My Name Is...

Saint Petersburg is the historic soul of Russian culture with her grand architecture and exquisite art. Inside one of these buildings filled with connecting grand ballrooms had gathered dignitaries of the criminal elite (i.e. the mob and government officials), agents who conducted the business of state wielding power in an infinite state of internecine conflict.

In dresses unfamiliar to their wearers were women who monitored from the edges of the rooms: the order of Savaged Souls. Peasant women plucked from rural villages traditionally brutalized by the state, left to starve and fend for themselves as their crops and livestock were plundered by city dwellers throughout Russian history.

With no way to fight back, they turned on each other, maiming and disfiguring in heated hate, crippled for life. From such places were these woman recruited.

Part of their training was gang rape from troops conscripted for war (conscripts are pulled from rural areas to keep the city elites on board with the Ukrainian war.). The soldiers took their anger out on these women until the eyes of the women flickered with life no more. From this point on, their only mission in life is to kill men - a very useful tool for the state.

A few of the Savaged Souls mingled with party-goers, missing nothing and no one, in communication with their stationary partners along the edge. Each possessed a hidden blade hungry for sanctioned blood. Trained and inbred with these knives, the women were impossible to disarm. Only death can stop the cutting.

An Intruder was at this party. He too is stopped only be death. Though his mouth betrayed a certain cruelty of decision, his eyes were alive - that was his edge. But he was just the sort of person for whom the Savaged Souls were seeking.

For the Intruder the women posed a problem. Inept pot-bellied military generals - the only kind Russia allows to stay alive lest they become too popular for the president czar's comfort - had been compromised by the Intruder who now needed a way out. But there was no fooling the deep dark ethnic eyes upon him. He'd been spotted.

That's when the lights went out.

Screams and gasps of resigned fear echoed within. A killing time had come.

One terrorized voice wailed. "My name is Igorian Petrovitch! I am protected member of the syndicate!"

"Oh, shut up, Igorian. There's nothing to be done now," replied a weary older voice.

But others cried out their names hoping their station and political connections would protect them.

Like hissing snakes the assassins slithered through the rooms seeking the Intruder. A heavy air of despair silenced the room in diminishing murmur. Only the rustling of the women's formal attire could be heard.

The gig was up. Deception is no protection this time. This must be faced head on.

"My name," stated an unapologetic voice with singular clarity, "is BOND."