Piano keys were her childhood, but the grasp of a pistol was her reality. Polish SOE Agent, Natia Filipska, has lurked among the rubble and the shadows of her occupied-Warsaw for years, ever since the war started and ripped her from the life that ha...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I'm not their hero, but that doesn't mean that I wasn't brave. I never walked the party line, but that doesn't mean that I was never afraid. I'm not your hero, but that doesn't mean we're not one and the same."
― Sara Quin
｡↷ ✧*̥₊˚‧☆ﾐ
Les Courlis, France
November 20th, 1920
2200
The silent agent walked a few yards behind Bachrach, watching his every move, every person he talked to, every time he seemed to turn his eyes from the path the stretched in front of him and off towards another direction.
How could he act so casual?
Walk around with proud strides, as if nothing had happened at the airport in Romania?
He couldn't remove his name from the world, and he figured if fateful Agent Mortem couldn't, Fidel, back in the car, could be the one to. Agent Mortem felt his lip curl as Bachrach gave a smile towards a few gentlemen moving down the street. Those men would continue on down the road without having known they had just walked past a madman and his accomplice by his side. And Agent Mortem would stay quiet, unable to say much without having Bachrach breathing down his neck.
Bachrach led him into a pub, hidden back in an alley way he'd turned down, where Agent Mortem had followed without second thought. Agent Mortem thought about turning around, turning and running. With the blood stained along his hands and now along his neck and collar and across his check, he wondered if Bachrach was at all even ashamed. For all of this. Agent Mortem surely was. Knowing the man's blood on his finger was of both British and Russian. Of normal people who were fighting this war just as he was.
Stepping inside the pub, the duo was washed in the scent of both sweat and tonic, loud, echoing yells exploding from different corners, cheers and dances surrounding them even this far into the night.
" Why are we here?" Agent Mortem asked with a tightly clenched jaw," I don't see a purpose in such celebratory atmospheres after the utter bullshit you just pulled." He heard Bachrach chuckle as if it were some sort of sick joke between Bachrach and his subconscious.
" Why, dear Agent Mortem, this is the only way to celebrate success. A pub, some cognac in the chest, vodka to follow. In what way would any of what we just did be less than celebratory?" Agent Mortem huffed, backing away from him in disgust.
" What WE just did?" he spat," What I just did! I shot two men and have their blood on my hands. You framed me as yourself. I took your spot unknowingly. You did nothing except throw all your issues onto another. Onto me." Bachrach watched him.
" We escaped, Agent Mortem, barely with our lives." Bachrach told him nonchalantly and Agent Mortem watched with unbridled rage, simmering deep within him, awaiting to explode from his core.
