The Faint of Heart (Peregrine x Aine)

Quebec slowed from a jog to a walk at the front of the house, letting out an irritable sigh. It was almost certain that the girl had found the key, so she was now either loose in the house, or fleeing. But the front door was closed, and, as Quebec quickly circled the house, he saw no other signs of egress. Of course, that did not mean that she wasn’t gone, but most escapees did not take the time to close the door behind their escape.

Satisfied that meant the girl was still in the house, Quebec walked back around to the front of the door, carefully unlocked it, and stepped into the house. Only to be greeted with the sight of an axe, flying right for his chest. He barely even had a chance to laugh before the head buried itself in his ribcage. Of all the weapons in this house, she went for the axe. Well, he had to give her points for style.

For an instant after the axe struck there was blinding pain. The force was enough to send him flying backwards, the axe ripping itself out of his chest. There was blood everywhere, and there was no doubt that his shirt was ruined. Quebec hit the ground, and the healing process took over automatically. He was incapacitated for half a second, but then his leg was snapping out like a whip, tripping up the girl. He simply had to hope that she did not imbed herself on the axe in the process of falling.

He pushed himself up from the ground quickly, able to feel his ribs coming back together, new skin growing over the wound, and the flow of blood stopping. He didn’t even bother to check the injury, half concealed behind his bloody, tattered shirt. The state of his body was one of the few things he knew intimately, without having to ever check.

He seized Sveta by the hair, roughly dragging her further into the house. The main door was kicked closed after their passage, but he didn’t stop to lock it. She wasn’t going anywhere. “You certainly have got chutzpah,” Quebec spat out, flinging her against the wall. His boot lashed out once, landing on the side of her torso. There would be no broken ribs, but there would certainly be some bruising.

“But now at least you should understand exactly how futile your situation is.” He sat down across from her, the irritation sliding off of his face like wax. He even smiled at her, although it was the smile of a cat looking at a juicy piece of flesh. He pulled the bloody shirt off before using it to mop the last of the fresh blood off of his chest. Satisfied that he was about as bloodless as he was going to get, Quebec tossed the shirt into a corner.

“You really are the most unlucky person I have ever met,” he told her, a smile of satisfaction spreading over his face. “No one has ever found me three times before, even if you had no clue what you were doing.” He unfolded a leg and straightened it out, planting it firmly against her chest. “First you engage in a staring contest with sweet Jan here.” His face seemed to ripple, stretching and squishing until Svetlana was staring into the cold eyes of the Polish terrorist.

“Then you meet Rotham,” his face changed again, this time more drastically, to the sweet-faced but ruddy complexion of the overweight businessman. “And of all the nonsense, you ask him if you’ve met him before.

“And then you spill coffee all over Cyryl. Well, I could hardly just let you walk, or be carried, away again. So we just had to go through this little bit of unpleasantness.

“Now that you are thoroughly terrified, perhaps you can begin to understand the kind of situation you are in right now. Perhaps not. I’ll give you a few minutes to stop hyperventilating, and then perhaps you can start by telling me anything you can possibly think of about how you recognize me, and how you keep finding me. Or, I can try and rip it out of your head manually. But, believe me, talking would probably be much more pleasant.”
 
The axe bit into his flesh hungrily and the blood spurted out from the wound like from a macabre fountain; Svetlana recoiled a little, placing her hand over her mouth. The metallic, pervasive scent of life-giving liquid assaulted her nostrils immediately and she felt a gall rising in her throat. Her stomach usually wasn't this weak - she had watched all the SAW movies while laughing and eating popcorn in front of her disgusted friends - but reality was very different from a silly piece of cinematography with cheap special effects. A fellow human being had just died right before her eyes. No, Sveta corrected herself, he didn't die. I killed him. The logic dictated she should feel happy about this, or relieved at the very least, but there was only this weird emptiness expanding in her insides. Heavy, all-encompassing emptiness usually associated with a major screw-up or guilt. What's up with me? I should celebrate; that maniac likely wanted to skin me alive for his sick pleasure and chant obscure occult rituals while pickling my organs in brine. Nobody will miss him and no court will convict me for self-defense. Brutal self-defense, that's for sure, but still. It was probably the colorful display of human's life frailty that unnerved her. Killing him was so easy. Little did she know that pseudo-philosophical issues would be the least of her worries soon.

Svetlana cried out in surprise as something knocked her to the ground; she had heard about muscle twitches and spasms after death, but this movement was too deliberate for an involuntary body function. Before she could form a solid theory founded on scientific principles that would explain that fascinating phenomenon, the allegedly dead man rose from the floor casually. What? This... this is some sort of delusion, right? It's my subconscious punishing me for spitting on my morals and actually murdering someone, yes? It has to be! Nobody could survive such wound! The Russian got on her knees and tried to flee, but he had no intentions of letting her retreat; his hand harshly dragging her back to the house by her hair got that point across nicely. It also eliminated the possibility of him being an elaborate product of her unjustified remorse. 'Mind over matter' was a saying that held water when it came to placebo effects and power of positive thinking, but her brain certainly couldn't conjure up a tangible phantom capable of overwhelming her. No, he had to be real. Alive and kicking despite the axe almost splitting his chest in half just few moments ago.

Another yelp left her lips, this time distinctly pained; she attempted to stand up, but since her kidnapper wasn't too gentle with her, it only resulted in her losing her balance and falling back on the ground like a sack of potatoes. Discomfort didn't concern her too much right now, though. She was almost too busy to notice over the deafening sound of her familiar world crumbling to dust. Sure, theories about him being a child of Superman on steroids had wormed their way into her personal collection of possible justifications, but Sveta didn't believe them. Not really. Those were just tongue-in-cheek guesses so insane not even the paranoid basement dwellers would buy them, for god's sake! "H-how are you still alive?" she blurted out, not caring about good manners anymore;that murder attempt probably sealed her fate anyway. It would be hard not to take it personally. I saw him die. When you die, you can't just say 'Fuck it, death is too mainstream' and carry on with the party! The reality, however, disagreed with her and manifested that disapproval through vicious kick to her ribs. Sveta slid back down to the ground, gritting her teeth in order not to scream. The change in her kidnapper's expression didn't exactly comfort her; it was infinitely scarier than anger. She had watched a document about apes once, and the reporter had said that monkeys actually smiled at their enemies to intimidate them. Now she understood how it worked.

Then he graciously decided to shed some light on the mysterious reason behind her kidnapping, and Svetlana's eyes widened in horror as he began to transform. The girl blinked furiously as if hoping it was a mere sight malfunction that would disappear if she denied it vehemently, but the image persisted. Her mind went blank and for once in her life, Sveta had nothing witty or funny to say. She would have suspected some idiot with a warped sense of humor had smuggled a drug into her drink under different circumstances, but her skepticism surrendered under the weight of evidence. The puzzle pieces finally fell into place. The nagging feeling of familiarity, his comments about her pestering him; it all made sense now. Well, it made as much sense as being imprisoned by an apparently immortal shapeshifter for knowing too much when she, in fact, didn't know anything possibly could. All the color left her face. Her life was turning into a live-action supernatural series; too bad it seemed her role would be 'unidentified victim of main antagonist number 127'. Sveta didn't dare to hope he would just let her go after this little interrogation, apologize for the inconvenience and present her with the axe as a souvenir to commemorate their meeting. No, she was screwed. Totally. Still, despite this bitter realization - or maybe because of it? - the old curiosity returned to her. The fear didn't subside, but the fact she had a zero chance of escaping strangely lifted a burden off her shoulders. The rules in this game were heavily skewed in his favor, so losing actually wasn't as shameful.

"Rip it o-out of my head manually?" Sveta stammered, her voice surprisingly calm for the situation she was in. "You can do that as well? Did you receive your powers from a discount package of five or more? Back to the initial point, though. I have no idea what you want from me. Would you like to hear a story about how I grew up in the shadow of Chernobyl and the remnants of radiation somehow increased my sensitivity towards magic or whatever it is that you do? Because that's not true. There's nothing special about me and you won't find out anything by reading my thoughts. I will respond honestly and try to be... helpful, but I doubt you'd actually find my answers useful." She took a deep breath before continuing. "I'll start with the easy part. I don't keep finding you; that's a pure coincidence. I'm a translator, so it's in my job's description to travel a lot. And as for how I recognize you..." Sveta went silent for a while, categorizing her thoughts. "Look, I really don't know! I wouldn't even call it 'recognition'. Not in the usual sense of that word. It's not like I immediately knew that fat man from the airport was the same guy I trolled in the cafe. You just show as 'familiar' on my inner radar. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm sure it has nothing to do with... well, visual aspect. I suck at remembering faces; hell, I probably wouldn't recognize my best friend if she wore a wig and a good make-up. My memory stores mostly things like mannerisms, scents and such. Perhaps I just remember you? I mean, you as a person?" It was a shoddy explanation, but Svetlana couldn't offer him anything better.
 
Him as a person?

The thoughts was foreign to Quebec, but it was a breath of fresh air to Quinn. Quinn, the poor, malnourished, broken, abandoned personality that rested somewhere within an ever-changing body and mind. No one had ever accepted Quinn; not the father who had called him demonspawn, or the mother who had abandoned him at birth. Not the so-called friends who considered him a freak, no matter what he did. And so Quinn had refused to accept himself. He had retreated to Quebec, the amorphous personality who was comfortable with the constantly shifting reality of itself. And Quinn had been lost. Shoved so far down that he could be completely forgotten about. Even now, even with this poke, this subtle direction of the eyes, Quebec refused to acknowledge the existence of Quinn. Quinn did not exist.

“Impossible,” was his only reply to her explanation. A person and a personality were intrinsically linked. It was in the words themselves, whether you were speaking Polish or English. Quebec wore the personalities that best suited the situation, and had none that were exclusively linked to “Quebec.” Quebec was whatever the situation needed. Quebec was everyone, and could therefore not truly be anyone.

He was also unwilling to accept her first answer. Quebec was willing to put two encounters to coincidence, but only just. Three encounters, in such different parts of the world, that even he, accustomed to all of the strangeness of the world, was not willing to put to coincidence. Just because she did not consciously know what had happened did not mean nothing had happened to influence her to encounter him. Quebec had never encountered anything like it before, but he was hardly the kind of person to doubt what was possible by a human. Perhaps she had some sort of hidden ability about which she knew nothing. Time would tell.

Quebec was plenty patient enough to wait as long as he needed to, and tease all the information he needed out of her head. If he was still young and more impatient, he might have truly ripped every possibility out of her mind. But that would have left her hardly in any better state than Jan. No, he would tease, he would subtly twist, until she was primed to fully accept his invasions.

Quebec moved back from Sveta, settling comfortably on the floor a set distance away from her. It was far enough to provide a little bit of comfort from his strange presence, but not so far that she could feel completely secure. Even as he moved his whole body seemed to writhe slightly, so that, when he was fully settled across from her, a nondescript and averagely handsome Polish man sat across from her. It wasn’t so much that Quebec was more comfortable in any one form or another, so much as it was his most base instincts was to protect himself from any questions. He had one of these faces stored away for each nation, compiled from thousands and thousands of faces around him. They were the kind of faces that someone could stare at for ages, and still not be able to properly describe, other than incredibly average. Sveta might never try and describe him, and it was doubtful there was anyone in the area to peer through the window, but it was a simple precaution, and one he was not inclined to ignore.

“I suppose I should consider myself lucky that you are just a translator,” he began again, voice subtly shifted from Cyryl’s sonorous tones. These were softer, more dulcet, and also, as it would happen, significantly closer to the average tones of the area. “At first I was concerned you were CIA, and that they had found some way to track me. That they were planning to double cross me. I did not want to have to kill the Director.” His brief smile was feral. “He pays well.”

“But the CIA are never as blatantly observant as you were. They far prefer subtler approaches.” At this point, Quebec’s goal was to unbalance her a little bit. He wanted her spinning around the edge of insanity, without actually tipping over. He wanted her reactant to his every word and gesture. It wouldn’t be too hard. He had certainly completed it on much harder targets.

“So, start talking. I don’t really care about what. Tell me the life story of Svetlana Semyonovna Nazarova, if you have nothing else to say. Let me into that pretty little head of yours through words, or we will have to do it another way.”
 
His swift refusal hardly surprised Svetlana; claiming she could recognize him thanks to some kind of patterns in his behavior despite exchanging measly few words every time they had met was dubious at best. What other explanation was she supposed to offer, though? Would he buy something along the lines of 'We're clearly soul-mates, so of course the fate has arranged it so I could see through your deception'? Probably not, and even if he did, Sveta somewhat doubted the shape-changer would just accept this excuse, apologize for his previous rude behavior and invite her for a cup of hot coffee as a compensation. Hollywood action flicks usually weren't the best source to look for a portion of realism, but all the movies about mutants and supernaturally gifted shared a common theme; a need for secrecy unless you wanted to attract a bunch of butchers in white coats. She couldn't quite imagine how could anything reasonably inconvenience her kidnapper with all those freaky powers he had under his belt, but then again, Svetlana was no mad scientist with IQ over nine thousand. Which is an eternal shame, mainly because if I was, I'd surely be able to figure out a better plan than obeying him blindly and hoping he finds my ability to unmask him every time too interesting to just execute me on the spot. So, essentially, my life depends on amusement and attention span of someone who is likely a dangerous sociopath. Wonderful. What an exclusive position. Some of the tension left her body as he retreated, giving her a bit of breathing space, yet her gaze still spoke of unconcealed discomposure.Feigning indifference would have been undeniably cooler, but Svetlana didn't really care about her image by that point.

It was impossible not to observe his next transformation despite how much its grotesqueness; in a way, it gave her another confirmation that this was truly happening and she wasn't, for example, stuffed in a straitjacket and enjoying an involuntary vacation in a nut-house. Not that it ruled out possibility of this mess being an elaborate construct of her mind, but learning to embrace this new reality after her old one had been shattered felt strangely comforting; almost like managing to catch on a rope mid-fall.I'm so glad your salary didn't have to take such a heavy blow. That would probably reduce your budget on medieval torture tools or something, which would have been nothing short of tragedy, Sveta thought sarcastically. Also, CIA is involved? I can't say I'm too surprised, but this is getting better and better with every single sentence he utters. She watched him carefully, trying to guess from his body language whether he planned to threaten her in the next few moments, but it truly looked like he wished to settle with mere talking for now. This approach was way more attractive than the idea of him digging around in her memories, so Svetlana didn't intend to complain about it. Moreover, perhaps she could take advantage of this situation; nice, long chat with her could convince him to think of her differently than as a sack of meat and bones that would get him into trouble if it were to escape out of its confinement. Sure, that incident with axe hadn't exactly painted her in a positive light, but on the other hand, her kidnapper didn't seem too offended by her actions. There was no reason to throw in the towel so fast.

Hugging her knees to soothe pangs of pain in her stomach, Sveta finally began to talk. Her voice was calm, perhaps surprisingly so given the occasion, yet it was also monotone and constrained. "My life story? I'm afraid someone who works with CIA on daily basis will find it quite uneventful, but fine, as you wish. I was born in a small village so meaningless most of the cartographers didn't even bother to draw it into their maps; the kind of village people usually describe as 'rural' or 'picturesque', but the word they're looking for is actually 'boring.' You know which type I mean... Or you don't, that depends on whether you've ever been in Russia. Visiting certain parts of the country is like going back in time. Anyway, mom died when I was four, my brother died five years ago and I'm probably not going to survive this, so you could say being dead runs in my family," Svetlana chuckled in a desperate attempt to sound funny, yet it came out rather forced. "Err... Moving on. Dad was a traditionalist and he would chain me to our table to keep me from leaving if it was legal..." And in hindsight, I can kinda see his point. "... but I didn't share that particular desire, so I moved to city along with few friends and enrolled into university. I was lucky education is free in my homeland otherwise I would have starved on the streets. There's only so much you can do with paycheck of a part-time waitress. I chose to study Chinese since I harbored suicidal tendencies. Let me tell you something; student parties are a purely mythical concept when you're pursuing that as your major. I spent most of my student years lying in a fetal position, crying and wishing I hadn't been born. Okay, not really," she admitted after few seconds of uncomfortable silence, "but I felt that adding some drama would make for a better story. That language is frustrating as hell, though. I proceeded to travel a lot me and soon enough, I discovered I apparently had the worst superpower ever via meeting you. If I could influence it, I'd want something cool like shooting laser beams out of my eyes, not being able to recognize a shape-shifter." Svetlana pondered how to expand on her tale, but nothing really struck her as a defining point in her life anymore; there were just separate anecdotes, chunks of her history that could be considered entertaining, yet not truly important in the long run. Her story certainly wasn't over yet. It hadn't even reached second chapter, and yet it was probably going to end abruptly. "Well, that was a quick overview. I could continue with describing my romantic history, but that... feels kinda awkward when I don't even know your name. Or we can discuss literature. I used to read quite a lot. What's your favorite book?" I... can't believe I'm actually having this conversation. Did I seriously ask a presumed murderer about his literary preferences?
 
Quebec sorted through her babbling with cold eyes, memorizing every word she spoke before picking out the relative tidbits and discarding the rest. He had not expected his initial request to garner much information, but he had meant what he said when he told her that anything she wished to talk about would do. Although the situation made it more than a little awkward, people always revealed more than they intended to when talking about themselves. What with being trapped against a wall, scared out of her mind, and apparently honestly not hiding anything, it was going to be a far less effective technique than normal for interrogation, but no situation in which Quebec was involved could truly be called normal.

There had been one useful piece of information so far, and that was that her only immediate surviving family was her father. Genetics could only play so much of a role in situations like this, as Quebec well knew, but they were a place to start. The rest... well, that would simply have to come later.

"I find myself partial to Agatha Christie's Peril at End House," he replied, face straight and voice smooth. "Nice lady, for the most part, if a bit rude in her later years. But her novels are simply to die for." He didn't smirk, didn't blink, didn't even twitch, but a faint glow of amusement did enter his eyes. If there was one thing that all his years had taught him, it was that rushing a situation did not aid it. There was a proper time in which to do every action, and that timing had to be obeyed. In this situation, the slower it went the better. He would push her, when the right moments came, but right now he needed her calm, and at least somewhat rational and coherent. Babble would only get him so far.

All the same, keeping her in mind of exactly what was going on in this situation would not be a bad thing.

"Yourself?"
 
Sveta blinked few times in surprise. Agatha Christie? That was it? His choice felt oddly... normal. She hadn't thought he would adore The Satanic Bible or own real Necronomicon for bonus points in villainy, but the mention of a popular detective novel swung the pendulum of her expectations into a completely different direction. It may have been a little naive, but Svetlana had expected his attitude to reflect in the selected book at least a little and while Peril at End House was certainly no The Little Prince, plenty of relatively ordinary people found pleasure in that story. She didn't count herself among Christie's fans, though the author's skill couldn't be accused of that; Sveta simply didn't enjoy the genre. Murder mysteries couldn't really hold her attention for long, mainly because most of the victims weren't captivating enough to make her interested in who had hated them so much as to prematurely end their lives. It was always some nonsense about love affair gone sour or inheritance issues anyway.

"So I take it you're into detective stories? Not my cup of tea, but Hercule Poirot is definitely a better protagonist than Sherlock Holmes, that much I have to admit," she exclaimed, her eyes never leaving his face. The tempo of her speech somewhat decreased when compared with the previous hasty cannonade. Svetlana sounded more focused on the actual topic now instead of just firing the words rapidly for the sake of saying something. Unlike dissecting her life in front of a total stranger, books were a safe territory, or at least as close to the definition of 'safe' as it possibly could get in this situation.

A thoughtful expression appeared on her face as he repeated her own question. "That's hard to tell, but probably The World According to Garp by John Irving. I know, I know, the man is a legitimate rambler and the plot line is practically non-existent here, but the general absurdity was pretty amusing and also endearing on some strange level. Or maybe Orwell's 1984. Depressing stuff, sure, yet it's well written. I should probably also mention Dostoevsky here as his works are hella impressive - nobody can deny that - but to be honest, his language is too archaic for me to digest. What can I say? It seems I'm guilty of being a cultural barbarian and a bad, bad patriot." Her lips twitched in a small, short-lived smile before they returned back to a firm line; this conversation wasn't so bad, but she didn't expect it to carry on in this pseudo-friendly spirit for long. And who could blame her for a healthy dose of mistrust under these circumstances?
 
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Quebec nodded faintly, his eyes never leaving her face. Briefly he allowed himself the luxury of wishing that this whole situation had never happened, and Sveta had never seen him again after that first encounter. He was certain it would have made them both much happier. Sveta would not have lost her whole world and her understanding of reality, and Quebec would not be here wasting time, trying to understand exactly how she had managed to both find and recognize him three times, all over the world. But Quebec was not one for dwelling in the past. It served no purpose, except to distract one from the present.

He had already decided that he could not kill her. It was too important to try and figure out how exactly she had done what she had done, even if it was unconsciously. Until he was satisfied with that, she would have to stay alive, and Quebec would have to keep poking her.

The conversation about books did not last for more than that brief exchange, in part because Quebec had no desire to continue it. Hearing about her literary preferences was better than silence or panic, but it was ultimately useless. It was time to direct the conversation to something that might be a little bit more relevant and useful, as it was still the only lead Quebec possessed to begin the process of figuring her out.

"Why don't you tell me a bit more about your family."
 
Of course the topic had to shift back into zone of awkwardness; Sveta would much rather explore other common 'getting to know each other' themes such as taste in music or favorite TV shows, but denying to discuss it was a luxury she couldn't afford. It didn't take a genius of Einstein's caliber to figure out the sudden interest in her family, and he certainly hadn't asked for details out of politeness. As the old proverb said, blood was thicker than water and her ability to recognize him despite wearing a different face each time could be tied in her genetics. Svetlana personally supported the theory that fate slipped this anomaly into her arsenal of skills solely to get across how much the universe hated her, yet something told her her opinion wouldn't be taken into account and provoking him needlessly didn't seem like a smart move.

The last thing she wanted was to drag the rest of her family into this mess; her father's worldview may have been drastically different from hers and the communication between them consisted almost exclusively from vicious arguments, but that didn't mean she would voluntarily send an invincible assassin after him. Father's well-being, however, didn't worry her as much at the moment. Over thousand kilometers divided him from any immediate danger and while short-term thinking may have been careless, there were more immediate issues to address. What chilled her to the core was the possibility of him finding out her aunt lived here in Poland, literally half an hour drive away from her new prison. Her old, lovable, slightly eccentric auntie, so fragile and full of good faith when it came to strangers...

No, he wasn't getting that bit of information out of her. Anything but that. And so Svetlana decided to cover up truth in the manner she had mastered ages ago; via overloading him with completely useless information and possibly re-directing his attention somewhere else.

"Well," she started, slight hesitation tainting her voice, "as I already said, my mother died when I was really young, so I don't remember much about her aside from what I've been told. She was originally from Ukraine, so it's likely I also have some relatives there, but we haven't been keeping in touch. If you want to find them somehow, I can only wish you good luck. Mom moved to Russia with her own parents, who are dead now as well, and married my dad soon. She apparently adored drawing and it's a damn shame I didn't inherit a single artistic cell from her, because the pictures were really pretty. Probably not gallery-worthy, granted, but I still have a lot of respect for her as someone who can barely do stick figures. Anyway, the cause of her death was cancer which also killed my brother," Sveta continued matter-of-factly. Time had already dulled the sorrow, so she could converse about the subject without emotional outbursts, but her tone suggested certain reluctance to do so anyway.

Come on, you can't stop now. Talk, talk, talk. Make him regret he even asked in the first place.

"Bro was a nice guy, if a little lacking in ambition and his sense of humor sucked. He threw me into a freezing cold river when I was six, which resulted in pneumonia and a month long stay in a hospital. He also ruined Christmas for me once when he convinced me baby Jesus would eat me if I didn't behave like a good kid. Come to think of it, my brother is probably responsible for more than half of my childhood traumas. Don't get me started on how he forced me to eat worms." Svetlana shook her head slightly, torn between amusement and nostalgia. "My father... Well, we've never understood each other, but no family is perfect and he has always supported me despite not really agreeing with me, so I can't exactly complain here. I don't have anyone else." The lie rolled off her tongue easily, without any stuttering or other warning signs, though she couldn't judge whether it sounded credible to him or not. I guess I'll find out soon, probably through my pain receptors. Perhaps I should try to distract him some more.

"If you wanted to hear about weird occurrences in my family or signs of any supernatural powers, my granny used to do card readings," Sveta added after a second of deliberation. "Then again, she foretold I'd get married before my twenty-third birthday, so either she measured time by a calendar completely alien to mankind or she wasn't very good. I'm inclined to believe in latter."
 
Once more, Quebec listened to her babbling. He listened with blank eyes, hands loosely clasped in his lap. As with everything she said, he stored it away in one of the innumerable spaces within his mind, so that, should he need it later, he could always find it once more. Some part of him was willing to accept that she might even tell him the truth, but when the lie came out it did not take him by surprise. For one moment he considered interrupting her at that moment, but he let her finish, even nodded his head once. But half a second later he was moving at almost inhuman speed. His hand lashed out, smacking her firmly across the side of the face. Sveta was sent sprawling sideways across the floor from the force of the blow, and Quebec stayed right on top of her. The blow may have seen harsh and uncontrolled to her, but, as with everything Quebec did, it was carefully controlled, and it also served a dual purpose.

He knew that Sveta had been going to see her aunt when they had encountered each other for that fateful third time. It was one of the pieces of information he had gathered in that first, cursory read of her mind. The slap was as much to find out more about her, as it was to remind her exactly what her position was in relation to him.

"Haven't I been good to you so far?" he scolded, voice as carefully moderated and as lacking in emotion as ever. "You tried to kill me, and yet here you sit, still alive, still in good health. I've even put up with your uncontrolled babble with remarkable patience. All I am asking are simple questions. They aren't complicated. They don't take much thought.

"So why do you insist on lying to me?" His hand dropped down again, closing around her throat. The pressure was carefully moderated to the point where she would have noted difficulty in breathing, but not so far as to actually cause her to pass out. "Even if I didn't know about your dear, sweet, Aunt Irina, you told me that you have a relative living close by. It certainly isn't your traditionalist, rural father. So, why don't we learn a little bit about Irina Gavrilovna Nazarova."

He invaded her mind once more, uncaring of the knowledge that she would almost certainly know exactly what he was doing at this point. It didn't matter. She was completely and utterly under his control, and that wasn't about to change. In fact, her knowing that she couldn't hide anything from him might very well keep her more cooperative. At the moment he was mostly looking for the pieces of information he knew about her aunt, obscure or otherwise, but he also took a moment to gather other basic facts about her life. He did not want her to be able to slip even one lie past him.

"Your father's older sister, she lived in the same village as your family until your teenage years, when she moved to Poland. She opened up a pet shop, which was quite successful, before selling it to a local businessman and earning enough money to retire early. Since then, she has written many articles on the supernatural hiding in Poland and Russia, very few of which have ever been published. And you were going to visit her for her upcoming 50th birthday. How sweet. Perhaps we should go pay her a visit."

He was being cruel, and he knew it. Sveta's childhood memories cast Irina in the golden light normally associated only with mothers, and she loved the lady dearly. She had been willing to risk everything in hopes of keeping Quebec away from her aunt. Quebec's desire to go see any of Sveta's family was actually moderately limited, as her own impressions of them made it very improbable that they had anything to do with what he wanted to know. But it might be worth it, just to put the pressure on her.
 
For a fleeting moment, Svetlana was left with the notion he actually believed her little lie. He refrained from commenting on her family status, even nodded as if to indicate understanding, and she almost began celebrating her little victory in this already lost war. Then he apparently decided to show her true extent of his unpredictability and teach her a lesson about truthfulness, all conveniently wrapped in one simple step. Her instincts pushed her to raise her hands in order to protect her face from the blow, yet her reflexes were not nearly fast enough to pull it off. The force of the slap almost made her see stars as her head hit the wall with a quiet 'thud' and Sveta knew instantly she had fucked up. The left side of her face was burning - burning and swelling - though that relatively small discomfort could hardly be compared with the cold dread slowly consuming her from within. Well, shit. She wasn't exactly in the state to formulate profound, eloquent statements as he towered over her menacingly, but that didn't matter; no language Svetlana had stored in her impressive repertoire offered a better phrase for this situation anyway.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling like a schoolgirl that had just been caught giving her homeroom teacher the finger with the difference being that her punishment wouldn't be a temporary suspension, but murdering her family.Sveta could feel herself shaking slightly. A single question resonated through her mind, repeating itself again and again. How? How could he possibly know she had lied to him? Were her deception skills in much worse shape than she had originally estimated and the lie was simply written on her forehead in a giant font? Had some nervous tic betrayed her intentions or did have a natural lie detector in his brain? The idea didn't seem so absurd in context of him reading thoughts via touch or his regeneration factor so high even Wolverine would turn green with envy. Of course, the answer ended up being way more mundane and Sveta had nothing but her own stupidity to blame for it. The overall stress mixed with shock had erased it from her memory, but she had mentioned Irina in front of him when they met in streets of Katowice during that unlucky episode with spilled coffee. Denying her existence served no other purpose than digging herself deeper and that probably worked out in a rather grandiose manner. The hand clenched around her throat killed the flood of excuses in its bud, making her gasp for air. She didn't waste her energy trying to fight him; an act of resistance would surely only fuel his fury and Svetlana had absolutely no intentions of having her neck snapped.

Calm down, he doesn't want to kill you, she reassured herself. At least not right now. Not before he figures out how you keep recognizing him. It wouldn't make any sense. Just endure this, and you'll be... well, not okay, but at least alive. The announcement about gathering some information about Irina was followed by the familiar sensation of a strange presence invading her mind. Her kidnapper didn't bother with excessive care this time; it seemed as if contents of her mind were an extensive library and someone was throwing the books out of shelves mercilessly, indifferent to their fate. The inspection felt terribly invasive, not entirely dissimilar to when some random guy groped you in a crowded train, but infinitely worse as Svetlana couldn't use the standard response of shoving her elbow into his belly. She moaned in pain quietly as odd, static sounds of a broken headphones overwhelmed her ears. And then he withdrew suddenly, the memories arranged themselves back into order within blink of an eye and Sveta could relax once again... Until he recapitulated her auntie's whole life in few sentences and immediately expressed desire to go and meet her.

"No!" she exclaimed, a sense of urgency dripping into her words. "Please, don't drag her into this." Yeah, appeal to his non-existent emotional side. What a marvelous plan. Nothing could possibly go wrong here. The metaphorical cogs in her head were spinning in an effort to think of something that would stop him from carrying out his subtle threat, but it looked like her brain had chosen the worst time to freeze completely. "She's not going to be of any use to you, that much I can guarantee, and... and unlike with me, people will actually notice she's missing. Her friends, her neighbors... Look, I'm sorry for lying to you, but I didn't do it to sabotage your hunt for information. I just wanted to protect her; you have to understand. I mean, you'd do the same for your loved ones, right?" Sveta cast him a hopeful look. "If you want to punish me somehow, feel free to do so - it's not like I can stop you - but leave her out of this, please. I promise I won't lie to you again."
 
"That's better," Quebec said softly. His hand released from her throat and he moved back to a seated position on the floor before her. Quebec gave her a little bit of time to sit back upright and regain her breath, before continuing. "But I think we should go pay your Aunt a visit anyways."

Before she could begin protesting Quebec's hand flitted out, and the tip of his finger came to rest on her lips. "Now, now," he reprimanded. "It is her birthday in a couple of days, and from the looks of it you didn't even get her a present. At some point, you'll have to tell me what we should get her as a gift. After your face heals, of course." His finger traced lightly long her jawline, carefully circling around the swelling and sending shivers down her back.

Quebec truly had no desire to hurt Irina, and unless Sveta did something incredibly stupid they would leave Irina's house with the lady perfectly happy with their visit. Although Quebec was most commonly called for events around assassination, he was not limited. There was a reason anyone and everyone wanted to hire him, because Quebec could fill any role. Sveta had no reason to know it, but he could be perfectly charming when he wanted to be, and he could certainly make sure that Irina was more than smitten with him during their visit. Most likely, as long as he worded them correctly, Irina would gladly answer any question he might ask. People loved to talk about themselves, for the most part.

"In the meantime, I'm going to have to make this place more inhabitable. Which means I'm going to have to leave again. I think this time, I'm probably going to have to tie you up. Otherwise you might get your hands on another axe, or worse, some of the sniper rifles I have hidden in this place." A brief smile flitted across his face, but only for a moment. He pushed himself to his feet, and extended a hand to help Sveta up.
 
That's better, he spoke calmly and Svetlana could bask in the blissful sensation of having dodged the bullet. Yes, not even the most insane devotee of adrenaline sports would be jealous of her situation as it was pretty clear her chances of seeing old ages were approximately as low as coming across an Armani suit in a flea market, yet her brain still obediently dispatched a dose of happy endorphins upon learning her aunt would be safe after all. The ability to breathe freely again felt nothing short of amazing as well, so she inhaled the air almost hungrily. For that short moment, Sveta enjoyed just existing; finding pleasure in small delights was very therapeutic in a certain sense. Too bad she had to be put into life-threatening danger in order to discover this simple truth. It didn't take long for him to burst her happy bubble, though. Sveta's pupils widened in terror as a new wave of panic washed over her.

"W-what? But you just said..." The finger placed on her lips silenced her more effectively than cutting out her tongue would; she stared at him wordlessly now, question marks in her eyes, and prayed for explanation other than 'I'm still going to do what I want because I can, muhaha.' Luckily for her, it turned out he was apparently way too practical to cause a commotion of huge proportions. So that's what he's after, huh? A relatively innocent chitchat? This... isn't a bad premise, all things considered. Getting to know someone who routinely operated on the wrong side of law and whose methods encompassed kidnapping definitely wasn't amongst world's safest activities, yet Svetlana sincerely doubted Irina shared her so-called gift. The old lady had been actively trying to contact the spiritual realm since the time she was old enough to vote, sometimes blowing absurd sums of money on mystical artifacts, and if even microscopic possibility of her possessing some supernatural powers existed, she'd brag about it endlessly to anyone willing to listen. The list of those people was rather short, yet Sveta's name occupied the first place. The translator guessed with ninety-nine percent certainty no real menace hovered over Irina unless things went awry, and she resolved to prevent it at all costs. Besides, as her selfish side realized, it might be nice to see friendly face.

"Alright," she capitulated, "visiting her was the reason I flew to Poland in the first place, so why not. We'll need some believable story as to why we're knocking on her door together, complete with details on how we met et cetera. Auntie isn't going to hold back with her questions." Sveta accepted his hand and stood up, wincing a little as she put too much weight on the injured leg. The news about being tied up didn't exactly improve her mood, but his logic was, unfortunately, sound. "I'll have you know I'm probably ten times more dangerous with an axe than with a sniper rifle, mainly because the closest I've been to one is through a TV screen. I think I would have gotten you during my attempt to escape if you weren't a cheater," Svetlana shrugged. "And yeah, I guess it's too late to pretend I'm not capable of a single rebellious thought, so go ahead. Also, I'm aware you're not doing this for my comfort, but could you perhaps bring me some magazine or a crossword book when you're going out, please?" The worst thing he could do was to say no and she would gladly risk that in exchange for an opportunity to keep her mind busy somehow. Gazing into ceiling got really boring really fast; having to endure that for few days would be a real torture.
 
And so Quebec quickly brought Sveta back into the bedroom, and used a length of rope from the kitchen to tie her to the bed. And, if one had to be tied to a bed, the way Quebec did it would probably be the best. Sveta was left sitting up, her hands secured to the small of her back, and a pillow between herself and the headboard. Being unable to move could never really be comfortable, but at least she wasn't physically uncomfortable. This time, at least, even if Sveta did manage to untie herself, there was no key hidden in plain sight in the room. That was not to say there was not a key, as Quebec never put himself into a situation where it was possible for him to be trapped, but Sveta would not find it this time.

Quebec's shopping trip was entirely practical in all the right ways. Good food was, to Quebec, ultimately nothing but an extravagance, but it was an extravagance that Rotham had taught him to enjoy dearly. He had the money, he had the time, and he certainly had the skill to be a phenomenal chef, and, as with everything he did, Quebec was not going to half-ass anything he wound up doing. On top of the supplies for approximately four days worth of food, he picked up basic necessities for the bathroom, a new set of kitchen knives, and a couple of changes of clothes for both himself and Sveta. On a whim as he was checking out, he grabbed a copy of one of the news magazines that always lined both sides of the queue. He thumbed through it briefly before shrugging and tossing it into the cart. He paid with one of Rotham's credit cards, taking great pleasure in imagining the surprise on the faces of the people who constantly tried to track him that the rotund businessman had actually not dropped off the face of the earth for once.

He came back with a different car than the one with which he had left, the backseat covered in shopping bags and rolls of paper towels and toilet paper. Now that he and Sveta had reached something of an agreement he flet less concern about parking the car out front and unloading the bags from the back. Once all the food was in the kitchen and the bathroom supplies were put away, he unlocked the door to the bedroom and entered. Without a word he released Sveta, and he tossed the magazine down on the bed next to her. He left, barely having even acknowledged her presence, and locked the door behind him once more. He didn't want to have to wonder about where she was while he was setting up the safe house, but there was no reason to leave her tied up when he was in the house.

Since Quebec had no desire to remain in the outskirts of Katowice for a long period of time, he did not bother with most of the furniture that was covered in the house once he returned. He did, however, set up a dining table and two chairs, as well as the couch in the living room. He opened the windows on both ends of the house, allowing a smell breeze to pass through the interior and clean out the stuffy air and smell of mold, before returning to the kitchen. He quickly cleaned out the fridge before plugging it in and putting away the groceries that needed refrigeration. Somewhere in the middle of putting away groceries he noticed the bloody, ripped shirt in the corner of the room, and, once all the food was put away, he dropped the shirt into one of the grocery bags, mopped up the blood splatter with some paper towels, and then tied the bag closed. He quickly check the rest of the house for any blood. More than he would have liked had gotten into the carpet, but the stains were mostly small. The dirtiest thing, other than his blood-soaked shirt, was the axe, which he also cleaned, and the front step where he had fallen after Sveta struck him. He washed it off with a water hose, before wiping the residue off the steps and the door with more paper towels. Once the front door was clean, Quebec double bagged the whole mess, and left it just outside the back door. Satisfied that the potentially damning mess was gone, he then proceeded to clean every inch of the kitchen of the dust that had gathered from the years and years of disuse. His basic cooking supplies were also there, if equally dusty, and he hand washed each one before drying them and putting them back away. He left the largest kitchen knife in the kitchen, where it would be used to make dinner that evening, but spread the rest of the knives around the house. One by the back door, one by the front, one in the living room, one in the bathroom.

Only once all of his basic preparations were complete did he return to the bedroom, unlock the door, and let it swing open. It would be up to Sveta whether or not she wanted to leave the bedroom. Quebec returned to the living room, and took a seat on the couch he had uncovered. He folded his legs up underneath him, took a deep breath, and allowed his eyes to flutter closed. Passing time patiently was just another art that Quebec had mastered.
 
Sveta let him escort her to the bedroom without any protests and allowed him to tie her up. Surprisingly enough, it didn't feel nearly as uncomfortable as she had anticipated even though she would have to be a lunatic to choose this position voluntarily. Her kidnapper left her to her own devices soon and Svetlana was about to face her greatest foe so far; a crippling boredom. Counting crackles on the ceiling somehow proved to be even more pointless than she had initially thought despite the fact achieving such level of banality was next to impossible and the omnipresent silence surrounding her felt so utterly depressing after a while it almost forced her to sing for herself quietly just to interrupt it. Fortunately, the ginger managed to suppress the strange impulse; her sanity really didn't need another deadly blow, this time delivered by her own voice that could easily be utilized as a weapon of mass destruction. She remembered reading somewhere that the longest time any person could last in a completely soundless environment without succumbing to hallucinations was four minutes and while it had seemed exaggerated to her back then, it certainly didn't look like a completely baseless statement now. Frowning slightly, Sveta even tried to get rid of the rope restricting her movement solely to entertain herself somehow, but her lack of expertise only ended up tightening the knots around her wrists.

Well, old Harry Houdini wouldn't be too proud of me, she thought sarcastically, but without any real despair or bitterness. A daring escape was out of question for now even if some lucky coincidence orchestrated her success in discarding the rope. Svetlana didn't know what secrets he had pried from her mind, but it would be naive to hope he had avoided looking up where her aunt lived during the excursion inside of her head. He basically held Irina hostage and she wasn't going to test the limits of his tolerance with wacky antics anymore; well, at least not until she came up with a decent plan that minimized casualties on her part. Easier said than done, especially considering I have absolutely zero idea on how to approach this issue. No matter which perspective she chose, no matter from what angle she tried to examine this dilemma, things still looked rather bleak for her. Running away in itself probably wouldn't be so hard; her kidnapper watched her every step cautiously, yet just like every human being in existence, even he was bound to make a mistake at some point and she'd exploit it with no small amount of satisfaction. This tactic demanded great patience, but Sveta had all the time in the universe. All the time in the universe and a very, very good motivation to stay on the lookout for her golden opportunity. This was all fine and dandy, yet it didn't solve the problem with him knowing her aunt's whereabouts, and Svetlana doubted he would use that knowledge to send her a Christmas card.

I guess I could try to bash his head into the wall repeatedly until it triggers an amnesia if I ever get tired of my life, but it seems like I'll have to play along for the time being. Not having anything better to do, Sveta closed her eyes, attempting to find refuge in the privacy of her subconscious. There was no way to measure the length of her rest, yet it felt like barely five minutes had passed when creaking of the door disrupted her dreamless sleep. A disoriented, confused look reflected in her eyes until her mind confirmed that memories of the bloody axe, man who could borrow faces and other lovely things hadn't been born of a particularly bizarre nightmare, but pure reality. Yay me. He didn't seem to be in an overly talkative mood and for once, Sveta actually approved of silence. All of her muscles ached from being stuck in a single position for so long and her face was competing with her leg for her attention with random bursts of pain; none of these factors supported her desire for a polite conversation. Still, her eyebrow shot up in surprise as a magazine landed on her bed. Almost against her will, the small gesture of kindness pleased her. She definitely didn't owe him anything and bringing her something to read couldn't compensate for the mess he had dragged her through, but... He didn't have to go out of his way just to ensure her comfort. Didn't kidnappers have it in their job description to turn their victim's lives into living hell?

"Thanks," Svetlana muttered quietly as he untied her, slightly unsure whether she was thanking him for releasing her or for the magazine. He then promptly abandoned her again and Sveta wasted no time getting up on her feet to stretch the numb limbs a little. When the blood finally started circulating in her veins again, the Russian sit down on the bed, opening the magazine. It was a journal dedicated mostly to news, which meant she would normally just skim it through for interesting pieces of information hidden in the sea of political scandals, but she intended to read every single article now. Written Polish amused her endlessly; her inner linguistic snob simply had to poke fun at the impractical diacritic and outlandish spelling rules. The language reminded her of her mother tongue too much to resist comparing it subconsciously and yet it differed in the wildest ways imaginable, which made it an ideal snark bait.

The door flew open once again and this time, he was apparently giving her an unspoken permission to leave the bedroom. Good. I'm getting sick of this place already. And so Sveta half-walked, half-limped to the newly furnished living room; her jaw almost dropped upon perceiving the difference. The scene was just like straight out of one of those shows where the moderators secretly reconstructed your flat in a record speed. He hadn't been kidding about making this house more inhospitable. What amazed her even more was that he evidently didn't belong among the numerous group of men who regarded cleaning as a punishment from Satan himself as the blood stains were gone. "Not bad," Svetlana commented as she plopped down on the couch.

"I could almost see myself renting this house for a holiday if it wasn't for the memories connected to it. Anyway, I'd like to clarify some things, like that cover story we have to come up with for my auntie. I imagine you'll have to be my boyfriend as it would be weird to bring a friend to such an occasion. Irina knows my current lifestyle... isn't ideal for relationships, so you'll have to be someone who travels just as often as I do. Preferably not an assassin or something similarly heart attack inducing,"
Sveta smirked. "How does a travel journalist sound? Or you can be my colleague. Also, how am I supposed to call you? Do you have a name you would want to use?"
 
He tracked her as she came into the room and sat down on the other end of the couch from him. For the moment, Quebec had not bothered to open his eyes as he listened to her unexpected compliment. Her words meant almost nothing to him. Had she known Quebec a little better, she would have understood that he undertook everything he did with a level of professional efficiency that would boggle the minds of most corporate recruiters. Of course, more often than not, that efficiency related to the best way to cause an opponent to bleed out in three seconds flat, but that was, ultimately irrelevant.

"Call me Quinn," Quebec replied at the end, before his eyes snapped open suddenly. For a brief moment the air seemed to crackle with some unknown intensity, before it vanished once more. The words had already left his mouth, and there was no way that Quebec could take them back. All the same, he could not believe that he would offer her that name, out of all the names that related to him. That was the one name he never used, not under any circumstances. "And a travel journalist sounds fine. I know plenty about the world."

Precisely why was he so bothered by the fact that he had used the name Quinn? In the end, it was just another name, among so many thousands. At this point it held no emotional significance for him anymore. Of course it didn't. That life was so far gone from the entity known as Quebec that there was no reason for the name to hold any significance. He might as well have her call him Quinn. It was English or American, so he would have to adopt a slightly different face for the meeting, but that was only expected. The chances that Sveta would date a polish man in Poland were quite slim, from what she had said.

"Why don't you tell me where and how it is most probable that Svetlana and Quinn would meet."
 
Perhaps her senses deceived her, but it seemed utterance of that name sparked a strange fire within him. The change would have been small, almost imperceptible if you weren't specifically looking for it on any other person, yet it contrasted so sharply with his thoroughly unemotional self she would have to be blind in order to miss it. Sveta tilted her head aside, a slightly quizzical expression leaking into her features. Fear had been successfully smothering her natural curiosity since he had kidnapped her, but with the adrenaline levels in her blood slowly subsiding, nothing was really preventing it from rearing its head again. Did it mean something personal to him? The question was pestering her for a while, yearning to be asked, but Svetlana ignored the compulsion and the right moment to inquire about it - if it ever existed - passed. Whatever. It's not like I care. There's no reason for me to increase my already pretty high chances of getting axed by unearthing more potentially damning secrets.

"Quinn is an okay name for our purposes. You kinda look like one, now that I think of it. Not that I know any other Quinn personally and you can obviously change appearances on a whim, but... Yeah," she said in a tone of a philosophy professor pondering about meaning of life. The ridiculousness of her statement smacked her in the face the second it somehow bypassed all the mental filters of appropriateness and escaped from her lips. Svetlana knew her thought patterns could get convoluted to the point of perplexing her peers - hell, she even did it deliberately sometimes - but confusing herself was definitely a whole new experience. Where did that come from? Probably a side effect of having my mind probed against my will. Also, it's very likely I'm traumatized, so I deserve the right to spout nonsense whenever I see fit, Sveta hand-waved it, deciding to focus on his question instead.

"Well, I guess it would have to be a pretty random meeting, so we can disregard laws of probability, at least to some extent. I avoid getting involved with my clients for the sake of professionalism, though, which means I'd eliminate this option. How about some more classic scenario? I stayed somewhere for vacation for about a week after my job was done - maybe in Hong Kong, it doesn't really matter - and met you in a bar. We talked, there was a chemistry between us and we clicked, so we decided to keep in touch and pursue a long-distance relationship, arranging meetings whenever our schedules allowed it. I didn't tell anyone as it realistically didn't look like it would work out, but we've been doing this for... half a year, let's say... and things are getting serious. What do you think?" Sveta asked, wrapping a lock of hair around her finger thoughtfully. "And one more thing. You probably have a general awareness of my demeanor from reading my mind, but I have no idea what is Quinn like. Tell me something about him."
 
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Only his countless years of training and the blank state in which he normally existed kept Quebec from reacting to Sveta's latest statement. His frustration and confusion in relation to her was growing larger and larger the more time he spent with her. How could it be possible for one individual to guess so much about him? It only enhanced his desire to kill her, to get this mess out of his life for good and just go back to what he knew. But it also made it all the more unreasonable for him to kill her now. Humans were unique creatures, but until he figured out exactly what it was about her that allowed her to understand these secret parts of him he could not let her go. If Sveta was not as harmless as she was, their encounters could have spelled something very dangerous for the live Quebec led.

As Sveta continued talking Quebec was quickly pulled out of his rut, and restored to something familiar. He was on the job, in a way, and needed to build the person that everyone else would see for their meeting with Irina. He may have never done it with someone else before, but that did not change the general process. Sveta was, at this moment, nothing more complicated than his briefing folder. And so he picked an empty part of his mind, and began to construct the individual that was Quinn Marshall.

He started with the easy part; a physical appearance. The base face he had for Ireland and Scotland appeared in his mind, a middle-aged man with a more square face, heavier and broader jaw, a nose that was just a bit more flat and broad, slightly reddish-blonde hair, and dark brown eyes. Slowly he began to make shifts. The hair, although not the faint stubble beard, lost the reddish highlights. It lengthened until the tips of the waves just covered the tops of his ears in the front, and brushed his collar in the back. The jaw became even stronger, the chin more firmly shaped. The nose became straighter, thinner, and more sharply defined from the rest of the place. The lips thinned out a touch further, but became more delicately shaped. The brow lightened into something generally perceived as more honest, and some of the wrinkles smoothed out to create a more youthful appearance. Only the eyes remained mostly untouched, retaining the deep, chocolate brown color and slightly hooded lids. It was a face that strongly hinted at Irish ancestry, without looking like he had just stepped right off the boat. The face that was to become Quinn Marshall was undoubtedly good looking, but not drop-dead gorgeous. It was the happy medium upon which Quebec often settled between good looks and blending in. He rarely wanted to draw undue attention, but people tended to be more forgiving of those they considered better looking. Quebec retained a fit, strong body shape, unwilling to sacrifice his ability to react quickly, efficiently, and strongly to any surprise situations to have the slightly more standard body type for the modern human.

The history he quickly and, by his standards, rather sloppily assembled from the two different travel journalists he had stored in his mind. A safe and happy early childhood, fueled by his parents' passion for travel. A love of writing, an early and successful blog that got him a jump start in the travel journalism business, and eventual acceptance into the staff of the local newspaper from his hometown in Ohio. He was known for a bright and flavorful style of writing which was just honest enough to be considered trustworthy, without turning off the readers. Quebec quickly assembled highlights and lowlights to Quinn's life, and added a faint, slivery scar to the right side of his face from an unfortunate trip to the Congo.

The personality Quebec chose for Quinn Marshal was also rather generic by the time and detail he would usually put into building a cover identity, but it was something that would be attractive to an older woman who wanted to see someone she loved with someone who would be good for her. Quinn was honest, charismatic, and laughed easily, as well as possessed a bit of an impish sense of humor that mingled well with Sveta's slightly outlandish taste in tormenting strangers. He was attentive, a very good listener, and was able to quickly pick up on a person's interests and disinterests. Satisfied with this, Quebec added more definition to the laugh lines around the eyes, and a tendency for those same eyes to never rest on one spot for more than a couple of seconds unless he was specifically concentrating on something.

Only now that Quinn Marshall had become a complete individual did Quebec actually apply his face and personality. The whole process had taken little more than a minute, so even as Sveta was finishing speaking Quebec was changing into Quinn. As his face and body changed, so did his posture. He lost Quebec's perfect rigidity and self-poise, settling into a relaxed stance that hid a constant observation of the world around him. His legs unfolded and sprawled across the floor in front of the couch, one hand moved to the couch arm, the other played with a loose thread on the cushion. A half-smile appeared on his face, as well as a gleam of satisfaction in his eye.

He extended a hand to Sveta, and took her own before she could react. "A pleasure to make your aquaintence, Svetlana," Quinn said, voice low, silvery, and sweet. "Quinn Marshall." He brushed her hand gently with his lips, before releasing it and looking up at her once more, a complete smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes. For one moment, it would be easy to forget exactly who he was.

Quinn leaned back comfortably into the corner of the couch opposite from Sveta, his torso turned to her and one bare foot drawn up onto the cushion. "Let me see..." he said, biting his bottom lip as his eyes dropped in a rather alluring fashion. There was a moment of silence, before he laughed faintly. "Why is it never easy to talk about yourself?" He shook his head self-mockingly, and a strand of brown hair fell across his forehead. He quickly brushed it away, before turning his attention back to Sveta. "Most people describe me as outgoing, friendly, and charismatic. There's no doubt that I can get into almost any situation, and enjoy it to its fullest. I'm also very, very good at dragging other people along with me into those situations. I know for a fact that I'm really good at listening. Well, any journalist has to be really good at listening, and knowing how to poke people in just the right way to get them to properly express their own words."

He paused again, before shrugging. "I'm a good dancer," he said, smiling faintly, with one eyebrow quirked up. "Although I'm not sure if that is really what you want to know.

"Perhaps it would work best to play 20 questions?"
 
There were subtle but significant changes, like passion slowly vanishing from a relationship until you were left wondering what had even drawn you to that person in the first place, and then there were transformations that rivaled the extinction of dinosaurs in their flashiness. Quinn's abrupt, 180-degree turn in behavior fell to the latter category. The adjustments in his looks didn't scare her anymore; it seemed to be something he did very often, almost automatically and without thinking, so Svetlana had plenty of opportunities to deal mentally with this unsettling phenomenon despite the shortness of her visit. Seeing something so surreal still made her skin crawl in the same manner as passing a run-over cat during an otherwise pleasant stroll would, but comparing her initial freak-out with that slight discomfort would be like insisting that standing on top of a molehill victoriously equaled to conquering Mount Everest. No, startling Sveta took way more effort than just repeating the same tricks over and over. Quinn was apparently aware of this fact and decided to spice up his performance by throwing some A-class acting into the mix.

Suddenly a perfect gentleman, he seized her hand and kissed it gently, his lips stretched into a polite smile. Svetlana's expression couldn't have been more confused even if he announced he was going to renounce the life of crime and fund an orphanage from his ill-gotten gains to atone for his sins. Disbelief with a hint of suspicion mirrored in her chocolate-brown eyes as she attempted to solve this riddle. Was Quinn baiting her, trying to engage her in some weird psychological game without explaining the rules first? Probably not; all the evidence pointed to the conclusion this was just an exercise to flesh out the character of her boyfriend so it would resist Irina's inevitable interrogation. Even so, the complete re-programming of his entire attitude that had miraculously happened over the course of few seconds seemed more than a little fishy to her. She had always been attentive when it came to people, and it didn't escape her that this particular masquerade ran far deeper than him putting on a friendly smile or concealing his true intentions behind sweet words. His body language didn't bear any resemblance to that of the experienced killer and he was giving off a very different vibe altogether; Svetlana could have sworn her kidnapper and the sympathetic young man sitting next to her were two separate entities if she hadn't witnessed the metamorphosis with her own eyes. Well, that, and her peculiar inner radar that had caused her more grief than happiness so far obviously played its role, too. It was all remarkably odd, yet strangeness couldn't stop her sarcasm from kicking in.

What is it I hear in the distance? Probably a bunch of Broadway producers weeping since they've just found out Quinn isn't available as an actor for hire. Seriously, that guy is wasting his talent killing people... or whatever his highly illegal job entails. He'd be collecting Oscars left and right.
"Likewise, Quinn," she said, finally snapping out of dumbfounded silence. To her surprise, it wasn't even that big of a lie; perhaps her standards were rapidly declining, but spending time with someone who evidently didn't plan on physically hurting her in the nearest future wasn't so bad, even if that someone had technically done it before. Moreover, Sveta had to admit this new persona intrigued her. Quinn had likely been tailored according to what her kidnapper thought was attractive and he had certainly succeeded in creating rather... magnetic personality from what she could observe, but would he feel so authentic even after closer examination? "Alright," Svetlana nodded, still visibly astonished by this turn of events, "prepare to share your darkest secrets with me. Let's see... As your girlfriend, I absolutely have to know how to make fun of you efficiently, so... What's the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you? In a similar vein, what's your greatest fear? And now a question that is possibly going to define our relationship: If you had to choose between Iron Maiden, Judas Priest and Metallica, which one would be your favorite band and why?"
 
"Alright," Quinn agreed, before sitting silent for a moment. At this moment, Quebec was taking the time to slowly fill in the embarrassing moment and greatest fear because, as Svetlana rightly knew, they truly did shape the individual. In order to stall for time as Quebec slowly shifted Quinn's memories and experiences, he answered the last question first.

"Lets start with the... relatively easy one, shall we? In the end, I would have to go with Iron Maiden. I like their lyrics best. Bruce Dickenson has an awesome voice. I listen to their music more. Sometimes, it just has to be that simple." Quinn shrugged, but smiled. Sometimes, it really was as simple as flipping a coin. "Not to say that I don't like the others. I do. Especially Judas Priest. At some point, you will have to explain how exactly that is going to define our relationship." Quinn laughed slightly, before growing a bit more serious.

"As for my most embarrassing thing..." Quinn paused, drawing his knee up a little closer to his chest. The minor level of distress on his face was perfectly genuine, as was his momentary reluctance to share the story. But the story would be shared anyways, in the end. He took a deep breath, before beginning to speak. "Ok. There was this time I was in Austria and... You have to understand I was really new at the time. I don't know how I got in, but I was one of about, I don't know, twenty people selected to get a chance at an interview with Daniel Craig, Mathieu Amalric and Marc Forster, after they had completed one of the scenes for Quantum of Solace. I don't know if you have ever been in one of these situations, but everyone is shouting questions, and if you are closest and loudest you don't get heard. Anyways, there was this lady standing in the back, and she looked like Olga Kurylenko, the lead actress." Quinn paused and looked away from Sveta.

"I'm sure you can already guess where this was going. She was sitting in the back, a little ways away from me, and everyone was ignoring her. So, when there was a slight lull in the conversation, I leaned over and asked her how acting in a foreign country was different from acting in America. Turns out, she wasn't Miranda Otto, but was rather the woman who owned the press conference room we were all sitting in. And she explained it to me in very loud, very high pitched terms that instantly attracted everyone else's attention... And they were all staring at me before everyone just burst out laughing." Quinn looked up briefly before glancing away again, a faint blush staining his cheeks. "Like I said, I was new, and I've never made that mistake again. I always know exactly who is going to be attending an interview."

He was silent for a moment, eyes still lowered from the shame of relating the moment. But he brushed past it quickly, looked up, and continued talking. "Anyways. My greatest fear, other than having another moment where I make a complete and utter fool out of myself in front of some very, very famous people, is probably getting captured by someone who really doesn't like Americans. Or journalists. Or both. It would be really easy to arrest me under false pretenses, because oftentimes my alibi is in a completely different country. They could then do with me as they pleased. I don't work for a big paper, and I only send in weekly messages. Besides, even if my bosses raised a big stink, it is doubtful anyone would really care. I'd just... vanish off the face of the planet."

Quebec recognized full well the irony of Quinn's greatest fear as it was, to an extent, exactly what had happened to Sveta. And that was a large part of the reason he had chosen it. On the one hand, it would remind her exactly what situation she was presently in, which would keep her from getting too cheeky and daring with him. On the other hand, Quinn was a completely different person in her eyes, and while she subconsciously knew that this man before her was the same man who had kidnapped her, beat her, and entrapped her, it was very possible that her conscious mind could forget those facts, if only for a moment. Sharing a similar fear would bring her that much closer to her "boyfriend."
 
"A very correct analysis," Svetlana appreciated his first answer with a smile. "And as for its significance, I simply can't see myself in a relationship with someone who refuses to acknowledge Maiden's inherent superiority. That would be insulting on a deeply personal level, almost like claiming in front of a devoted Muslim that Muhammad is a God and Allah his prophet, not vice versa. I have great deal of love for the other two bands as well - I've even wanted Nothing Else Matters to play on my funeral since I was like fourteen - but nobody can really match Dickinson's vocals." Fate had blessed Sveta with a curious ability of temporarily forgetting her hardships once an opportunity to discuss her hobbies with a fellow enthusiast appeared, and it showed; the permanent wary, unapproachable expression somewhat softened, making her look as if she was chatting with a dear friend instead of helping a dangerous criminal with constructing a fake personality. Not even her short attention span could completely quell the stifling tension lurking in the back of her head, though, so she quickly put up her defenses back. Well, good thing I told him that bit about my funeral song. Maybe, when he decides I've outlived my usefulness, he'll demonstrate he's got a character and grant me my wish.

A grudging respect was slowly building up within her as she listened to the anecdote about Quinn's most embarrassing moment; saying that her current companion hadn't earned her affection with his actions would have been an understatement of the year, but that didn't mean she couldn't tentatively admire his craftsmanship. As Sveta had learned the hard way, telling a good lie wasn't as easy as it seemed in theory. Weaving the delicate web of deception demanded precision, good memory and quick reflexes to avoid getting stuck in your own trap. The story he had delivered was both funny and entirely in-character; what's more, he had seasoned it with semblance of sincerity so credible it would probably drive most telemarketers to suicide. Moreover, it looked like Quinn was emitting laughing gas into air since she couldn't stop her lips from twitching slightly despite knowing for sure he had fabricated it few seconds ago. "Ouch," Sveta chuckled, "I'd probably never leave my room again if it were to happen to me. That must have been terrible." Or it would be, if what he told me was genuine. "It's an excellent blackmail material, though, so thanks for finding the courage to share it with me."

Hearing about his greatest fear, however, didn't entertain her as much, mainly because it provided an unsolicited reality check. No matter how nice he treated her at the moment or how harmless he seemed, Quinn was still someone who held a metaphorical gun at her temple and he reveled at rubbing it in her face. You don't have to hint at it every five seconds that my survival depends on your whims. Believe it or not, but my face still fucking hurts and that's a pretty good reminder of my status. She chose not to bring this into conversation, though; there were things you didn't say to people who could shake off damage from an axe as if it was a mosquito's bite and while Svetlana could possess an elegance of an elephant in a china shop when it came to etiquette, this struck her as a textbook example. "Yeah, that's reasonable," she said, careful to maintain a neutral tone. "Certainly more logical than freaking out whenever you see a spider. Anyway, next batch of questions!" Sveta paused for a moment, trying to come up with something meaningful, but then she decided to simply follow her instincts.

"Out of all the places you've visited, which one had the greatest impact on you and why? It can be either positive or negative; that's up to you. What I'd like to know next, Quinn, is whether you're religious. Do you think there's some higher force or are you one of those no-nonsense, only-believes-in-what-he-sees guys? And this is gonna be a classic question, but I feel it needs to be asked, so bear with me. What about your family? Parents, siblings and all those important people who could potentially donate you organs. What are they like and how do you get on with them?"