows very well that her appearance is deliberate, a violent disruption of the otherwise pristine. Such bitter words, such adolescent anger in her stance. Masha hardly bats an eye, doesn’t tense or step back as Sofia squares up to her. Really, for one Masha was meant to consider a sister, she acts now like a child. 

“Is that what I said?” she asks sharply, though her voice doesn’t waver from calm. There’s only a minute change to expression, eyebrows raising just a fraction in response to the sudden change in atmosphere. Those who knew her would understand look to be a warning. She’s frustrated too, tired too, her patience is far thinner than usual. “Russo earned that bullet for his misinformation.” Masha’s eyes do not waver, only a slight shrug accompanies her words. It’s true - an ambush was an embarrassment, lessened only by its success as a distraction. Perhaps this would teach their spymaster to check the validity of his whispers. But angelic blood was still angelic blood, and Faulkner did not deserve the satisfaction of having a spilt even a single drop. “But it was his job to lead you there, your job to make sure bullets hit the right side”.

Her gaze is more searching than it is chastising. Part of her wonders if Sofia believes the accusations that she levels. That she would be fine if Sofia was sliced open and drained of life, that she’d choose her over another to play sacrificial lamb. It’s this thought, the thought that she’s self-pitying enough to possibly mean the words she throws about, that make Masha’s own anger begin to bubble. What does she want to hear from her? Platitudes of contradiction, lullabies of reassurance? Has she not already given that? Made it clear that she’d shed her own blood for the other and done so? “Were you expecting me to congratulate you?” she asks mildly instead, finally breaking eye-contact with the other woman as she steps back. Not because she cannot hold it, but because she’s busy, stretched in a way Sofia has never fathomed. “Say you’ll come with me next time? He was hit in the stomach, Zephyra - it’s Dupont I should be praising”. 

[vetrovareign]

RYKER-

date: july 13th, 4:42am.  location: masha’s bedroom. availability: open to @vetrovareign​.

He took the night. One night to digest, reevaluate, plan. One night to abscond from the land of angels and feast with the dead under a starless sky. He gave himself this one night to face his own most shameful thoughts and, after that night, he rose the next morning hellbent on speaking with the cohort of Francesco’s deception — Mata. Mother. His mother. The current keeper of all the angels and, apparently, their secrets. He wanted her side of this. Or, maybe not her side, but her opinion. What stilled her hand from pulling the trigger when she heard of his deceit? What thoughts ran through her head to keep an agent among the most trusted and, by the same token, so connected to Ryker? Did the same schemes run through her thoughts that ran through his when she heard? And how long ago did she hear? He needed all this, and more. So much more. He could not do anything else until this particularly severe lie and all its counterparts were, more or less, resolved. He couldn’t be fucked to let these thoughts settle in his mind like an irritating itch beseeching him to hurt those who had first deceived him. 

This is what brought him to a standstill outside her door. Not her office door, but her bedroom door. He would not wait for the sun to burst over the horizon, the birds to chirp, or his mother to rise for the day; clothed and carefully put together. He marched into her room while he knew she would be up, but not ready. A woman still holding a glint of sleep in her eyes and not power. And he, well, he definitely couldn’t be fucked to change out of his own pajama bottoms and a ratty, old t-shirt that hasn’t seen the light of day since… god knows when ( & if ryker allowed himself to go anywhere looking anything less than presentable, it meant bad news ). He flops, rather ungracefully, only in the presence of his mother, onto her bed with his biggest, most exaggerated, groan. “He was an agent.” Was? Is? Who knows? His eyes wander up to the ceiling, shaking his head is disbelief. “And you knew.” There was no hurt in his tone then. He wasn’t mad at her. Not in the slightest. She had her secrets, and he had his. But there was one nagging question he had to get off his chest that has been annoyingly loud in the back of his thoughts since he found out: “I said I trusted him. But,” his eyes look to his mother, abnormally unguarded and hurt now, “can we trust him? Or —” Or does the Gamemaker have to play pretend with the man he thought was his most trusted and his, only his. And he would play pretend, if she asked. He’d make the biggest goddamn liar out of himself for the sake of the game and their angels. No matter the cost. 

.

The footsteps outside her door were conspicuous against the silence of predawn. The early mornings were a typically sacred time; minutes stolen away from days that demanded every second, every fibre of her being. People, angels, do not often see her like this, dressed in soft cashmere and bare-faced. But there were only two with open access to the eastern wing, and she could never begrudge a visit from either one of them. So she did not react from where she was curled on a sofa as the door finally swung open, her eyes (flecked still with the dust of a restless sleep) continued to scan the words of the newspaper she held. “Good morning to you, too,” she said under her breath in response to a dramatic groan that told her all she needed to know. One, that the visitor was Ryker rather than Rozalie. Two, that it was Ryker, her son rather than her underboss. Three, that some things never changed.

Any thoughts of morning quiet are quickly ended by his words. Her eyes freeze on the page. She’s not exactly surprised - it would take quite something to achieve such an effect - but considering all that had happened yesterday, this wasn’t a revelation she’d expected to hear. Of course, she knows exactly what he refers to. “Yes,” is her precise response after a beat of silence, looking across at him with nothing more than a vaguely thoughtful expression. “He told you last night?” What, one bullet and her spymaster had gained loose lips? A sudden conscience? Part of her, the part that had observed the way the two sometimes looked at each other, had expected this to come to light at some point. But not after an already complicated day; there was a time and a place for developing a conscience. Russo really knew how to pick his moment.

The hurt in his voice cuts through the haze of the early hours. She quietly unfurls, makes her own way across to her bed where he’s flopped, staring up. It doesn’t creak as she sits, but a deep, tired sigh escapes from her own frame as she looks down at him. He looks younger than she’s seen him in years; she cannot resist reaching towards him as she gazes out the window. One gentle hand wipes the hair from his forehead, soft fingers begin to rhythmically comb through it as she thinks. She wants to say ‘yes, hush, you can trust him’, but she cannot. That the gamemaker - nor herself, years ago - had no inkling proves his danger. That she has her own Judas proves the futility of trust. She wants to say ‘no, trust nobody, nobody but me’ but she cannot. Such a mentality may well protect him from others, from himself, but Masha’s own life has been colder and lonelier than she could bear to watch him experience. So what can she say? “Trust is always a risk; you gain and you give. Possibly lose.” is the eventual answer, each word considered and delivered with the same gentleness as the light beginning to peak over the sea. Her fingers still on his scalp, she knows her next words may sting as well as enlighten. “But weigh up the risk. He told you voluntarily.  Went against my direct order and his own good sense, apparently.” A fact that was not lost on her, to be dealt with later.

[owenelliot]

[vetrovareign]

ICARUS-

    In his moments of consciousness Mateo wondered why he was still alive. The doctors called their case a miracle, considering how long they had been out there, but Mateo hardly believed how long they had been stranded on Mt. Snovier, anyone exposed to below zero temperatures for that amount of time should be dead, still that wasn’t the reason why he felt like he was living on borrowed time. He had wrestled with what he had witnessed on the side of the mountain, at times he even doubted it had been true at all. Mateo heard a harsh piercing sound, too groggy to comprehend what was happening, he had barely started to open his eyes when was greeted by none other than Masha Vetrova herself. He felt his heart beginning to race, his lungs struggling to help him breath, he reached up to touch his face, the oxygen tube still there, but it didn’t matter, if Masha was there, it could only mean one thing, he was going to die. 

     Mateo had never been afraid of death, not out of arrogance, or because he thought himself invincible, but because he was raised to believe, that death was earned. When he was three years old he asked and asked and asked about his mother, until finally ‘she’s in heaven, she’s watching over you’, ❛I want to go to heaven❜, ‘not yet Mateo, but you be a good boy and when it’s your time and the Lord takes you, you can go to heaven’. His grandmother did not stick around long after that, she wanted to take Mateo with her, far from Revda, but his father wouldn’t let her, Rosnovy is where his son was born, where he belonged. From then on Mateo bounced around the neighbors, they didn’t mind looking after him, he was a well-behaved boy. When Mateo was eight-years old he was with a neighbor two floors down, he liked it there, the colors, the food, it reminded him of something he didn’t know he had missed, he loved the statues and the imagines, the flowers around the apartment, ❛mrs. Dandekar what happens when we die?❜, ‘little Mateo, we never truly die, our bodies die, but our souls, live on, when we die we are reborn, life starts anew.’ Mateo had never been afraid of death, only of how worthy he would be when his time came, so he always strived to do good, to be good. At age eleven playing chess in the park, ‘remember Mateo, when we die our hearts are weighted, a just heart will go to he heavenly paradise, so you be good, be a good boy’. When Mateo was nineteen he was shot, and he was bleeding on someone’s living-room, ‘I’m sorry, they are still outside, this is the best we could do’ his time was up, he thought, ‘don’t be afraid my child’ the old lady had said, ‘you are a fighter, Valhalla is waiting for you.’ Mateo was not afraid to die, he had always made death proud to take him. 

    ❝It was a smart plan❞ Mateo said, the tremble in his voice hidden behind the struggle to talk with all those things attached to him, ❝of course we were going to get blamed❞ he tried to chuckle, but every part of him hurt, ❝now I’m a loose end❞ he nodded, to show he understood why he had to die, his entire time at the hospital he had wondered when they would come for him. There was no point in trying to signal the nurse, Masha would never allow it, this was it, ❝I’m the only witness to your deception❞ he said making it clear that it ended with him, he might not be afraid to die, but he feared for those he left behind, if any harm came to Anastasia after he was gone, it would kill him all over again, Padre si ha llegado mi hora, solo te pido que protejas a quienes dejo en este mundo, Mateo prayed as he readied himself for what Masha had planned to do, ❝I- I do have a question, before I die, I just need to know why she didn’t kill us? on the side of the mountain… she could’ve killed us, but she didn’t… why?❞

.

Time was of the essence. Guards - no matter how stupid - returned eventually. Yet Masha waited in silence, allowed him a few generous moments of composure. He awoke like startled prey, looked so fragile, so demeaned, that despite her anger she averted her gaze as he adjusted his tubing. Instead, her eyes traced along the wiring that stemmed from his chest, followed them to the cardiac monitor. It betrayed his reactions, illustrated the sharp, panicked increase of his heart rate. Smart man. Fear was the only rational response. His medical file hung from the end of his bed tantalisingly, and she reached for it with an almost bored nonchalance, flicked through it on her lap. Over 18 hours in the freezing snow. Her eyes narrowed. By all accounts this fallen bird should be dead. Yet destiny apparently had different plans, stole him from one fate only to place him into the lap of Masha Vetrova. She could not help but agree with destiny in this instance - such a death wouldn’t have brought the agreed upon justice.

When he finally spoke, the words were not those she expected. In fact she’s surprised, though her face only showed her signature calm neutrality as she stared unblinkingly at him. Mateo might have looked a pathetic state, but his words were far from it. There’s no pleading, no begging. Not even explanation - just the perpetuation of the Reaper narrative and senseless accusations. Really, she could only hope that her own would maintain such unnecessary loyalty in their last moments. But there’s something off about it, an earnestness that grated against her assumptions. The man had just regained consciousness, and Masha had been quietly increasing the level of morphine being pumped into his blood from the moment she stepped in. He should not be able to lie with such ease, to weave a false narrative with such conviction. It was near-enough physically impossible. 

He cannot have known the impact of his next words. If she was already unsure (a state she was from used to), then his next words changed the agenda. On the side of the mountain, she could have killed us. In her gut, Masha knew which ‘she’ he referred to. It was not a ‘she’ Masha wanted to hear from any Reapers’ mouth. Her anger, previously silent and controlled, became more visible - the narrowing of her eyes, the stiffening of her posture. Suddenly she had come not to seek retribution for a disrupted festival, but to ensure that Mr Reyes knew exactly when to shut his fucking mouth. It didn’t all add up, didn’t make sense to her, but it didn’t need to. “I’d think very carefully before asking such questions, Mr Reyes,” she asserted sharply, rising from her chair with undisguised agitation and flipping open his file. “Severe hypothermia resulting in organ failure,” she read, flashing him a dangerous smile, “It sounds like you’ve had some vivid hallucinations, I’m not surprised.” 

Time was of the essence. Masha dropped the file into the seat she had just vacated, walked gracefully over his bedside and crouched, levelling her own head with his. She paused, sighed as if this whole interaction had been taxing on her. “I’m not here to kill you, Mr Reyes”, she murmured into his ear (a half-truth, she had been), “but whatever you think you saw had nothing to do with you, with this. So tell Faulkner, tell whoever you’ve told, that you don’t remember, that it was just a dream.” Just her luck, his little speech had been insightful. This was not a man who feared death, but a man quick to point out his solitude in what he had witnessed. A man who cared. “For if I catch wind of these rumours, I will personally place a bullet into the brain of those you care for. And that won’t be because of some ancient war, because of Faulkner or Yelena. It will be entirely because of you.”