Ekaterina’s Wednesday morning odd encounter(Tenzin)

August 20, 2025

Date: 2025-08-20 06:37

(Ekaterina’s Wednesday morning odd encounter(Tenzin):Tenzin)

[Wed Aug 20 2025]

At Central Plaza fountain/span>/spanThe central plaza fountain rises from a circular basin of weathered granite,
its three-tiered structure reaching nearly fifteen feet into the air. Water
cascades from carved stone faces at each level, their features worn smooth by
decades of constant flow, creating a steady murmur that carries across the
intersection of paths. The fountain’s base spans twenty feet in diameter,
surrounded by a low stone wall perfect for sitting, though the limestone
bears dark stains where the spray reaches during windy days. Bronze plaques
set into the fountain’s pedestal commemorate various graduating classes,
their inscriptions growing increasingly difficult to read on the older
dedications, particularly those from the 1800s where the metal has developed
a peculiar greenish-black patina. The water itself appears crystal clear in
daylight but takes on an oddly opaque quality after sunset, and careful
observers might notice that coins tossed into the basin sometimes seem to
disappear entirely rather than settling to the bottom. Four ornate lamp posts
mark the cardinal points around the fountain, their wrought iron bases
decorated with intertwining vines and barely visible symbols that could be
mistaken for mere ornamentation./span>/spanIt is morning/span>/span58F(14C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At Birch and Rosewood/span>/span(Your target and their allies have been tasked with convincing a retired and burnt out faction member to come back to the fight.
)

On patrol, Ekaterina was crossing through the university; The buildings had been investigated, the student body dorms were clear, and thus, Ekaterina was returning to her bike.

Looking to Ekaterina’s phone, she paused in the square, sitting on the edge of the fountain, rifle hanging from its strap at Ekaterina’s shoulder as myhaven was reviewed, the intention to return to the gaming store to take stock before opening for the morning.

Ekaterina’s comms crackle as a harshly accented baritone speaks through it, saying, “It would be good to meet everyone else. I have only met the Sister Connie. It was an accident.”

Recent developments within the Temple cause the communication frequencies to come alive. Kidnappings. Warnings. Announcements. Most for distant shores, charters out of town and abroad.

Ekaterina’s phone buzzes with a notification meant just for her and a select few others: Proceed to the Faireground. Former Striker 74-E last spotted entering. We want him back on the force.

There is some typing on her computer at Lykaia’s office as she is documenting a field report for a mission unrelated to New Haven, the Temple, its factions and societies. Lykaia picks up her phone and looks at it, glancing it over. “If they’re burnt out, they probably are in need of holidays. Reasons we got RnR time and days in the field and why there’s a maximum deployment time. Even the most elite gets exhausted and performs like shit.” She gets to her feet, opens the office door and steps outside, closes the door and locks it. “Fairefield’s just around the corner. Gonna take the walk.”

Doing nothing of note save bwowsing Myhaven when the voice crackles over the Temple coms, the phone is slipped away, the rifle adjusted on Ekaterina’s shoulder and she stands from her seat upon the edge of the fountain. Ekaterina glances around, the area given a final check, and when judged to be peaceful, the scarred brunette begins limping through the quad, past the fountain, and towards the gates of Windermere, where her motorbike waits.

As she passes through the green, between two of the buildings, the early morning shadows dappling the area with the light-and-shadow of contrast between path, grass and stonework, the left hand rises. A finger depresses a point behind the left ear where a subdermal implant connects her through coms and at the same time, the phone is drawn back from Ekaterina’s pocket. The message read, the device is slipped back away as she speaks, rhotic intination soft as the Russian’s words join the clammer. “I am headed to the Faireground. We have report of Striker that Temp-Int wants back on force Can economize and do both, da.”

Then she reaches her bike, and Ekaterina revs it, pulling out.

Doing nothing of note save browsing Myhaven when the voice crackles over the Temple coms, the phone is slipped away, the rifle adjusted on Ekaterina’s shoulder and she stands from her seat upon the edge of the fountain. Ekaterina glances around, the area given a final check, and when judged to be peaceful, the scarred brunette begins limping through the quad, past the fountain, and towards the gates of Windermere, where her motorbike waits.

Then she reaches her bike, and Ekaterina revs it, pulling out.

The Faireground is just waking up. Just a couple of cars in the parking lot. Colorful lights and stalls house sleepy attendants. Few tourists have come early to avoid the lines.

As members of the faction travel to the location, they receive further details of their target. Photos, files, the whole dossier. There’s a match with one of the few cars in the parking lot. The old Striker still drives an armored jeep like he were expecting gunfire to hail at any moment.

“It seems our work can get quite stressful,” the comms crackles with the same altai-russified voice.

Lykaia slides a hand into the side of her vest along the walk towards the Fairgrounds. It was really just less than a handful of blocks down the street for her, and she moves through the parkling lot. Eyes, in that time, were on her phone, looking at the photos and the vehicle and the important data. Less the full whole of the history, just what’s needed to make a threat assessment and get a brief overview, particularly for the cause of the burn out.

“Couldn’t really blame ’em. I’m specialized, and I’m treated as much as a fucking demolisher, just that I’m not getting chipped.” She shakes her head and glances around the parking lot. “Local branch is ridiculous.” There she sees the armored jeep, which is followed by a slow exhale.

“Da.” Ekaterina agrees, the Russian’s rhotic intination thick through that transmition. “I am here now. Vehicle and plates positive identification in lot. I will wait for backup.”

The kick stand of her violently red bike in place, Ekaterina slips a leg over it, returning to an easy seat leaning against the mid life crisis as she reviews the files. “Any agents look for red bike. I am identifiable. I am caucation, five seven with brown hair, identifying features, full body scars.” That is all injected with matter-of-fact, no nonsense cadence, the tone casual enough that it’s likely been done many times before, perfectly professional– A soldier’s tone.

A nod to Lykaia as she is the second to arrive, a hand– the left, with the two cut-off fingers raised by way of greeting. Though for now at least, the distance isn’t close enough to catch Lykaia’s chuntering.

Ekaterina does not move from her perch, her bike parked a few rows away from the objective vehicle, close enough for observation, not close enough– Not obvious enough to be seen as a threat. Ekaterina is X-police, and is used to SOOs.

Intelligence must have thought just Ekaterina and Lykaia would be enough for this one. The dossier displays him: Jackson Reed. A grizzled old African American man in his late fifties. Grey wire beard. Green eyes, battle-hardened. Ex-Strike Force. Retired ten years ago after a mission to Iran. Sharpshooter, best of his squadron. A comment summarizes a strongly worded letter he had left them: Dissatisfied with in-faction corruption and dental plan.

It is a several minutes before Ekaterina and Lykaia spot a similar-looking face leaving the faire. He resembles the same guy in the photos, but with a paunch. His arms are filled with an amusement park assortment. Corn dogs, cotton candy, a large slurpee to go.

There is, of course, the likelihood that Jackson’s on his way to his vehicle, and so, Lykaia goes on to lean back against the driver’s door. Her weapons remain sheathed, the most obvious symbol, at first sight, is the 404 on her vest, and then the symbols of the rings around two of her finger. “At least he’s looking like he’s enjoying himself. Couldn’t blame it. Ekat. Let’s take it easy? Talk with him inside the car, see what’s where it’s wrong and what’s been up in his opinion?”

Reading the file, Ekaterina snorts softly in amusement at some part or other, but with Ekaterina and Lykaia being the chosen two operatives and this being affirmed by Temple Intel, the Russian finally moves; She stands, plasters a smile on her face, the ravaged side of her face hidden from Jackson’s view via the angle, and waves to Lykaia as though this were a chance meeting of friends.

In civvie clothing, Ekaterina is confident enough in obscurity that she makes a subdued show of nearing the other woman, her phone slipped into her jeans pocket.

The rifle is left with the bike. It would be inadvisable to approach heavily armed to a peaceful (with luck) interaction.

The brunette sidles up to Lykaia, the smile still plastered across her face as she responds to Lykaia, coming near to the other woman, face angled away from on-lookers as she gives Lykaia the raised palm- wait, followed by the circular swirl of the index- Watch.

“Let him dictate terms.” Ekaterina suggests to Lykaia. “Hear story, don’t frighten. Not intencity.” Lower toned. One eye remains on Jackson Reed, however, and there’s no effort made to intercept.

Policing tactic, put the suspect at ease and then interject one’s self to mitigate outside hostility/intervention.

Lykaia on the other hand is heavily armed. But she is known to be, it is rare, close to unknown for her to not be.

In a nearly empty parking lot with the two out in the open, the grizzled old man clocks Ekaterina and Lykaia immediately. The two get a quick read. No panic. No surprise. Only a tired sigh.

Jackson Reed pretends he didn’t just see them as he drags rubber sandals and socks over. The cotton candy bags are bounced higher while he fumbles for his keys. “Never let a man grow old and jaded in peace, huh?” he grunts, waving for Lykaia to move out of the way. “Careful with that, he’s got more mileage than both of you put together.” The jeep is a he.

“So’m guessing you ain’t here to talk to me ’bout Beethoven’s extended warranty.”

Letting out a laugh, Lykaia removes the gas mask, and attaches it back to its place along the baton holster hanging over her sternum. Sunglasses hide her eyes, but her exhale is slow. “You know how that shit goes, Reed. Let’s talk in the car? They’re really wanting you back. At least it’s looking like you been enjoying yourself. Good on you.” She says, her tone even, while moving out of the way for him, and then to the other side of the vehicle. “Could always look to get you a new ID, appearance, typical only way to get rid of it.”

The brunette makes a motion in the air before her, a so-so gesture as she nods in solidarity with Jackson Reed’s assessment. There’s no attempt to obscure the reason Ekaterina and Lykaia are there; Jackson’s already identified the facts and of course, they’re right on the money.

“Is good ride.” Ekaterina tells someone. “Solid, hard-wearing. I bet you have many stories, though I will not ask.” -101A, engage with a topic of seeming shared interest, do so without making it a problem, and invite open discourse.

Ekaterina moves to one side, allowing the man access to his vehicle. “I could talk about vehicle and road worthiness, but I think you are man who would appreciate directness over waffling, da?”

“So we shall do so- I think we both know tank like this never fails road safety. They are good all-surface, all-purpose transport. Temple SF does want you back, Mister Reed. You are prised for firearm skill. You know this, da. Is not game that is so easily left, more is pitty, and older we get, the more they want trained operatives back because youth are not upto muster.”

“Is good ride.” Ekaterina tells Jackson. “Solid, hard-wearing. I bet you have many stories, though I will not ask.” -101A, engage with a topic of seeming shared interest, do so without making it a problem, and invite open discourse.

Ekaterina moves to one side, allowing the man access to his vehicle. “I could talk about vehicle and road worthiness, but I think you are man who would appreciate directness over waffling, da?”

Ekaterina says, as a light-hearted aside, “You now have me wishing to check dental plan though.“

“Yeah, and you had to go ‘head and spoil my morning. It’s Wellness Wednesday,” Jackson complains to Lykaia and Ekaterina like they was pesky neighborhood kids. “Today’s the day you supposed to Treat ‘Cho Self.” He climbs into the driver’s seat. The back locks jut open for Lykaia and Ekaterina.

“Why they want me back? So they can tell me to point my gun at the wrong target again?” He shakes his head and yanks fruitlessly at his seatbelt. “Sonuvabitch.” The man gives up and listens to Ekaterina, already tired of today.

“They want me training the dumbfucks, don’t they?” he regrets to assume. “Funny from a faction that’s wanted their pawns taking action without the questions. What happen, somebody get fired or is Samson finally pushin’ them Temple columns to the ground?”

Jackson mutters to Ekaterina, “Muthafucka, you know how long that waiting list is? Six months. Six months to get seen. You need a root canal? Filling? Yeah, that shit’s comin’ outta your pocket. Only extractions are covered. Look at this mess.” He bares his teeth at her and Lykaia, showing all the gaps where teeth could’ve, would’ve, should’ve been saved.

Lykaia gets into the backseat of the jeep, and leans heavily back. She crosses her arms under her vest and glances out of the vehicle window. “Eh. Of course they do. Hitting the wrong target’s sometimes part of the job. It fucking sucks. The extreme’s bullshit not making it easier either.” Another slow exhale before she just asks. “What’s the breaking point? Don’t know Samson. If he’s fucking around I’ll handle him. Do got access to the Director worst case.” She keeps her eyes out of the jeep.

“If it helps, I am sorry to interupt your morning. Was not my choice to call up.” It’s likely not helpful in the least, but the consideration is still offered up regardless. “They do want you back to train new generation to follow orders, da.”

Soldier to soldier, Ekaterina just cant help the honesty. As the door clicks with the locks opened, Ekaterina gives Jackson a nod. She moves from the window, steps to the door, opens it and steps up and in with the practice of someone who’s done this many times in the past. It’s second nature.

The Russian doesn’t shut the door fully, the orning breeze allowed to make its way into the vehicle, and of course, she doesn’t belt up. Instead, she allows Jackson his time to speak, sits at-ease, and once he’s done, shrugs a shoulder. “Is not my place to talk about budget or leadership.” Ekaterina informs the man. “Is my job to do what I am told.” A pause, a sigh, and she regards the inside of the vehicle, taking everything in. “Twelve years army, six police.” she shares in brief. “Is habit at this point.”

No effort made to make this about Ekaterina, she asks Jackson, “What was final straw?” Though solidarity once again causes her to gesture at herself, scarring, missing fingers and all.

“You don’t know Samson?” Jackson turns all the way back to Lykaia. “Big strong guy from the Bible? With the hair? Whateva’, some story about him destroying a temple with his own bare hands, killin’ every corrupt muthafucka inside. Just one man.” He raises his finger with righteous fury, and gets some corn dog dip on there. Ranch. Accessible, his faireground food crowds the gear shift, despite generous space from compartments.

“All you need is one high-functioning idiot with access to power and resources to ruin the lives of everybody in a community,” he gravely tells her and Ekaterina.

He pinches some cotton candy for himself. Eyes in the rear-view. His voice is morose. “Final straw was Temp Intel disregarding my warnings ’bout the job. I already knew it was a wrong hit. I fuckin’ knew. Strike Force, stay in your lane. Bullshit. I still pulled the goddamn trigger. Follow your orders, right?” He shakes his head, watching sleepy faireground workers cross the parking lot. “You give me assurances that’s changed? I’ll consider a meeting. No contracts. No promises. One meeting.”

The grizzled old man keeps those eyes, aging but still sharp, on the faces in his rear-view mirror. Suspicion and sizing-up the two in silence. What manner of soldiers are these? he must be asking himself.

“We are in New Haven, my dude.” Lykaia says, looking from out of the window at Jackson. “What are they gonna do for refusing? You tell them, ain’t fucking you, they’re fucking wrong. Go fuck themselves, find someone else to fuck around and risk finding out. Even the Hand’s bullshit. No loyalty team to come pick you up here because this city that’s not even existed a few months ago isn’t going to allow you to kill someone without second and third thoughts.” She sighs, and looks back out of the window. “That’s how New Haven is. We’re short on people here anyway. Some idiot’s always gonna be around. Got to work with resources you got, not with resources you don’t.”

“Robert Martin is Director now.” Ekaterina tells Jackson Reed stoicly. Arms cross beneath Ekaterina’s bust and she nods to the man. “I can promise you leadership has changed. I can promise you that you will be listened to. I can promise you that your opinion will matter. And I can promise you that you will not be sent against an undeserving target- It is not easy to recover from those.”

hazel Eyes lock with Jackson’s and she offers him the smallest of nods- Nothing too pushy. Nothing that dismisses those points- Ekaterina means what she says. “You will train. You will not be expected to go into the field unless you are able.” A hand raises, palm out, and Ekaterina states without inflection. “The one meeting. This is all we ask. Hear NH cell out. You are not obligated to sign anything. If you do not like directives- walk. But it would be good to have you if you are willing.” A beat, “And we will have medical handled. Our doctor is good. Will know good dentist. And we make wellness wednesday manditory, da?”

Jackson‘s file did read that he was from a different charter somewhere under the pile of fine print. He shuts up long enough to stuff his mouth with more cotton candy. The man’ll need better dental, pronto. “Hmph, explains why I ain’t seen shit about New Haven since recently. Moved here ’cause I thought I’d find clam rolls and quiet. Ain’t find clam rolls.” The howling that never stops makes him roll eyes. “And it sure as hell ain’t quiet.”

Lykaia’s realistic explanations and Ekaterina’s namedropping and promises get the old sniper quiet. His world-weary stare is cold and hard through the mirror, testing the two for any facades. Words might be enough.

Two unopened bags of cotton candy are thrown to the back seat. Trophies for the task. “Here, they make ’em in flower shapes these days. ‘S real neat.” One bubblegum pink cotton candy, another raspberry blue. “Tell ’em I’ll be there Thursday, six o’clock sharp.” Unthinkable time for a meeting. An inconvenience on purpose. “Now get outta my car, got a marathon of Desperate Housewives to finish.”

On that prompt, Lykaia just opens the door. She doesn’t bother with any more words, and just straight up makes her way out and away from the scene. What’s asked for is handled. No need for anything else.

Nodding to Jackson, Ekaterina shoots him a grin, an expression warped to a grimace via scarring. She takes a bag with a thanks to Jackson, and extracts herself with little preamble or stalling.

Hopping down, the brunette slams the door, the metal rattling, tosses the man a salute, then begins to amble back to her bike- She cant promise any of that, she knows that, but at least the pitch was good, and this cell will not be so destitute in its accommodating its operatives needs.

Stepping to her bike, she strides it, presses a finger to the coms implant, calls it in- time and place- then drives off.

Sacrifices must be made, and by those who can. All Ekaterina can do is insure that they are made by those capable, with everyone deposited where they can do the most good for humanity. The field is not for everyone, and trainers will be needed to educate the youth on the dangers of allowing the threats of the supernatural world to spread.