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In the end, Soviet had won, although it hadn't felt like a victory. Not when he'd broken into the bunker only to see Reich pointing a gun to his temple, strings glinting in the low light of the office. The final order, Hitler wanted to take Reich with him. And the German looked broken. Soviet could feel something within him break as he was reminded of the glassy stare Reich's body had given him when the German had finally bled out.
Still, Soviet steeled himself. Weakness would not convince Reich, he needed to remain strong. "This the way you want to go out?" Soviet asked. He knew the answer, what he kept wondering was whether or not Reich even knew.
Reich was rotting. Everyone could see if they only bothered to look. And yet he couldn't quite keep the disappointment from his voice. Because this was the coward's way out, and they both knew it, even if Reich refused to admit as such to himself.
This became a test of Soviet's skills and his resolve. Because a simple mistake would lead to Reich pulling the trigger, and Soviet... he couldn't allow it. Not when Reich might not come back. Maybe he was a fool, attempting to keep the person that had hurt him the most so close, but Soviet couldn't help it. Reich understood, and Father had been right. Indeed, his prediction had been correct.
...had Soviet ever doubted him?
Not in this. Never in this.
In the end, Reich was still destined to die, but at the very least, it wouldn't be by his own hand. At the very least, he would have done one thing right.
And yet, Soviet forced himself to watch as they stood Reich in front of a firing squad made of the countries he had hurt the most. And Reich? He seemed... at peace. Soviet watched as the bullets entered his chest and he fell to the ground, limp. It took less than a second. And yet it felt like an eternity, watching the blood leave his body...
And yet.
Reich came back.
But... he returned wrong.
-no. Not wrong, just... different. Could hardly walk, hardly stand, seemed to be in pain all the time and every once in a while started to twist and seize.
The first time had been horrifying to watch. Soviet's nails had made four crescend-like shapes into his palm with how hard he had been squeezing his hands in order to remain motionless and impassive. It felt like someone else had taken control of Reich's body once more, but instead of moving in any natural fashion, they just decided to torment the German, twisting his limbs as if he were a doll.
According to Switzerland, all they could do was just put a pillow underneath his head and wait it out. Even if Soviet craved nothing more than to hold Reich still, to ensure he was not hurting himself.
...they placed Reich into a comfortable cell in Switzerland so that the owner of the land would look after him, neutral and yet armed, the perfect guardian. They had reached that decision partly because someone still needed to ensure Reich remained in the cell (and that someone had to be impartial), though the main reason remained that Reich needed medical care, and one of the few countries with such training was Switzerland. His personality would only help, Soviet would wager. He could give the Swiss some tips later on, once they were alone. Though who knows if that time were to ever come...
Watching the German as he slumbered in the bed of his new cell, Soviet did his best to remember the picture. He would not get to visit for a long time as the process of rebuilding began.
"...you can't have them both! What are you thinking?" America snapped, hands making contact with the face of the table as he shot to his feet. Soviet felt that good old pull of anger not his own. He knew better than to resist and stood up as well.
"Ah, I see. I have bled for you, twenty million lives lost, and this is how I am repaid? Do you truly dare treat me like your pet monster?" The reminder of Soviet's losses set everyone on edge. The Russian knew exactly what his human wanted, and he planned to get it for him, despite what he himself thought. This was a poison Soviet would die from, but he dared not jeopardise his human's plans. After all, they needed to show strength, unity.
"You keep talking about that, and while it is a terrible number, a lot of those lives have been lost by your fault alone. Had you not allied yourself with that German, you probably wouldn't have lost as many."
Utter. Silence.
Soviet's usually strong control was beginning to fray. Now that there was no common enemy (what was he kidding? He had never looked at Reich as his enemy...), the cracks were beginning to show. None of them were quite like Soviet. Nobody in that damn room understood. Nobody knew what Soviet was dealing with day by day. He glared at the capitalist who didn't wilt underneath his frigid stare.
"Care to repeat yourself?" Soviet asked after another long, tense second passed them by. The bite of ice rising like a storm was deeply familiar. He clenched his fist even as a thin layer of hoarfrost grew over his glove. Keeping a lid on his anger was starting to feel like a task doomed to fail. Of course, America didn't back down. He never did. "I said, that a majority of those deaths were your own damn fault." The capitalist bit out. "Do you want me to spell it out for you, or did the vodka get on your brain, Stalingrad?"
Fuck control, Soviet wanted revenge.
But he knew very well that hitting back would mean... well, probably death. America had something terrifying, a new weapon capable of turning men to ash and salting the earth behind them.
They couldn't escalate this. Escalating meant death.
Instead of bowing to his desires, Soviet wrenched back control, and chuckled. That sound alone snapped all the attention back to him. "It's funny, how a war profiteer has quite a lot to say on my apparent ineptitude." Soviet tilted his head with a mocking smile. It was cold. Frigid cold. "And on my morality, for that matter. I bet that you were jumping in excitement at the sight of a new major conflict. I bet that you were jumping in excitement at the thought of lining your pockets again, observing it from that little island where nothing could hurt you, growing lazy and fat... And yet you come here, after all the fighting is done," Soviet let his true rage bleed through. America tensed, Soviet didn't bother hiding anymore as he approached, getting into America’s face, using his height to his advantage. "And yet you dare tell me that you are better. If we didn't already have one monster caged, I would say that you are one, too."
Once more, silence.
Then the American reared back as if slapped, and Soviet could feel the anger bloom within him, too. And yet, Britain jumped between them. Soviet's disgust kept growing. "-alright, that's enough!" Yet the suffering of this war, the one that actually hit home, seemed to have granted the Brit some clarity. There lay a new heaviness upon his shoulder, a new sense of insecurity at having been confronted with his own mortality so openly. "Listen. All of us here would really like to go back to rebuilding. Europe and, well. The entire world is kind of a mess right now. The kids are two, so you each take one, and there's that. I'm sure that all we want is to complete whatever goal the people in charge want from us and then go home to our humans."
...at least someone had some sense in this room. Soviet knew well enough that the human wouldn't let him back down. And America would never back down from a fight, either.
Instead of speaking, Soviet only stepped back with a nod. It took another second to wrench his voice back. "The USSR would be willing to agree to those terms." Soviet said, and he knew that America had to agree.
Otherwise, he would look very bad, pushing for a conflict when one side had already agreed to the compromise his own side brought up. Wearily, the capitalist sighed, and then extended his hand into the void between them. "The USA is willing to agree to those terms." Soviet watched his hand for a moment before consciously calming the ice still clinging to his glove. He clasped the hand, not reacting to the dirty look America sent him.
Probably thought Soviet's cold grip was on purpose...
They shook hands regardless, and the twins were officially separated.
Soviet hated himself.
They were exhausted. Soviet could feel it. He had seen it, when he breached their borders. Saw it with Slovakia, who didn't really bother fighting and instead walked alongside him to find his brother, who ran into the middle of the street, staring at them with a single wide, glassy eye. He had seen and felt that same exhaustion with Poland as he hugged himself, two halves becoming one as he stared up at Soviet in a mixture of apprehension and pure, guttural fear.
Good, you should be afraid. You're learning.
That same Slav was now eyeing him warily, the singular wing left over twitching restlessly, as if he wanted to take flight and leave the Earth behind.
He could see the bruises beneath their eyes, could see the scrapes and scars left over from that conflict. Could see it in their half-present stares whenever the push of the memories against their consciousness got too much and mortal terror took over for just a moment.
Czechoslovakia especially was looking completely out of it, locked in a silent debate within themselves that sounded so very loud... Soviet was not privy to it, though he needed to know their secrets...
he didn't care enough to ask. Some things were better left unsaid. Yugoslavia sat close by, enough for their shoulders to brush. Wherein Czechoslovakia looked tense, the South Slav just seemed to be half asleep.
And yet he was hugging himself, fingers clenched tightly into the folds of his blue uniform, that tension which would certainly never leave. They were all scarred.
Soviet sighed. He could feel that same bone-breaking weariness press itself against him, too, but he couldn't act upon it. He needed to be strong.
"Well." He finally spoke up. It was time. All the countries of the future Eastern Bloc seemed to sense the change in the air, as suddenly, all eyes were on him. Soviet didn't let the attention daunt him.
"As of today, you are officially under my protection. You all have decided on socialist governments," Poland was giving him a look of intense disgust across the room, hands balled into fists. Soviet ignored him. "and as such, I will get you as much help as I am capable of providing until we can achieve safety, prosperity and stability. I assure you that all sacrifices will be worth it as the Eastern Bloc blooms into something beautiful." Soviet let his control fall, let his human take over as the speech transformed. The communist felt like a madman, raving on and on... Poland seemed to have seen through him entirely, those perceptive, blue eyes narrowed... And yet, some listened on with... hope.
Many listened on with rising hope.
Soviet hated that disappointment was inevitable.
Finally.
America had officially lost his nuclear monopoly. Soviet felt new, foreign power course through him. He felt as if he could call down a new Ice Age, take all the cold down from the cosmos and anchor it to the bones of the Earth. Fingers now adorned with silvery scars of frostbite, he could feel his teeth sharpening. He wanted to taste the blood of one particular thorn in his side...
And yet, Soviet knew that to be a mere fantasy. America still had his own bombs, after all, probably better and more of them, what this discovery meant was that Soviet didn't have to be as careful with his words anymore. And even that was a powerful advantage. The strings around him tightened, invigorated by the influx of power. Soviet couldn't even make himself feel surprised.
...maybe now would be a good time to get back what had been stolen from them...
It took almost no thought to open a doorway into East Berlin. Now he could at least strengthen his blockade, not relying only on the capitalist's own sense of 'honour'. Soviet doubted America had even heard of the concept of honour, with how he usually behaved...
But in this case, he had acted civilly so far. Perhaps that was because of the conflict being in Europe, many more spotlights were pointed at him there.
He eyed the city, feeling kind of nauseous with himself as a part of his brain kept rattling on about how they were going to beat the capitalist now that they have discovered that which he had held for three years now. Soviet couldn't bring himself to believe. Not anymore, not after all he had seen. He wasn't doing this for that human in charge, he was doing this for his people, those he couldn't feel anymore, and his children... But he was doing it, regardless.
And he would keep doing it.
To keep himself and those he loved safe.
Little did he know that this new weapon would only make everything so much worse. An age of tension and fear was coming.
A child's scream snapped Soviet back into awareness. He was...
He had been...
The thoughts escaped him...
All he could focus on was that tiny, skeletal child tied up beneath him, and his own hand, dripping with blood, holding that child's eyeball. Korea. The child was sobbing now, gasping for breath, tears of blood running down his cheek. Pale and sickly. Like death itself. Soviet couldn't move, couldn't breathe, for he did this. He himself did this in an effort to break the child's spirit, to force that same poison onto him...
Whereas before, he had been allowed to use his words to manipulate, that didn't seem to be quite enough anymore. Now, he had to use his fists, and force. And Soviet hated himself. Hated everything.
"i'm so sorry." Soviet forced out through dry throat. The child looked up, but no recognition lit up his face. He couldn't speak English. Soviet couldn't even apologise for all that he had done, and all that he was going to do yet...!
He could feel the will of his leader pulling him back under, and for the first time in years, Soviet fought it, fought the change. He attempted to twist out of the human's hold, only for the hooks in his skin to stab that much deeper. It was madness with no end in sight, and Soviet could only lose this battle. His consciousness was already losing control. Soviet was slipping, replaced once more by something other after being allowed just one glance at what the human had done...!
He wanted to scream, wanted to rage against the restraints he himself had accepted, wanted to knock everything ascew. But could do nothing but drown, his own will drained and useless. One last glimpse he got of the real world was that of the child, North Korea, eyeing him fearfully.
It was a sight he would never allow himself to forget.
It would all happen again just three short years later. Soviet couldn’t stop. All he got were small glimpses. He hated it all. Hated it all so much…
Soviet never could have hated himself more than now. Forcing children to fight as America dumped napalm back down onto them all... The jungles went up in flame. Soviet could only think of the bloodshed and wonder if America thought the same. If he even cared, and if he, similarly, wondered whether or not Soviet cared.
North Vietnam looked at him with something akin to hope, and Soviet felt horrible. It had all just... escalated so damn quickly... All he wanted to do was just take both children home and try and get them a decent meal and a couple of stories before bedtime. They had no business to fight in a fucking war.
And yet.
Soviet felt so goddamn disgusting. He felt some much disgust too, for all that was happening here. All the death, all the horror, all the fire.
China stood next to him, expression calm. From the minute furrow of his brow, however, Soviet knew that he was struggling to keep this facade going. They felt very similarly, then, and yet neither could show their true feelings.
Another plane boomed overhead, dropping tears of liquid fire. The trees screamed their deadly poetry, the ground, slick with blood, could only exhale a crimson vapour. Soviet wondered, if this was continued long enough, would the trees also turn crimson red from all the blood their roots have drank? Would the very Earth scar and turn the colour of ash, forever?
...would this even end?