#zachem

[glosnews]

ZACHEM BYDGOSZCZ - POLSKI CZARNOBYL

Zakłady Chemiczne „Zachem” w Bydgoszczy były producentem materiałów wybuchowych (do 1992) barwników, pianek poliuretanowych oraz szeregu półproduktów chemii organicznej. Należały do strategicznych zakładów branży wielkiej syntezy chemicznej. Profil produkcji w Zakładach Chemicznych zmieniał się na przestrzeni lat. W latach 1948–1952 produkowano głównie materiały wybuchowe dla wojska i górnictwa:…

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#Bydgoszcz #Ekologia #skażenie #zachem #zatrucie

[twi-go]

I ain't sayin' that I'm remaking the Sims 4 'Zachem Ya'. I'm just saying I think about it too much sometimes, now that I have better mods and shit, and also a laptop that can truly handle it.

Literally, a 1% chance of it happening. ...but that's more than 0.

#zachem ya #hetalia #aph germany #aph rusger #fanfiction #twi-go #aph america #aph russia #aph prussia

[irithnova]

Still not over "zachem ya" by Twigo wtf. I'm not even a huge rusger shipper anymore but that was a heartstopping fanfic genuinely..

#Zachem ya #Hetalia #Rusger #Random

[mirrorreview]

In this video, we introduce Zac Hemming, CEO of ICE Services Group Ltd., who is revolutionizing the cleaning industry with his digital advancements and exceptional customer service. Zac’s approach to blending digital marketing and cleaning solutions has been a game-changer in the cleaning industry, and he has implemented customized courtesy follow-ups to ensure customer satisfaction. He is not only a visionary leader but also prioritizes employee satisfaction, creating a positive work culture.  Don’t forget to hit the subscribe button for more dynamic entrepreneur stories.

#cleaningindustry #zachemming #cleaning

[vestaignis]

Сабеллиды – семейство сидячих многощетинковых червей, распространенных в донных сообществах всех океанов. К сидячему образу жизни сабеллиды приходят не сразу. На стадии личинки червь безмятежно дрейфует в океанических водах. Взрослые особи живут в песке или в илистом грунте мелководной зоны. Сабеллиды - социальные животные, образующие большие колонии в тех местах, где достаточно пищи. На переднем конце тела сабеллид расположена пара перистых, покрытых ресничным эпителием пальп. С помощью этих перьеобразных щупальцев-жабр черви собирают из толщи воды и с поверхности грунта частицы, которые затем используют в пищу или для построения трубки. Кусочки грунта они смешивают со слизью и строят трубки из материала, напоминающего пергамент. Длина трубок в зависимости от вида колеблется от 2 до 10 см. Пальпы одновременно служат и органами дыхания, так как через их поверхность осуществляется интенсивный газообмен. Кроны этих щупальцев выступают из торчащих на дне трубок подобно лепесткам великолепных цветов. Однако при малейшем движении воды «цветы» мгновенно втягиваются, оставляя на поверхности лишь низкие серые «пеньки». Окраска щупальцев-жабр червей разнообразная, но чаще всего это бежевые, желтые, коричневые, черные, темно-красные, лиловые и белые цвета. Зоологи обнаружили более 10 тысяч видов этих животных.

Sabellidae are a family of sessile polychaete worms common in benthic communities of all oceans. Sabellids do not immediately adopt a sedentary lifestyle. At the larval stage, the worm drifts serenely in ocean waters. Adults live in sand or muddy soil in the shallow water zone. Sabellids are social animals, forming large colonies in places where there is enough food. At the anterior end of the sabellid body there is a pair of feathery palps covered with ciliated epithelium. With the help of these feather-like tentacles-gills, the worms collect particles from the water column and from the surface of the soil, which are then used for food or to build a tube.They mix pieces of soil with mucus and build tubes from a material resembling parchment. The length of the tubes, depending on the type, ranges from 2 to 10 cm. The palps also serve as respiratory organs, since intensive gas exchange occurs through their surface. The crowns of these tentacles protrude from tubes protruding from the bottom like the petals of magnificent flowers. However, at the slightest movement of water, the “flowers” ​​are instantly retracted, leaving only low gray “stumps” on the surface. The color of the tentacles-gills of worms is varied, but most often they are beige, yellow, brown, black, dark red, purple and white. Zoologists have discovered more than 10 thousand species of these animals.

Источник:https://m.vk.com/video-177833227_456240992?list=f6ce210ae901f2fd35&from=wall-3724862_1674, /ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Сабеллиды, /vk.com/volgbioclub //www.gismeteo.ru/news/animals/raspushit-perya-kto-takie-sabellidy-i-zachem-im-nuzhny-pjoryshki/, /muzei-kholmsk.shl.muzkult.ru/Sabellids, //pofoto.club/32013-sabellidy.html, /zoogalaktika.ru/photos/invertebrata/annelida/polychaeta.

#fauna #nature #video #animal video #marine life #marine biology #aquatic animals #benthic #polychaete worms #Sabellidae #ocean #sand #corals #plankton #animal photography #nature aesthetic #видео #природа #фауна #бентосные #многощетинковые черви #полихеты #Сабеллиды #песок #кораллы #планктон

[llittletingoddess]

WHERE THE WILD ROSES GROW 🥀

«When the night comes, the stars begin to shine and the greatest crimes begin to come into life»

part 2 of multiply

°•○ warnings: age gap, slow burn, original character, cursing, smoking, drinking, mentions of death, mentions of murder, mentions of abduction, manipulation, abuse, national hate, politics mention, discrimination

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

II. Too Far Gone?

Moscow, Russia

Leah sat in the dark room, watching her boss playing with papers. What was interesting in lots of documents? She always thought it was pretty boring, like bureaucracy at all. Why do they need to make everything way more complicated than it actually was? Instead of just giving an answer, your application should’ve been passed through at least three different departments. She stared at the grey-haired man signing some papers, stamping others - and giving not a single word about what he wanted from her.

“Konstantin”, Leah finally went out of her patience, kicking his table with her boot to make him pay attention to her. “Ya zhe znayu, zachem ya zdes'. Zachem ty tyanesh vremya? (I know why I'm here. Why are you wasting time?)”, she asked him with a cold tone, looking under her brows. She was a beast in a cage and he knew it. He always made her wait. Konstantin Vasiliev was too much into his friends and money than in the people who did the dirty work. Especially that stubborn American that thought she was special. Pathetic little bitch that was getting too good and too dangerous. Konstantin looked at Leah under his brows and sighed loudly, his facial expression showing all the contempt he had for her. Even if she would support everything russian and speak their language - they would still treat her like an American - an enemy, Pentagon’s spy and obviously connected to LGBTQ+. 

He left one more sign on the papers and leaned on his chair, crossing his arms and looking at Leah. “Ya ne obyazan otchytivatsya pered toboy, Leah. Tvoya zadacha - ubivat', a ne vmeshivatsya v dela tvoey kormyashchey ruki (I don't have to answer to you, Leah. Your task is to kill, not to interfere with the affairs of your feeding hand.)”, he said with a husky voice and reached for his table to take a pack of surprisingly cheap cigarettes for such a rich man - old-fashioned Soviet “Prima” in a red box. He lit it up with a way more expensive lighter - probably a gift - and leaned back on his squeaky chair, smirking to his guest. Leah hated him… she should have been obedient to a man with Soviet standards and a heavy hand. 

“The Wild Rose..”, Konstantin chuckled. He did this all the time he saw Leah in his cabinet. She didn’t understand what was so funny about her nickname. Truthfully, she loved it - it perfectly described her. Bennett was loved by her soft appearance but she has thorns that could kill someone who will reach too close. That’s why she never had a real lover. She was afraid that she would hurt her loved one with skeletons in her closet and preferred to stay alone, never letting her feelings be victorious. “It’s time”, Konstantin continued, placing a Los Angeles postcard on his desk. 

Leah gasped, looking at the colourful postcard of the west coast view. She can finally go home.. Breathe the salty air and see smiling people everywhere. She sighed in relief, pulling the postcard closer with her finger and turned it, looking for hints. In the right corner she saw a logo which made her hum. “Blackened LTD..”, she hummed, thinking what it could mean for her. Would the victim be some big boss or she’d need to destroy this business? 

“My bosses want you to kill the president of this company”, Konstantin said with a strong russian accent, lazily smoking his cigarette. He didn’t care how she would do it at all. “His name is James Hetfield and he decided to play some tricks with us. But you will show him that he better not mess with russians”, Konstantin continued, getting up from his seat. He slowly walked around Leah, watching her looking at the postcard and grabbed her neck, slightly choking her. “And it affects you too. If you’ll try to do something against the plan you will be dead with him, american bitch”, he said with a harsh voice, letting Leah’s neck off. 

Bennett coughed, rubbing her neck and stared at Konstantin with contempt. He’s not even her main boss and he hated her so much, then what The chain thought about her? If only she could’ve done something against them.. But what could she do? They stole everything from her to use her like a puppet - her documents, her life, her whole personality and they didn’t plan to stop. Leah travelled on her missions with a fake ID, each time it was different, but she couldn’t live like that. She didn’t want to have someone’s name or life, she wanted to be herself, she needed to be herself. 

Konstantin hummed in her silence, exhaling a big cloud of smoke with a smell of cheap tobacco before he sat back on his seat. “You won’t even say a word?”, he asked curiously, staring at Leah. She sighed, turning the postcard in her hands and looked at her boss with a cold look. “How much?”, she asked, laying the postcard back on Konstantine’s desk. He smirked and nodded, definitely liking Leah’s cheeky question. “Five. If you will do everything quietly and clearly they are ready to double the price. Your main task is to kill him quickly-”, “..and make everything to make tabloids think it was an accident and there is no Russia’s hand”, Bennett ended quickly instead of Vasiliev, making him chuckle. “Yes, you know everything, Leah. Do the job - and money is yours. They are believing in you, better not lose such big support on your side”, he advised her, relaxing on his chair.

Deep inside Leah knew that Konstantin didn’t care. She was just pretty useful for him and his friends, and his “advice” is nothing more than a cheap lie. After years of working under his guidance Leah learned that man. All he ever cared about was his dog, a german shepherd named Rem. He had his photo on his desk, told about his achievements and how he would kill his enemies using them. Somehow Leah found it pretty cute. “Khorosho (Alright)”, she said, taking the postcard in her bag. “When is my flight?”, she asked, watching Konstantine throwing his cigarette in the ashtray. He exhaled the smoke and sighed, coughing from the nicotine in his lungs. “Tomorrow at 4AM. You’ll get your ID in your post box”, he said emotionlessly, watching Leah get up. “You have three days for your flights and the kill, The Wild Rose”, Konstantin said with a chuckle. Bennett kept her face; Will this ever end? She sighed and nodded. “Not a big deal”, she said, walking to the door. Vasiliev held the door closed for a moment, looking at Marie with a warning look. “And don’t forget, Leah.. you’re working on Russia. Every American deserves to die, every one of them. But you’re not like this. I can guarantee Russian citizenship after this kill if you’re gonna be an obedient girl”, he said seriously, taking his hand off the door. “Do vstrechy cherez tri dnya (See you in three days)”, Leah said reluctantly, leaving her boss’ office. She took a deep breath and sighed in relief, a short smile appearing on her face. It was her chance.. One last chance to break her chains and escape this russian nightmare she spent years in. She will kill that stupid businessman and disappear from Russian radar, once and forever. She had enough money to buy herself a villa somewhere on the quiet island, far away from criminal’s eyes and start to live her life like she always wanted to. She would probably change her name, appearance and body to make everyone forget about her existence. She will never be Leah Bennett anymore.. Leah Bennett will die as a stray dog in three days and someone new will be born instead.

She walked out of the office that was hidden in the mall and sighed. Leah was so excited.. Definitely not an option that she will miss.. She put on her headphones, turned on her favourite heavy metal album and hid her smile, walking out from the building. Russians didn’t like your smile. If you’re smiling it means that you’re most likely a psychopath or under the drugs, and society will bully you easily. Bennett switched her looks with an attractive guy in the crowd and put on her hood, making herself invisible in the crowd. 

Who knows what all these people think of her.. Leah was curious - was at least one suggestion right? Probably they thought she was some hipster girl from the block or some shy girl walking from her workout? Maybe a hopeless romantic or a geek? If only they would know who Leah Bennett was.. a heartless killer who murdered her parents, hid from police, had some serious net connection with the government and was a slave for some big russian men.. Leah sighed from the thought but kept her head up. It will end in a few days.. She might not end the national hate but she will save herself from being the victim of russian nationalism. She walked down to the underground tunnel and leaned onto the wall, waiting for her train to come. Life has given her an opportunity to change something and Leah wanted to squeeze everything out of it. She was too far gone and she needed to be saved.

***

Los Angeles, California

James felt himself on cloud nine when he saw all his friends celebrating him. He was so confident after his little victory when he fooled everyone in the Russian monopoly, giving free access to their people secretly. Some promotion from russian bloggers, advertisements in the popular social networks and voila - his music platform got almost ten million new followers! And thankfully, most of them bought a premium subscription. 

Of course he would’ve made it that far! Why would he do this one clean? It was obvious that he’d go another way. Business was all about the audience and this move made James get a confident and powerful position on the Russian market. He was so damn proud and he threw a party to celebrate his success. Whilst his partners read the contract -  James already made money behind their backs, smiling them to their faces and shaking their hands. 

And what surprised him the most - there was no reaction! His actions were rough and fast, so they most likely were caught by surprise. Was it bad? James didn’t think so. Instead, it was his chance to show them that Americans aren’t that dumb as they thought they were. Turns out, the real losers here were Russians who missed such a big hit in their balls. Scary Russians aren’t that scary anymore. They are dumb. Grumpy, dumb and have no critical mind to prevent such attacks on his industry. Maybe their president had, but not the ones that were responsible for the music market. 

“Congratulations, buddy, it’s a big hit! Blackened rules the whole world now!”, Lars, his fellow buddy said. He was all the way there back in time. If it wasn’t Lars James might never make it in the business. They met each other in their teenage days, when James just tried his luck in music, teaching guitar playing and just thought about having a music market. Truthfully, it was Lars who pushed him to act. James smiled, hugging him and nodded. “It is. Ten million followers from Russia, this is incredible!”, he said, being visibly surprised by the results of his cheeky campaign. He looked around, looking for his wife and sighed, watching her flirting with some guy in the crowd. And who needs love when you have money? James made his choice and for now - he wasn’t too needy in being loved. Why would he? A couple of Benjamin’s can always solve this problem. 

Lars sipped his drink, looking in the same way James did. He didn’t say a word about what he saw, giving James some space for his personal life. “And what if they will react?”, Lars asked him, watching James’ wife sitting on the lap of the guy. Hetfield hummed with a smirk. “They better think about how to get back their audience. Our conditions are too comfortable for such a poor country as Russia. We have every big star’s music catalogues, and what do they have? Some stolen songs and demos? It’s they who have problems, not us”, James said with a sassy tone, finishing his drink in one shot. Lars hummed, watching him with a judging look. Lars might be younger than James and he wasn’t such a big man like James (in all meanings), but there was something in this man that always surprised him - and that’s his ability to think two steps earlier. 

“You’re too calm”, he said seriously, asking the waiter for another shot of whiskey. James looked at him with a questionable look whilst watching for the amber-coloured drink to be poured in the glass, covering the crystal clean ice cube. Lars grabbed his glass and turned to James, staring at him. “You might think that they are fools, but look at the political situation. They don’t hesitate to kill their own people, so you think they will stop because of a wealthy man from America?”, he asked, looking at Hetfield. “No money will save you if they will decide to have their revenge, James. Think about it”, 

James hummed, looking at his buddy. Truthfully, his words made sense at some point. He sipped his drink, gently spinning it in his glass and sighed, watching his wife coming closer to them. She took off her wedding ring from her fingers and placed it in James’ glass. “Can you keep it for me please? Thank you”, she smiled, walking back to the guy she definitely enjoyed more than James’ company. He chuckled, looking at the shiny ring in his glass, taking it away and looked at Lars. “If they would have wanted to kill me, they would’ve done it ages ago. But as you see - I’m still alive, still with you all and still the owner of the biggest music heist in history”, he said with a grin, taking a cigar from his pocket to enjoy.

“But now - it makes zero sense”, James said confidently, lighting up his cigar. “First of all, this is gonna be too suspicious for them, don’t you think so? We will announce the increase of price on our stocks and then the next day they will do something with me? They are dumb, but even Russians are clever enough to avoid such suspicious actions”, James assured his buddy with a relaxing tone, enjoying how nicotine poisoned his lungs. “It’s gonna be a big scandal if they do it. We are all approaching the third World War.. and my neutralisation is gonna be one more step to the start. I bet my wife that they won’t do anything about it”, James said with a grin, watching his significant other being caressed by the guy in the crowd.

Lars frowned, definitely disliking his friend’s point of view. He shook his head, sipping his whiskey and tapped on the glass, thinking. He was sure that James wouldn't listen to him or even won’t take his words as advice, so he needed a plan B. Just in case he will be right and James’ ass will need some protection. It happened pretty rare but sometimes he needed help, though he never admitted it. James was from that type of man that would never admit their mistakes - just like it was happening with his wife on his own eyes. He watched her cheating with a stone cold look and joked that she looked better from the side. Lars didn’t understand why he acted so light-headed with important decisions, but he knew that deep inside, under this shell of a successful man James hid his feelings from the world. 

Soon James took him back to reality with his sweet chuckle, making Lars look up at him and at the direction he looked at. “What’s up?”, he asked him with a confused tone, though he definitely was curious what could make a rich man laugh. Was he drunk? Did he meet a nice chick to spend his night with? His wife wasn’t made for this anyway.. “Have you seen how much Blackened raised in price after a new wave of customers?”, he said with a grin, pointing into the screen of his phone, on the little graph with a green line that rises up incredibly high. Lars whistled, looking at the price. “Wow. Is it after Russia?”, he questioned, making James nod. “I think we need to celebrate it. Remind me to call my assistant and organise a meeting in honour of our success. Maybe in three days? Gonna be nice”, James thought with a corporate grin he used for his diplomatic meetings. He was so damn proud of himself.. Finally, after years of hard work it took a big risky step to reach the top of this monopoly game. Was he too far gone? Oh damn he was, but how good it felt to watch everyone fail in their attempts to get as high as he was. “We need to announce the new Russian department and increase the salary of that SMM guy. He did his job really well”, James said with a happy smirk, texting his assistant. 

If only he knew how wrong he was.

#🥀 #james hetfield fanfiction #james hetfield fanfic #where the wild roses grow #vicky's writings

[council-of-beetroot]

Fanfic Rec List

Since an Anon asked here is a fic rec List! My AO3 has a lot of these bookmarked and more!

I will update this as I keep thinking about it. I'm going through finding titles i remember were good. Some it's been a while where I remember that it was good but have no idea why.

Lithuania: 1940 link here

One of the first I read. Note it takes place during WWII so viewer discretion etc.

The Book Smuggler link here

A classic Pruliet piece

Diamond in the Rough link here

I've discussed this one quite a bit just go read it...

Note it's quite dark as it is a historical fic that doesn't shy away from showing the brutal realities of Eastern Europe and Russia throughout the 20th century.

Like cobwebs link here

Lithuania wakes up 400 years in the future hilarity ensues

The Armory of the Mind link here

Liet and Poland try to mend their relationship

Pity the child link here

Sweet fic about Latvia and America

Century lost to memory link here

Prupol time!

Zachem ya Link here

For this fanfic on their Tumblr they made a Sims 4 edition of this really good fic. It was one of the funniest things i watched at one in the morning

Fics under 3,000 words

Each to his Own link here

Latvia and Lithuania fic discussing the meaning of revenge

Semantics Link here

Good Lithuania and Prussia Fic

Home of the brave link here

Ameliet fic that actually discusses the realities of immigration in the 20th century

#asks and replies #council rants #my fanfic rec list

[7ooo-ru]

Как и зачем собаки Белка и Стрелка были отправлены в космос

Белка и Стрелка стали первыми животными, которые полетели в космос и вернулись живыми. Их имена знал весь мир, но эти московские дворняги были не единственными. Много других собак проложили путь в космическое пространство для человека, иногда — ценою своей жизни.

Зачем животных запускали в космос?

Чтобы изучить влияние космических условий на живой организм. Перед первыми космическими полетами было важно выяснить, как организмы справится с невесомостью, измененной гравитацией, радиацией, отсутствием атмосферы и другими факторами космической среды. Изучение реакции животных на эти условия дало первое представление о том, как люди будут переносить космический полет. Эксперименты помогли разработать необходимое обору��ование, пищу и другие условия для поддержания жизни в космосе.

Почему именно собаки?

Советские конструкторы рассматривали разные варианты: мыши, крысы, обезьяны, кошки, собаки. Обезьяны считались более похожими на человека по многим параметрам. Основоположник космической медицины Олег Газенко, один из главных ученых советской космической программы, даже посещал цирк, чтобы понаблюдать за дрессированными собаками и обезьянами, и понял — с приматами будет много проблем. У них случаются нервные срывы, которые делают их агрессивными.

Собаки больше подходили для полетов, чем обезьяны по многим причинам: они были дешевле, лучше поддавались дрессировке, легче переносили длительное бездействие и были способны к выживанию в тяжелых условиях. Особенно хороши были беспородные и бездомные собаки. Дело в том, что эти животные к моменту испытаний уже прошли естественный отбор на улице. По сравнению с домашними и породистыми собаками, у дворняжек было крепкое здоровье, смекалка, неприхотливость в еде. А главное — они очень ценили доброе отношение к себе со стороны человека.

Подробнее https://7ooo.ru/group/2023/07/13/830-kak-i-zachem-sobaki-belka-i-strelka-byli-otpravleny-v-kosmos-grss-222559840.html

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 02 [Revised]

I didn't anticipate the level of re-work that would go into Act I overall, wowza. Here's chapter two.

II: THERE'S MURDER IN THE AIR, IT DRAGS ME WHEN I WALK

In the face of her own mortality Madeleine could do nothing but cower. Attempting to shrink deeper into herself while the seatbelt dug into her. Squeezing her eyes shut as if it would fix the crushing weight inside her chest.

When there is a perception of an overwhelming threat, the human body goes into fight-or-flight mode. People in high-stress occupations, such as soldiers and police officers, can use techniques to consciously regulate their breathing, allowing the body to enter into a state of calm.

Keeping her feet flat on the floor, with her back straight. An unmarked Jeep was not ideal. This would be easier if she were sitting at her desk at work, in a sunny café—none of these places were secure. Too many uncontrolled variables.

Inhale, holding to the count of four. Exhale, hold again to four. Fainting in the middle of an active combat zone won’t help. Inhaling sharply—hold, balling fists in the leather seat, should keep them flat—exhale. Releasing the fabric of her dress—inhale, hold. As long as you can think you have a chance. You’re going to come home—exhale, hold. This was just a worst-case scenario. You’re going to survive this—inhale. You’re going to be okay—exhale, opening her eyes.

The Jeep was travelling slowly up the main road, in a convoy. They had passed by Donka, but she saw plenty of soldiers and armored cars moving in the opposite direction. No medical vehicles. No civilians asking for their families. The high-risk patients would need to be rolled out on stretchers. Perhaps the MSF had pulled this off in the middle of the night. Wouldn’t the heads of mission be notified in the event of an attack?

“Dr. Swann,” said the driver. “Me comprenez-vous?”

Madeleine tore her eyes away, making the connection her heart would not. “Je—je peux t'entendre.”

“Ça va aller.” She watched him reach across the console for the radio, tuning it to a specific frequency. He clicked on the transceiver and said, “Podtverzhdayu, chto u nas posledniy.”

“Otlichno. My pozabotimsya ob ostal'nom.”

“Ponyal.” He clicked off.

The man in the passenger seat glanced at her. One of his eyes was fixed in the socket. He turned to the driver and muttered, “Zachem ty vzyal yeye?”

“Nash kliyent khochet, chtoby yeye blagopoluchno vernuli. Posle etogo eto ne nasha zabota.”

“Ona ne iz nashikh.”

“Nevazhno, Primo.”

The Medical Coordinator didn’t see what was wrong until it was too late. She didn’t deserve to be shot. Same as the man from Logistics. It shouldn’t have been them. It should have been Kessler, marked down as unfit for work—if you knew something was wrong, why did you stand by and let him get away with it? Madeleine was so busy looking the other way, staying out of trouble, when all along she was their scapegoat.

⁂

January, 2012. Madeleine was coming back from another volunteer mission. It had been July when she left. Without the MSF vest she could be just another tourist, dressed in a thin blouse and ankle-length skirt, hiding dark circles behind sunglasses.

Coming back should feel like relief. Selflessly giving her time and attention to those who were in dire need. When the duration concluded she could say, you showed up and did your part. Now it’s time to go home. But there was always something else to do. Every time she saw another news report on missing children, acts of terrorism in other impoverished countries, she’d think, what percentage of the money do they ever see?

She called Arnaud. I've just landed at Air France. Would it be possible for you to pick me up?

“It'll be an hour, maybe two. Can you wait that long?”

She told him where to meet her and he said, “Be careful.”

Madeleine hung up.

Stopping to get something to eat. The man in front of her, probably in his mid-forties. He was wearing a navy suit and carried a leather suitcase. He was polite to the staff but not obsequious. He picked up his coffee, tipped twenty percent. The kind of man whose legacy was left upon plaques in art museums and conservatories, or dictated letters with no return address on behalf of an insidious third-party.

Madeleine bought a sandwich and some bottled water. Sitting down, she noticed a couple at the table adjacent. The little girl, couldn't have been older than six, peering at Madeleine over the side of the chair until her mother pulled her away with a few chiding words and a half-apologetic glance towards the poor lady who was just trying to have a meal. Madeleine gave them an easy, practised smile.

19:00, Madeleine got another call. Arnaud was waiting for her outside. They met up outside the main entrance, and he offered his coat in lieu of a hello. She took it, only because if she put up a front he would start fussing over her. Hailing a taxi, Arnaud helped stow her luggage in the trunk, gave the driver the address to their apartment.

Actually, said Madeleine, it’s a couple blocks away from there.

She never gave her direct address on public transport. Arnaud squeezed her shoulder.

The cab smelled like mildew, and the radio was on. Madeleine was prone to a little less scrutiny with a someone else's coat around her. The car stopped for a light, and Arnaud talked quietly to her about his goings-on. He’d been promoted to Senior Psychologist. Then the sink was leaking, so he’d had to get it fixed. Thanks to her payment plan they were not in any danger of eviction by the authorities. He glanced at her like he was telling a joke. Madeleine sighed through her nose, smiling in spite of herself.

“We had to celebrate your birthday without you,” he said. “I hope you aren’t too upset.”

Very, said Madeleine.

“I tried to call, but you weren’t picking up. I thought maybe you were busy.”

It slipped my mind, actually. The birthday. Madeleine smiled. I suppose that’s a little less forgivable.

“You sound exhausted.”

The taxi pulled up one block away from their street. Arnaud paid the driver, struck up a little friendly conversation while Madeleine played look-out. Nothing happened except Arnaud, taking her luggage for her before she could say, it's fine, I'll get it myself. He walked with her into the apartment, up the elevator, down the hall.

Madeleine flopped on the bed and closed her eyes. Waking up, it was still dark out. The clock said 04:14. She got up to fix herself some water. She was several time-zones ahead. It would take a few days to readjust. On the way back to her room, there was Arnaud. “Do you need anything?”

Madeleine hesitated in the doorway. She told him she wasn’t sleeping well on her own.

Arnaud didn't say anything. He followed into her bedroom, laying down next to her. They didn't talk about her long absences because it was simpler not to. The same way she tolerated his friends because they were never outright derisive or unpleasant. It was too inconvenient to pull up roots.

She pictured coming home one night, turning on the television to see a bus in a charry fireball. They'd count up the dead until his name flashed on the screen to join the rest, and she’d sit there for however long it took to sink in.

He caressed the back of her head lightly. Her chest tightened. Turning into the warm body at her shoulder. She took his face in her hands and kissed him. His breath hesitated. She hooked her leg around his waist, sitting up, straddling him. For the first time in months they couldn't get closer.

Drifting off with his arm still around her. Waking up to daylight, alone. The impression of a body on displaced sheets. There was a cup of tea on the end-table, gone cold.

⁂

The Jeep travelled out of Conakry and into Sierra Leone. After a standard security check Madeleine was taken into a building meant for holding conferences. The Project Coordinator came over and put his arm around her, offering a chair. Despite sitting in a car for four hours, Madeleine didn't trust herself to stand.

With the exception of the Medical Coordinator, the other mission heads had survived. There were only about thirty of the fifty MSF present. She didn't recognise anyone from the Psychosocial Unit.

Hand on her shoulder, causing her to flinch. Looking up into the face of a hospital aide, male. Probably Arnaud’s age. Arms recently scoured. "Dr. Swann, right? You were with the Psychosocial Unit." Voice slightly muffled by respirator mask.

Madeleine gave a curt nod. The aide looked at her face. Her hands throttling the plastic bottle. She let go, jaw tight. He offered a brief, empathetic glance before his attention diverted. Madeleine unclenched her jaw, kept her head down.

The Project Coordinator called everyone's attention.

Earlier this morning, the head of mission was informed of a possible attack on Donka Hospital. For reasons that were not yet clear, the government had also decided to retake Donka Hospital as well as Ignace Deen, Clinique Ambroise Paré and Clinique Pasteur by way of military intervention.

The majority of high-risk patients and all MSF workers at Donka were relocated and had not been harmed. Several of the MSF and doctors at the surrounding hospitals were on-site when the insurgents showed up—thanks to the cooperation between the PSD and SFT, casualties were not as severe as they could have been.

The government sent in their own forces to nullify further incidents without consulting MSF. This, combined with previous incidents against aid workers and doctors, indicated the division between military and humanitarian action was of little concern to the active terrorist threat. The MSF’s involvement was no longer necessary, leaving thousands of innocent patients without proper medical care.

After the briefing, the Project Coordinator went around the room discussing the situation with others. He got to Madeleine and said, “We’re still waiting for more information. International travel is currently under a moratorium because of these attacks, but we'll be able to work something out.” His voice wavered slightly as he squeezed her hand, said, “It has been a pleasure to work with you, Dr. Swann. I’m so sorry.”

Two SFT escorted her outside, where Safin and the man with the faux-eye were waiting. Due to the escalating threat, it would be in her best interest to stay out of Conakry for the time being. Once the moratorium on travel was lifted, she would be flying from Lungi International Airport. A reservation had been made for her at the Home Suites Boutique Hotel.

“The chauffer will ask for The Pale King's daughter. Don’t open the door for anyone else.” Safin looked over at her in the rear-view. “Is there anyone at home you wish to notify?”

⁂

April, 2012. Arnaud talked her into spending a Saturday afternoon at the L'Orriù di Beauvau with old friends. A surgeon and his wife, a paediatric nurse; both twenty years her senior. Their only commonality was their altruism. Sitting in company of others, she wasn’t as likely to keep watching the doors. All of their issues at work and home seemed so rudimentary. The year before this last mission, she was administering HIV vaccines in Moldova. So many people in the world had no one to watch out for them.

Despite her reservations, Madeleine made sure to set aside time for the people in her life, in some way or another. Whenever she could not busy herself in paperwork or other constructive activities, she tended to get a little surly. Arnaud was just as keen to make himself scarce, but he was also insistent that she find more things to do outside of work.

In her early twenties, working on her residency in-and-out of hospitals in France, Madeleine made up for the time she’d invested in schoolwork. Back then, she still had people to go out with on Thursday evenings. She would challenge herself to strike up a conversation with the other doctors each week. She’d hear the clinic manager speaking to the head psychiatrist, oh, Madeleine, she was nice enough. Maybe a little standoffish, but dependable once you got to know her. Not everyone could be a social butterfly. It was hard to be friends with someone who never talked about herself. Maybe she was just shy. One of those misanthropic types who got her validation out of productivity. A lot of the time, they wouldn’t even wait for her to leave the room first.

Obviously, she was just conflating a couple bad experiences. All she had to do was talk a little about her work at home and the mission in Hong Kong. Counselling the victims of a trafficking ring bust. Keep it light. Oh, yes, the mission. It was a success. We were able to assist such-and-such number of displaced children and adults. It isn't as heroic as you make it sound. A lot of sitting in rooms with no air conditioning, or in tents. I am not being modest, you would feel the same if you tried it. 

She told them about how the rules were very strict, especially with correspondence. Just by sending a picture via phone, the intent could be misconstrued. How she just didn’t want to draw any extra attention. How the gratitude from the lives her team had touched more impactful than money or prestige. 

The nurse said, “Madeleine, I hardly see you anymore. Don’t you ever take a break?”

“She does,” said Arnaud, “if I remind her to.”

The surgeon disguised a smirk by taking a drink of coffee. Madeleine did not look at Arnaud. The nurse was watching them with something like concern.

“Were any of your relatives in law enforcement?” asked the surgeon.

Madeleine said no, none of them.

The paediatric nurse said, “You remind me a lot of my older brother. You're both very, oh, how should I put this? Aware of your surroundings. But that's good for a woman your age.” The nurse leant in like she was some kind of whistle-blower. “He’s done very well for himself. Got started as a narcotics officer. Now he’s working for MI5.”

Madeleine nodded. She said, I've never been told I act like a narc before.

Arnaud and the surgeon chuckled. The nurse did not.

The nurse said, “You can’t be too careful these days. My brother was telling me a little about that terrorist attack, last month. You’ve probably seen it on the news. Some maniac posing as a policeman broke into Parliament with a gun. He was after the SIS. Can you believe that?”

“Tiago,” said the surgeon. “His name’s been released. Some rogue MI6 agent.”

Madeleine became very interested in her tea.

Now the surgeon wanted to know, had Madeleine ever considered forensic psychiatry?

Back in her residency years, she used to have dreams about receiving letters in the mail, no return address. The same black insignia on all of her father’s letters. She shrugged and told him that she would rather help people directly.

“You've got the right temperament,” the nurse said, “for court cases. Very no-nonsense.”

Madeleine shrugged. She'd been called much worse when she was working on her residency. That got a laugh.

She tolerated their company for another half-hour, before remembering she had to call a client back and reschedule that appointment. She didn't usually take clients on Saturday. Stepping back into the café, she did her best to appear sorry to a group of people willing to put up with all her deflections.

⁂

In the tastefully lit lobby of Home Suites Boutique Hotel, the attendant behind the desk sized Madeleine up and informed her she'd been marked down for a Junior Suite. Madeleine asked if her things had been collected.

The attendant's eyes darted to the men from SFT. She gave Madeleine the room number and gestured brusquely towards the young-faced bellhop waiting beside the elevator. "He'll see you to your room."

The bellhop stole a couple pointed glances at Madeleine as if she were wearing something ostentatious. He only spoke to ask if she would like him to help her into the room with the bags. When Madeleine accepted, he wheeled the trolley ahead, unlocking the door and unloading her luggage on the rack, quickly muttered: "Have a nice day," and left without looking back.

Stepping into the living room. Classic furniture. Carpet at her feet. Air conditioning. After living in a small, stuffy room at the Grand Hotel de L'independence, such smaller luxuries were closer to home. Her compliance bought with this beautiful suite. She didn’t want to touch anything or sit down for fear of sullying the furniture.

So she checked her luggage. All of her clothes were in-order. The laptop and recorder as well. She booted up the former to find all her recent documents had been moved to a directory that no longer existed. Madeleine closed it.

In a matter of hours the tragedy would breach headlines in the interest of garnering military attention and drop shortly after the government stepped in.

She moved into the bathroom; white marble. A walk-in shower and bathtub. French cosmetics by Chopard. Artificial scent permeated her senses, making her nose itch. She finally got a look at herself in the mirror. The woman in the reflection cracked a wavering smile.

The staff here probably didn't see many customers in her condition. No wonder she'd garnered such a reception. She hadn't asked for any of this. She noticed her wide eyes, trembling mouth. The blood that wasn't hers. The little particles of what had once been the Medical Coordinator, the insurgent, and Peter Miller from Logistics, spattered across her blouse, on her skin and caked onto her hair.

Dry-heaving. Collapsing over the toilet, exhuming the little that was left inside of her stomach. She tried again. All that came back up was her own spit.  

A convulsion worked through her body. Her voice warped, mutating. Not a sob but a guttural sound clawing its way up from her lungs. Animal distress, unable to escape the confines of her physical body. Clutching the porcelain, mired in the smell of vomit and perfume.

Inhale, hold. Exhale, hold. Her breath kept shaking. She flushed the toilet, closing the lid, sitting on it with her head in her hands. Inhale, hold. Exhale. Sitting up straight. Regulating her breathing until she was clear-headed. She turned on the fan to air out the room and spent a long time under the shower, checking her hair, under her nails. Then she redressed.

⁂

June, 1998. Madeleine led an unassuming life within Maisons-Laffitte. Classes were stimulating enough to take her mind off life back home. Horseback riding, hikes in the summer. Madeleine could tolerate the heat well enough.

The instructors found her obedient and diligent in her studies, though after a couple months she hadn't made any friends. Waking up on the floor of the dorms every other night, tangled in her sheets. The other kids stopped trying to talk to her. The school doctor took her aside and evaluated there was nothing wrong, physically. They put her on sleeping pills. It helped, but she was always so listless in the mornings. Took her off, and the nightmares got worse.

That summer, a couple of the girls dragged her down with them for a swim. Madeleine had never learnt how. Playing off her embarrassment against the other girls as disinterest. Her desperation fell on deaf ears. Standing there, the water lapped at her knees. It wasn’t so bad. Just cold. She would rather be studying with her peers. A hand collided with her back and she was falling forward.

Thrashing, though nothing held her down. Maybe they thought she was faking for attention. One of her spells. Nothing to do but wait it out. Try to help her, and she’d take someone down with her.

The pair of hands that caught her were stronger than a child’s. Pulling her into the summer sun. The instructor was demanding an explanation while the other girls looked at him, not Madeleine.

At the infirmary the nurse got nothing but monosyllabic answers. Act too stubborn and they'd label her psychotic. Too hysterical and they'd kick her out and her father would never forgive her.

She’d been making progress. One little slip up and here she was, back in the psychologist’s office, watching him scribble in his notebook. The only reason she agreed to come back was because he never pressured her to speak.

This time, she told him a little about her father. How he never knew to deal with her, or her mother. That was why her mother left, and why he'd sent her here.

The psychologist wanted to know about the lake, an hour ago. Well, said Madeleine, she'd never learned how to swim. Out on the ice, she was always afraid she would fall in and freeze to death. She knew a little about how the shock was supposed to kill you first. She couldn't think of a worse way to go.

“You won't have to worry about that in the summer.”

Madeleine said nothing. He jotted something else down. The medication is helping, she said, but I'm still a little tired in the mornings. I wish it could help when I have nightmares.

“Can you describe one of these nightmares, if you're comfortable?”

Through a dry mouth Madeleine said, I don't really remember what they are about. I wake up on the floor and can't explain myself. It's really embarrassing.

Sometimes, said the psychologist, when a person goes through a particularly intense or upsetting event, his or her mind will block it out.

Madeleine gripped her sleeve.

“Is it possible these nightmares could be related to what happened this afternoon?”

Ten years old. Her father sitting her down at the kitchen table, saying, It’s called post-traumatic stress. People who have been in very dangerous or upsetting situations, sometimes they aren’t able to turn off their survival instinct. It can feel like you’re back there, but it’s just a feeling, Madeleine. Can’t hurt you any more than a dream.

Does it ever go away?

He’d paused for a moment, and looked away.

You get used to it.

Madeleine said, I think I would like to go now.

⁂

December, 1997. Her father was in the process of relocating from Austria to Norway. One of his associates picked her up from the airport, drove her to the new home in Nittedal. She walked up the steps. The door opened and he was dressed for work. He smiled and said, “Hello, Maddie.”

Madeleine forced a smile. No matter how old she got, she’d always be his little girl.

She took off her shoes before setting foot in the house full of unrecognizable, sturdy furniture. To the right was the kitchen. On her left, a spiral staircase, wooden and naked without carpeting. The living room table overtaken by a neat pile of letters and yellowed documents. No family pictures on the mantle. No indication that the family from Altaussee had ever existed. Her father asked what she thought of the place.

Well, said Madeleine, it has a lot of windows.

Her father replied that they had plenty of curtains. The heavy silver ring on his right hand—last winter, he would never have worn it in front of her. 

While she was in school, her father had decided it would be best if she lived with her Aunt Droit for a while. It was abrupt but the best way to keep her safe.

You own a dozen safehouses across the globe, she thought, yet you can’t bear to live with me in one. In her father’s eyes, even at twelve years old, Madeleine was just another business partner. She didn’t have the courage to tell him her true feelings. Forsaking her own security for a fleeting moment of pride.

She nodded, paying attention to what he didn’t convey in words.

“You need to think about your future. Pretty soon you’ll be going to university. Six years might seem like a long time from now, but it goes quickly. Have you given it any thought?”

Her father had never really asked before. Madeleine’s eyes wandered. He wasn’t even looking at her. Back then, she was pretty sure about mental health. She wanted to be a therapist.

Her father scoffed. “Psychologists don’t get paid well unless they’re already connected. If you want to be a social worker, just throw your money away. It’ll be quicker than earning the degree.”

Madeleine scowled. That wasn’t the point, she said. It was about helping other people who didn’t understand how to fix themselves. Not standing by and watching them hurt themselves out of ignorance, or lack of options.

“So,” her father said, “you want to go into medical school. You’ll make a decent salary. And if you’re passionate about it, I’m sure it will open a lot of doors.”

The lift of his voice betrayed him, that lingering hope to connect. As if he could earn some redemption after a year of indifference. He turned his head slightly.

“Is that what you’d like to do?”

December, 1998. It was Droit who opened the door to her home in Nice. She took one look at Madeleine and said, “You’re Fredrich’s daughter?”

Madeleine nodded, drawing her coat a little tighter to herself. The only person that called her father Frederich was her mother.

Madeleine took her boots off at the door. A well-furnished home that might be advertised on travelling brochures. The kind of place her mother would call homely with a scoff.

Droit worked full-time as a teacher. She was not married and never smelled like alcohol. During the day, Madeleine had her own set of chores around the house.

“I’m sure your father has people to handle most everything,” Droit said, “but you’ll have to pitch in.”

Madeleine shouldered her schoolbag with a grimace. People outside of the family circle tended to make assumptions. She didn’t take it personally anymore.

Her luggage wheels rattled over hardwood on the way to her room. Sparsely decorated. A double bed with plain ivory sheets. “It might be a little smaller than what you’re used to, but I made sure everything’s clean.”

It’s lovely, said Madeleine. Thank you very much.

Droit hesitated with her hand on the doorjamb. “How’s boarding school working out? I hear you’re keeping busy.”

It’s school. The only difference is that I live there most of the year.

“You enjoy it?”

It’s all right.

Droit paused. “Do you like eggs? My sister never was a good cook. My mother was always cross with us. My sister could never do anything right. Once she turned up the water too high and ruined our pot. I thought our mother was going to kill us.”

Droit chuckled. Madeleine started to laugh, but her throat tightened. She averted her eyes to the window. All the animals and plant life, suffocating under powdered snow. Revealed in the thaw, come spring.

Most adults respected her adolescent brave-face or resorted to overt sympathies. Droit just put a gnarled hand on her arm and said, “I’m sorry, dear.”

It’s okay, said Madeleine softly, I just miss her.

“These separations are never easy. I’ve never had any children, but—leaving your own behind. What a selfish thing to do.”

Madeleine pulled away. Yeah.

⁂

By the next morning, no word from anyone asking for the Pale King.

If only she could get some sleep, she would be able to relax a little. But all of last night she was thinking about the attack on the hotel. What the insurgent had said just before he was shot. The threat had been allowed to get into their hotel parking lot, only to be swiftly neutralised by the protective detail. Without some kind of communication between the teams in the field and heads of mission, somewhere along the line, there had been an infiltration. Of the MSF? Or the PSD surrounding them?

After an hour of reading over the hotel’s local wi-fi, she could determine next to nothing about SFT. These men were contracted on behalf of someone very powerful. The number of people who spoke about the Pale King, she could count on one hand. None of the MSF missions she’d attended would cooperate openly with private contractors. Running from the same men hiding behind NGOs who operated out of their country’s jurisdictions.

Once she was in a more secure location, she would make some calls. Let her hair go back to its natural colour, or dye it again. Spend some extra time giving away most of her scarves and other frivolous accessories to charity. A month from now she’d pop up under a different name, at another private clinic, reacclimating to the same career and sham of a social life.

After all of her spiteful declarations about her father’s work and his horrible friends, that blood money was the only way she could afford to go through Oxford. She was going to be indebted for the rest of her life. Or whichever one of them died off first. A crushing, humiliating certainty that, for all of her efforts, she had as much influence on the world as the common man.

Just the idea of hearing his voice again made her want to throw something. Sitting here in her air-conditioned room, blaming her father out of convenience. When the blood was on someone else’s hands, all she had to do was sort out the aftermath. Men like him had no heart to break.

⁂

June 14th, 2012. That evening, throngs of people under the Eiffel Tower and on the Champ-de-Mars to watch the fireworks. Over in the Jardins du Trocadéro, you could see it from across the river. Madeleine shut all the windows to keep out the gunpowder smell. She could hear this going off in the distance. She was in the kitchen, fixing dinner, when someone knocked at the door. Madeleine stopped. The knocking did not. She almost called out, but her chest was suddenly tight.

The knocking continued. Madeleine almost dropped the knife. Crouching on the kitchen floor, out of sight. In her bedroom, right corner of the walk-in closet, in a portable safe was a Glock 43, subcompact. Someone was trying to get into the apartment. Even if she started running she would not make it in time. What if they’d taken Arnaud? Tracked her to this apartment. All she had was the kitchen knife. The door opened.

That was how Arnaud found her. Taking her shoulders, saying, “Madeleine?” until the sound of his voice registered. She almost put her arms around him but for the knife. Gently disentangling herself, she looked at the floor, “I thought you were working.”

“I got back early. Thought I’d surprise you.” He was still dressed for work. Somehow, he’d never looked his age before.

They both noticed the smoke simultaneously. Arnaud got up first, turned off the burner. “It’s not too bad. Just a little singed. I’ll get the window.”

That’s all right, said Madeleine. Not tonight. It’s all I can smell inside and out.

Arnaud was looking at her in a way he never had before. He swallowed dryly. “Have you ever considered seeing a specialist?” Madeleine’s eyes were somewhere else. “Every time we go out, you’re so anxious. I don’t know how you can go on like this.”

You startled me, said Madeleine coldly. I appreciate your concern, but I need to clean this up. She brushed his arm away.

“You were on the ground. I know I can’t force you to do anything. But I think you should consider seeing a therapist about these spells.”

Don’t try to diagnose me as if I am one of your clients. I won’t put up with it just because we’re living together.

“You’re—”

You’re going to say I’m being unreasonable. I don’t understand why that is so difficult for you. I’ve got it under control now. It’s not any of your concern. If you want to argue, I won’t discuss it with you.

He said, “Okay. I’m going out.”

No matter how hard she pushed, he would always come back.

⁂

Six days after the incident at Donka, the government put out an official statement that the MSF’s services were no longer required. That same night she took the plane home. It was 06:45 when they finally touched down in France.

Even so, she couldn’t let her guard down. Heading towards the baggage reclaim, she noticed two men in suits divert from conversation to follow her path.

Could be a couple of SPECTRE’s dogs, waiting for her to try and hail a cab. Or a pair of international commuters going about their day.

Ducking into the airport restroom, Madeleine did a quick self-assessment. She hadn’t gotten much sleep on the flight. At least she’d changed into something she could wear coming into work—white blouse, grey dress pants and matching peacoat. She caught herself trembling and grit her teeth.

She was just suffering from jet-lag. Prone to old habits, self-perpetuating. Overreliance on the intervention of others had made her soft when she could not afford to be.

When she came back out the two men were nowhere to be seen. She didn’t notice anyone watching her on the rest of the way, or at the baggage claim. Everyone in the clinic would want to know how she was doing. Arnaud, especially. It had been a mess abroad, and she was grateful to be back home.

For now, she was stuck idling around the carousel like everyone else. Entranced by the motion of the belt when someone called out, “Dr. Swann?”

Man in a plain taupe suit tailed by a younger woman in button-up shirt and slacks. He had red hair and a mole on the side of his chin. The woman’s dark hair cut short. They introduced themselves as Detectives Blois and Jardin, respectively.

“I’m sorry,” said Madeleine, “what is this about?”

Jardin said, “You need to come with us.”

At 07:53 she was sitting in an interrogation room. Blank walls, blank floor. A table and two chairs. Blois asked how she was feeling. 

“Fine,” said Madeleine, “I just flew back this morning.”

“Where are you coming back from?” asked Jardin.

“A non-profit mission in Africa. I volunteer when I have the time.”

“Must be a hell of a lot of work. But, I suppose someone has to do it.” Madeleine offered her a tight-lipped smile before averting her eyes to the door. Blois was offering coffee, too hot to drink. “You live alone, Dr. Swann?”

“No, I am staying with a friend.”

“Arnaud, is that right?” Madeleine nodded. “Did he try to call you earlier today?” Madeleine looked up. Blois’s expression became stony. “I’m sorry to tell you this. He was found dead this morning. We think he must have jumped, or else been thrown over the balcony. Your apartment has been searched. Clothes and money weren’t touched. We have his phone. He tried to call you several times. You have any idea why?”

Madeleine said, “I’m not sure.”

“I’d just like to ask some questions, if that’s all right.”

They ended up grilling her for an hour. Was Arnaud involved directly in your activities with MSF? Any prior knowledge of your volunteer work? Did he have anyone in his life who might wish him or yourself harm? Any suicidal ideation? Substance abuse. So on, so forth.

Hell, maybe Arnaud was suicidal. Maybe she would have a clue if she had gotten to know him on better terms than a housemate, coming-and-going without asking questions. The possibility of her death was too great a stain on his conscience. She left him yearning for the strength to walk away.

Blois said, “Any relatives you can contact?”

“No.” He was writing something down. Madeleine frowned. “Just my father. Frederich König. We’re estranged.”

Blois stopped. “König? The financier from the nineties? I didn’t know he was still….”

Jardin was looking at her very closely. Madeleine straightened her shoulders. Naming her father was always a last resort. “You must excuse me, Detective, if I may ask—you are detaining me?”

Blois stopped writing. “We managed to get in contact with your employers before you arrived. Your alibi checks out. This is just protocol. You’ll be free to leave with your CPO once I submit this report.”

The buzzer sounded. As the heavy door on the other side of the room opened, Blois stood up and Madeleine did the same. Jardin walked her to the door.

The man standing in the hall was dressed impeccably. Black pinstripe dress shirt, plain black suit and dress pants. Behind sunglasses, it was difficult to tell if he was looking at her directly. Madeleine froze, mid-step.

“Mr. Safin will see you out,” said Jardin, touching Madeleine gently on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

Madeleine heard the words without processing them fully. She couldn’t bring herself to look away. There was no reason he should be here. Safin, exchanging a curt nod with Blois, now turned to Madeleine. “Follow me, Dr. Swann.”

Taking her into a different, empty room. Her fate was sealed. All the evidence would be discarded. The recording of their session archived. Just another suicide to print in that week’s obituary. The door shut behind her.

“You should know,” he said, “in a case such as yours, I am liable to follow through.”

Madeleine almost scoffed. “I’ve done nothing to warrant this.”

“You were in the right place at the wrong time. Or did you think it was a coincidence that you were spared?”

Madeleine shot him a foul look that went unreciprocated. “You’ve been spying on me—what, since Conakry? Who put you up to this?”

He didn’t answer straight-away. Just gave her a look that let her know exactly what kind of impression she was making. “There is a car waiting outside that will take us to Paris-Est. Your father will see you week from now in Zürich, but no sooner. Your respective offices have been informed you’ll be taking a leave of absence, for your mental health.”

“You don’t seem to understand what I am saying. I have a life here. Friends who will ask where I’ve gone, and why.”

“You would put them in harm’s way to save yourself?” Madeleine blenched. Now Safin inclined his head slightly. “There. You could have looked more upset about your boyfriend, it was not convincing.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Madeleine snapped. “This is about my father. I cut off all ties with him many years ago. I have absolutely nothing to do with him or his sick life. Why would he ask for me now?”

His shoulders lifted. “I’m just the messenger.”

“Oh, is that how this is? You really want to help me? All right. Start by informing my father I don’t need any more trouble. Whatever he did, he has ways to fix it without badgering me.” She walked past him, towards the door. “I’ll see myself out.”

“You cannot return to your apartment, Dr. Swann.”

She scoffed. “Of course not. I’ll just find a hotel.”

“You are the daughter of a very powerful financier. You may lack his connections, but you inherit the same enemies. I can’t let you go alone.”

“I’ve survived this long without outside intervention.” No thanks to you.

“You’d fit easily into a briefcase.”

Something in his tone stayed her hand. Madeleine chuckled to spite her nerves. “You’re trying to be funny, now? It isn’t working.” Safin did not answer. She should turn on her heel and walk out.

Instead, she waited to see what he would do. He touched his ear and said, “Prinesi eto syuda.”

“What is this?”

No answer. His expression impassive. An empty threat to provoke her nerves, watch the corn-fed socialite squirm a little. He couldn’t be serious. There were cameras everywhere. Countless witnesses both inside and around the station.

“Step away from the door,” he said. “I won’t ask again.”

Madeleine complied.

The door opened. The man from the Jeep with the faux-eye handed over a briefcase her father might use.

“You can come along quietly,” Safin said, “or you can make a nuisance of yourself. Which will it be?” Madeleine drew the coat tighter around herself. Even with sunglasses it was easy to tell that he was looking at her now. A subtle, unpleasant smile brought his scarification into relief. “Come along.”

She was walked out the door, out of building and steered discreetly into the black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter idling by the curb.

EDIT 09/08/22: Reworked ending scene in France + terminology. CPO = Close-Protection Officer

#fanfic #fanfiction #madeleine swann #lyutsifer safin #primo #mr white #original characters #user: dorminchu #very happy to get this show on the road!!

[muchadoabout]

aaaaand top 5 opera duets!

This is a combination of my all-time and current favourites:

1. Tristan und Isolde: O sink hernieder, Nacht der Liebe 2. La forza del destino: Solenne in quest'ora 3. Hamlet: Doute de la lumière 4. Don Carlo: Restate 5. Eugene Onegin: Final scene

Honourable mentions: Samson et Dalila: J'ai gravi la montagne Thaïs: C'est toi, mon père! The Tsar's Bride: Zachem ty?

#Thank you! #I didn't expect that making this list would be this hard #please share your fav duets that I should listen in the comment! #I want to listen to many more duets <3

[twi-go]

Bruuuuuh

I just logged into my AO3 account for Hetalia for the first time in like a year, and WTF?????? What happened? I swear the last time I was around, Zachem Ya had like 100 kudos, and now it's got almost 500??? Where the hell is that all coming from? Are there that many new readers in the Hetalia fandom? It's still alive? Really? I'm just shocked! (in a very good way, of course. But, dude, my inbox is backlogged like crazy, so if you're reading this by chance and you might have commented at some point, THANK YOU! I am sorry, I just cannot answer all of these, but I promise I have been reading them)

I logged in because I learned recently that you can post fanart on AO3 as well, not just fanfiction, so I was going to archive some of my shitty fanart there in case I ditch tumblr for good. That's why I am here, as well, for I wanted to tell you this :

IF YOU SEE UPDATES FROM ME IT IS NOT NEW!

Plz don't get excited. I'm prb just gonna archive shit there that's already been on tumblr, so it won't be anything new for you if you have followed me here.

Anyway!!!!! THANK YOU GUYS! So cool to see the fandom clinging in there. ^^

#hetalia #twi-go #wow #love u guys

[carpedzem]

okay i couldn't pinpoint this feeing in my head that it wasn't all the things she said russian version i loved the most and yeah i was right my favourite was zachem ya

#its probably less known since it doesnt have english version #anyway im going to listen to tatu now great

[ploxicha]

Urok, kotoryy my prepodali Putinu, zaklyuchayetsya v tom, chto my – kuchka grebannykh shutov. Khotya Putin znal ob etom i ran'she.

Eks-sovetnik Borisa Dzhonsona Dominik Kammings vystupil s rezkoy kritikoy Zapada iz-za podderzhki kiyevskogo rezhima. Kammings otkrovenno ne stesnyalsya v vyrazheniyakh, kommentiruya nyneshnyuyu real'nost' na Ukraine.

Vsë eto ukrainskoye korrumpirovannoye mafioznoye gosudarstvo, po suti, obmanulo vsekh nas, i kak sledstviye, nas vsekh budut imet'. Nas pryamo seychas nagibayut, verno?

Kammings, vozglavlyavshiy v svoye vremya kampaniyu za vykhod Velikobritanii iz YES, pozhaluy yedinstvennyy zapadnyy politik, kotoryy khot' i zapozdalo, no dal adekvatnuyu otsenku proiskhodyashchemu.

Sanktsii. Vse eti sanktsii protiv Rossii vredyat Yevrope bol'she, chem samoy Moskve. [...] Vsya eta tupaya politika Zapada, podtolknula Rossiyu k soyuzu s krupneyshey v mire promyshlennoy derzhavoy – s Kitayem.

Razgovory naschet chlenstva Ukrainy v NATO priveli k tomu, chto Rossiya vynuzhdena byla reagirovat' – govorit Kammings.

My chesali ob etom yazykom kak ni v chem ne byvalo. A Rossiya ne raz preduprezhdala: “Ne delayte etogo, inache my tam vso na khren raznesem”. Zachem my vvyazalis' v etu glupuyu istoriyu? Bylo by iz-za chego. Iz-za korrumpirovannoy dyry, kotoraya ne imeyet voobshche nikakogo znacheniya?

Kammings, kak opytnyy polittekhnolog, ponimayet, chto krakh kiyevskogo rezhima neizbezhen i blizok, i chto na Zapade seychas prosto uzhe ne znayut – kak vyputat'sya iz etoy "glupoy istorii". Na fone etogo politik proshchupyvayet pochvu dlya sozdaniya svoyey politicheskoy partii, kotoraya budet stoyat' v protivoves nyneshnemu britanskomu isteblishmentu ------------------------------------ Урок, который мы преподали Путину, заключается в том, что мы – кучка гребанных шутов. Хотя Путин знал об этом и раньше.

Экс-советник Бориса Джонсона Доминик Каммингс выступил с резкой критикой Запада из-за поддержки киевского режима. Каммингс откровенно не стеснялся в выражениях, комментируя нынешнюю реальность на Украине.

Всë это украинское коррумпированное мафиозное государство, по сути, обмануло всех нас, и как следствие, нас всех будут иметь. Нас прямо сейчас нагибают, верно?

Каммингс, возглавлявший в свое время кампанию за выход Великобритании из ЕС, пожалуй единственный западный политик, который хоть и запоздало, но дал адекватную оценку происходящему.

Санкции. Все эти санкции против России вредят Европе больше, чем самой Москве. [...] Вся эта тупая политика Запада, подтолкнула Россию к союзу с крупнейшей в мире промышленной державой – с Китаем.

Разговоры насчет членства Украины в НАТО привели к тому, что Россия вынуждена была реагировать – говорит Каммингс.

Мы чесали об этом языком как ни в чем не бывало. А Россия не раз предупреждала: “Не делайте этого, иначе мы там всё на хрен разнесем”. Зачем мы ввязались в эту глупую историю? Было бы из-за чего. Из-за коррумпированной дыры, которая не имеет вообще никакого значения?

Каммингс, как опытный политтехнолог, понимает, что крах киевского режима неизбежен и близок, и что на Западе сейчас просто уже не знают – как выпутаться из этой "глупой истории". На фоне этого политик прощупывает почву для создания своей политической партии, которая будет стоять в противовес нынешнему британскому истеблишменту.

[mirrorreview]

The modern world sees traditional selling methods becoming out of date and less effective, therefore it is crucial for leaders to focus on consistently improving the digital presence of both their organization and their own personal brand. As a result of digital advancements in technology, the role of a CEO has changed drastically, and the business world is expecting multi-talented personalities in leadership positions. Zac Hemming (CEO and Co-Founder of ICE Cleaning) embodies the characteristics of a noteworthy leader using his own expertise to drive service excellence within the cleaning industry.

#zachemming #ceooficecleaning #icecleaning

[mkonstruktor]

ЗАЧЕМ БЕНЗИНУ ...МАСЛО?

Десятилетний опыт эксплуатации разработанной мною системы смазки мотоциклетного двигателя дает, как мне кажется, все основания рекомендовать созданное устройство и многочисленным мотолюбителям, и серийным заводам, выпускающим мототехнику. Могу сказать, что значительно улучшилась работа двигателя

#Автомотосервис

[chipman2016-blog]

В процессе эксплуатации автомобильного кондиционера в его системе накапливаются различные загрязнения. Основные причины, по которым требуется регулярная очистка..

Подробнее: https://sct.by/blog/news/zachem-chistit-conditioner/