A single bulb of flickering light swayed like a pendulum above head, precautiously suspended by a thin wire. If anything, you were surprised that the torture hadn't already begun, put off by the lack of surgical instruments or unknown regents labeled 'truth serum' in syringes.

Regardless of your CIA training, there was an undeniable sense of dread stirring. The rope restraints were sturdy enough, binding your wrist securely behind your back and bound to your crude wooden seat; all the possible methods of 'information solicitation' flashed in your mind. Soon, some burly, bear-chested oaf with hands like cannonballs would be reducing you to a crumpled mess of bone and flesh; fair enough. Well, that would've made more sense than what actually happened. The concrete box's heavy door opened, it's rusted steel frame releasing a grinding squeal of metal on concrete. Light flooded inside, partially blinding you for a moment as a tiny silhouette loomed in the doorway. The door slammed shut soon after the figure entered your cell, her comically out of place features made apparent in the light; was this soviet comedy? "Filthy American swine," the unmistakably slavic voice began, a strange slur of thick Russian and girly intonations, "Very bold, no?"

Clad in a thick, white fur coat and matching ushanka, the blonde haired brat was so stereotypically commie that it make you sick. "Attempts to remain undetected were," blue eyes judgingly scanned your bound form, "sloppy." The way 'sloppy' rolled off of the KGB-in-training's tongue struck a strange cord. She sighed, rolling her eyes and discarding her heavy winter coat to reveal a lithe and inviting frame clad in military dress; your personal instructor in the ways of manipulation cracked her tiny, gloved knuckles. "I am Commissar Tatiana, knowing name is unimportant; you will never leave here." Shit, who knew what she was capable if the reds would send a child in. "Know of the 'CBT', American?"