September 8th, 1996.
Beneath the Las Vegas strip.
The faint sound of sirens drifted down to him from above. Even down here, in the dark, he could hear the chaos that he'd created. The crisis actors they'd employed were right now screaming to the police about the murder they had just witnessed. Hundreds of them. A fake homeless man was telling an LVPD detective about where he'd been when the shooting had started. Two women, planted to portray groupies on the way to the club, were being interveiwed by another about the chase and shoot out that they'd been caught in the midst of. A group of four KBG agents, disguised as South Side crip gang members from LA, lurked nearby in order to be spotted at the scene. Below it all agent Oleg Abram Romanoff smiled to himself with great satisfaction. After ten long years undercover he was finally able to return home. He longed to shed this identity and be himself again. Still, he would miss it.
It was a lot of fun being Tupac.
1427 hours.
May 23rd, 1985.
Leningrad, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
He'd been a very youthful looking seventeen years old when the operation had started. He'd been finishing his eleventh year at St. Petersburg High School 281. On an unremarkable Thursday afternoon he'd been summoned via the loudspeaker from his English class to the principal's office. When he'd arrived he'd found the room occupied not by his principal, Kira Petrovna Gribanovskaya, but by a severe young man in an expensive tailored suit. He was reclined in her chair with his feet on her desk.
"Sit down, Oleg." He ordered him. And sit he did. "Why are you here?"
"You sent for me." He responded simply.
"Ah. Indeed." The man nodded approvingly. "But I do not mean in this room. Why are you here? Why are you in this place?"
"I am here to learn."
"To learn what, exactly?" The man asked with a smile.
"I am currently taking English, Latin, Russian military history with an-"
"No. Stop. This is not what I mean either." He interrupted.
Oleg was puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"I know. We will change all of this." Smiling again. He removed his feet from the desk and leaned forward. "I want to know why you are wasting your time in this school reading books you have already read and answering questions you already know the answers to instead of being of use."
"I suppose... I suppose I just haven't found my next step." Oleg admitted reluctantly.
"Yes!" He shouted as he slammed his palms down on the desk. "This is what I suspected! You have not yet found a purpose! Is this not so?"
"Yes. It is so."
"Of course. As I said." The man stood, rounded the desk, and leaned on the front edge of it. Standing between it and Oleg he took a more intimate tone. "Oleg, what if I told you that I could make you one of the biggest stars that the world has ever seen? That your unfortunate skin condition could be your greatest asset?"
Oleg didn't have a "skin condition". Oleg was black. Still, in Russia it was almost accepted that being black was a disability. Luckily for Oleg, he'd been the smartest person in every room he'd ever stepped into since he could walk. At this moment, however, he was not so sure. A million questions swirled around his head. He asked none of them. "I'd ask you where to sign." He said instead.
The man roared with laughter. "Fantastic!" He bellowed, taking Oleg's hand into his own and shaking it, and Oleg, vigorously. "You are doing a great thing for your country. For the world."
"I want nothing more..." He let the last word hang and the man picked up immediately on the implied question.
"Yes, of course. My name." He grinned from ear to ear and reached into his jacket. "My name is Vlad. I will be your handler for this entire operation." From his coat he produced a Walkman.
"Is that... Is that a Sony?!" Oleg asked, impressed despite himself.
"Yes. It's for you, Oleg." He handed Oleg the coveted object. "But more important than the Walkman is the tape inside it. Press play."
Oleg placed the headphones on his ears and hit the play button. From the tiny speakers blared music that he'd never heard the like of before. There was rock guitars, heavy drums, keyboards, and all manner of strange instruments that he couldn't place. Over all of it, in time with the beat, was heavily American accented talking.
"What is this?" Oleg asked, yelling over the music that only he could hear. Vlad laughed and pulled the headphones gently from his ears.
"Run DMC." Vlad said.
"Run what?"
"It's called Hip Hop, Oleg." He said, laughing. "It's going to change the world. And you're going to help."
Vlad grabbed him by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet so that they were face to face and eye to eye.
"I am going to make you the biggest rapper that ever lived, Oleg. I'm going to make you a legend. I'm going to put all eyes on you." He turned back to the desk, plucked his hat from it's surface, and put it on. "Come on, my boy. It's time we make some changes."
