A Journey Through Time

Braham sat in the slightly worn lounge chair of the airport waiting room, his vintage bag resting by his feet. The faint hum of announcements and the shuffling of travellers filled the air, but his attention was locked on the photographs displayed on his phone. He swiped through them one by one, his frown deepening with each image. Grainy shots of unidentified containers, blurry figures in hazmat suits, and shadowy outlines of what appeared to be domes in the Siberian wilderness.

The photos were unsettling enough on their own, but it was the accompanying notes that pushed them into the realm of outright conspiracy. Phrases like "biological testing protocols" and "genetic drift trials" were scrawled in messy handwriting on the margins, paired with coordinates that pointed to places miles away from any recognized civilization. The more Braham studied them, the more the theory seemed plausible, no matter how absurd it sounded at first.

His thoughts were interrupted by a buzzing in his pocket. Pulling out his phone, he read a message from Jimmy, his contact:

"Running late. Flight's delayed anyway. Be there in 15."

Braham sighed, slipping the phone back into his pocket. Jimmy was late, but so was the flight—it was a wash. He glanced at the departure screen overhead:

Moscow → Novosibirsk. Delayed 45 minutes.

The extra time wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Braham needed a moment to process the weight of what Jimmy had handed him so far. While Jimmy's intel had been reliable, it also hinted at the involvement of locals near their Siberian destination. According to the notes, there were individuals in a remote village who had either witnessed or participated in the strange operations tied to CSM FarmCure. If they could be convinced to talk, they might offer the proof Braham needed.

Locals hiding something, Braham mused as he flipped through the photographs again. He lingered on one that showed what looked like a small village, half-buried in snow, with a solitary smoke trail curling from one of the chimneys. The caption beneath it read:

"Access point confirmed. Agents in area. Contacts unreliable."

Unreliable or not, it was all they had. If the people in the village were protecting CSM FarmCure's operation, it wouldn't be out of loyalty—it would be out of fear. No one faced down an organization of that scale without significant incentive—or coercion.

Braham stretched his legs and leaned back in the chair, his gaze drifting toward the large glass windows overlooking the tarmac. The sky was gray and heavy, the kind of weather that mirrored his thoughts. He'd been in tight spots before, but this was different. He wasn't chasing a single criminal or tracking a lone lead. This was bigger, systemic. And the deeper he dug, the more it felt like he was stepping into a labyrinth designed to swallow anyone who dared enter.

The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Jimmy approaching, his coat flapping slightly as he hurried across the lounge. The man dropped into the seat beside Braham with a sigh, brushing snow from his shoulders.

"Sorry about that," Jimmy said, his breath visible in the cold air. "Traffic was a nightmare. You'd think they'd clear the roads better in a place like this."

Braham gave a slight nod, his eyes still scanning the photographs on his phone. "The flight's late too, so you're not the only one dragging your feet."

Jimmy chuckled nervously but quickly grew serious when he noticed the photograph Braham was studying. "That's the village," he said, tapping the screen. "It's remote, and the people there keep to themselves. We've got a few contacts, but they're cautious. They've seen what happens to people who ask too many questions."

"Have they now?" Braham said, his tone flat. "What about these 'agents' your notes mentioned?"

Jimmy hesitated, his gaze darting around the room. "They're... well, they're not ours. Locals claim to have seen outsiders in the area—armed, not military, but definitely trained. Could be private contractors hired by CSM FarmCure to keep an eye on things."

Braham raised an eyebrow. "Hired muscle in a village like that? Subtle."

Jimmy shrugged. "They don't have to be subtle. The place is isolated, no one's coming to check on them. They can do whatever they want."

Braham leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he mulled over the information. "And you're sure this is the only access point? If they've got this much security, there's got to be another way in."

Jimmy shook his head. "Not unless you want to trek through miles of frozen wilderness with no guarantee you'll find anything. The village is our best bet. It's close enough to the facility, and if we play it right, the locals might give us something useful."

Braham nodded slowly, his mind already running through potential approaches. "Fine. But if we're going in blind, we're going in prepared. No surprises."

Jimmy gave a grim smile. "With this kind of operation, surprises are the only guarantee."

Braham said nothing, his eyes fixed on the fogged-up window. The plane might be delayed, but the clock was still ticking. Every second they waited brought them closer to whatever CSM FarmCure was hiding—and the danger it posed to anyone who tried to stop them.

The plane's engines hummed steadily as it ascended, leaving behind the gray, foggy skies of London. Braham sat next to Jimmy, their eyes scanning the interior of the cabin. Despite the journey's length, they had little conversation, both lost in their own thoughts. The air was stiflingly hot, an uncomfortable contrast to the freezing temperatures of Siberia that awaited them. After a few minutes of enduring the heat, both men simultaneously removed their thick outer jackets, revealing their lighter gear underneath.

Their movement, though casual, drew the attention of a few nearby passengers. Braham couldn't help but notice a pair of eyes on them. Military caps. They were worn by two men seated toward the front of the cabin, their posture rigid, their expressions unreadable.

Braham's gaze lingered on them briefly, a slight frown forming. They were too well-dressed, too disciplined, to be mere travellers. They had the air of professionals—men who had been trained for operations far beyond a regular flight to Siberia.

Military or mercenaries, Braham thought, his eyes narrowing. Doesn't matter. They're here for something, or someone. And I bet they don't like unexpected company.

Jimmy, sensing the shift in Braham's attention, leaned slightly forward and followed his gaze. He didn't say anything at first, but Braham saw his hand subtly inch toward his bag. He was checking for his sidearm. The plane wasn't crowded, but the presence of these men—along with the uncertainty of their mission—was enough to raise Braham's instincts to the surface.

"You think they're with us?" Jimmy muttered under his breath; his voice low enough not to attract attention.

Braham shook his head slightly, keeping his eyes on the soldiers. "Doubt it. We're not exactly the 'meet and greet' type, and they're not wearing civilian gear. They're here for a reason, but it's not good."

Jimmy smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You're always such an optimist, Braham."

"Someone has to be," Braham replied dryly, adjusting his seat as he considered his next move. "We should keep our heads down. Don't make eye contact unless we have to. If they're military, they won't be too keen on us being... out of place."

As the flight continued, the plane's steady hum failed to mask the low murmur of voices ahead. Every few minutes, the military men exchanged words in a language Braham didn't recognize—Russian, perhaps? It didn't matter. He had spent enough time in international hotspots to know that body language spoke louder than words, and these men were anything but relaxed. They were on alert.

Jimmy noticed Braham's unease. "I'll check the flight plan when we get closer," he whispered. "If we're heading straight into Novosibirsk, it's either a detour or a coordinated drop-off. Either way, we can't afford to look like we're in a hurry."

Braham nodded but kept his focus forward, trying to make sense of the situation. These soldiers, or whatever they were, were likely tied to CSM FarmCure. The secrecy surrounding their operation, the remote location, and now the strange presence on the plane all pointed toward one thing: they weren't just headed to Siberia for a simple mission. There was something larger, something more dangerous brewing beneath the surface, and Braham was right in the middle of it.

The flight progressed uneventfully for the next hour, the tension palpable, but the silence between Braham and Jimmy was filled with a shared understanding: no one was safe. Not with CSM FarmCure involved. Not with military-looking personnel on board. And certainly not with whatever plans had been set in motion long before they'd even stepped onto the plane.

Eventually, the overhead announcement cut through the tension, signalling their descent into Novosibirsk. The air had cooled again, but the military men in front remained stoic, their eyes trained on the cabin. Braham knew they weren't there by accident, and he had a sinking feeling that their mission—whatever it was—was directly linked to him and Jimmy.

As the plane began its final approach, Braham turned to Jimmy. "Stay alert," he said, his voice firm. "Whatever happens, we need to get eyes on that village. CSM FarmCure won't stop at anything to keep their secrets. Not now."

Jimmy nodded, his fingers lightly brushing his jacket where his sidearm rested. "Got it. But if this turns into something bigger, we'll need to be ready for anything."

Braham didn't answer. He didn't have to. The look in his eyes was enough—he had already decided. As the wheels of the plane touched down on the snowy runway of Novosibirsk, Braham felt the weight of the mission ahead. This was only the beginning, and it was already darker than he'd imagined.

The flight had passed in a strange mix of tense quiet and forced relaxation. Braham and Jimmy sat back and watched a film on the plane's small screens, the soft glow of the display helping to pass the time. The meal was standard—a cold, slightly warmed format dish that had little flavour, but at least it filled the stomach. They washed it down with a few glasses of wine, which helped dull their sharp senses, even if only for a brief moment.

Despite the calm facade, both men were keenly aware of their surroundings. The atmosphere was thick with the sensation that something was coming, something they hadn't quite figured out yet. They exchanged few words, focusing instead on the faces around them—the two military men still sat near the front, eyes ever-watchful, never relaxing.

As the plane descended toward Novosibirsk

, the looming city appeared beneath a blanket of light fog, a far cry from the starkness of Siberia that awaited them. They knew they couldn't let their guard down—not here, not now. The mission was only just beginning, and the true test would come when they reached their final destination.

Once they disembarked, the cold air of Moscow greeted them like a slap in the face. Despite the late hour, the airport buzzed with activity as people rushed to their gates or hurried out to the cold streets.

But there was no time for sightseeing. Braham and Jimmy stepped into the terminal, their eyes scanning the crowd. They were expecting someone. They didn't have to wait long.

In the corner of the arrivals hall, two men stood by a small kiosk, their eyes locked on the newcomers the moment they stepped through the door. Both men were dressed in heavy coats, the kind suited for the brutal cold of Siberia. Their appearance was unremarkable, nothing that would raise suspicion to the casual observer, but to Braham's trained eye, there was a certain stillness to them—a deliberate composure, as if they had been waiting for this moment for longer than expected.

Jimmy nudged Braham subtly, giving him a look. "Those the guys?" he whispered.

Braham nodded slightly, his hand brushing against the strap of his bag as he adjusted his stance. "I think so. Let's move."

They walked toward the two men, who didn't make a move until Braham and Jimmy were almost upon them. Then, one of them, the taller of the two, gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

"Mr. Beckett. Mr. Jimmy," the man said, his Russian accent thick but not unpleasant. His voice was calm, measured. "We have been waiting for you."

Braham gave a curt nod, eyes narrowing as he scanned the man's face. The second man, shorter and more solidly built, said nothing but his presence was just as imposing. He looked to be more of a bodyguard than a talker.

"Everything's set?" Braham asked, keeping his tone neutral.

"Yes," the first man replied. "We will take you directly to Novosibirsk. No delays. No suspicions. It's a long journey, but we will be discreet."

Discreet. Braham didn't entirely buy it, but he knew better than to question it. His eyes flicked to Jimmy, who gave him a brief nod of agreement. No point in asking too many questions right now. The men were just doing their job, and their job was to get them out of Moscow and toward their destination without drawing attention. Anything more than that would have to wait until they were safely on the road.

"Lead the way," Braham said, his voice calm but firm.

The taller man gestured toward the exit. "Follow us. We'll keep to the shadows."

Without further discussion, the group made their way toward the airport's exit, where a sleek, black van awaited them. It was unmarked, no logos or identifying features, blending perfectly into the background of the busy airport.

As they climbed into the vehicle, the cold air bit at Braham's skin, and he pulled his jacket tighter around him. The city of Moscow felt distant now, a mere waypoint on a much larger journey. His focus had already shifted to what lay ahead: Novosibirsk and whatever secrets it held.

The van started moving smoothly, gliding through the streets of Moscow before they hit the open road. The landscape shifted from the city's sprawling buildings to stretches of barren countryside, the night falling darker as the miles passed by.

As the vehicle sped on, the silence in the van was palpable. It wasn't uncomfortable, but there was a distinct tension, a sense of expectation hanging in the air. Braham's mind was already running through the possible scenarios in his head, the questions he needed answers to, and the risks he'd be taking once they reached their destination.

Jimmy seemed to sense the same thing, leaning slightly toward Braham. "What do you think? Do you trust them?"

Braham didn't answer immediately. He wasn't sure. There were too many unknowns, too many questions left to ask. But he knew one thing for certain—this wasn't just a trip to Siberia. This was the beginning of something much larger, and he had no intention of letting anyone pull the strings without him knowing exactly what was going on.

"We'll know soon enough," Braham said, his voice steady. "Let's just stick to the plan."

The road ahead was long, but it was just the beginning. They weren't just heading to Novosibirsk—they were heading straight into the heart of whatever CSM FarmCure had been hiding. And Braham was determined to uncover it, no matter the cost.

The travel took about 2 hours, they arrived in a small village situated between mountains and snow.

The snow was white tall half meter but streets were in good conditions.

Their destinations was a great house outside of the city, quite dishabituated from outside, with two enormous blocks linked by a glass veranda sopraelevated. Braham approached the imposing structure with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, his eyes scanning the weathered exterior for any signs of life. As he drew closer, he noticed intricate carvings adorning the wooden beams of the veranda, hinting at the building's former grandeur. The silence that enveloped the property was broken only by the crunch of snow beneath his feet, adding to the eerie atmosphere that seemed to permeate the air. 

The Siberian boys, contacted by an old acquaintance of Braham's, let them into the enormous house and immediately put them at ease; they lit a large stone hearth in the hall where enormous tapestries depicting hunting scenes were displayed; they took some deer meat and immersed it in a liquid solution containing aromatic herbs and garlic. All the bags were taken in the other side of the buildings were Braham and Jimmy after an hour could have a shower and relax with a cup of coffee.

The room was large with chemin, one wall was completely made of ancient stone and the head of a boar was on display above a huge stone architrave where the fire crackled slowly, warming the room vigorously, the two principal beds was made in wood with a reclining leather headboard.

The suspended chandelier was composed of an old metal band obtained from a barrel where a dozen light bulbs illuminated the room hidden by wrought iron profiles and a strange paper shape that gave particular reflections to the light.

The figure was then adorned with wrought iron tips which gave the whole thing an older, almost medieval feel.

The furnishings of the room were the completed with a round table and four wood chairs, one sitting room with a small tv, an old rounded copper tube.

The meeting was at 8pm for a dinner of venison and cooked vegetables; the dinner was set to be a sumptuous affair, with the rich aroma of roasting venison already wafting through the air. The guests, a mix of local dignitaries and visiting scholars, began to arrive, their excited chatter filling the room as they marvelled at the rustic yet elegant decor. As the host welcomed each newcomer, the chef and his assistants bustled about in the adjacent kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the hearty meal that would soon grace the ancient wooden table. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, enhancing the medieval atmosphere and creating an intimate ambiance. As the guests settled into their seats, the host raised a goblet of rich red wine, proposing a toast to the evening's gathering and the shared pursuit of knowledge. The clinking of glasses and the scraping of chairs against the worn wooden floor mingled with the crackling of the fire in the hearth, setting the stage for an evening of intellectual discourse and culinary delight. The aroma of savory dishes wafted through the air, tantalizing the guests' senses and heightening their anticipation for the feast to come. As the first course was served, conversations began to flow more freely, with scholars from different disciplines finding common ground and sparking lively debates. The host, ever attentive, moved from group to group, introducing guests to one another and gently steering discussions towards the evening's central theme of interdisciplinary collaboration.

The party was given in their honour, and the guests were dripping with happiness and emotion for the two foreigners, until the final dessert, the alcohol and the the red Thea.

After half past midnight the diners began to abandon the party, filling the alleys of the village in the cold north wind where the full moon illuminated the white snow and ice.

 Braham observed well that people always referred to an old "sherpa" of the village, he must have been a hunter/butcher expert in game and known by everyone in the area. He immediately asked who he was and how to hire him for their mission.

Some dishes intrigued Braham a lot, such as beef tongue with fern and salad with stewed venison, so he wanted to meet the chef, who came from the city of Kondruvonka, and stayed to discuss until the end of the party.