#ivan tyrants

Взаимное уважение (Vzaimnoye Uvazheniye), 1:

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            The security had been about what Collin had expected; two checkpoints had the rather understated Umbrella agent stop his car for pairs of beefy men brandishing Kalashnikovs… or something like Kalashnikovs, anyways. Collin didn’t know guns, except to not say anything stupid and simply hand off his identification to the ones aiming the guns at him. The armed guards grunted, waved him through to the next set of gates, and willfully ignored this weedy annoyance. Ahead, he spied the actual complex itself, though it was beyond the reach of the dirt one-lane road he’d been on for the past half mile, and stopped the slightly dented, rented vehicle to step out and investigate his route further—the complex was, technically, a residence though not a typical one.

The man who lived there was also not a typical one. Colonel Sergei Vladimir was considered “retired” from Umbrella’s board, but as with most people involved with the company it was impossible to cut all ties, even when the break was legitimate and not just legal smokescreen. Though the Colonel could put a safe distance from the business of genetically-engineered super-virals and the cutthroat bioweaponry environment—sitting comfortably on the stacks of money gained from quite literally selling off bits of himself—he seemed to have prepared well for someone to have found out his involvement anyhow, and be ready to withdraw like a tortoise and fight to the death. He seemed the type, just from what Collin knew. At least a dozen experimental Tyrants had been cloned directly from this bizarre old Soviet, and a dozen more at least had large chunks of his genome spliced into them in the embryonic stages.  

            Collin did not like Tyrants… not the individual creatures and definitely not the concept of them. Despite still being on Umbrella business and very much out of his element, Collin was at least relieved that he was isolated in a private piece of the Ukrainian countryside, and not stuck in some laboratory or test range with the hulking monsters’ cloudy, vacant eyes following his every move. Not nearly as vacant as they looked…

            There was a third checkpoint area at the end of the small footpath some fifty yards down the hill from where he’d left the car, though no guards appeared to be standing at their normal places. There was only a smaller, ordinary metal fence with a very much not-security oriented latch between himself and a small patio leading up to a Brutalist-styled house’s front entrance, and after waiting a few seconds Collin timidly lifted the latch and let himself onto the brick pavers. Still there was no sign of a final checkpoint guard, so he called out once in English, then kicked himself mentally and tried again in a wavery Russian. No voice replied. There wasn’t even the bark of a sentry dog. Steeling his fragile spine, Collin took the next few paces over to the heavy oak door and thought about knocking. There was obviously no doorbell…

            Behind him and to his left came a swift stamping of heavy boots, and Collin spun around in terror as their trajectory stopped less than a yard from him. A tremor rattled the paver he was standing on. He’d already craned his neck up expecting to be glared down by the standard six-foot meathead soldier and cursed out in a mix of tongues for crossing the threshold without clearance. He instead came eye-to-chest with a wall of heavy white fabric. His neck had to creak up another few notches—and Collin shuddered at what was looming very much into his personal space.

            A Tyrant. Of course there would be a goddamn Tyrant, even out here. It wasn’t even a very big one as the trained killer biomutants went—but it was still well in the range of what Collin considered way too damn big for anything that superficially resembled a bald, mute, and jacked humanoid.

            There was… something else weird here too, which Collin didn’t place until the seven-foot-plus monstrosity had stopped and stared the little man down for several seconds, and then leaned its deep grey, leathery face closer. Collin flinched, bringing his hands up into a default position of surrender as he silently prayed the thing was not under any kind of kill orders. With a delayed startle he realized the Tyrant had been… wearing something extra with its bright white Limiter coat.

            Were those… sunglasses?

            Well, maybe “blinders” was also appropriate. They were an iridescent orange, wrap-around type which almost completely obscured the creature’s eyes and brows. The need was obvious: Tyrants of all production phases, all models, and all model variants had long been known to have extremely sensitive eyesight—and prolonged damage from bright sun or frequent flashbangs was the reason behind the eerie, pupilless appearance that many of them developed. Why this one was given a piece of eye protection that was so goofy-looking, like it was off to escort its master to a rave, Collin couldn’t quite understand.

            The goofiness of the glasses did not do much to lessen the very real possibility that Collin was going to piss himself and cry before falling down. The Tyrant had cocked its head slightly, and let out a confused grunt before lowering its head even closer. Its face was almost brushing up on Collin’s messy mop of hair; it sucked in a few heavy sniffs, straightened up, and repeated the process on each of the man’s upraised hands. Collin’s bladder nearly gave up the fight as a second set of thundering footsteps came around the house and loomed in from the right: Another Tyrant. This one was near-identical, except for the goofy sunglasses it wore being blue. This mutant also began sniffing heavily over the elevated portions of the intruder, letting out a low warning growl as Collin tried to duck out of its easy reach.

…What the hell were they doing? Were they under orders at all? Or was he screwed—simply happening to catch these things’ interest while they were freely roaming, and about to get out-of-control mauled by the two of them?

            A large hand stretched out and pawed at the breast pocket of Collin’s shirt, and he stifled a yelp. He held still as a statue as the other’s hands began investigating his open coat pockets, growling a bit more emphatically as its gloved fingers closed over his tube of Chapstick. It snatched the tube, studied it for a second, then gave it an exploratory sniff before baring its upper teeth in disgust and flinging it away. The orange-visored monster was now digging into his slack’s pockets—still with a casual scent-check over Collin’s jacket shoulder as the man couldn’t suppress his squeak in alarm.

Maybe he wasn’t dead. The Tyrants seemed to be searching him—and a fair bit more politely than a TSA agent at that—and once the two monsters had seemingly determined that this intruder had no weapons, poisons, or other dangerous things they’d been ordered to watch for, they let up on the rough grabbing, the menacing growls, and stood back. It wasn’t easy to tell thanks to the ridiculous wrap-around headgear, but the Tyrants now seemed to be calmly watching him. The blue-visored one tilted its head sharply as Collin started lowering his hands to curl up around chest level, and grunted sharply at him.

            What the hell did that mean? Were they… waiting for orders from him now? He wished his voice wasn’t cracking like his balls hadn’t dropped and also that he’d thought to bring some water for his dry mouth:

            “U-umm… English? You understand?”

            To Collin’s shock, the two began nodding eagerly, tensed on their feet like pointer dogs focused on a hidden, quivering rabbit.

            “Right, um, I’ve come to meet with Sergei Vladimir. Is he here?”

            Both started to move, stopping as their broad shoulders bumped into each other and each issued a deep rumble of dissatisfaction as they glared at each other, noses only inches apart. The snarls raised in pitch until finally the slightly bigger one in the orange visor relented, shifting its weight in place, leaving the blue-visored one to tromp off around the side of the house presumably to fetch the ex-Spetsnaz Colonel. Collin tried to just get some oxygen without hyperventilating as he got left with the even less ideal situation. Being small, and being guarded by a seven-foot-plus mutant born and bred to crack heads open and punch through walls.

            “H-he’s, uh, gone to find the Colonel?” He must have snapped if he was chatting with a lethal bioweapon. But anything to help him forget the monstrous nature of the thing still standing less than a yard away, right?

            To Collin’s surprise, the Tyrant peered back down at him and gave a curt bob of its head. He began to nervously chuckle, uncontrollably.

            “Aheh… heh… good… that’s good…”

            The thing grunted again, sounding… interested, confused, annoyed? Collin couldn’t tell, and backed up to the door as the Tyrant suddenly shifted its weight towards him, leaning its entire head, shoulders, and massive chest down as if ready to headbutt him or crush him bodily against the closest wall. Collin flinched, hands wrapping up to futilely protect his eggshell-flimsy skull. He didn’t think he’d done anything provoking, but then the Colonel was known to be a bit on the crazy side. His personal Tyrants might also be trained to be a bit crazy to match.

            But nothing hit him… Cracking an eye open, Collin was startled by the sight of a wrinkly, grey ear hovering less than a foot from his face. The Tyrant was just holding the bent-over posture, waiting. Was it… looking at something by his shoes? There was nothing there but the cracks in the pavers and a light-colored moss. After a second the creature gave a soft groan—now definitely confused and shifting from foot to foot in impatience.

            “W-Uh-Wh-What do you w-want?” Collin prayed to whatever power existed that the Tyrant could parse his stammers. The thing blew a heavy snort through its nostrils, then answered very, very clearly, though the man still half-squealed at the reply he got: It groaned again, it pressed its shoulder sideways against Collin’s, and dipped its head further to bump softly against his forehead.

…Was this… normal for Tyrants? Was it… asking him to, what, pet it, like a dog or something?

            “Well—go on!” A deep, jovial voice chuckled from where its owner was stepping out around the side-yard. “Don’t leave him like that too long! Reward the poor Vanya before he gets let down!”

            Collin’s attention snapped to the tall, white-haired older man who was standing (and trying not the laugh) with the blue-visored Tyrant faithfully shadowing him. His right eye was closed permanently and still marked with a long scar, and he was wearing heavy outdoor boots, trousers, and a half-open coat even in the faint chill of the spring air. He was imposing indeed—barely looking small compared to these Tyrants, and also wore an insufferably amused smirk.

            “Ah, uh—” Collin was still afraid of whatever it meant to “let down” the insistent monster mashing itself into his side, and reached up while trying his best to keep his hand from shaking. Since the thing kept pushing its head further into his personal bubble, Collin gave the creature a quick scratch over the scalp as he might an overtly-friendly dog. The Tyrant let out a rumble that seemed contented, twisting its neck so that the fumbling hand was over the desired spot.

            “Seems Podushka likes you, ahaha!” the man, who could only be the Colonel, guffawed as he watched his visitor’s terrified expression turn fully confused under the barrage of the Tyrant still snuggling heavily onto him. “Come on, get some nerve! The big beast isn’t going to hurt you, сука. Ugh, what kind of hiring is Umbrella resorting to these days?”

            Colonel Sergei said something short and level in… Russian possibly, though he didn’t understand it. The Tyrant—or “Podushka”—swiftly retreated from Collin’s armsreach and grunted in an acknowledgement. The Colonel then stepped over towards his guest with the other Tyrant not far behind and squinted downwards.

            “Hmmm… You’re the one here about the settlement, yes? What do I call you?”

            “C-Collin Davies, sir. Yes, you’re quite right,” he straightened up, trying not to reveal just how chilly he was now that fear-sweat had soaked right through to his lapels, “I’m from Umbrella’s U.K. branch… Just here to confirm with you some things that will, ah, assure your immunity.”

            “Hmph… Might as well get cozy, with all this legal pizdets…” Sergei appeared to chew at the inside of his cheek a moment. “We should do this inside. Laska! Podushka! Follow.”

            Okay, this big Soviet bastard definitely found his phobia of Tyrants hilarious; there was a smirk on his face as he opened the door and let the agent in—making sure the still-rumbling Podushka was right behind the tiny man the whole way.

            Well… at least Colonel Vladimir’s hospitality was as big as whatever offshore bank account his work at Umbrella had bloated. The older man bade him make himself comfortable in one of the armchairs of what was either a living room or a particularly lush study, the dim coals of the last night’s warming fire still glowing in the nearby hearth. Collin politely accepted the glass of ice-water but had to turn down the shot of fiery spirits that his host also offered. Sergei downed his own in a split-second, barely reacting, and passed the unclaimed shot over to the blue-visored Tyrant, who gave it a tentative sniff and drank it almost as swiftly.

            “Nnr!”

            It half-choked, gray nose and lips wrinkling up as it shook its head. Sergei cackled as he took the empty shot glass back from its twitching hands.

            “Ohh, poor Laska. I’m cruel to you, yes? So cruel I give you the thirty-euro vodka… come on, hush, you’re fine. My fantastic Ivan, eh? There you are,” The Colonel plucked something from his pocket and pushed it into the Tyrant’s palm, which upon being studied lit the creature’s face up and earned a higher-pitched grunt.

            While the creature tore open the wrapper and devoured whatever it was that the Colonel had given it, Sergei kicked up his feet onto the small stool close by and sighed.

            “Now, business…”

            Collin knew more gory details than he liked to, but such was required working in the position he did. Many Umbrella executives were now either M.I.A.—presumably either dead, the traitors responsible for the recent disastrous outbreak, or part of the response now running as far from association with the company as possible—or they were part of the ring of board members which the United States Government was now putting under the microscope. Except for the Colonel. There was no official record of his current or recent work under Umbrella, despite his role in salvaging what could be found out of the Raccoon City Incident before the place was “sterilized” in the flash of the USA’s nuclear judgment. Judging from the fact that Colonel Vladimir had helicoptered in, recovered at least one archive and a supercomputer alongside several Monitors and other personnel, and lived to escape was a testament to the fact that Sergei had perhaps been the only competent person involved in that little fiasco that Collin’s boss had dared to call “damage control”.

            The lack of paper or digital trail was very beneficial to Colonel Vladimir’s case—as was the strong evidence which still existed of mismanagement and sabotage from a certain Albert Wesker and Dr. William Birkin, the latter of which was definitely dead and the former disappeared to parts unknown. There would still be sanctions, reparation settlements that would be ordered, and at least a few of the artificially-high-ranked useless toadies on Umbrella’s executive branch would have as much culpability redirected onto their records as possible to give the courts a few sacrificial targets to lay down prison sentences. Umbrella would survive—in what state it couldn’t be said yet, but it would survive this. And by virtue of not being provably anywhere near the States at the time and comfortably at home in a former Soviet country where extradition was rare even for the less powerful… Sergei Vladimir would likely not be seeing the inside of a courtroom.

            Sergei grumbled as he scanned the statements he was to sign and initial, one hand wandering to a small switchblade which he slipped from a pocket and fidgeting with it. Collin tried not to watch the flash of light as the blade flicked out, in, out again—and tried even harder not to stare in alarm as the behemoth of a man then turned the tip of the exposed knife up to his mouth, teeth clicking against metal as he chewed on it. He only stopped as a tiny dribble of blood ran down his gums and beaded at the corner of his mouth, but apparently, he did not stop from pain; the Tyrant left standing by Collin’s chair (Podushka) began to make a soft groaning that almost sounded like a whine, head locked in the direction of its master’s visible bleeding.

            “Hm.” Sergei sheathed and put away the weapon, then wiped away the blood on the back of his sleeve, “Very well, I should sign. I am losing track of time, you see… good, my Ivan! You keep me on task.”

            Podushka’s plaintive noise turned immediately to the more satisfied rumble at the sound of praise. The other—what had he called it again? Laksha? Lasya?—leaned closer to its master’s large armchair and its nostrils flared in a few sniffs, detecting the presence of its master’s blood and tensing up visibly. Sergei chuckled and reached around to pat this Tyrant on the shoulder.

            “Laska, shh.” Vladimir smiled, and not with the schadenfreude as he had at the plight of his guest. Collin watched, completely dumbfounded. He had never seen anyone handle one of these killer mutants this way before; half of the Tyrant training staff he’d ever asked would have said anyone with their guard this low around a T-103 model was asking for at least an accidental fracture, if not far, far worse.

            While Sergei quickly got to work signing and initialing, Collin could not help but notice that the Colonel’s one functioning eye was scrutinizing the far less physically impressive man with a troubling glint in it. As the Colonel flipped to the last place that needed his distinctive scrawl, another almost playful grin was pointed over his way.

            “I see you have been surprised by these two. So, what you make of my Ivans?”

            “Ah… ‘Ivans’, sir?” Collin tried not to let the increase in the sweat beading over his brow be obvious, “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the Tyrant model… Er, they’re T-103s?”

            “Derivative model. By you there is designated T-IVAN-012, and here we have T-IVAN-013. Split embryo. Twin brothers, you could say. But yes, very like the T-103s.” Sergei smirked, “You do not work around such fantastic beasts, do you?”

            “Well, er, actually… a-around them, not exactly with…”

            The Colonel raised up a brow, “Really? Your fear suggests you have no experience whatsoever.”

            “On the contrary,” Collin’s lips split in an anxious, uncontrolled grimace which he quickly warped into a smile, “I’ve had some, uh, not necessarily pleasant experiences. F-frequently.” At this Collin’s heart dropped as the daunting man’s face soured into a somewhat suspicious frown. He said something snappily to the Ivan named Laska, who turned and retrieved a few small objects from one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves before coming back to its master and holding them out. Vladimir grabbed up the cigar first, chomped it a bit more roughly than necessary, and then took the matchbook.

            “Mr. Davies,” he growled around the cigar as he lit it, pausing to take a few strong puffs, “By chance do you recall the facilities where these… not pleasant and frequent experiences occurred to you?”

            “Oh, not to me,” Collin tittered, wiping the back of his neck, “I don’t think I’d be alive now if that stuff was towards me. No no, I just, ah… saw a lot of things in my different placements.”

            “Hm-mm. Saw a lot of Tyrants, eh?”

            “Y-yes. And their handlers.”

            “Come, tell me about some. The training and news of such beasts is a great interest of mine. As you maybe could tell,” he lightened up once more, though there was still a glare aimed his way even while Sergei rewarded Laska once more with a sturdy series of pats on the shoulder which it not-so-subtly leaned into.

            “Er… well, I’m Umbrella U.K. primarily, so I do a lot of assignments at the U.C.T. complex up in Orkney,” his mouth started running, and Collin wasn’t sure what he could do to stop it. Maybe he’d look a bit less of a cowardly bastard if he did go into detail; probably not—this Russian bear was a Soviet-Afghanistan veteran and anything human versus human was likely so much more disturbing than what Collin had to offer. But then it seemed a bit of a relief of pressure to spill the beans to this crazy Colonel. He seemed to have certain… opinions of Collin’s superiors that these violent spectacles he’d witnessed would no doubt prop up a bit higher.

            “We had Tyrant groups transferred there. For uh, specialized training I think. I’m not good with what the purpose of it all was. I was mostly just filing the paperwork. There was this one time a few years ago that a group of three were coming through for training before they got passed along to the buyer in… Sweden, I think.

            “They had a bunch of handlers, of course. They’re 300 kilo monsters, and sometimes they just won’t move the way you want them to.”

            “That they are,” Sergei chuckled. “Go on!”

            “But those three Tyrants had one trainer for whatever it was they were supposed to do in Sweden. This guy named Anton. Didn’t talk to him much. I got the feeling he thought poorly of anyone behind a desk.

            “Anyway, Anton kept putting in notes I had to file up the chain that one of the Tyrants was acting, uh, defective.”

            Sergei snorted.

            “Well, that’s what Anton said. I wouldn’t know.” Collin licked at his dry lips, doing little good since the memory had dried his whole mouth out anyways. “I’m in my work space and I get called to the observation deck there to watch this guy. I guess, ah, that intern knew better what was going to happen.”

            If the dark chuckle the Colonel responded with was any indication, he had a good idea what was next as well—as well as about ten things the suspiciously-past-tense-only Anton should not have done…

            “That Tyrant didn’t look off at all, except that it wasn’t listening to Anton. A handler went in to redirect it, started it going through the basic stuff—moving obstacles, testing reflexes with the tennis ball gun, holding still and turning so its Limiter could get adjusted. You know… And this one was, uh… a big one. A head or more over, um…”

            “—Podushka,” the Colonel reminded him of the larger Ivan’s nickname, then nodded for him to carry on.

            “Yes, so, very big. And when the handler went out, this one did fine. More than fine—it was perfect. In fact it acted kinda… um… well—”

            “—Relieved?” Sergei’s expression wasn’t quite a smirk, but it bled both confidence and foreknowledge. Collin had to stare at him, amazed he’d found the exact word.

            “Yes, that’s it! There was no sign at all it would snap, at least at that point. That Tyrant looked positively cool-headed as it worked, so did the handler.”

            “Mm-hm,” Another low cloud of cigar smoke drifted up towards the ornate vent in the ceiling, “And that tells you—just by logic now, no need to know Tyrant training—exactly who was defective?”

            Not the Tyrant,” Collin did not bother to suppress the shiver, “Its fists worked just fine…”

            “And before fists came out? Details, сука!”

            “Well, er, Anton looked pretty annoyed that this newbie handler wasn’t getting the same treatment as him. So he pushed the guy back to the door and said he’d take over the drills.” Collin shrugged. “Next thing anyone knew, that thing was on top of Anton, and then he was not so much Anton as, ah… several pieces.”

            “It sounds to me,” Vladimir again patted Laska, which then evolved into stroking the creature’s entire shoulder and arm, prompting the Ivan to tilt its head heavily down towards the contact, “like this anonymous handler had the Tyrant’s respect. Perhaps enough it considered the handler its master it had to protect. You see now why Anton did not make it, yes?”

            “It… thought Anton was attacking its master?”

            “As surely as anyone going to shove me would feel my Vanyas’ wrath, absolutely. It is one of the finer qualities of any Tyrant—loyalty, and a willingness to put themselves between a threat and the ones they must protect. Even if it brings pain to them—they want to fight—to protect, more than they want to avoid pain.”

            Collin’s voice caught in his throat; he decided he would not mention that the higher-ups had opted to put down the “faulty/insubordinate” Tyrant.

            “Ugh, idiot trainer,” the ex-Soviet grumbled, sucking on the cigar with a more desperate force. “This was not the only such debil you saw at work, eh.”

            “Err… no sir, I would say not, sir.”

            “Serves them right then. Tyrants are truly too good for them.”

            “Um… Sir?”

            “Hm, you know how some say ‘mankind does not deserve dogs’?” Sergei mused, “It is much the same with any beast that has grown to live alongside humans. Such creatures,” Vladimir’s voice went low, “are innocent. They ask for nothing—especially not to be born to serve. There are… situations in our world that let us know that there are Masters, and there are Slaves. Leaders and Followers. It would be the duty of the leader to ensure the needs of the followers, though…” the older man’s brow cinched up, darkening his expression, “This is often not the case. Thus there are Masters and Slaves. While any well-trained guard dog would be fully within its right to attack the Master who beats or starves it, a dog… well, any normal animal doesn’t have the power to remind mankind what we owe it.

            “But a Tyrant,” Sergei’s deep, intimidating voice became full of awe, full of softness where you wouldn’t expect, “A Tyrant had the power. So close to human in form and build and makeup, they wake automatically understanding our words and reading our faces, our voices. And whenever mankind does not deserve a Tyrant, the Tyrant can and will make it known.

“So when a Tyrant obeys you, it is humbling. This beast could so easily destroy every bone in your body, take whatever it needed or wanted, and treat you as nothing… but it does not. It is the ultimate example of serving another, or absolute willingness, and to earn such an unconditional devotion is…” the huge man sighed, “… almost spiritual.”

“…You… care about these two quite a lot, don’t you?”

“Oh, certainly,” the man’s hand had wandered up to the area just behind the Ivan’s ear, and the creature’s fingers curled up involuntarily as it began to grumble with a tone that was as pleased as Collin had ever heard from one of the monsters. Another Tyrant vocalization—a dull groan, almost yearning—sounded from right behind the Colonel’s visitor, and he jumped slightly before remembering Podushka was still looming over his chair. “I have… given up much. Some things I should not have—It was a failure of mine that haunts me, yet it had to be done. But for these two, I can earn back that worth. So long as I am not dead, then I have the trust of my dear Ivans!”

Sergei then squinted at the flinching man, entertained still by his reflexive fright, “Mr. Davies—you have an urgent request waiting, hahah!”

The small man reached a tentative hand up, hoping the Ivan would guide him a bit in exactly where to place it. Podushka growled loudly, but not with any kind of aggression, and soon enough expressed that the thought did count even if the reaching hand was nowhere near it: There was a gentle clonk of the brute’s cranium resting down on the top of Collin’s shaggy mop.

“Um.”

Oh god. He must have looked especially pathetic now, because the ex-Spetsnaz was visibly cracking up at this. Sucking up the two atoms’ worth of courage in his whole body, Collin tucked his upraised hand around and scratched vigorously at the first spot of Tyrant he came in contact with—which ended up being the side of its meaty neck. Podushka pressed into it, blissful grumble vibrating itself, Collin, and the chair he sat in like a revving engine.

“Good, my Vanya, ha! You are lucky, Mr. Davies. These two do not warm up to outsiders like this so easy. Especially not Podushka. He is fiercely protective whenever strangers call.”

“Uh. I… sort of doubt I’m all that dangerous.” The Ivan seemed to concur—if it was even paying much attention, that is. It was currently occupied with nuzzling the side of its broad jaw down into the top of the captive guest’s hair, squeezing the man lower just hard enough that Collins squeaked and gasped sharply, but not hard enough to compress him into an accordion shape, “U-um! Easy—you’re heavy, oof.”

“Podushka, do not break him, eh?” Sergei snickered, and with a low huff through its nostrils the Tyrant released the agent’s head, though still lingered overhead low enough to continue extorting affection from him. “Well, it appears all of the legal nonsense is done. But it is late, yes? You will not be making it back to civilization before dark…”

“Is… that a particular concern around here, Colonel?”

“Hmph, you don’t fear driving forty kilometers in the night on these old backroads, alone? If some debil didn’t want your car, or your money, it would be your kidneys at least.”

“Ah,” Collin’s hand froze mid-scratch, and a puzzled grunt issued from the Tyrant, “I, uh, had a room paid for back in Zinkiv, but I’m not sure getting there sounds appealing.” Reminded of the biomutant’s presence as it bumped itself against him again, Collin startled and gave Podushka three final pats before retrieving his hand, “A-are you sure these, uh, your Ivans would be safe to be around for that long? As an outsider?”

“Merely overnight,” Sergei chuckled and shook his head, “If their master gives the word, they will leave you be. Even without my orders, you’d be fine. Don’t do anything foolish, and you are better off taking your chances with the Tyrants than the… locals,” he sniffed.

“Well, I… thank you for the, ah, hospitality. It’s quite unexpected in my line of work.”

“Not a problem,” Vladimir shook his head more forcefully, “We are in this work together, hm? Come, I will show you the guest room. Soon is dinner—that is, if you do not mind local commoner fare.” He chuckled darkly, “And sharing it with Tyrants.”