"Not why, my Natashka. Never why. Why is for guitar players and Americans." -Ivan Pevotch
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"See that moon?" Ivan had said when she was younger. "See that pale pierogi, hanging so low and heavy in the sky it wants to fall back into the boiling pot of salted water on your baba's stove?" Natasha had nodded, though as an orphan of the war she remembered little about her baba—or for that matter, even her parents. "With a moon like that, your targets can see you as easily as you see them. Not a good night for hunting, or a clean kill. Not a good night for disappearing."
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