Add Vodka to Taste

> With the mission running long and no exfil in sight, there’s little for Valerian and Roman to do besides purchase too many groceries, hole up in the safehouse, and settle old bets.

Val stands over the cracked electric stove, carefully stirring a pot of ukha. The delicate scent of herbs, spices, and freshwater fish spirals off the surface of the broth. It smells of home, and Val knows without looking that Roman is sprawled on the couch behind him.

“Just be careful not to let the salmon overcook,” Roman calls out. What would be genuine advice from anyone else, Val knows is actually a gentle rib.

He scoffs, though he doesn’t take his eyes off the pot. “I’ll win this time. You’ll see.”

“Sure,” Roman says generously. “Except you’re still missing something.”

Val inhales, letting the well-rounded scent settle around him. “You can bullshit about your ‘secret ingredient’ all you like—I know when you’re bluffing.”

Roman is grinning; Val can hear it in his tone. “Your gambling money in my pocket says otherwise. Fish about done?”

Delicately poking at one cube of salmon, Val is pleased to find it flaky, tender, and cooked all the way through. “Yeah. Come get it while it’s hot.”

He nudges the pot off the heat and dishes out two bowls. Roman plucks one from his hands and takes a preliminary sip.

“Hmm. You’re definitely close. But not quite. Still missing that all-important piece to bring it together.”

Val eats a spoonful as well, deflating as he realizes the truth. Roman is right. It’s good soup—but not as good as Roman’s. The flavors that had seemed so balanced in theory are lacking something crucial. His head dips with weary resignation. “Fine...you win. What’s the secret?”

“Not sure I should be telling just anyone,” Roman says in his loftiest tone. “How about this: a secret for a secret. You answer my question, and I’ll tell you what you’re missing.”

Val laughs and shakes his head, grinning down at his imperfect soup. “Fine, fine. Ask away.”

He turns to face Roman, and the dream becomes a nightmare.

The safehouse is broken and charred. Darkness seeps from the corners, a viscous black liquid that gathers higher and higher on the floor. And Roman—

Roman is in uniform, drenched in blood. Valerian knows it isn’t his own. Those bright eyes bore into Valerian’s, feverish, and when Roman speaks, more darkness oozes from between his teeth.

“Why didn’t you stop me, Val?”

Val jolts awake, nearly falling from his bunk as he flails against his sheets. His eyes take in details with trained expedience—rough white walls, a footlocker, a window looking out over the grey tinge of pre-morning light.

Val’s head falls against the pillow with a groan. He knows he won’t be getting back to sleep.