Chapter I: Miss Trouble

With arms crossed and a scowl, a well-dressed young woman about Grigori's age sat sipping tea at an ornate table. The opening of the door had averted her attention to him, and that did not seem desirable. Piercing blue eyes stabbed him all over; the sensation was indescribable. Then again, some men would pay a king's ransom to have a beautiful woman's attention, especially with such animosity. He had no idea who she was, but her tight bun of chestnut hair on the right side of her head and rigid posture made it apparent she was someone who thought she was important.

"I wish to introduce you to Ms. Milena Yumatova. She hails from our great capital of Moscow!" Rybak proclaimed loudly despite the quiet of the room.

Moscow was somewhere Grigori had always wanted to see; Red Square would be the first place. His grandfather spoke of his march there as one of the proudest days of his life with the General Secretary personally saluting him as bannerman.

"A pleasure."

"My name is Grigori Agronsky."

He approached with a firm nod, extending his hand as a formality. She rose to meet him, setting down her teacup next to the rest of the ornate set. Her height was not much shorter than Grigori's. His gesture was met with a brutal vice grip. What did he do to deserve this?! Tears welled in his eyes, but he persevered. Perhaps this was another test? Yes, that must be it! Perhaps Milena was a KGB agent; that made sense! She seemed rather pleased with his reaction, tightening it more and more, challenging his resolve not to beg for mercy.

Whack In a flash, Rybak's slap to her wrist broke the grasp. She yelped and took a step back. Grigori also retreated, clutching his wounded appendage. Nothing seemed to be broken, thankfully.

"Lena, we talked about this. You have to play nice with your attendant or I will have one of my senior agents fulfill that role. They will be far less amicable."

He wagged his finger, reproach heavy in his voice. She was at best only ten centimeters shorter than him, but his gaze saw her as a mere child.

"Don't call me Lena." She sneered back at him. Grigori also caught some of that animosity. Rybak didn't even seem to notice; he had drawn the ire of much greater foes.

"Ms. Yumatova is a very important individual who will be attending KET Academy with you as a first-year student this school year, beginning on Tuesday. Your duty will be to serve as her attendant: to support, advise, and guide her however possible based upon your orders as well as your own judgment!"

Back in the Motherland, Ms. Yumatova had made quite a reputation for herself, stirring up far more trouble than most 15-year-olds typically do. Moscow in particular knew her name well; it did seem familiar to Grigori now that he thought about it. Rybak's friends at Lubyanka were so eager to see her leave that they apparently threw a massive party. A certain look of satisfaction was all over her dimpled face. Grigori could not fathom how she could make so much trouble. She didn't seem like a terrorist; a revolutionist, though, on the other hand...

Grigori felt a bit of concern at what he had gotten himself into, though "adversity forges men far better than leisure" in the words of his grandfather. This would be an arduous endeavor, that much was clear, but if he was able to keep an eye on this girl, maybe he would have a future as a full-time member of the KGB! A career in Intelligence had never crossed his mind; it certainly would be a well-respected field and came with plenty of societal perks. Given the situation, Milena would cooperate—not that there were any other options; it was more about how easily she made it for him. Why must all the most radiant flowers have such nasty thorns?

"Do you have any hobbies?" If they were to be partners in a sense, common interests would be a good place to start. A wobbly smile was the best he could manage, still a little worried if direct eye contact would make her mad. It was an innocuous question, the same sort anyone would open with when meeting someone for the first time under similar circumstances.

"Why should I—I like to read, write, and build models."

Milena spoke fondly of her love for Jules Verne, enlightenment philosophers, and all types of niche thinkers with names that she slightly struggled to pronounce. Books had always been her best companions—reliable, portable, and trustworthy; Grigori certainly reveled in a good read too, military history being his preferred choice, with stories of heroism, service, and triumph. Her face twitched for a moment; his heart jumped.

"What kind of models do you like to build?"

"Ones from Japanese mecha series: giant robots, the grand machines of might!"

"I see... I didn't take you for a fan of that kind of Sci-Fi. I thought more like ships or planes."

"Those require paint and glue; I don't like that. The robot models only need a nipper and a toothpick."

Her tone had softened, explaining how her preferred model-building was not just a way to "build your own action figure," but excellent brain exercise. Clearly, this activity had its fair share of detractors. Finding a good model shop had just become a top priority for Grigori; there had to be somewhere that sold those at the mall. The minute detail in her description of the best type for newcomers made the topic sound appealing. What the heck is a High-Grade?

"Now that you've gotten to meet, please give Ms. Yumatova a tour of our fine city and its vibrant identity. It shall also serve as an excellent opportunity for the two of you to get to know one another better. The movers just have a few last things of yours to put into your apartment."

Only for a moment did it take for Grigori to comprehend that "movers" was shorthand for KGB agents and "put" meant search thoroughly. The insinuation was not lost on Milena either, whose rolled eyes and growl expressed her sentiment clearly.

"As per our agreement, he normally only accompanies me during school days from my front door, all the way back to it. No tricks, Rybak."

"Yes, nothing more. Non-school days and after hours are yours alone."

"Perfect, excuse me for a moment then."

Considering that this girl had been here for hours with nothing to do but drink tea and read quite a few books, she most definitely needed to use the facilities. Her jacket was taken with her, a stylish piece that exuded the elegance found only in the shops of Moscow. In the downtime, Grigori was handed a large string backpack with a thick manila envelope inside. The contents consisted of several papers and the like.

"A monthly stipend will be provided in addition to compensation for any expenses incurred during your service."

"Cool—I mean thank you, Sir!"

There was a specific brochure included, which explained financial matters, the mark of a meticulously crafted program. Grigori was advised not to go deeper into the papers until he had plenty of room to spread everything out. In no uncertain terms, all the details were to be hush-hush to everyone but Rybak. Milena returned, noticing the backpack in his tight grasp. Though choosing not to say anything, she knew what it was. The choice of official FC Tereshkova merchandise was a nice touch to help it blend in.

A few last details were gone over, primarily that Milena was not to bring up who she was, to avoid spreading her seeds of calamity anew. Once more they shook hands, this time without any malice; her hand was slender, yet the muscles were firm. A few formal pleasantries to smooth over things were exchanged as they walked through the building to the front entrance. Grigori was willing to forgive; a hard handshake was not that bad really, at least it wasn't a punch. Rybak accompanied them to ensure a cordial atmosphere, their footsteps echoing loudly on the terracotta tiles.

"I better not find any cameras in my damn bathroom!"

"Just a few carefully hidden listening devices, strictly business!"

Rybak waved farewell to the newly formed duo; he wished Grigori luck, the brave fellow would need all the luck he could find for his arduous struggle. Just having to deal with Yumatova for the last two days has driven the seasoned KGB officer to the brink of tearing out his hair. The hope was that an attendant her own age would fare better and not have her head bitten off by the tigress. His choice of candidate would get him plenty of flak from the higher-ups and even more if it failed, but he liked a good gamble.