2063, Old Gilan Province, Rasht, Iraq
Achilles didn't much care for boats, but the Caspian was one of the most reliable and discreet routes to Iraq from Russia. Flights were scarce and roads were tolled, bandit-ed and paracritter-ed. But the Caspian was, for the larger part, simply boring. The southern part saw its share of illegitimate "inspections" and "tariffs", but in actuality the presence of armed watercraft helped keep the paracritter population in check and make boating easier. At least, as long as you knew how to hide anything valuable.
But of course Achilles had just shoved everything into a kit bag and consequently had his AK-87 "assessed" right out of his possession. A credstick from his boot got him a bouncy truck bed ride into Rasht, but the mix of decayed 20th century ruins and sprawling new construction made navigation in the city confusing. Worse yet, armored corp sedans drove among sheep herders while government authorities, private security details, and cartel forces managed a tense peace while patrolling the streets with small arms. Far too many cultural considerations for Achilles to handle, so he just kept his head down and stuck to alleyways until he could reach the central bazaar.
Two unconscious thugs and four miles on foot later, Achilles let his new-to-him Uzi III hang by the sling as he approached what appeared to be some kind of eating establishment attached to a motor vehicle garage. Or, rather, a drinking establishment as it happened to be once he'd entered. He put in the earbud paired to his commlink and pulled up the translator 'soft as he approached the bar. His thick Russian came out in a jarring mechanical Kurdish after he finished speaking into the 'link's microphone.
"I need an escort into Teherán." he said, the words turning alien and barking out from the 'link speaker.
The man replied, then a robotic Russian voice played through the earbud. "Which part?" The man had stopped cleaning glasses and was looking at Achilles with something between suspicion and amusement.
"The bad part." Achilles said plainly. As the new words played from his commlink, those drinking around him grew silent and turned to stare. Eyebrows went up and necks craned from further away to see what this foreigner in military fatigues was all about.
"Suicide." came the reply in the earbud. The bartender set down a glass and put both hands on the bar, his gaze leveling with Achilles'.
"My choice." Achilles answered, tossing a credstick on the bar.
The bartender swiped it over the hard terminal to check the balance, then pocketed it and shrugged. "Go with HedAyat. He will take you to the outskirts." He said, pointing to a Persian man at a corner table, smoking something in an atomizer and flanked by a woman on either side. They seemed like standard mistresses, but for the printing of a handgun around the thigh area that Achilles noticed on one of them.
Achilles considered the suggestion for a moment, but wasn't sure he had a lot of other options. He decided to think about it over an ork vodka, but the place apparently didn't carry such Russian standards. The bartender gave him something called "arak" instead, and as he prepared to drink it, he accidentally made eye contact with a brawny, weathered-looking westerner seated nearby.