by Narrator » Tue Jan 10, 2017 3:10 am
Getting a hold of one of Tereza's old contacts hadn't been too hard. Convincing one of them to help smuggle them into Crimea had taken a little more convincing but in the end they had agreed to find them a place on a ship from Constanta in Romania. Getting there had been relatively simple due to Europe's open borders and keeping their eyes open it was almost impossible not to notice that they weren't the only group of mutants travelling east. Unlike them most of those looked like refugees with little to their name. They saw less and less of them as their route took them further south until they seemed to dry up entirely at the coast of the Black Sea. The docks in Constanta still looked alright, but there wasn't much activity and they showed the first signs of economic downturn. Apparently no one cared to do much trade with Crimea these days, which while technically not a war-zone isn't exactly one of the most stable regions at the moment.
The ship taking them across the waters was almost more of a boat, fishing nets and the constant stench of the sea cements it's cover. Or maybe it just actually is a fishing boat on most days. The Captain doesn't ask many questions and just hands everyone clothes that smell about as bad as the ship but have them blend in fairly well. Though he does shove wool hats into Sam and Tereza's hands to cover up their less-than-subtle hair. Only an hour into the trip they can already see why people might be hesitant of approaching Sevastopol, the silhouettes of several Russian ships becoming visible in the distance just before the city itself comes into view. It's still mid-day and the weather is cold but clear enough. The captain takes them on a route that runs parallel to what only technically isn't a blockade until he makes his way around the cluster of ships before hooking around and approaching the peninsula from the east, pointing at the much smaller city on the coast and simply says "Yalta. Give call and I come pick you up." He doesn't exactly seem the most trustworthy man in existence, but he did take them this far. The last 20 minutes of the journey he spends on the radio, talking in Russian to what is presumably the port authority before pulling the small fishing boat into the harbor and shooing everybody off the ship. A much younger man is waiting for them with a beat-up car to take them the last 30 minutes to Sevastopol by car and then they find themselves at their destination.
The city seems normal, traffic, both cars and on foot, no immediate signs of conflict. But regularly one can see Russian military driving by, seemingly patrolling the streets and here and there and especially in more open places like old marketplaces and parks there are tanks stationed. Almost casually, as if to simply serve as a reminder of who is in charge.