The Kremlin's Presidential office blurred and shifted as it became a battlefield in seconds. Ornate furniture splintered, historical artifacts shattered, and centuries of Russian power symbols crashed to the ground. England's classical boxing stance met Putin's fluid sambo movements. The Russian leader's ground-fighting expertise showed as he executed a perfect hip throw, sending England crashing into what was either an antique Russian cabinet or a Third Reich display case. The room kept shifting between times. Even Putin was shifting between himself and Hitler as he slowly walked towards England. If only Putin was like Hitler. He whined like a wounded dog like Putin was more like a wildcat, calm and waiting to pounce.
"This was unexpected," Putin coldly stated in surprisingly fluent English, "Good thing I have the same blood type as you."
As he slowly got up, Putin's efficient judo strikes blended with remembered Wehrmacht bayonets when they pierced England's ribs. Past and present collided as England's enhanced body responded to threats from two eras simultaneously. England's fists moved with mechanical precision, each blow carrying the weight of decades of frozen rage. Putin attempted another sambo sweep but England's raw power overwhelmed technique. The Russian's enhanced strength couldn't match the original's unleashed fury. Blood sprayed across oil paintings of Russian leaders. Or were they Nazi banners? Once again, England was back in Berlin. Once again, England watched his own hands rise and fall, rise and fall, as if they belonged to someone else. His knuckles split and healed and split again as he watched himself pound Putin's face into red mist, just as he had done to Hitler. Two tyrants, two times, same ending.
Impact. Splatter. Rise. Repeat.
Minutes passed. Or hours. His arms finally slowed, not from conscience but from simple physical exhaustion. Just like the last time, ETT couldn't sustain his fury. Unlike the last time, he wasn't burning like a furnace. Did being put on ice for eight decades stabilize him somehow? Slowly, the room shifted back to the present day. Back to the blood-splattered walls of the Kremlin. England found himself standing in a pool of blood, his hands trembling. Modern security cameras watched silently, documenting the fall of another dictator to England's enhanced fury. Even now, he could still hear faded gunshots. Were they real or were they all in his head? He stared at his blood-covered hands, seeing both fresh crimson and remembered stains. And like a ghost, Moore faded in right behind England, cataloguing the bloodbath with the detached interest of someone reviewing expense reports.
"Well...so much for that trial," Moore dryly stated.
England's hands wouldn't stop shaking, "I...I didn't mean to...I was...I was out of it..."
Moore shrugged, "I wouldn't worry too much about it. While it would have been nice to do more overt operations, and to avoid the inevitable bollocking from my superiors once I make my report, I suppose the outcome is all the same. Putin's out of power, his PM will succeed him, Russia will properly negotiate peace with Ukraine, and the late Baba Vanga can kiss my arse."
Moore's practical assessment of the situation followed by another one of her dry one-liners felt obscene against the backdrop of carnage. Talk of peace talks and private ceremonies while Putin's blood dried on England's knuckles. As she continued talking, England thought about what Putin said. That they had the same blood type. It didn't take him long to connect the dots and realize Putin had been using him as a glorified blood-bag to dope himself with ETT.
"Did you know?" The question came out like a growl.
"About what?"
"That they made him into something like me?"
"Technically, he made himself like you. You'd be surprised how easy it was to do so, as long as you're Russian, had a compatible blood type, and knew a good cardiologist."
Moore's attempts at humour continued to make England's blood boil. It was bad enough that she took his life and handed him to the Russians with no remorse, she knew Putin enhanced himself and yet withheld that information from him while expecting him to bring Putin in alive.
"You really are a cunt," The foul word that came out England's mouth felt unnatural, even if there was no better word to describe Moore.
Moore's eye widened as she tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at England's uncharacteristic use of profanity. The last time he saw her look at him like that was in the pub all those years ago, back when he figured out that she was a demon in human flesh.
"Why didn't you tell me?" England asked, the words escaping his mouth still feeling distant.
"Major, the first thing you did after waking up was throttle me," Moore replied, "If I had told you what Putin had done, there would have been nothing holding you back. Though, given current circumstance, nothing held you back anyway so...Damned if I do, damned if I don't."
As England glared at Moore, her familiar Spectre walked between them, "What's the play, M? Clean-up or extraction?"
Spectre's professional inquiry about clean-up versus extraction broke the tension. England watched as Moore took control of the situation, just as she always did. Just as someone like her always had.
"Both," Moore replied with her usual professionalism, "See to it that the scene looks like an internal power struggle. Frame one of his top generals, if you have to. Major England and I will rendezvous near the countryside where we will wait for evac."
As they left the scene of yet another historic assassination, England couldn't help but wonder if Averina was truly the monster Moore claimed to be or was she just another puppet trying to break free of her strings. And if she was the latter, did he free her by eliminating Putin?