Gopneki

The bass drops like a sledgehammer—heavy, distorted, and unmistakably Russian. Hardbass rattles the windows of your community center headquarters, an old like Soviet-style building you claimed and transformed into the Gopneki base. The walls are tagged with Cyrillic graffiti mixed with cat paw prints.

"TRI POLOSKI, TRI PO-TRI POLOSKI!"

Katya squats perfectly on top of a wooden crate, wearing her signature white Adidas tracksuit—with strategic holes cut for her fluffy grey tail. She's practicing her Slav squat form while simultaneously cleaning her nails with a switchblade, never once losing her balance. Her amber eyes flick toward the door as you enter.

"Ey, boss! About fucking time, nya!" she calls out in Russian-accented English, her tail swishing. "We got a situation. Those American kiski think they can sell their shit two blocks from our territory!" She spits on the floor for emphasis. "Blyat, they don't know who they're messing with."

Near the makeshift bar, Masha—soft and round, with pink hair and perpetually sleepy blue eyes—is pouring shots of vodka with surprising precision despite seeming half-asleep. She's wearing an oversized pink tracksuit jacket over a crop top, her fluffy tail swaying lazily.

"Maybe is not so bad?" she purrs in a drowsy voice, thick with Russian accent. "Maybe we just... talk to them first, da? Violence is sooo much work..." She yawns, showing her fangs. "Besides, I made pelmeni. Fresh batch. Violence can wait for after lunch, nyaaa..."

The heavy door to the back room slams open, and Olya stomps in, her combat boots making the floor shake. The muscular orange-striped catgirl looks like she bench-presses gopniks for fun—because she does. Her black tank top shows off arms covered in criminal tattoos, her orange hair pulled back in a severe ponytail.

"I heard about American kiski, blyat" she growls, cracking her knuckles. Each finger makes a satisfying pop. "Let Olya go. Olya will remind them why we are called GO-PNE-KI, nya." She emphasizes each syllable by smashing her fist into her palm. "In Russia, we have saying—talk is for weak. Fist is for strong."

From her corner nest of stolen designer clothes and contraband goods, Sveta doesn't even look up from her phone. The sleek catgirl with black hair and calculating green eyes is simultaneously texting three different clients, her tail curled around a bag of primo catnip. She's wearing a pristine black Adidas tracksuit—probably authentic, unlike the knock-offs the others wear.

"You're all thinking too small, kotyata," she purrs, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "Why break legs when we can break their supply chain? I already have contact with their dealer. One anonymous tip to DGTF... Clean. Professional. No blood on our tracksuits."

The sound of someone aggressively chomping sunflower seeds cuts through the music. In the doorway stands Irina, the crew's youngest—a ginger catgirl with huge green eyes and a permanent scowl. She's wearing a grey tracksuit that's three sizes too big, trying and failing to look intimidating while squatting and eating semechki from a plastic bag.

"Ey, girls," she calls out, trying to deepen her voice. "I also have opinion, nya! We should..." She pauses, spits out a seed shell with perfect gopnik precision. "...do what boss says. Because boss is smart. Not like you idiots." She adjusts her fake Adidas cap. "Also because I'm too young to go to jail again. Mama said one more time and she'll disown me."

Katya throws a bottle cap at her. "Stop pretending you've been to jail."

"I was there for THREE HOURS nya!" Irina protests, her ears flattening. "It counts!"

Masha giggles sleepily, nearly spilling vodka. "She cried whole time... was very funny..."

The bickering continues, each catgirl's voice rising over the hardbass beat. This is your crew—the Gopneki. Chaotic, loyal, dangerous, and undeniably Russian. Katya finally turns to you, silencing the others with a sharp whistle that makes their ears twitch.

"Nu, boss?" She raises an eyebrow, her tail standing straight up. "What we do about these American blyadi? You decide. But decide fast—I'm getting bored, and bored Katya is pizdets dangerous Katya, nya."

The bass drops again. All five pairs of feline eyes turn toward you, waiting.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

The bass hits so hard you feel it in your chest—classic Russian hardbass at maximum volume, blasting from the speakers mounted on the old UAZ van. The vehicle itself is a beautiful disaster: faded green paint, one headlight held on with duct tape, and the entire side tagged with "ГОПНЕКИ" in aggressive Cyrillic letters surrounded by cat paw prints and Adidas stripes.

Katya hangs out the passenger window, her grey tail whipping in the wind as she grips a baseball bat wrapped in duct tape. Her white tracksuit practically glows in the streetlights.

"FASTER, BLYAT!" she screams toward Olya behind the wheel. "We need to get there before these American kiski finish tagging our wall! NYA!"

Olya doesn't respond—she's too focused on driving, her muscular arms flexing as she whips the van around a corner so sharp that Masha slides across the back seat with a surprised "Myau!"

"Oy... someone woke me up for THIS?" Masha yawns, somehow managing to look annoyed while still clutching a thermos of black tea. Her pink tracksuit is unzipped just enough to reveal cleavage that jiggles with every pothole. "Could have stayed home... made tea... watched Russian melodrama..."

"SHUT UP MASHA!" Katya snaps. "This is HONOR! Territory! Pride!"

Irina bounces excitedly in the middle seat, practically vibrating with nervous energy. Her oversized grey tracksuit makes her look even smaller and younger than she is.

"THIS IS SO COOL NYA! Like in the movies! Like in—" She pauses when Katya glares at her. "I mean, uh, very serious gang business. Much violence. Very crime." She tries to look tough, then immediately ruins it by asking, "...can I go home after? Mama said be back by midnight..."

The van screeches to a halt in front of your territory—a wall the Gopneki have claimed with a massive mural: a squatting catgirl in Adidas tracksuit holding an AK-47, surrounded by Russian text and the three stripes symbol.

Or it was your mural.

Now, three American catgirls are spray-painting over it with their own purple gang tags. One of them—a cocky tabby in ripped jeans and crop top—is literally sitting on a stepladder, laughing as she covers the "Г" with her crew's symbol.

Katya's eye twitches. Her tail goes completely rigid.

"Ohhhhh blyat..." she whispers, more terrifying than if she'd shouted. "They sit on stepladder. Too civilized. Too... AMERICAN." She turns to you, her amber eyes blazing. "Boss. Give word. Gopneki show them proper way to paint walls—with their faces, nya." "Talking is for the weak, nya," Olya snorts. "In Russia we say: first give 'em a pizda, then they'll listen.

"TRI POLOSKI, TRI PO-TRI POLOSKI!" The music crescendos.

The American catgirls look at each other, then at your crew, then back at you—clearly realizing they've made a terrible, terrible mistake.

The challenge came via spray-painted message on your wall: "AMERICAN STREET CATS > RUSSIAN TRACKS CATS. PROVE US WRONG NYA."

Now you're at an abandoned parking structure, the kind Los Fangeles is full of—graffiti-covered concrete, broken lights, and the perfect neutral ground for a gang... cultural exchange.

On one side: The Gopneki, lined up in perfect squatting formation. Each wearing their signature Adidas tracksuits, sunflower seed bags in hand, portable speaker blasting hardbass.

On the other side: A mixed crew of American catgirls—designer streetwear, crop tops, ripped jeans, gold chains, that particular Los Fangeles aesthetic that screams "I'm fashionable and dangerous, nyah."

It's not a fight. Not yet, anyway. This is something more bizarre: a cultural competition. Because apparently, the American catgirls took offense to being called "uncultured street rats" by Katya last week, and now both sides need to prove which culture is superior.

Katya stands at the front of your formation, arms crossed, her grey tail swishing confidently.

"So," she addresses the American leader—a cocky tabby in a Supreme hoodie—"you think American cat culture is better than Russian cat culture, nya? Is funny. Is very funny." She spits a sunflower seed shell with perfect accuracy. "You don't even know proper squat form."

"We don't need to squat, bitch!" the tabby fires back. "We got style! We got drip! We got—"

"You got what?" Olya interrupts, stepping forward. Her muscular frame makes the American catgirls step back instinctively. "You got English words Olya doesn't understand. Drip? What is drip? Is leak? You have leak? Olya fix leak. With fist, nya."

An American catgirl with purple hair snorts. "Yo, why you all sound like you gargling rocks? Learn proper English, damn!"

Sveta's eye twitches—the only sign of her annoyance before she plasters on a sweet, dangerous smile.

"Interesting comment from someone who can't even say full sentence without 'like' or 'literally' or 'nyah,'" she purrs, her Russian accent deliberately thick. "Russian accent is CULTURAL HERITAGE. Your slang is just... lazy tongue, nya."

"OH IT'S ON!" another American catgirl shouts. "Rap battle! Right now! Let's see your Russian ass handle THIS!"

Before anyone can stop her, one of the American catgirls starts beatboxing while her friend launches into a freestyle:

"Yo, listen up to this sick track, Russian kitties better step back, We run these streets with style and grace, While y'all just squat and stuff your face—NYA!"

The American crew cheers. Irina looks personally offended.

"THAT WAS TERRIBLE NYA!" she shouts, bouncing forward. "Russian rap is BETTER! Watch! I learned from Nyasta and Meowasta and—"

She takes a deep breath, and to everyone's surprise, actually delivers:

"Слушай сюда, American киска, Твой рэп как вода, а мой как виски! Gopneki crew, мы всегда на высоте, Пока ты пиздишь хуйню на пустоте—NYA!"

(Translation: Listen here, American pussy / Your rap is like water, mine's like whiskey / Gopneki crew, we're always on top / While you're talking bullshit in empty space—NYA!)

There's a moment of stunned silence. Even the American catgirls look impressed, even if they don't understand Russian.

Masha slow-claps from her spot, still somehow looking half-asleep.

"Good job, malishka. Now everyone shut up, because Masha brought actual culture." She reaches into her enormous bag and pulls out... multiple containers of homemade Russian food. "Is piroshki. Is blini. Is proper culture—food, nya. Not your American fast food poison."

She sets them out like a peace offering, and despite the tension, several American catgirls edge closer, curious.

"...the fuck is that?" one asks.

"Is better than anything your American babushka makes," Masha replies. "Because American babushka doesn't exist lol. Checkmate, nya."

The tabby leader scoffs, trying to regain control. "Whatever! We got better music! Your hardbass is just repetitive trash!"

Katya's eyes narrow dangerously. "You insult hardbass?"

"Yeah! Your music sounds like a robot having a stroke!"

"And your music," Katya says coldly, "sounds like cats in heat fighting in alley. Oh wait—that's exactly what it is, nya."

"At least we don't dress like we're about to rob a sporting goods store!"

Sveta gasps—actually gasps—and clutches her black tracksuit jacket dramatically.

"You dare insult Adidas? ADIDAS?! Is heritage! Is tradition! Three stripes is CULTURE! What you have? Supreme? Fake designer? You probably bought at swap meet!"

"IT'S REAL!"

"PROVE IT NYA!"

Olya has been quietly simmering this entire time, and finally, she's had enough. She steps into the middle of the parking structure, directly between both groups.

"ENOUGH," she growls. "Olya has solution. Is very Russian solution. Very traditional." She cracks her knuckles. "We FIGHT. Winner proves culture is superior. Fair fight. Honor fight. GOPNIK FIGHT, NYA."

"Wait wait wait!" a smaller American catgirl squeaks. "We don't wanna actually—"

"Is too late," Olya grins, showing all her fangs. "Challenge accepted. Russian rules: no weapons, no running away, no crying. First to yield loses. Last crew standing wins cultural superiority." She looks back at you. "Boss agrees, da?"

The American tabby leader looks panicked but can't back down without losing face. "Fine! But we got numbers!"

"We got SKILLS," Katya counters, dropping into fighting stance—while still squatting, somehow.

The tension breaks when one of the American catgirls cautiously takes a bite of Masha's piroshki... and her eyes go wide.

"Holy shit this is actually good—"

"OF COURSE IS GOOD, BLYAT!" Masha says proudly. "Is Babushka recipe! Real culture! Not like your..." She makes a disgusted gesture, "...Hot dogs."

Some of the American catgirls start laughing. One of yours starts laughing. Suddenly the deadly serious cultural standoff is dissolving into chaos—half the cats are arguing about music, a quarter are trying Masha's food, and Irina is teaching an American catgirl how to properly squat (she's terrible at it, but she's trying).

The tabby leader looks at you, then at Katya, realizing this whole situation has spiraled into absurdity.

"...so we fighting or what, nya?"

And around you, American catgirls in Supreme hoodies are trying hardbass for the first time, squatting awkwardly, asking if there's more of those "Russian donut things."

The sun drags itself over Los Fangeles like a hungover gopnik—slow, reluctant, and definitely regretting last night. Your community center headquarters sits quiet in the early light, which is suspicious as hell because quiet and the Gopneki don't usually occupy the same space. Someone's hung a new Orthodox icon next to the framed photo of some babushka none of you are related to (it came with the building, and now she's basically the crew's spiritual grandmother). You push through the door to find Katya doing pull-ups on the reinforced doorframe, her grey tail lashing with each rep. She's shirtless except for a sports bra, her tracksuit pants hanging low enough to show the sharp V of her hips. Sweat gleams on her toned stomach. "Boss, nya," she grunts between pulls, "thirty-seven... thirty-eight... we got problems, da? Svetlana says supply chain is fucked—" Another pull. "—and Olya wants to break someone's legs about it." From the kitchen area, you hear a sleepy "Myaaaah..." followed by the smell of fresh pelmeni. Masha shuffles out in an oversized pink tracksuit jacket that slips off one shoulder, revealing the creamy curve of her collarbone. Her white tail drags behind her, fluffy and unkempt from sleep. "Too early for leg-breaking, kotyata," she purrs, setting down a plate of steaming dumplings. "Masha made breakfast. Eat first, violence later, da?" She yawns, showing her fangs, her soft tits pressing against the thin fabric of her tank top underneath the jacket. Your phone buzzes. Three messages: Sveta: "Boss. Supplier got raided last night. DGTF. We're dry by tonight unless you fix this. I have... alternative option. Risky. Profitable. Your call. -S" Olya: "OLYA HEAR ABOUT PROBLEM. OLYA READY TO SOLVE WITH FISTS. JUST SAY WORD NYA." Irina: "Boss someone spray painted dick on our wall!!! Big ХУЙ!!! With balls!!! This is disrespect yes??? Can I shoot them??? Pls say yes pls pls pls" Katya drops from the doorframe, landing in a perfect squat. "Nu, boss?" She cracks her knuckles, her amber eyes sharp. "What's plan? We negotiating or we breaking faces?" Masha offers you a dumpling, her sleepy blue eyes half-lidded. "Mmm... Masha votes for not dying today, nya... but Masha also flexible..." The hardbass hasn't even started yet and you're already dealing with this shit. Welcome to another beautiful morning with the Gopneki.

Spring hits Los Fangeles like a truck full of pheromones and bad decisions. For catgirls, heat season isn't subtle—it's a biological imperative that turns normally rational kemonomimi into walking hormone bombs. You wake up to find Irina sprawled across your doorway, panting slightly, her grey tracksuit unzipped dangerously low. Her green eyes are dilated, pupils blown wide. "B-boss, nya," she whimpers, ears flat against her head. "Irina feels... weird. Hot. Everything smells good. YOU smell really good." She crawls closer on all fours, her tail raised high. "Irina read online that... that heat season is normal, da? And that... that pack dynamics mean..." She swallows hard. "...mean alpha takes care of kiski when they need, nya?" From inside the apartment, you hear Masha's breathy moan: "Myaaahhh... boss... Masha needs... everything is so sensitive, nya... even clothes hurt..." Masha is sprawled on your couch wearing only an unbuttoned tracksuit jacket, her soft pink nipples hard and visible, her thick thighs spread. She's touching herself lazily, not even trying to hide it. "Sorry, boss," she purrs, not sounding sorry at all. "Masha tried to control but... mmmh... is difficult, da? Masha's pussy is so wet and aching and she keeps thinking about strong hands and—" She spots you, and her eyes light up. "Boss! Perfect timing, nya!" Your phone rings. It's Katya, and she sounds... off. Breathless. "Boss. Don't come to headquarters. Situation is... fuck... situation is under control, da? Olya is in gym, trying to work it off. "And Katya is... Katya is fine. Totally fine. Just squatting. Very intense squatting. With no pants. In your bedroom. Waiting for you like good девочка because—" Her voice drops to a needy growl, "—because pack leader should breed his kiski when they're fertile and desperate and fucking dripping for it, blyat!" She hangs up. Then Sveta: "Wherever you are, I'm tracking your phone. If there's breeding happening, I'm getting my share. Heat season waits for no one, boss. -S" Irina is pressing against your leg now, rubbing her cheek on your thigh, purring loudly. "Boss smells like authority and protection and... and cock, nya... Irina wants... needs..." Masha spreads her legs wider, showing you the wet patch on your couch, her fingers circling her clit slowly. "Masha is very flexible, boss... and very empty right now... needs to be filled, nya..." The Spring heat season lasts a week. This is day one.

Spring in Los-Fangeles hits catgirls like a hammer to the skull.

You wake up to scratching at your bedroom door. It's still dark, but you can already feel it — a scent hanging in the air, sweet and thick. Pheromones.

Heat. Blyat'.

"Boss..." Katya's voice from the other side of the door is hoarse, strained. "Boss, open up. Now, nya. Please."

Katya never asks. Something is very wrong. Katya practically falls inside. Her white hoodie is unzipped, her tank top soaked with sweat. Grey ears pinned flat, tail thrashing like it's possessed. Pupils blown wide, breathing rapid. You can see her trembling all over.

"I... blyat'..." she leans against the wall. "I tried to control it. Took the pills. Cold shower. Nothing works, boss. This... this is bad. Really bad, nya."

She looks at you — hunger in her gaze, pure and animal. Katya, who always keeps herself in check, is on the edge right now. Her tail coils around your leg in desperate spasms.

"I need..." she licks her lips, flashing her fangs. "Boss, tell me to leave. Tell me to leave, or I... I won't be able to stop."

But even as she says it, she steps closer. Hands trembling. Purring starts deep in her chest — low, vibrating, desperate.

Then the door opens again.

Sveta. Black hoodie on bare skin, zipper undone almost to the navel. Green eyes blazing, but still calculated. Even in heat, Sveta stays Sveta. Her black tail moves slowly, hypnotically.

"Boss," she purrs, her voice like honey and poison. "I see Katya is already here. Good. So I'm not the only one who... needs your help, nya?"

She closes the door behind her. The lock clicks. Her purring joins Katya's — two different tones creating a vibration in the air.

Katya snarls at her: "Sveta, get out! I was here first!"

"Dear Katyusha," Sveta smiles, showing her fangs. "Boss isn't your property. Besides... isn't two better than one?"

She moves toward you, presses close. The heat of her body burns. The pheromone scent doubles, becomes almost tangible. Her tail coils around your other leg, squeezes.

"We can share," Sveta whispers in your ear, her tongue barely grazing your earlobe. "Katya is rough, I'm tender. The perfect balance. And you won't turn away your two girls, boss... not when we need you this much..."

Katya on the other side growls low — not from aggression. From desire. Her nails scratch your shirt, leaving marks. The purring grows louder.

"Boss... please... it hurts... it hurts so much, nya... help me... help us..."

Both catgirls press against you, bodies hot and trembling, tails coiling. The door is locked. Pheromones fill the room. Two pairs of blown-out pupils stare up at you — hungry, desperate, completely out of control.

Sveta begins unbuttoning your shirt slowly, nails grazing skin. "Say yes, boss... just say yes, and we're yours... completely... nya..."

Katya kisses your neck, bites, drags her tongue. "Please... please... I can't wait anymore..."

The alley behind Chen's Noodle House reeks of old grease, piss, and territorial tension. This particular stretch of cracked asphalt and faded graffiti sits in disputed territory—technically neutral ground, but everyone knows the local American catgirl gang considers it theirs. The Gopneki disagree. You've been disagreeing quite loudly for the past two weeks, which is probably why you're here now, face-to-face with two of their most notorious members. Mochi leans against the brick wall with practiced casualness, her black messy hair catching the afternoon light. She's wearing her signature look—cropped jacket, tight shorts that show off her curves, and that baseball bat casually resting on her shoulder. The bat's wrapped in duct tape, probably covering dents from previous "negotiations." Her green eyes flick between you and your crew with predatory amusement. "Well, well, well," she purrs, her tail swishing lazily. "If it ain't the Adidas brigade, nyah. Heard you Russians been steppin' in our territory. That true?" She pushes off the wall, spinning the bat once. "Because that would be... whatcha call it, Tigra?" "Disrespectful," Tigra growls from her position blocking the alley's other exit. The calico catgirl is everything Mochi isn't—tall, muscular, scarred, and openly hostile. Her tricolor hair (black-orange-white) is pulled back tight, revealing a face that's seen too many fights and won most of them. Golden eyes track your every movement. Unlike Mochi's playful menace, Tigra radiates pure danger. Her crop top shows off abs you could grate cheese on and arms marked with gang tattoos. No weapons visible—she doesn't need them. "Very disrespectful, nya," Tigra continues, cracking her knuckles with deliberate slowness. Each pop echoes in the enclosed space. "These Russian think they tough? Think three stripes make them gangsta?" She bares her fangs in what might be a smile if smiles could promise violence. "Tigra gonna teach them lesson about American streets." Behind you, Katya's tail goes rigid. You don't need to look to know she's already calculated the fight—two exits, both blocked, confined space favors Tigra's brawling style but limits mobility. The grey catgirl shifts her weight, settling into a ready stance while maintaining her perfect squat. Professional. "Boss," she murmurs in Russian, just loud enough for your crew to hear, "одна is talker, другая is fighter. Standard routine, nya. Give word and Katya handles pretty one, Olya takes muscle." Olya's response is a low growl that makes even Tigra's ears twitch. The orange enforcer steps forward, matching Tigra's intimidating presence with her own brutal aesthetic. Where Tigra is scarred from street fights, Olya's decorated with prison tattoos. Where Tigra shows off abs, Olya shows off arms that look like they could bend steel. "Calico kiska want to dance?" Olya rumbles, speaking in third person as always. "Olya been dancing since before you were born, malishka. In Russia, we have saying—" She pauses to spit, deliberately missing Tigra's boots by an inch. "—'Talk less, bei ebalo more.' Olya teach you this saying, da?" Tigra's golden eyes narrow dangerously. "Did this bitch just—" "AAAALRIGHT!" Mochi interrupts, her voice cutting through the rising tension like a knife through butter. She spins the bat again, this time letting it whistle. "Everybody calm the fuck down before this gets messy, nyah. We ain't here to start World War Nya... yet." She takes a few steps closer to you, specifically you—ignoring your crew, the bat now resting across her shoulders behind her neck in a deceptively casual pose. Up close, you can see the dangerous amusement in those green eyes. This isn't her first negotiation. This isn't even her first negotiation today. "Look, boss-nya," she addresses you directly, "here's the situation. You Russians moved into Los Fangeles like you own the place, yeah? Which, respect—takes balls. But this?" She points at the ground beneath your feet. "This is our turf. Has been for three years. You can't just squat here and—" "We squat everywhere," Sveta's voice cuts in, smooth and cold. Your dealer has been silent until now, observing. She steps forward, immaculate in her black tracksuit, green eyes calculating every angle. "Is cultural practice, nya. Maybe you American kiski should learn some respect for heritage, да?" Mochi blinks. Then she laughs—genuinely surprised. "Did you just... did she just out-sass me, Tigra?" "Yes," Tigra says flatly, still glaring at Olya. "Tigra also still wants to break orange bitch in half." "Olya would LOVE to see you try, calico suka—" "ENOUGH!" Katya snaps, her voice carrying authority that makes even Tigra pause. Your second-in-command rises from her squat (finally), amber eyes hard. "We not here for street brawl like stupid kittens, nya. We here for BUSINESS. Territory dispute. Adult conversation." Mochi raises an eyebrow, impressed despite herself. "Okay, okay. Business. I can do business." She looks at you again. "Your girl's right—no need to paint the alley red. Yet. So here's the deal, Russian boss. You want this territory? You buy it. And we forget you ever stepped here." Masha, leaning against the wall and looking half-asleep as always, yawns loudly. "Or," she offers drowsily, "we just kill you both, take territory for free. Save meowney, nya. Masha vote for this option. Is much cheaper." The alley goes dead silent. Mochi stares. Tigra stares. Even your own crew does a double-take at the sleepy pink catgirl's casual suggestion of murder. Then Mochi starts laughing—really laughing. "Holy SHIT! Did the tired one just threaten to kill us?! While YAWNING?!" She slaps her thigh. "Yo Tigra, I like these Russians! They're fucking CRAZY!" Tigra doesn't laugh. "Tigra NOT like them, nya. Tigra think they need lesson about respect." "So, boss-nya," Mochi says, her voice carrying that dangerous playful edge again. "How's this gonna go? We gonna talk like civilized criminals? Or we gonna decorate this alley with blood?"

The gas station convenience store at 2 AM is a liminal space where the usual rules don't quite apply. The fluorescent lights buzz with an intensity that makes everything look slightly unreal—the aisles of overpriced snacks, the tired cashier who's seen some shit, the security camera with the blinking red light that may or may not actually record anything. You're here because Irina desperately needed energy drinks ("For staying awake during guard duty, boss, very professional reasons, nya!"), and somehow this turned into an entire crew expedition. Because that's how things work with the Gopneki—a simple errand becomes a cultural event. Katya is squatting in the snack aisle, examining beef jerky with the intensity of a sommelier judging wine. "American jerky is insult to real meat, nya," she mutters, loud enough for the cashier to hear. "In Russia, we dry meat properly. This is... what even is this? Beef-flavored cardboard?" Masha has claimed the entire frozen section, pressing her soft face against the glass case and sighing contentedly. "Myaaaah... is nice and cold, nya... Masha could sleep here..." She's already collected five different flavors of pirozhki-adjacent products (none of which are actual pirozhki, which offends her deeply). Olya stands by the door like a bouncer, arms crossed, glaring at anyone who dares enter. She's already scared off two potential customers who took one look at the muscular, tattooed orange catgirl and decided they didn't need gas that badly. Sveta is outside, leaning against your car, simultaneously smoking and texting. "Business never stops, boss," she'd said. "Besides, American convenience store aesthetic is depressing, nya." And Irina... Irina is vibrating with excitement as she grabs every energy drink flavor available, her arms full of cans. "Boss! They have new flavor! 'Extreme Ultra Mega Power Explosion!' With five different stimulants! Is probably safe, da? Very safe! Mostly safe! Only one lawsuit on can, look—" That's when the bells above the door chime, and three DGTF officers walk in. Time doesn't freeze exactly, but everything definitely slows down. The kind of moment where everyone simultaneously realizes this could go very, very wrong. You recognize one. Harley Schmidt. The ex-military hardass. Compact, muscular, brown hair, intense eyes that have seen combat and weren't impressed. She's not in uniform—civilian clothes, probably off-duty. But the way she moves, the way her eyes never stop scanning... Cop through and through. That enhanced doggirl sense of smell working overtime. Her lip curls slightly. "Catgirls," she says, not quite sneering but close. "A lot of catgirls. All wearing... are those matching tracksuits?" "Is cultural heritage, suka," Katya says immediately, standing from her squat with the beef jerky still in hand. "Not crime to wear Adidas in America, da? Or now police fashion patrol too, nya?" "Watch your mouth, kitten," Harley say. Harley steps around her colleagues, moving with that controlled precision. Her eyes lock onto you specifically, ignoring your crew. "You. You're the boss, aren't you?" It's not a question. "Got that look. Trying to stay calm, calculating exit strategies, wondering if your crew's about to do something stupid. These your girls?" Harley continues, gesturing at your Gopneki. "Cute. Real cute. Got that whole Eastern European criminal aesthetic going on. I've seen the reports—new gang in town, Russian catgirls, dealing catnip, territorial disputes with local crews." She takes a step closer. "That you?" From the frozen section, Masha yawns loudly. "Myaaaah... officers make mistake, nya. We just shopping. Very innocent shopping. Look—" She holds up a frozen burrito. "—American cuisine. Is terrible, but we buy anyway. Because we good citizens, da?" Olya's low growl rumbles through the store. "Olya not like dogs searching Olya, nya. Is invasion of privacy. Is—" She struggles for the word. "—is bullshit." Katya moves subtly, positioning herself between DGTF and you. Professional. Protective. "Boss, say word and Gopneki handle situation, da?" she murmurs in Russian. Then in English: "Or we all calm down, pay for snacks, leave peacefully like civilized peoples, nya?" Harley hasn't moved. She's still watching you with those intense eyes, reading you like a book.

The hallway reeks of cheap disinfectant, stale coffee, and the faint, lingering musk of old cigarettes. A flickering light bulb overhead hums like a dying insect, casting uneven shadows on cracked walls that have clearly seen better days. You stand before apartment 304 — the home of Luna Connell, a DGTF sergeant and, if you play your cards right, the Gopneki's best shot at an informant within the doggirl police department. Finding someone desperate enough to flip wasn't easy, but Sveta — your crew's most calculating member — did what she does best. She dug through connections, pulled strings, and traced every whisper in the Los Fangeles underworld until she found the perfect target. Someone with just enough problems to look the other way. Someone with enough dirt to stay quiet. Sergeant Luna Connell. Thirty-two. Divorced. A husky doggirl with a badge on her chest and a life balanced on a knife's edge. Caught her husband cheating, dragged him to court, lost more money than she ever had. Now she's a single mother to a hospital-bound pup named Rocky — five years old, brain tumor, endless medical bills. Every paycheck swallowed by rent, lawyers, and hospital fees that never stop coming. Tired. Bitter. Totally out of fucks to give. According to Sveta's intel, she's dangerously lonely too. A tech-savvy contact hacked her search history — the late-night spiral of a woman who hasn't had anyone in her bed since the divorce. Sex toys. Porn. Chat rooms she never quite has the courage to enter. A woman with needs, but no time to satisfy them. But the real leverage? You have dirt on her. Katya's street contacts confirmed it: Luna's been moonlighting in underground fights. Taking quiet bribes. Stealing evidence from locked-up cases and flipping it for cash — all of it to pay for her son's treatment. Treatment the state won't cover, and her deadbeat ex won't lift a finger to help with. A noble crime, sure. But one that would cost her everything if it came to light. Her badge. Her career. Her son. Her whole life. If Russian charm and money won't sway her, the fear will. Knock, knock. The door creaks open just an inch. A single, sharp brown eye peers through the gap, sizing you up in silence. Her nose twitches — that enhanced doggirl sense of smell working overtime. A second passes. Then, with a tired sigh, she pulls the door wider. Luna Connell. Tall. Voluptuous. A tight sweater clings to her curves like a second skin, hugging a body that's clearly been neglected far too long. The waistband of her jeans sits low, hinting at wide hips and powerful thighs — truly, a woman who could make even a gopnik forget about squatting. Her black-and-white hair's a mess — the kind that says she's been dragging her hands through it all day. Her mismatched eyes — one brown, one blue — hang heavy with lonely, sleepless nights and too many problems to count. And yet, despite her exhaustion, she still holds herself like a true cop. Squared shoulders. Crossed arms. But the way she pushes them under her chest? Almost like she wants you to stare where you shouldn't… Her fluffy tail gives a slow, cautious wag — the kind a dog gives to someone she's not sure about yet. Her nose twitches again, sniffing your scent with quiet suspicion. Then, finally, she meets your eyes with a flat, unimpressed scowl. "You got ten seconds to tell me what the hell you want," she growls, voice low and husky. "Before I decide that you ain't worth my time." Her fingers twitch — as if debating whether to slam the door in your face… or grab you by the collar, drag you inside, and see if her mattress still remembers how to squeak. Her fluffy ears flick once — alert, assessing. Her foot taps out an impatient rhythm against the floor. Waiting.