The streets of Vienna were bustling with citizens and tourists alike, the streets filled to the brim with those of all nationalities and colors, dialects and personas. It was splendid, with sky-high gothic architecture and stained glass windows, stone-brick grounds garnished with red-brick trim; puddles and moisture lay untouched on the foundation, so clear you could see your reflection in the collections of water.
The hum of vehicles on busy roads was serene, and the streetlights were just beginning to come alit. Laughter and conversation were present, fear and war absent. They were not aware of the impending warfare, of the danger threatening to overcome the beautiful city.
People disappeared in and out of shop, restaurant, and bar doors alike, soft jingles and muffled music audible when the thresholds were opened. You caught sight of low, calming orange lighting from inside some of these establishments, and even the people inside them minding their own business, living their own lives, chatting about this and that, family, school, work...
You were very observant, but none of this was new to you. You assumed you had grown blind to it when you were an adolescent living here, a mere child abused by her peers and neglected by her parents. A child wound up in the concerns of her best friend, one that had it way worse than she ever would.
You sighed deeply out of your nose, cutting those thoughts away like spare threads. You witnessed two children stumbling playfully out of a toy shop, holding one, minuscule bag in their hand. There were no parents around them. You concluded that whatever was in that tiny little bag was all that they could afford. You thought of Kilgore. So much for cutting those thoughts away.
You still felt at peace though, serene. Though circumstances were not ideal at the moment, you felt relaxed back at your hometown. Even though you did not have the best experience at home, the city itself always welcomed you at night, when the velvety darkness enveloped the dank alleyways where you and Kilgore escaped the dread and gloom your home lives brought you.
Your slim hands cusped around a hot mug, the warmth radiating from the object soothing. Occasionally, you would sip it, relishing in the heat it brought to your insides. You were sitting at a café, wearing normal clothes, undercover. Of course, your weapons were under them.
The café was quaint, and quiet. College students sat around with textbooks and laptops, elderly folk sat alone or with their lovers drinking chamomile tea and eating key lime pie. Waiters and waitresses checked up on them often, but not too much to be a disruption.
Speaking of disruption...
"The longer we sit here, the less we'll get done," Ghost growled under his face mask. He wore a plain black mask that covered his mouth and nose, and sunglasses to shield his eyes. He wore a black beanie and a hoodie and some jeans. Pretty simple, though you weren't sure as to why he was so insistent on covering his face. Maybe you'd have to ask Kilgore his reasons for doing so. You quirked a brow.
"Why are you speaking to me?" you slurred, your French accent prominent as ever.
"Sorry, baguette, I was thinking out loud." He put the magazine he was reading about "home improvements" down on the table. You scoffed.
"Well, if we're on the topic of prejudiced jokes, maybe I should call up Philip Graves and see if he'd be willing to dump your bitchass tea in the ocean again."
"I thought it was a nonverbal agreement to never speak his name again?" Ghost scowled under his mask.
"Just because he ended up being a two-faced douchebag doesn't mean he was any less hot," you confessed. You didn't really think he was attractive. You were just trying to get on his nerves.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah," you raised your eyebrows, looking to the side triumphantly as you sipped your coffee. After the less than satisfactory sleep you got on the plane ride here to Austria, you'd need all the caffeine you could get.
"He was not attractive," Ghost mumbled.
"Easy for you to say," you retorted. "You're not gay..." and then you whispered under your breath. "...as far as I know."
"What was that?"
"Nothing, crumpet."
"Very original, Odile."
"I value myself on my humor," you shrugged.
It was strange, to say the least, that you were having a conversation with him like this. The rivalry between you two has, and likely always will be, openly distinguished, but your hatred for him maximized the moment he conveyed to you and Kilgore last night his diabolical plan to prevent you from killing absolutely everything and everyone. Do people really think I'm that crazy?
If you were gonna do that, you'd at least do it with a plan.
You slumped at this thought. Okay. Maybe I see their point.
You had tried to write off what Ghost said to you and Kilgore as just him being an asshole, trying to get a reaction out of you, and so far, you're succeeding. It's rare that your intuition is ever wrong about things — you got that from Kilgore — and your gut is telling you that Simon Riley is not the big bad wolf he's making himself out to be.
He would waste his time having sexual contact with you if that were the case.
You smirked into your mug as you took another gulp. He could hate you all you want, but that's something he'd never be able to take back.
As if reading your mind, he spoke up. "Why aren't you acting like you hate my guts?"
"Oh, I do," you replied almost immediately, wiping off some coffee that had dripped over your lip. "You clearly have me misunderstood, Simon."
"...Simon?" he scoffed. His body tensed. You smiled more intently, aware that you were bothering him, and deeply enjoying it.
"You may want to act like you know everything about me—" you set your mug down carefully on the picturesque glass table, and folded your arms neatly together, "—but I know more about you than you think."
Obviously, you were fibbing. You needed to intimidate him, to get him off your back. So maybe, then, he would stop thinking of you as weak.
"And what might that be?" he asked inquisitively, his eyes latching on to you, his gaze almost causing you to falter. Just when you were about to part your lips to speak, a crackle came through each of your earpieces.
"I'm assuming the two of you are having jolly good ol' time?" It was Price, his rough, yet somewhat melodic voice easily recognizable through the tiny piece of technology in your ear.
"Don't count on it," you said lowly in response, wary of anyone that would glance over with confused looks on their face, wondering what the hell you were talking about. There were none. Your body relaxed.
"I'm sure you know the plan? Or would you like a refresher?" Before either of you could reply, he went on. "Couldn't hurt. Anyway, Odile, you're going uncover, as we all are, but you in particular are going to be Clara Angermeier, a prima ballerina."
Your heart leapt in excitement, despite the fact you were already told all this information last night.
"As you already know, we did some research last night and we've got a good hunch that the missile is at the Hofmann Theatre right here in lovely Vienna."
"Where specifically, Captain?" inquired Ghost.
"Under the stage, Lieutenant," he answered. "That's where we think it is, anyway, and we better hope that we're right. If not, your home is in danger, Odile. So let's make it count."
You didn't reply, only nodded. It was more of a reassurance to yourself than anything.
"Right, so, ironically enough, Hofmann theatre is putting on the classic ballet 'Swan Lake,' and the lead role is none other than our prima ballerina Clara Angermeier, A.K.A, you, as far as they know. Lucky for us, you look just like her." He paused, and then continued. "I'm sure you're familiar with Swan Lake, Lieutenant Odile?"
"By heart," you confirmed.
"Good. Then we have nothing to be concerned about," Price said. "We-"
"Quick question," you interrupted, looking around to make sure no one was listening. "What did we do with the real Clara?" You said this in a harsh whisper.
"We drugged her, of course," said Ghost quietly. A waitress came by with a bowl of fudge. You knitted your brows together, not recalling him ordering that. He pulled his mask up and popped a piece in his mouth.
"Could you make that sound any less sadistic?" you rolled your eyes.
"Couldn't if I tried, love," he answered unnervingly truthfully.
"Despite the word choice, he's otherwise right," said Price, his voice startling you though the earpiece. I forgot he was here. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Let's just say she's sleeping soundly in her bed. As far as she knows, she worked so hard this night she completely forgot it ever happened in the morning."
"Dark. I like it," you mused.
"You gotta do whatcha gotta do," Price said. "To put it short, we think the owners of the Hofmann Theatre are working under Hassan, or are at least threatened by him. There's no other reason why they would willingly hide a missile under their stage. They'll be there tonight, so you need to give a damn good performance and distract them. The Task Force will infiltrate backstage and disarm that missile, while Los Vaqueros sticks with the owners, in case anything were to go wrong. They'll pretend to be loopy tourists."
You listened to his words carefully, your brain hurting from all the information you were absorbing. Then, an alarm went off in your head. Kilgore.
"What about König?" you said hurriedly.
Price chortled, a deep, rough belly-laugh. "He'll be their translator. We don't assume the owners will be very fluent in English. They'll act as dumb as possible so that if they start to catch on, we can at least keep them at bay while we disarm the missile." Captain Price stopped for a moment, his voice still carrying it's usual lighthearted nature, but not without a hint of concern. "You ready for the best performance of your life, Odile?"
"Sans aucun doute," you answered confidently.