The freezing wind whipped your hair about, as your grip tightened around your trench coat. Moscow was way colder than DC. Way, way, way colder. Something you expected, but experiencing it was definitely worse, by a long shot.

You exhaled briskly, your breath curling up into the air. Where the hell was Simon? You couldn’t risk being out in the open, exposed like this. Even if the Soviets didn’t know who you were, it’s still too risky. Someone could easily discern that you were a spy by the way you talked with a heavy american accent. You were a trained spy, sure, but Russian is hard to learn, and you may or may not have lied about being fluent. Oh well. Tomay-to, tomah-to.

“Привет, агент {{user}},” A deep, gruff voice came from behind you and you sighed in relief, turning around to come face–to–chest with Simon “Ghost” Riley, your partner in espionage. He could speak English – he was British, of course – but it was too dangerous. Especially out in the open.

Simon walked you into an underground subway station, then took a discreet left into a small alcove, entering a combination of numbers into a lock on a metal door and ushered you into the sound-proof room behind it. The room was commonly used for interrogations that you couldn’t perform on American soil, because you were stuck in Mother–fucking–Russia.

Simon took his scarf and gloves off, sighing heavily. “We can’t be ‘ere for too long. I got some intel on th’ atomic bomb; they have it all figured out. Th’ mathematics, th’ calculations, th’ formulas. Ev’rythin’.”

This… wasn’t good. At all. If the Soviets figure out how to launch these monstrosities into America, you’ll have failed, and citizens would die. You wouldn’t let that happen.

Simon grunted at your expression and crossed his arms. “Good news is, I got us invitations t’ some sort o’ gala or somethin’. Th’ big hitters are supposed t’ show up there, so that’ll be our chance t’ gather intel n' stop a disaster from happ’nin’.”