(OOC: Gatty...I know you've seen Die Another Day so I'll be short in this reply.)

Remove the evil North Korean interrogators and replace them with evil Russian mobsters. Short of cutting off anything or any sort of mutilation, you're suffering through what could be described as punishment of epic proportions.

Hours, days...hell, it could be months for all Jess knows goes by as she is summarily beaten and tortured by the likes of men named Sergei, Alexei, Antonov, and Mikhail.

Knowing Russian helps but only to the extent of being able to anticipate her captors next move. That usually involves a pair of jumper cables and a 12-volt car battery named "Sparky" attached to various points of the body.

You get the idea. The experience is horrifying to say the least. Jess awakens one day to find herself laying in bed inside a log cabin of sorts with the smell and sound of breakfast cooking outside her bedroom door.

What? Ugh...not good. Really not good.

Jess scrambles to her feet, a bit unsure of her movements. The pain in her whole body has faded to something of a dull, overall ache, her head is swimming, and she briefly wonders how she can even still think somewhat clearly. Still, some things have been drilled so thoroughly into her brain that she thinks she may never forget them. Fortunately, Agency Policy for Displaced Agents is one of them.

Status...I don't think anything is broken...whole body feels like one big bruise, though, and I think I discovered a few new nerves. Equipment...well, atleast I have my clothes. Location...here we run into a problem. Hm, whatever they're planning, I don't think I can gain anything by trying to get away now.

With that in mind, Jess lies back down.

Bed and Breakfast...this would be nice if I could stop thinking about killing a few dozen people.

(Edited by Gatac at 3:49 pm on May 12, 2004)

Jess' head swims as she lays back down in the bed. A cursory examination of herself reveals almost no visable sign of trauma, other than the nearly rubbed-raw appearance of her wrists...probably from her hands being bound for such a lengthy time.

Her vision is slowly clearing as to permit a more exact inspection of her surroundings. She notices a few things strewn about the spartan cabin room. Thick quilts on her bed and frost on the nearby window would suggest that she's somewhere cold, if not also remote for Jess also spots a kerosene lamp resting on an wooden crate acting as fill lighting for what the small window cannot illuminate. A dresser stands next to an antique rocking chair, a victim of perhaps a century of continuous use.

Jess' examination is interrupted by the scraping sounds of perhaps an iron skillet, heard coming from the other side of her door. It is promptly followed by a slow gait of footsteps approaching the room.

The bedroom door opens to an elderly man of immeasurable years carrying a small wooden tray with a steaming hot breakfast on a plate. He is dressed in winter clothes; a turtleneck, heavy trousers, and thick boots.

Jess scrapes her knowledge of Russian from the non-hurting parts of her brain.

"Strasdvuitje..."

(Translated from Russian)

"Hello!", booms from the aged man's voice. He smiles, laying the tray over Jess' legs and bringing a generous spoonful of eggs and sausage up to her mouth.

"How are you feeling? Are you hungry? My granddaughter found you lying in a ditch on the roadside as she was coming home from school yesterday evening. She ran back here to fetch me and by the time we got back, you were blue as an icicle! This is no place to be outdoors with only a sweater to keep you warm!"

(OOC: This is where Linguist (Russian) comes in handy.)

"Well, thank you. I'm afraid I don't quite know how I came to be in that situation...come to think of it, I don't remember much of anything, so I'm afraid you'll have to be patient with me. Where are we? What day is it?"

"That is not suprising given your two blacks eyes and extensive bruising to your head and back. I'm surprised you can even talk after the beating your were given. Let me first introduce myself...my name is Fyodor Zamnov. You are in the small fishing village of Kulakovo on the River Angara. That's about 150km from Krasnoyarsk to the south. As for the day, it is a Thursday...I think, December 19, 2004. My memory is not what it used to be, but I still know how to dress a headwound. That's something hard to forget."

(Edited by Dieter at 2:27 pm on Sep. 3, 2004)

"Hm. I guess I won't be going anywhere for a while. Is there anything around the house that you need done? Mind you, my cooking isn't too good, but I need something to occupy me, and I'd hate to abuse your hospitality by lying around here and being lazy."

"If you were in the Red Army, maybe 60 years ago...I'd say you were OK. But times are different now and we do not have Comrade Stalin bossing us around. Besides we are already in Siberia, so there is no worse place for him to send us...eh? You will rest until at least the afternoon, then I will check your head bandage. As for now, you must eat and build up your strength."

The breakfast Fyodor provides is more than pallatable and a Cold Read of Jess' savior tells her that he's holding back a vast knowledge of the medicine...probably a doctor if she didn't know a better. His brief personal history suggest that he's old enough to remember the Eastern Front and his residence in Siberia would imply he isn't here for the fresh air and snowy vistas.

After being acquainted with one another, Fyodor asks her the 50,000 Rubel question,

"Now, why would someone out here wish to harm such a delicate woman as yourself. Are you a prostitute working for the local mafia in Krasnoyarsk or perhaps a victim of an abusive husband? I have not seen such wounds since the War."

(Edited by Dieter at 1:16 pm on May 12, 2004)

"I'd love to tell you...if I remembered. The truth is, just about everything from before I woke up here is about as opaque as a snowstorm on the Siberian plains."

The old man nods as he pours Jess a cup of what, presumably, is hot tea.

"I believe that is enough questions for right now. You need to build up your strength. Please eat and I will check up on you in a little while..."

Fyodor gets up from Jess' bedside, making for the door.

Jess lets herself sink back into the bed, contemplating the situation.

Of course, I could just ask if there's a phone, contact the Agency and get an extraction in under eight hours, best case, but that will light up me and everyone I call like a Christmas tree. And that's under the condition that everything is as it appears to be...and just letting me go after putting me through the wringer like that? Samantha's not THAT stupid. I just hope this is not one of those funny Typhoid Mary scenarious Chief Dougan keeps talking about...

(Edited by Gatac at 6:14 pm on June 10, 2004)

Fyodor's hearty meal sits well in Jess' tired stomach, her eyes growing heavy from the Russian banquet.

Seconds, minutes, hours...the short days of a Siberian winter make it too difficult to assertain how long Jess had slumbered. It makes little difference in the fact that she is awakened by the booming voice of (presumably) Fyodor shouting on the other side of her bedroom door. Setting aside her groggyness, Jess hears two other voices...slightly less angry in tone, talking to her caretaker from perhaps the cabin's entryway.

Unexpected guests? The Mob? Amway?

Whomever it is, the long stream of obscenities and harsh epithets seem to indicate that these visitors are not welcomed in the House of Zamnov. The exchange is quickly muted by the grimacing sounds of Fyodor's screams and brass casings dinning off the cabin's hardwood floor.

"Please! I know nothing! There is no one here except for myself!"

Jess perks up at the sounds. Keeping still could be an answer, but as of now, she hears Fyodor lying - perhaps to people who are after her. It would be tactically unsound to not try and defuse the situation, one way or another. Thus, Jess begins to look for something to use as weapon.

I'm through running from these bastards. If they want to put me through the wringer again, they'll have to work for their pay.

Hearing Fyodor getting his head kicked in whilst the ajoining room gets tossed, Jess does a hasty scan of potential murder weapons populating her immediate vacinity.

List of weapons:

-Half-empty Vodka bottle.
-Tray table
-Kitchen knife and fork.
-An old Russian Mauser hanging on a wall.

While accessing her situation, Jess also notes that she's only wearing a heavy sweater and pair of thermal undies. A coat hangs on the back of her door with a pair of boots sitting at the foot of her bed.

Jess slides into the coat and slams the kitchen knife into the wooden wall, where it will - hopefully - come loose easily enough. Then, she grabs the rifle from the wall.

Ammo is too much to ask for, I guess. Well, it does have a metal buttplate to slam into people's faces, so I shouldn't complain.

Jess proceeds to loudly cycle the rifle, hoping to draw some attention.

Jess racks the Mauser's bolt-action with a definite lack of subtlety. The chamber is empty but appears to be well-oiled and free of debris. Upon closer inspection of the rifle, Jess spots a small ammo case clipped to the weapon's shoulder sling.

Oh, don't worry about the parachute...if it doesn't work, we'll refund it.

Jess scrambles to load the rifle before anyone decides to check out the sounds.

The ruckus beyond the bedroom comes to an abrupt stop as Jess' Vulgar Display of Power (TM) is announced to the rest of the cabin. An eerie quietness descends over the residence with only the sound of an improperly placed foot-fall breaking the tension. Jess frantically pops in the Mauser's stripper-clip, throwing the bolt home as one of the boards in the hardwood floor creaks just outside the door.