After what felt like ages of travel, Ritual steps out onto the crisp snow freshly blown off of the helipad. The blades whirring above send the freezing crystals into her clothing and flying through the vents in her helmet. Clutching her duffle bag, she waves off the pilot, Hatch, before trudging into the path of the snowed-in base.
She pulls out the ring of keys given to her, selecting a silver one through her thick gloves and plunging it into the lock. She then reaches for a card attached to her belt and gives it a quick swipe. With a beep, a turn and a firm push, she enters, struggling to shut the door over the harsh wind. It slams and she takes a deep breath before leaning against the couch and removing her snow shoes.
"Might as well try to make this place presentable." She flicks the light switches, all five, and throws her snow covered belongings aside. She looks around contentedly. Everything was exactly as she left it last time. The spacious living area had three soft brown couches with a table in the center. Its dark wooden surface was painted by a few years of scuffs and use. The kitchen's marble countertop was spotless, and the cupboards all emptied. On each side of the large room are ledges jutting out from the walls with ladders attached. She looks at the loft on the left, then her own on the right before climbing up.
Ritual unlocks the door, cautiously peeking in as if it was still inhabited. She examines the miniature barracks. The eight beds were still made and they only needed a little love, and the nightstands, a light dusting. "Home sweet home..." She says in her native tongue as she wipes the dander from every surface.
Ritual hears a beep; Motion sensor, she remarks in her head, then the front door latch clicks. She stands in front of it with her arms crossed, waiting, until it swings open and six men stumble inside. She steps back slightly, a little surprised but unamused, and slams the door shut.
"Damn, it's cold." The red haired male pulls himself off of the ground. He is wearing traditional GIGN gear, as Ritual had seen it many times before. His bags are light and few, all of it and himself being covered in the sky's powder.
"Why didn't they pack us coats?" A blonde man also stands up, dusting himself off. The snow falls from his plate carrier and onto the wood floor. He wore more than most GSG 9 operators, which Ritual is pleased to see. She always found them a little too casual.
"Same reason they don't give us helmets: Not in Rainbow's budget." Another man chuckles as he adjusts. He had a combination of gear and bags, none from any specific place. It appears he put the look together himself.
Ritual crosses her arms and clears her throat loudly. The men's eyes all scan the area before meeting her in unison, to which they lock with her gaze and quickly stand.
"On your feet!" She calls, watching them form a line and stand perfectly straight. She looks them over curiously. They all looked like average recruits, a blank slate, and yet they each had deep eyes and rooted boots, like they'd been through as much as she had already. A small hum escapes her as her eyes soften to them. "Who is the Spetsnaz?"
"Would be me, Ma'am." The tallest man says in his thick Russian accent. He looks at her with his round hazel eyes, his strong jawline slightly stubbled and resting on broad, muscular shoulders.
"First in line," she points. He grabs his bags from the floor and follows her gesture, large footsteps seemingly shaking the room as he walks. "Who's the FBI?" Ritual's eyes scan the group further. The man gives her a slight nod. He has soft brown hair and eyes, matching his skin. She points behind her first Recruit, and he steps into line. "GSG 9?"
"Me, Miss." The German man grins a little before he falls into line. His bright blonde hair catches the lights as he walks and his green eyes trace the floor.
"GIGN?"
"Oui." The French man follows. His eyes, a striking blue-gray with a ring of yellow like a gold band around the pupils, unlock from hers as he goes and he gently swipes his reddish-brown hair out of his face. His skin was painted by Vitiligo on one side, but it was hardly noticeable. Ritual examines the markings closely, and in a way they reminded her of her own.
"SAS?"
"That's me." The British man mumbles and forms the end. His hair is like peach fuzz and his eyes are like daggers. He avoided any eye contact, and swung as he walked by others as if he was afraid to even get near. She noted it as odd.
"You..." Ritual looks at the last one, standing there patiently. "And then there's you," she says, eyeing him up. He had tan skin and dark hair, slightly longer in the back than in front. It looked neat and messy all at once. His deep brown eyes were set in a handsome face, and a small scar broke the silhouette of his mustache. "You're unaffiliated. Where are you from?"
"Iceland." He said slowly.
"Yeah?" She asks, to which he nods. "What's your name?"
"Gunnar." He seemed unsure as he spoke, almost flustered.
"Right." She pauses as she looks at him closely. Something about him was so familiar, she felt it when she looked at the file, too. It made her hair stand on end. "You're the shield." She snaps out of it, grabbing the folder Harry gave her to show them around the base. "Follow."
She leads them to the loft ladder, climbing up and standing in the middle of the 8 beds, then to a beaten gray door with a small window, being the armory. She points to the other door, the showers, and shows them around the rest of their territory.
"All of my rooms are over there." She then points across the base. "I find one of you too close and I'll shoot you on sight, got it?" They stand up straight again and affirm. "Good." She smirks under her mask and paces slightly. "All of your weapons are being unloaded at the docks. Our first exercise will be going to retrieve them, because I'm not carrying all those crates back for you. There's some snow gear in the lockers. Suit up and let's go, quickly." She dismisses.
"They couldn't give us the coats before we got here?" Cooper jokes as he pulls the black coat from the locker.
"Right?" He earns a chuckle from Gunnar. "At least she's got a heart."
"You say that now..." Oscar mumbles, making everyone glace to him for a moment. Once the men are all suited, they exchange glances and stand in front of the door.
"Come on." Ritual opens it, leading them to the garage. Inside is four snowmobiles, their black and white pinstripe designs kept pristine. "Two on each and I get my own." She retrieves the keys. "Vyacheslav, Gunnar, and Oscar, drive."
"Nah." Oscar speaks up, a rude undertone in his voice.
"Excuse me?" Ritual suddenly turns around, taking a large step towards him. All of the men beside Oscar quickly step away from the pressure of her standing over the man, looking on in fear.
"I don't know how." Oscar replies calmly.
"Learn." She glares at him as she presses the keys to his vest. "Your stuff will be there when you do." Ritual huffs and opens the garage door. They push the vehicles out onto the snow before hopping on, and she closes the door before getting on her own. "Rest of you, let's go!" She shouts over the harsh wind, starting hers up and leading them through the blizzard.
It takes roughly seven minutes to reach the docks, in which the woman signals a stop. Powder kicks from under her vehicle as it drifts into its resting spot. The others quickly stop behind her, Oscar and Cooper lagging slightly behind, watching as she unlatches the bungie cords from the back of her snowmobile to reveal some foldable sleds.
"Put your crates on these and string them up tight!" Ritual shouts, the wind trying mercilessly to whip away the words as she trudges to the edge of the dock. The men follow behind her and secure the cargo with cords, soon after starting one by one, with the woman signaling them off into the blizzard. She starts off behind the group, taking one last glance over her shoulder before rushing up next to Gunnar, who now rode alone since Anton added his weight to Vyacheslav's snowmobile.
"Hey!" He cries out as she whips in front of him, dusting him with snow. The engine and wind hushed his laughter, wiping his goggles with his hands to see her weaving through the men and back up to the front of the line. With a small smirk he leans forward, forcing himself up to her speed. He pulls up close beside her, and for just a moment, their eyes meet.
Staring at her chrome lenses, the man can see himself clearly against the white background, finding himself searching for her eyes within his mirrored form. As his cold breath is whipped away he can see his breathing almost matching hers. He watches as she nods slightly, letting him know she'd seen him as he'd wanted her to, letting out an amused scoff and resuming her gaze forward. He obediently falls back into line.
"Come on, men." She says as she closes the door with a sign of relief, grabbing her own crates and taking them into the living area. The men pass her with their belongings and take them to the lockers to secure them. She lifts one onto the kitchen counter and opens it, pulling out vibrantly colored foods like rhubarb and rich looking meats. She takes a deep breath through her vents, feeling pleased.
The men instantly ease up as they feel her demeanor lighten and start to chat, spanning themselves on the three couches. They seem to talk about everything they can think of, from life back home to future plans and even what they're doing with Rainbow. Ritual tunes in occasionally, smiling slightly to herself. Hearing their comfort made her happy, almost. It was a great change of pace from the silence that usually loomed over when she entered a room.
"Ma'am?" Gunnar speaks up, catching Ritual's ear.
"Yes, Magnúson?" She stops, turning around to meet his sweet brown eyes. He was gorgeous, she realizes, looking over his features as he speaks.
"You never introduced yourself." He gives her a small, friendly smile. "What do we call you?"
"I..." She takes a second to think about it, standing up straight. She wasn't used to hearing her name anymore. "Ritual on the field. Kámá at base."
"Right." He nods, looking at the rest of the group. They all exchange glances as her name lingers in the air. She can see it sink into them, and for a second, she feels okay. The stinging regret of saying too much didn't hit her. Once Ritual is done she approaches the lockers, whistling loudly and watching all of the men stand by the doorway.
"One at a time, I have to interview you. Vyacheslav first." She says, sitting on the bench in front of his locker.
"Yes ma'am." Vyacheslav says, coming in and closing the door.