One #2
“It is not good,” he huffs in agreement. “But it is edible.”
We find a table halfway down, and Niko sits with us instead of with his own men, which earns him a few looks from across the room. It’s nothing hostile, just curious glances, like the way people look at someone who’s volunteered for extra work.
“So,” Mason says, halfway through his first mouthful. “Be honest. You lot think we’re idiots, don’t you?”
Manners, that one.
Niko chews, swallows, and considers the question. “I think,” he says slowly, “movies make you look... stupid.” He gestures vaguely. “Drinking. Fighting. Falling off things.”
“Pretty accurate,” Collins says.
“But you,” Niko continues, “are trained. You came here, so you’re not so stupid.” He shrugs, returning to his food.
It’s a compliment, in its own strange way.
“High praise,” I murmur.
He glances at me sideways, tilting his head. “What did you think we are?” he asks. “Before you come.”
I stab a potato, buying myself a second.
Honestly, I thought exactly what everyone else thinks: that they’d be humourless and stone-faced, marching around in hats too big for their heads, waiting for orders from men who look like they’ve been carved out of granite.
“I thought you’d be bigger,” I say instead.
Mason snorts stew up his nose, and Collins almost chokes on his bread. Niko looks at me, and for a second I’m sure I’ve overstepped.
Then the corner of his mouth curves. “I’m big enough,” he says dryly. “If you see me running, it’s generally a good idea to run also.”
“I like this one,” Hall says, thumping the table.
We eat, and there’s the usual low-level chatter, murmurs of ‘what d’you think they’ll have us doing?’ and ‘bet their ranges are shite’ and ‘do you reckon they have proper tea, or just leaf-flavoured sadness?’
“After food, we’ll give you a tour,” Niko says eventually. “Ranges, assault course, motor pool. You’ll meet some of my men. They’re curious about you.”
“Curious, good?” Bennett asks quietly. “Or curious like... gonna see if we break?”
“Both,” Niko says, sipping his tea. “It’s good. You’ll test each other and hopefully learn a few things. Just don’t try to steal their cigarettes, they bite.”
“How long have you been here, for?” I ask. “You look like you know every inch of the place.”
He tilts his head, considering again. “Two years at this base. Before that, two other postings. It feels like a long time,” he shrugs.
“How old are you?” Mason asks, as blunt as ever.
“Rude,” Niko says, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, come on,” Mason presses. “We’re supposed to be building international trust.”
Niko sighs and puts his fork down with exaggerated care. “Twenty-three,” he says. “Very old. Ancient.”
That makes me pause. He’s only three years older than me, and somehow, I expected more. Not because he looks older, he doesn’t — not really, but because he feels older. Solid, established even, like he’s been in this role forever.
“Christ, that’s it,” Collins mutters. “We’re all children. Someone let the toddlers have guns.” Hall shoots him a glare that translates to ‘shut the fuck up.’
“You joined when?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Eighteen,” Niko says. “Conscription. I stayed.” He shrugs again, like it’s simple. “It’s good for something, better than going home and doing nothing.”
Something in his tone says there’s more to that, and I file it away again. “Right, lads. Speed it up. We didn’t come here just to insult their cooking.” Hall says, checking his watch.
“Speak for yourself,” Mason says, but he shoves the last of his bread into his mouth anyway.
We dump our trays and follow Niko out again.
The tour is a blur of concrete, snow, and metal.
He shows us the assault course. It’s a tangled mess of rope, wooden walls, pits, and beams that looks as if it were built by someone who hates knees.
It snakes up a shallow slope toward a tree line.
“In winter, there’s more ice,” Niko says cheerfully.
“Very fun. We have how you say... broken ankles? Yes. Many.”
“Looking forward to it,” I say sarcastically.
He shows us the ranges, the armoury, and a vehicle park with rows of trucks and transports that all look like they’d still run after losing half their parts.
Everywhere we go, Russians glance at us. Some whispering, a few staring openly, the curiosity is undisguised. Niko switches between Russian and English like breathing, translating where necessary, smoothing over a joke here and clarifying a comment there. He never seems out of his depth.
At one point, we pass a group of soldiers jogging in formation. Their squad leader barks an order, and they split neatly around us without breaking stride, like a river around rocks. “You lot could learn something from that,” Hall mutters.
“We do run in straight lines,” Mason says. “We just complain while we do it.”
By late afternoon, the light’s already starting to flatten, the sky in this part of the world giving up early. My body thinks it’s about midnight, but my watch says otherwise. “Last thing,” Niko says. “Then we will take you back. I recommend you sleep. Tomorrow is... busy.”
He leads us toward a small clearing at the edge of the base where the buildings thin out and the ground slopes gently toward the distant line of trees.
There’s a view of the vast grey water from here.
He stops, folds his arms, and looks out at it for a second, like he’s checking nothing’s changed overnight. “What’s this, then?” I ask.
“Best place to smoke, where the officers cannot see.”