" Rozy?" Eyes closed at the masculine Russian voice.
" Da commander?" came the feminine, cold sounding voice, of a bitter teen.
" You're being dispatched." No big deal, it had happened before.
" We're sending you to America. Think of this as a vacation, only for a while."
A breath of air caught in the throat of the girl, at the name of that wreched place, but she was in no position to argue, turning sharply, clicking the heels of her black combat boots she, faced her commander and nodded with a soft grunt.
That was nearly four hours ago, now boarding a plane the hit man ducked into a seat toward the back, seating herself by the window her black camouflage bag plopped down in between her feet. It felt weird to be wearing such light clothing, and the open toed sandals sucked. Releasing a breath of air, strange colored eyes watched as the plane began to move, watching the beloved capital Moscow glide before her very eyes. Soon the wreched machie was in the sky, god how Zimoĭ hated planes, sure they were reliable, but they were a death sentence waiting to happen, so high above ground with no way out, it made Zimoĭ draw tighter then a bows string. Watching the window, starring at the blank sky's, letting her mind wonder it barely registered her conscious when she drifted inti a dreamless slumber.
' Thunk! '
Jolted awake, Zimoĭ nearly jumped out of her skin, as her head cracked against the safety glass window, cursing in Russian, the woman closed the left eye and gently rubbed her throbbing temple. Fricking plane. Shaking off the dull throb, she turned her head to face the doom of the world outside, it was bright, sunny and busy, she could see the people, all in clear detail, could read the lips of the fast speaking folk. Her eyes narrowed, she hated it here already, the women dressed either not enough or to much, in to bright of colors or not enough, there was nearly no balance! Zimoĭ felt a headach coming on.
Stepping off the private plane, she got plenty of stares, she could read all these idiots like a book, ' Who's she?' ' is she famous?' flicker after flicker of thought filled expressions where shot at her from others before they boarded or descended their own plane. Her lips turned down in a scowl. Yup headache.
Moving down the stairs of the pain, her inhuman grace, the only thing that kept her from toppilojg over in the heels shed been put in, her hands instinctively went to her pockets, fuck! She was in a skirt, no pockets, wonderful. Shouldering her bag she braced herself for the airport lobby.
It was louder then she thought, the Russian wanted to bolt the second she entered the crowded, screaming loud building, her head clouded by the voices that blended together her eyes began to hurt from all the bodies that blurred arround the hell was she suppose to find the person sent to fetch her and take her to a safe place the Soviets had secured with the Americans for her! this place was like Moscow, loud, confusing and giving her a major headache, only difference was in Moscow people didn't stare at the Spector of a white haired woman. Scowling she turned in slow circles, moving quickly with he crowds toward the enterence, where she found a chair to sit on, plinking down she droped her bag by her feet as she put her head in her hands, rubbing her temples to try and ease her headache. What was she going to do now? She didn't know anything about this place, and had no clue who she was seeking, there was so much noise, so many people. Gripping her hair tightly she hunched forward to rest her forehead against her bare knees.