Chapter Text
He doesn’t scream when he hits the ground.
There’s a brief, blinding moment of pain, and then…
Nothing.
He thinks he’s dead. He feels his heart stop beating, feels his lungs suck in one last, pitiful breath, and then he feels nothing at all-
Until…
His heart stutters in his chest. Thump. Thump. His chest rises, attempts in vain to suck in another breath. The left side of his chest doesn’t take in any air. There’s no initial pain-
(But the world couldn’t possibly be that kind, could it?)
-but half a second later it comes roaring in, everywhere, too monumental to pinpoint one precise location. He thinks he vomits. He feels himself try to scream, but all that escapes him is a weak gurgle.
His heart stutters, skips a beat. Thump th-
The right side of his chest rises while the left flails.
Blood pools in his throat, drips out of his open mouth.
(This is the end, isn’t it?)
Everything becomes nothing-
(Hah. As if he’d be so lucky.)
-and then comes roaring back. He’s missing time, hours by the looks of it. Somewhere deep inside, he can feel that something is wrong. That everything is wrong. His bones ache, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. His left side burns from either cold or injury, though he’s not sure which. He thinks he might be missing time. It’s grown dark out, the kind of dark that only exists in remote places such as these.
And what…
What happened to him?
Though moving causes him great pain, he rolls to his back. Immediately, the left side of his body flares back to life, nerve endings screaming all at once that something is wrong, something is wrong with the arm, and…
Oh.
It’s…
(Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong…)
He’s…
(Hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts-)
Can a surgeon even…
(It’s facing the wrong fucking direction why is it facing the wrong direction-)
No, he doesn’t think there’s any fixing that.
He feels… oddly detached from it all-
(Shock. He’s in shock. He knows shock, he’s seen it before…
When?)
-like the pain is just outside of his grasp. The sight of his broken, misshapen, discoloured arm is playing out on a cinema screen.
(This can’t be happening this can’t be happening this CANNOT be happening-)
Above him, the sky is dark and full of stars. Puffy snowflakes drift down, landing on his face and hair and his jacket.
Blue.
It’s a blue jacket.
He notes this like it’s new information. Like everything is new information. Here he is, laying at the bottom of a ravine, with a broken and unsalvageable arm, and he…
He doesn’t have the first fucking clue how he got down here.
And he’s going to die down here, isn’t he?
(Hasn’t he already?)
The laugh tears itself out of his chest before he can think to stop it.
(Someone is going to think he’s fucking insane… oh wait. There’s nobody here.)
He lays there a long time. It becomes a pattern, after those first few hours (days?), of succumbing to his injuries or the cold or the sight of his own unsalvageable arm and then gasping awake, with no memory of his circumstance or anything, really. He doesn’t know how long he’s unconscious between bouts of lucidity, but he thinks significant time passes. He thinks…
He doesn’t know what to think.
He knows, in his heart, that when he’s unconscious he’s dead. He feels his heart stop in his chest, his pathetic attempts at breath fail to draw in air. The snow covers his body in a thick blanket, and he comes to accept his strange fate.
He’ll live and die and live again at the bottom of this ravine until whatever God or Devil that has conjured this up sees fit to end it, he supposes.
His heart stutters in his chest. Thump, thump. His chest rises, sucks in a breath. The pain comes back, but it doesn’t shock him. He thinks he has felt this before. The pain centers around his left side, his arm, but his body is covered in a thick blanket of snow that prevents him from doing much of anything.
With his right, uninjured side, he begins to push the snow off of his body. It’s an arduous task, but he finds himself free of the stuff soon enough.
Ah. His arm. The sight revolts but does not shock him. Though he has no memory of how or why he’s here, he feels that this is not the first time he’s seen his arm in such condition. Three of the fingers on his left hand are gone, fallen away to the infection or rot that has taken up much of his forearm, which is twisted about itself in such a fashion that he knows it is unsalvageable.
He considers his next steps carefully. The ravine that surrounds him extends miles on either side, the end far out of sight. He could, perhaps, start walking in one direction and hope to find some civilization, but he has a feeling that the people he meets may not be friendly. Staying in the ravine doesn’t appear to be a much better option, considering the ever-present snow, but he figures it is as good an option as any.
Survival. He thinks he knows how this works. When he stands, his legs wobble and he falls flat on his side back into the snow, but he does not let the setback stop him. He tries again, teeters again, his legs unwilling to carry him. All at once, his stomach protests loudly, suddenly ravenous, and he wonders when the last time he ate was.
(Days?)
(Weeks?)
(It can’t possibly have been months, can it?)
He has no food on his person, and no means to gather any in the barren, snowy bottom of this ravine. The defeat hits him so suddenly that he gives up on rising to his feet and instead sits in the snow, knees up to his chest, and screams.
There’s no way out, is there? If there were a rescue coming, it would’ve come already. He’s truly, deeply alone down here, with no means to better his circumstance. Pathetic as it may be, he sobs for a long time, pressing his eyes into his kneecaps until they ache, and he wonders if it’ll ever end.
He doesn’t know how long he sits in the snow and waits to die.
(Again?)
He knows that it is long enough for the snow to begin to cover his body again.
He knows that the sickness in his arm has begun to travel upward.
He knows that the raging fever and infection will eventually be what does him in.
For (days? Weeks?) he sits there, waiting to starve or succumb to his illness. He grows restless with the isolation, often whispering to himself.
When he finally feels his body give out, it is a relief.
His heart stutters in his chest.
Stops.
He sucks in one last breath.
(Again?)
(God, this is exhausting)
It’s different this time. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he knows it is different.
His heart stutters in his chest. Thump. Thump. His lungs suck in breath. It is wheezing and painful.
And he is moving through the snow.
Not by his own accord - no, he’s certainly not capable of a feat such as movement - but his body is being dragged through the snow on a stretcher. Above him, if he cranes his neck, he can see uniformed men.
(Allies?)
They speak to each other in hushed tones in a language he does not understand.
(But he recognizes it, doesn’t he? The tone of it. He’s heard it before, hasn’t he?)
The fragmented pieces of his memory try in vain to provide him with context, but come up short. Closer, though, than what he has attempted before, he thinks.
(Before? What was before this?)
“My arm,” he croaks, and the soldiers both look down at him. Their faces are shocked, horrified. They exchange panicked words with each other.
“You are awake,” one of them says in broken English.
“Can’t seem to fuckin’ die,” he says, and lets out a gurgling, wheezing laugh.
Then, as if solely to prove him wrong, his heart stutters.
(Stops?)
Restarts.
This is a familiar feeling.
He (dies?) falls unconscious again, still staring up at the shocked soldiers above him.
Cool metal beneath his back.
Throbbing pain on his left side.
This is new, he thinks.
“Soldier,” someone says, “we are here to help you.”
Help.
(Can anyone help him?)
“What do you remember?”
(Falling, he thinks. He thinks he fell. How else does one end up at the bottom of a ravine?)
“Nothing,” he tells them.
They talk about this at length in a language he does not understand. As the conversation washes over him, they examine him.
“Your wound is remarkably healed.”
(Healed? How can it possibly be healed?)
(A better question might be how long he was dead this time)
“Do you feel any pain?”
“Yes,” he tells them, “in my left hand.”
“Open your eyes, soldier,” they tell him, and he does. The room is drab and grey, as if all of the colour has bled out of the world. A scowling, severe looking man is staring down at him. On instinct, he looks to where the pain is, and finds…
Nothing?
A scream tears itself out of his throat as he realizes what has happened. His arm, where it once was mangled and wrong, is now missing below the left shoulder, leaving only a few inches of scarred, mangled stump before it tapers off. The wound is, as the man said, quite well healed. Scarred, but healed.
“Fascinating,” they say.
This is just the beginning.
His heart stutters in his chest, back to life.
(It feels familiar).
He wakes up.
(Again?)
His lungs suck in air greedily, chest burning as the sweet oxygen hits his aching throat.
(How long this time?)
“Soldat?”
(There is a response. He…
remembers)
“Da, komandir.”
“Miraculous, isn’t it?” the komandir says to someone else. The soldat can sense the other presence in the room, hovering over him. “A perfectly loyal soldier.”
The soldat opens his eyes. Above him is a short, stout man with thick, black rimmed glasses. He…
(Remembers?)
His chest tightens. For a moment he thinks that he is about to die again.
“We meet again,” the spectacled man says.
The komandir kisses his teeth and shakes his head. “It is best not to mention before , around the soldat,” he says. “He will grow agitated.”
They speak of him like he is an animal at the zoo. The soldat does not find this offensive.
“Now tell me,” the komandir says, “what do you have in mind for him?”
The spectacled man smiles, and the soldat’s chest tightens again. He does not like this man. The thought of being near him makes his chest feel like he is about to die.
(Again?)
“He is to be the new fist of Hydra.”
The heart beats fast, stutters, regains its strength.
(Familiar).
On his left, his arm (he has an arm?) whirrs, clicks, recalibrates. Soothing, familiar, like (dying?) something he’s heard a million times before. Whirr, click. Whirr, click. On his right, a handler paces back and forth, a slim folder clutched between two fingers on his left hand.
(He lost his, he thinks, in a fall. How else does one end up-
He forgets).
“Sir?” he prompts.
The handler is blond, slim-framed and short. (Asthma, pneumonia, newspaper in the shoes).
“S-s-s,” he tests the letter on his tongue three times, tasting its familiarity. (Familiarity? He remembers nothing).
The handler sighs. “Try again,” he says. “Put him back in the freezer.”
(This part is familiar).
His heart kickstarts back into gear.
(Again?)
“Soldat,” they call him.
“Komandir,” he replies.
“There is a mission.”
(Isn’t there always?)
The handler is tall, muscular, authoritative. He has a mustache that curls upward at the corners.
(Familiar?)
“What is the mission?”
(Does it matter?)
Whirr, click , says the arm, over and over and over again.
The handler surveys him, eyes narrowed. “Do you remember anything?”
“No,” he says.
“What is your name?”
“I don’t know,” he says. This seems to please the handler, a response which should shock him, but it feels…
Familiar.
“You were injured in combat,” the handler tells him, “serving your country. Do you remember?”
He looks to his left side, tunes into the whirr and click of his arm. “I do not remember,” he says.
“You are a hero,” the handler tells him, “you saved many people.”
“I did?”
“Yes,” the handler says, “and we need you to do it again. Will you help us?”
“Yes.”
It’s like this: he wakes up, cold and disoriented, always in the same room. There is a mission. They tell him that they need his help, that he must serve his country, that he must protect the innocent people at risk. They give him the mission briefing while he eats and smokes. They give him gear. They tell him where and when his mission is. He goes.
Sometimes he waits for targets, watching through the scope of a rifle. Sometimes he breaks necks. Sometimes he orchestrates car accidents, or slips a small vial of clear liquid into someone’s drink. Always, he wonders why the targets fall like flies when he just can’t seem to fucking
die
.
Afterwards, he eats again. He washes himself, looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize his own visage. Sometimes they test him, train him, but mostly he goes back to the cold and waits to wake up again.
Tuesday, October 23, 1962: US IMPOSES ARMS BLOCKADE ON CUBA ON FINDING OFFENSIVE-MISSILE SITES; KENNEDY READY FOR SOVIET SHOWDOWN
The headline of the newspaper article catches the soldat’s attention as the komandir brandishes it for emphasis in the face of the spectacled man. “He,” he says, and thrusts the newspaper toward the soldat, “can be used for much more than just Hydra’s petty assassinations.”
“He is Hydra’s property first,” the spectacled man sneers. “Not some communist patriot.”
“Hydra,” the komandir says, disdain dripping from both syllables, “is hardly a whisper of an organization. We have given time, resources, and funding to your little project. Now it is time that Russia reaps the rewards of her hard work.”
For a long moment, the spectacled man glares at the komandir. The soldat watches this with idle fascination. He will, of course, defend the komandir if need be, but he doubts such a thing would be necessary. The spectacled man is old, frail. Some illness haunts him that he does not yet know of, but the soldat can practically smell it on him. His body is betraying him. The komandir is old as well, with weathered wrinkles about his face, but still carries himself as a military man. Should a fight break out between them - and privately, the soldat thinks that would be a very entertaining fight - the komandir would be victorious.
“What do you have in mind?” the spectacled man finally asks.
“We have other operatives,” the komandir says, “men and women who need training.”
“ Women. ”
“Of course,” the komandir says, completely nonplussed. “Women. It is on the basis of that sexism that they become more dangerous than any army. The right spy, at the right time, can do more for the Cold War effort than any soldier. And he… he will train them to be greater than any spy the world has ever seen.”
He flies to the secondary location with the komandir, who smokes like a chimney through the whole flight but at least has the decency to offer an equal amount of cigarettes to the soldat. It is a peaceful, pleasant ride. The soldat has worked with the komandir on many missions now, and the komandir no longer looks at him with poorly concealed fear like the rest of the soldiers on the Siberian base do.
“Hydra does not understand what kind of operative they have,” the komandir tells him. “You are smarter, stronger, more capable than they give you credit for.”
The soldat hums consideringly at this. He is quite capable. His missions bore him with their ease. “You wish to use my skills for training,” he says.
“Yes, yes,” the komandir agrees. “Training. This is another project that the KGB has been working on for some time now, and the first operatives are nearly ready to be let out into the field. We’d like you to spend some weeks with them. Field test them, train them to blend in with Americans.”
“What are the mission parameters?” he asks.
“Do not kill the trainees,” the komandir says immediately.
“Not even the weak ones?”
The komandir laughs loudly and smacks him on the shoulder. “You have such a sense of humour,” he says.
In truth, the soldat was not joking, but he chuckles nonetheless. “I make no promises about the weak ones,” he tells the komandir.
As if this were the response the komandir was expecting, he shrugs and nods. “Fair enough,” he tells him. “Now look professional. We’re almost there.”
There, as it turns out, is a small, warehouse-looking building serving as a barracks for these operatives. The soldat takes the tour with the komandir, led by a woman who calls herself only Madame B. She is a severe woman who walks with the grace of a dancer and the lethality of a soldier.
“We are pleased to bring the soldat on board with our project,” Madame B says. “Thank you for bringing him, Comrade Karpov.”
“Of course,” the komandir says. “We are both at your service, Madame.”
Madame B hums at the komandir and turns to the soldat. They have come to a stop just outside a large set of double doors within the facility, and inside the soldat can hear the sound of fists against a punching bag. There is a trainer inside, who keeps saying again! In a tone that brokers no argument.
“Inside are our best and brightest,” Madame B tells him. “We have trained them since they were children. You will teach them to be better. Faster. Stronger. To blend in with Americans. If you find that they are subpar, you are to deal with them as you see fit. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the soldat says.
“Excellent. Let’s begin.”
When Madame B pushes the double doors open, the occupants of the room snap to attention. The komandir walks in just behind her, and the soldat follows. Wary eyes immediately follow his path as Madame B leads them to stand in front of a small gaggle of men and women. Immediately, the soldat begins to size them up. They hold themselves with the confidence of trained fighters.
“Comrades,” Madame B says, “this is the soldat. He is here to train you. You will treat him with the same respect as you would anyone else.”
“Yes, Madame,” everyone choruses.
“Excellent. I will leave him to it.”
The soldat is not certain how to approach this task. Madame B exits the gymnasium with the trainer and the komandir stays, but drifts off to a corner of the room. There are five sets of expectant eyes on him, four men and a woman. The soldat can feel the eyes of the men on him, sizing him up.
It’s the woman who intrigues him the most. Her red hair stands out like a shock among the rest, green eyes meeting his own without any hint of fear or challenge. Eager. She looks eager. The expression reminds him of something. Some one .
“You first,” he says to a brunette man who has been scowling at him since he entered the room, and steps into the ring.
Forty minutes later, Madame B comes back into the gymnasium. Her mouth opens, shuts, opens again.
“You told him to deal with them as he saw fit,” the komandir drawls.
The soldat looks at Madame B and wipes blood from his upper lip. As it turns out, the redhead is more than just
intriguing.
She’s fast, too.
“The four best men that Russia has to offer,” Madame B spits, “
dead.
”
“Then get me better men,” the soldat says, “or women like her.”
After burying the four men in the frozen ground outside, the soldat and komandir are led to a dining hall where they are served lunch. The redhead is already there, nibbling at the last scraps of her own lunch.
“Comrades,” she greets when the soldat sits across from her. Again, she does not look afraid. There is no apprehension in her eyes, despite the already darkening bruise across her cheek from the soldat’s own hand. “It is an honour to be trained by you, soldat. They tell us about your work.”
The soldat doesn’t quite know how to react to the praise, so he simply nods his head.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” the komandir says, “he’s a man of few words.”
Something deep in the soldat wants to laugh at that. He doesn’t know why. Instead of analyzing the feeling, he eats his lunch in silence. The food is bad, but it is filling.
After lunch, Madame B leads the soldat and the redhead to a classroom. “You will teach them how to speak English like an American,” she says. Inside the classroom are fifteen young girls - teenagers perhaps - and the redhead, who the teenagers seem to look to as a mentor.
Natalia,
they call her. The soldat files it away.
A week in, the soldat has found his groove. There is Natalia, who he personally trains, and the young girls, who he spends less time with. They are part of a new program, Madame B tells him, one that they think will be very fruitful to the war effort. Natalia is the first of them, their mentor. They will all be like her.
Privately, the soldat thinks it’s not possible. There is something about Natalia, a fight in her that cannot be taught. They will be good, he’s sure, but they will not be great.
“Comrade,” she greets him when he walks into the gym. They have it to themselves during the mornings while the girls are learning to use weapons. The komandir is there, of course, and sometimes Madame B, so they are never truly alone. A constant reminder of their ownership.
“Comrade,” he replies. “Choose a weapon.”
She chooses a knife today. Dulled for training, but dangerous all the same. The soldat grabs one of his own and steps into the ring with her.
They don’t waste time with pleasantries. Natalia lunges for his legs, tries to play dirty, and the soldat meets her in kind. The fights with her are the only exciting fights he’s had in…
He doesn’t know how long.
(Time, he thinks, is a confusing subject)
She’s wary of the metal arm, all too familiar with how hard it can hit, but the soldat knows better than to rely on it. He is lethal even without his greatest weapon. Her speed and agility give her an advantage, but she is not enhanced like him. A weapon like him. Not yet, anyway. The soldat has heard hushed conversations in hallways between the komandir and Madame B, conversations about the future of Russia and the future of her.
Natalia dances around one of his punches, kicks the back of one of his knees and brings him down to the mat.
“You’re distracted today,” she murmurs to him, too quiet for the komandir to hear.
The soldat grunts and throws her across the ring. She bounces off the ropes and lands on her knees.
“Don’t let your guard down,” he tells her, “even if your opponent is on the ground.”
“Got it,” she says.
He teaches her many lessons like this.
“Never let your opponent get behind you,” he says as she struggles for breath, digging her nails into the skin of his right hand. They are sharp enough to draw blood, but the wounds heal as fast as they come.
“You leave your left side open after you punch,” he says while she catches her breath after a brutal strike with the metal arm.
“Being honourable in a fight will only get you killed,” he says with a knife to her throat after she offered him a hand to help him up during a spar.
“You will not be stronger than most of your opponents,” he says, face inches away from hers as he pins her to the ground, “you must be faster. Don’t let them catch you.”
“Your hair,” he says, with a fistful of her ponytail in his hand, “someone will grab it. Do something different.”
Natalia growls something that might be a curse and throws her elbow backward into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
“Braid it,” the soldat wheezes. “Then nobody can grab it.”
She cocks her head to the side. “I don’t know how,” she says.
He teaches her that too.
Natalia is not the only one who learns from their time together.
The soldat begins to pick up little things from her. A dodge that always manages to evade him, a dirty punch that she uses when he has her backed up against the ropes. A slew of Russian words and pronunciations that he didn’t know before. The komandir still watches their matches, but now with rapt attention.
“Better than I could have hoped,” the komandir whispers to Madame B one night when he doesn’t think the soldat can hear. “Four weeks without cryofreeze. Still loyal. Still no recollection. Hydra doesn’t know how to
use
him.”
(Recollection?)
“But we do,” Madame B says. “Keep Zola off our heels.”
The soldat should say something. What the komandir and Madame B are speaking of… it is not loyalty to Hydra.
But…
The soldat doesn’t like Zola. He decides to say nothing.
“Comrade,” Natalia greets. It has now been six weeks.
“Comrade,” he says.
The komandir is not in the gymnasium today. It is just the two of them. If Natalia notices, or thinks anything of this, she keeps it to herself.
“We will work on hand to hand combat today,” the soldat says. “No weapons.”
“All business with you,” Natalia teases. She does that sometimes, makes little jokes. The soldat thinks he likes it.
(It reminds him of…
No. He remembers nothing)
“Someone has to whip you into shape,” he fires back, and Natalia grins at him. “Unless you’re tired of getting knocked on your ass?”
“Man of few words my
ass
,” Natalia says.
“Didn’t have anyone worth talking to, before,” the soldat says with a shrug, and steps into the ring. “You coming?”
There’s an odd look in Natalia’s eyes, but she follows him into the ring.
He pins her three times in forty seconds.
“What’s going on today?” he asks, and helps her up.
“Nothing,” she says immediately.
“Natalia,” he says, “it’s just me. Come on.”
“Nobody has ever said that to me before,” she says quietly.
“What?”
“That I’m worth talking to.”
The soldat’s chest aches at that. Natalia, cold as she may be when the handlers and komandir are present, has a wit to her that he can’t get enough of when they have their scarce moments alone.
“Of course you’re-”
And then Natalia punches him hard in the stomach, kicks his legs out from under him, and pins him to the mat.
“Don’t let your guard down,” she says with a smile, “you taught me that.”
“Devil woman.”
More weeks pass.
The handlers leave Natalia alone with the soldat more and more.
Fifteen young girls become fourteen, then thirteen, then twelve. Their American accents are getting better. Natalia’s is nearly flawless. His own Russian is still piss poor, if Natalia is to be trusted on the matter, but he thinks he’s getting better. The twelve remaining girls begin to train with the soldat more often, clutching guns in their delicate hands and hitting bullseyes over and over and over again.
“Sloppy. Again,” he tells the girls when they miss. “Follow through on your shots. Do not lower your gun so fast.”
(Familiar. He thinks he has taught people how to shoot guns before)
Beside him, Natalia helps to train the girls. She is their mentor. She is what they are aspiring to become. They look at her with wide eyed wonder and at the soldat with poorly concealed fear. Still, Natalia is the only one other than the komandir who doesn’t fear him. It is refreshing.
Four months in, everything changes.
The soldat pins Natalia to the mat, immovable atop her, and Natalia does not fight. They are alone in the gymnasium, not a soul to see what’s happening.
“Giving up?” he teases.
Natalia smirks at him, and something in his stomach stirs.
(He has never felt this before-
Has he?)
“Maybe I like you on top of me,” she purrs, and the soldat feels all of the blood rush to his cheeks.
(Blushing. Hydra’s greatest weapon is blushing)
“Nat-” he whispers. He drifts closer to her, lips only a scant inch from hers. He should put a stop to this. Surely, he should put a stop to this. Christ, he doesn’t even know what he’s doing, does he?
(It’s familiar)
And then suddenly he’s on his back, Natalia atop him, knife pressed to his throat.
“Don’t let your guard down,” she singsongs, but her eyes don’t leave his lips, even as they stand and reset.
Things are different with Natalia after that.
There’s a tension between them, a thin band ready to snap, and the soldat finds that he doesn’t know how to handle it. His stomach swoops when he sees her braid her hair in the mornings, something hot and possessive, and his heart races when they grapple on the mats. Though Nat hides it better, he sees it in her too. Hears it when her heart starts racing. This thing between them is fragile, forbidden, but he allows it all the same.
It’s only three weeks after the incident on the mats that the komandir and Madame B pull the soldat and Natalia aside after training one morning. His guard is immediately up.
(They must know. They’re going to…
What? They can’t kill them. They’re the two best weapons Russia has ever created)
“We have work for the two of you,” Madame B says. “Urgent work. Ivan Mikhailov is planning on defecting from the KGB and selling information to the American pigs.”
Natalia’s mouth twists downward at the corners. “You wish us to kill him.”
“Yes,” the komandir says, “but it must be discreet. News of his treason is not yet public. He will be at a gala tonight along with an American spy who he plans to meet with. The two of you will enter, slip this in his drink,” the komandir holds up a small vial. The soldat can smell the poison. “Frame the spy, and leave undetected. Find out what the American knows, if you can. Is that clear?”
“Consider it done,” the soldat says.
Their covers are simple. Oleg and Yekaterina Morozov, a newly married couple with an interest in fine arts. They will blend in perfectly. Natalia’s job is to slip the poison in Mikhailov’s drink. The soldat’s is to find and frame the American spy. From there, they will exfil to a safehouse and await orders to return once the dust has settled.
The komandir drives them to a safehouse outside of Kyiv for the task.
It is the first time that he’ll have been outside of the Red Room in nearly six months.
They memorize their covers, look over the blueprints of the venue, and discuss weapon options for if things go south. Sometime after noon, Nat is whisked away to get ready and the komandir fetches a suit for the soldat to change into.
“Hydra is getting antsy to see the fruits of your work again,” the komandir murmurs to him. “Prove to them that this project is worth it, and they will allow you to stay longer.”
The soldat very much wants that.
He does not remember the last time he wanted, but he wants now. He wants to stay here with Natalia. He wants to serve Russia. He wants to train the little girls.
“I will,” the soldat says, and the komandir claps him on the shoulder.
“They want a puppet,” he says, disdain dripping from every syllable, “but you are so much more effective this way. If only they could see…” and then he shakes his head as if clearing the thought. “Just the ramblings of an old man, soldat.”
“No harm done, komandir.”
The komandir smiles at him. “You are truly my greatest creation, soldat,” he says, and then leaves the room for the soldat to change into his fancy clothes. There are a pair of soft leather gloves included, to cover the metal hand. Afterward, the komandir cuts his hair and hands him a razor to shave with.
For a long time, the soldat stares at his own reflection.
(Got your ma’s eyes, son-)
He averts his gaze from the mirror and banishes the strange voice from his head. American. The voice was American.
(He… remembers?)
“It’s time to go,” the komandir says. “I will drive the two of you there.”
Natalia’s eyes widen when she meets him outside of the car, but she says nothing. The komandir is too close. It is a hard thing to keep a lid on his own expression, with Natalia looking as she does- her dress is expensive looking, hanging down to just above her ankles and bottle green which brings out her eyes, perfectly modest and fitting for a woman of the status they’re pretending to be.
They slide into the backseat together, and the komandir sits behind the wheel. The soldat’s heart is somewhere up in his throat, beating hard, but not because of the mission. No, this feeling is…
(Familiar?)
Something different entirely.
On impulse, he places his hand beside him on the middle seat, inconspicuous. The komandir’s eyes are fixed on the road ahead.
Ten minutes into the drive, he feels Natalia’s pinky finger brush against his own. The touch is small, hardly noticeable pressure against the leather of his glove, but he feels it all the same. His heart flip-flops in his chest-
(Familiar?)
-almost like he’s dying again.
It’s not long before the art gallery hosting the gala comes into view. The komandir hands the soldat an envelope containing their invitations, and smiles back at them.
“Remember, you’re married,” he says, “act like it.”
(Smashing glass against the wall, a man yelling-)
The soldat blinks and clears the strange intrusion from his head.
“Soldat?” Natalia asks.
“Oleg,” the soldat corrects automatically, and gives her a small smile. “Let’s do this.”
He exits the car first, tucks the envelope into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, then circles the car and opens the door for Natalia. She accepts his offered arm with a small, incredulous smile, like she’s never experienced basic manners before. Then again, with what he knows of the Red Room, this may be a novelty to her.
The komandir waits until they are clear of the driveway to pull away, leaving the two of them alone. There are no bugs. There are no wires. There is only the two of them.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs.
(He knows how to do this, he thinks. He’s done this before).
“Thank you,” Natalia says, and her cheeks flush red. “Let’s go, Oleg.”
He leads her to the door, hands their invitations to the doorman.
“Welcome,” the doorman says to them, “enjoy your evening.”
From here, the mission begins. They must blend in, of course, but they have an objective to complete. The soldat’s eyes scan the room as he leads Natalia deeper into the crowd, searching for the American spy or Mikhailov. A passing waiter offers them champagne, and they each take a glass. Fine art is posted on the walls, pieces both old and new, and the soldat finds that his eyes are drawn to them each in turn, searching for something specific.
(Scrawled graphite on a thin page of a journal, a monkey riding a unicycle-)
He does not know where the thought comes from.
Natalia’s own eyes are scanning the art as well, a small smile dancing across her features. The soldat, on impulse, wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.
“The art is lovely, isn’t it dear?” he says.
“Beautiful,” Natalia agrees, and sips her champagne. The low light of the venue dances across her features, against the sparkles on her eyelids. He’s never seen her in anything other than training clothes before, never allowed himself to wonder what she’d look like all dolled up, but he’s beyond grateful to see it now.
(He knows how to do this.
Doesn’t he?)
Something soft and classical is playing in the background as he leads her through the exhibits, his eyes no longer looking for a target or at the artwork but rather
her,
more exquisite than any painting or sculpture that the gallery has to offer. If she notices his staring, she doesn’t mention it. His arm stays around her shoulders, keeping her small frame pressed close to his. She fits there perfectly, he decides. Like she was made to rest under his arm.
If he doesn’t start paying attention to his surroundings, he may very well blow the mission. He decides he doesn’t care.
The art exhibits give way to a large, open room with a dance floor surrounded by tables, the main hall where the dinner will be hosted. A few guests are already swaying lazily about the dance floor, or chattering amongst themselves. Their target isn’t here, nor is the American spy, at least not yet.
“Dance with me,” he says to her, and before waiting for her response, he begins to lead her toward the open stretch of floor.
“We should be looking for Mikhailov,” she whispers, but doesn’t resist when they reach the floor, doesn’t stop him from grasping one of her hands with his and winding the other around her waist. He doesn’t stop him when they sway together to the soft piano music, doesn’t look away when his eyes meet hers and stay there.
(He knows how to do this)
“We’re in no rush,” he murmurs to her. “Just enjoy the night with me, darling.”
It’s a lighthearted enough comment, one that could be passed off as contributing to their cover, but Natalia’s cheeks redden and her eyes grow a little wide, and she presses herself closer to him.
Though he can’t recall ever dancing before, his body knows what to do. He doesn’t step on her toes, or trip over her heels, or otherwise embarrass himself.
(Almost like he’s done this before)
The song ends, and another begins. Natalia makes no move to end the dance, doesn’t glance away to scan for the target.
He wants. God, he wants. To stay in the Red Room with Natalia, to go on missions with her. To play the role of her dutiful husband, even if it is only a cover. To dance with her, to see her in beautiful gowns. Can he not have this? Has he not served his country enough, made enough sacrifices to have this? To have her? Have they not given up enough to have one good thing?
Prove to them that this project is worth it, and they will allow you to stay longer.
The soldat scans the crowd.
Ivan Mikhailov is speaking to a man on the outskirts of the crowd.
“I see our target,” he murmurs to Natalia. He spins around slowly so that Natalia can see as well. “Let’s find out who he’s speaking with.”
The moment between them shatters like fragile glass, but it’s a worthwhile sacrifice if it means they will get more moments. They have work to do.
When it’s all said and done, they walk back to the safehouse, arm in arm, backlit by flashing police lights. Other guests are walking away in the same fashion as them, murmuring about a dead man and the American spy who killed him. They have all given their statements to the police. The police have arrested the culprit, found with a half empty vial of poison in his pocket.
The safehouse is quiet and empty when they arrive there. No bugs, no wires. Just the two of them.
“Well done,” the soldat murmurs to Natalia.
“And you as well,” Natalia murmurs to him. “Oleg.”
“Yekaterina,” he teases back. Though they’re inside, away from prying eyes, he keeps his arm laced through hers. The point of contact is warm, comforting.
(How long has it been? Since someone touched him in a way that wasn’t violent?)
Natalia gives him a long, searching look, one he can’t decipher. Her eyes don’t leave his for a long, long time. His heart swoops again, stutters, skips a beat.
(Dying. He’s dying-)
“You play the lovestruck husband very well,” she says. Her voice sounds teasing, but her eyes are serious. Searching.
(Can’t she tell that his heart has stopped working? That it’s pounding in his chest, so loud he can hear it?)
(He used to know how to do this, didn’t he?)
“You deserve to be treated right,” he tells her. I could be that for you, he doesn’t say. He knows they wouldn’t be allowed it.
“I killed a man today,” Natalia says, “and he wasn’t the first. He won’t be the last.”
Guilt. There’s guilt in her tone.
He admires her for it. He wishes he could still feel guilt for all the things he’s done.
“We make sacrifices for our country,” he says, and brushes a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. “I of all people understand that.”
Natalia sighs and leans forward so that her head is resting on his chest. On instinct, the soldat wraps his arms around her shoulders and holds her for a moment. “We bear the burden so that others don’t have to.”
“You’re very patriotic,” Natalia says, and digs her fingers into his sides. The soldat laughs, squirms away from the intrusion.
(Ticklish. Russia’s greatest weapon is ticklish?)
Natalia’s responding giggle is music to his ears. He doesn’t think it’s a sound he’s ever heard from her before.
“My point is,” he says, once he’s sure that she’s done trying to pester him, “that you deserve to be treated right. Like a proper-”
(dame?)
“Lady.”
“I’m not very ladylike,” Natalia says against the fabric of his shirt.
“I don’t give a damn,” the soldat says, and he means it.
(Never liked women who couldn’t hold their own-)
Natalia props her chin up on his chest to look at him, really look at him, and the soldat returns her gaze. Their faces are close, too close. It feels like there’s a wire between them, electric current running from her to him.
(Alive. She makes him feel alive.)
“They’ll never let us have this,” Natalia says. She doesn’t clarify who they is, and she doesn’t need to.
“We’re spies,” he retorts. “Russia’s greatest. We can have this if we’re careful.”
And then he leans down, and closes the gap between them.
(He knows how to do this)
Natalia’s lips are soft and sticky with gloss, but they fit perfectly against his own. It’s chaste at first, not much more than a peck, but then Natalia’s arms wind up around his neck and she pulls him in, kisses him proper until his head is spinning.
“If we’re careful,” she repeats against his lips.
And then they don’t do any talking at all until after, when her face is pressed into his chest and their legs are tangled together, her nails drawing a pattern on his bare chest and his fingertips trailing up and down the smooth skin of her back.
“I didn’t know it could be like that,” she murmurs to him.
“Hm?” he asks, then tips his head down to look her in the eyes. “Like what?”
“Good,” she says, and the admission sounds soft, timid. “I didn’t know it could be good.”
Indignant rage sparks in the soldat’s chest on her behalf. “It
should
be,” he says hotly.
“Sex is a weapon,” Natalia murmurs. “That’s what they told me.”
The soldat pulls her closer, presses a kiss to her hair. “It’s not a weapon,” he tells her. “It’s supposed to be… like this.”
He feels Natalia’s smile pressed against his chest, followed by a soft kiss. “Show me again what it’s supposed to be like,” she says.
He does.
Things are both entirely different and entirely the same when they get back to the Red Room.
If the komandir or Madame B know what happened, they keep it to themselves. Natalia looks impassive as she gives her mission report, and the soldat does the same. Perfectly professional. There are eyes on them always, either the handlers or the komandir or Madame B or the young girls, but the odd moments when it’s just the two of them are his favourite. Sometimes all they have time for is a soft kiss, a subtle joke, but sometimes…
Sometimes he can sneak into her room in the dead of night, when the handlers are asleep, and hold her until her breathing evens out. Sometimes he can sneak into her bathroom and shower with her, marvel at the way that the soap and steam make her skin slippery and hot. Sometimes they have a night at a safehouse, alone, and can make the most of it.
Another thing that changes is him, he realizes. Natalia is the one to notice it first.
“Something is different with you,” she says to him one day in the shower. They’re both too tired from their last mission to do much other than wash each other.
“Different how?” he asks.
Natalia’s face softens and she places her hands on his chest, lathering soap there. “You were rigid when I first met you,” she says, “exactly the weapon you were promised to be.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Sometimes you look very far away. Like you’re remembering a different life.”
The soldat hums. He doesn’t know what to say to that.
He is remembering a different life, he thinks. In little flashes and snippets. Gunfire, screaming. The permeating scent of shit and vomit and blood in the air. A smiling woman with eyes the same colour as his own. A stern-faced man with his hair and nose. The memories throw him off his game, make him odd.
The little girls begin to notice as well.
He still teaches them English, though now their accents are nearly flawless. Sometimes he tests them individually, with Natalia at his side.
“Sir, ma’am, could you point me in the direction of the nearest hotel?” Southern, nearly flawless.
“Good,” the soldat says, “again. Different accent.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but could I have directions to the nearest hotel?” Midwestern. Needs work.
“Keep practicing,” Natalia says. “It still needs work. Try another.”
“Pardon me, but can I have directions to a hotel?” New York, flawless-
(Brooklyn. Blue eyes like his, brown ringlets-)
“Good Becca,” he says, “another-”
And then he freezes, only realizing what he’s said at the last moment.
“You will tell no one of this,” Natalia hisses. Her hand is clenched around the girl’s wrist hard enough to whiten her knuckles, and blood is slowly pooling where her fingernails have pierced the girl’s skin.
“I will tell no one,” the girl says immediately.
“Go. Give us a moment.”
The girl scurries away.
The soldat stares at the closed door for a long moment.
“She will tell Madame B,” he says, resigned.
“She will,” Natalia says. “We knew we were on borrowed time.”
“I’ll go to the komandir,” the soldat says. “Tell him myself. Better if it comes from me.”
Natalia frowns, but nods. “You had a life before this,” she murmurs. “You’re signing yourself up to forget it.”
“How good could it have been?” the soldat asks. “You weren’t in it.”
And then he walks himself to the komandir’s office.
“I am remembering,” he says by way of greeting.
The komandir sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, and writes SEVEN MONTHS on a paper off to the side.
“Very well,” he says. “I’ll get you fixed up.”
Then he raises a gun, and before the soldat can react, the world ceases to exist.
His heart stutters, stops, restarts.
(Familiar?)
“Soldat?”
(There is a response. He… knows).
“Da, komandir.”
“Marvelous,” a woman’s voice says from behind him. “Absolutely marvelous.”
She is not the komandir. The man in front of him is. He is old, weathered and grey, but the soldat knows him all the same.
“Who knows of this?” the komandir asks. It is not directed at the soldat, so he does not reply.
“Only the girl who reported it, and Natalia,” the woman replies.
“Brief Natalia. The girl must die.”
(Natalia. Familiar? No. It can’t be. He knows nothing).
“Die?” the woman says hotly. “That seems-”
“She knows his weakness,” the komandir responds coolly. “She is not yet valuable enough to be kept alive.”
A long silence follows.
“There is a mission,” the komandir says. “Training, mostly. And one target.”
The soldat raises his eyebrows. Training?
“What are the mission parameters?” he asks.
The komandir hands him a photo. A young girl, perhaps seventeen. Brown ringlets, blue eyes. “Do you recognize this woman?”
He resists the urge to snort. “No,” he says derisively.
“You will kill her. Bury the body outside. You will train the rest of the girls. Combat, English, weapons. Do you understand?”
“Da, komandir.”
The girls do not scream when he walks into the classroom. The blue eyed one looks up at him when he approaches her. The komandir is not here. The woman is not here. It is just him and the girls.
Something heavy settles in his chest when he looks at the life he is about to end.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and snaps her neck.
Quick. Merciful.
A woman with red hair standing at the front of the classroom watches him with poorly concealed concern. The soldat pays her no mind. He lifts the little girl’s body, carries her with one arm behind her knees and one behind her back, and walks out of the classroom.
“Excuse me a moment,” the redheaded woman says to the class, and follows him out.
“Comrade!” she calls from behind him. He pays her no mind. Still, she follows him all the way outside, to the frozen ground outside where he will bury the body. There is a hole already dug. He did it himself.
“Soldat,” she says, when she finally catches up. The soldat does not respond, only lays the small body into the hole. Closes her eyes with gentle fingertips.
“What did they do to you?”
The soldat raises his head and cocks it to the side. The redhead is persistent, he’ll grant her that.
“Am I next, then?” she doesn’t look frightened. It is not a challenge. He doesn’t know what to think.
“No,” he says, “my mission is not to kill you.”
“What is it, then?”
“This,” he says, “and to train the rest of them.”
He falls into a routine like this.
He teaches the girls English, until their accents are nearly perfect. Then, he teaches them to fight. They are small and weak, but fast. Their movements are like that of a dancer. Always, Natalia is with him. Training them at his side. She looks at him with sad eyes sometimes, but he does not care. When their combat training is finished for the day, he spends an hour with Natalia alone. Sparring. She is good. Fast. Strong. She leaves no openings for easy attacks, does not let her guard down. Her hair is tightly braided against her scalp, as if she learned that lesson the hard way.
(Familiar? No.)
He spends a month like this, training them, and then is called into the komandir’s office.
“You are doing very well,” the komandir tells him. “The girls are almost ready to go out into the world.”
“So the mission is finished, then?”
“No,” the komandir says. “We have one thing for you to do first.”
He slides a file across the table.
“Take Natalia with you. I want this man dead by tomorrow. Do not be detected. Kill any witnesses.”
“Da, komandir.”
Natalia drives them to Saint Petersburg. Their safehouse is a small, nondescript house in the suburbs only three blocks from the target’s house. As instructed, the soldat sweeps the house under the cover of darkness and finds no wires or bugs, then goes inside and begins to get ready. In the adjoining bedroom, Natalia is already preparing herself.
“Five minutes,” she calls, then stands in the doorway of his room. She’s wearing a black tactical suit, strapped with weapons from head to toe. His own outfit is much the same, but a little less tight.
“Are you ready, comrade?” he asks. Perfectly professional.
“Of course,” she says. He finishes strapping the last of his knives to his person and meets her gaze. It is an odd look, tinged with nostalgia.
“You remember nothing,” she says, as if this makes her upset.
“Nothing,” he confirms. He knows this is the correct response.
(Her hair. He remembers… no. That’s not possible).
“I see,” she says, and her eyes turn sadder.
Was it not the correct response?
“Something is bothering you,” he says. He’s not sure why he cares, but he does. Something deep in his chest longs to fix that pain.
“It’s nothing, comrade,” she says. Professional. Curt.
(Teasing. She used to tease him).
“Let’s go,” he says. “We have work to do.”
They creep through the streets in the middle of the night, taking the rooftops when they can, until they reach the target’s house. From there, they climb to the second storey window of the target’s office, crack it open, and slide inside. Natalia’s work is here. The soldat’s is further inside, in the master bedroom. Silently, the soldat creeps along the hallway until he comes to stand outside of the door, already cracked open a smidge. It does not creak when he pushes it the rest of the way open.
Quietly, he approaches the bed. The target is laying there, facing his wife, who is on the other side. Back turned to the door. Their legs are tangled together under the sheet.
(Smooth skin under his fingertips, smooth legs tangled with his own-)
The soldat jams his knife into the base of the man’s skull. He twitches once, but the wife does not stir. She will soon enough, and discover her husband dead in bed. The thought almost makes the soldat upset, but he does not allow it to fester. Just as quietly as he came in, he creeps back down the hallway, past the daughter’s bedroom, and into the office. Natalia gives him a thumbs-up, and they creep away together, closing the window behind themselves.
It’s not until they’re back in the safehouse that they dare speak again.
“The target is dead?” Natalia asks.
“Of course,” the soldat affirms. “You got what you needed?”
“Yes.”
“Well done, comrade,” he says. “We leave in the morning.”
To his surprise, Natalia snorts at that.
“All business with you,” she says, teasing, and-
(Red hair beneath his fingertips. Smooth skin beneath his lips. All business with you. We can have this if we’re careful. )
“Natalia,” he says, and it comes out in a rush as if the wind has been knocked from him.
Her face does something hopeful, like she doesn’t dare wish that he remembers.
Of course he remembers. How could he forget?
“Natalia,” he says again, his legs moving toward her on their own accord until they crash into each other.
“You remember?”
“Yes,” he says, like a prayer. “I remember.”
They fall into their usual pattern, back in the Red Room. The soldat sees through the girls’ training until they are ready to go out into the world. Natalia is by his side as they graduate, earning the title of Black Widows. Natalia is the first of them, the best, and they are her proteges.
The komandir is pleased with his work.
“We will find more girls,” Madame B says to them both. “Younger, I think. Better if we can train them early.”
“And until then?” Natalia asks.
“We have work for you,” Madame B says to her, “and soldat, the komandir will handle you until we have the next class ready.”
Handle him, as it turns out, is going back into the cold. He’s alright with this. It’s familiar.
His bones are cold. His skin is too hot. His whole body feels miserable.
“Soldat.”
“Da, komandir.”
“The cryofreeze keeps him young, keeps the memory from coming back too soon.”
(Ha. If only the komandir knew).
“Outstanding,” Madame B says. Her voice is hushed, reverent. “Do you think…”
He misses part of the conversation. That’s fine. They’re not talking to him anyway.
“Only someone enhanced could survive the procedure,” the komandir tells her.
“And how-”
“We do not have a method to reproduce the serum,” the komandir interjects. “Unfortunately.”
The soldat doesn’t care. He just wants to warm up. Someone drapes a warm blanket over his shoulders and it feels like fire on his skin, but still he clutches it around himself. He knows it will feel better eventually. The komandir and Madame B are still talking, mentioning an Iron Maiden, or something, and he tunes it out.
(Natalia. He thinks of Natalia, and it warms him.)
“There are new girls to train,” the komandir tells him, and the soldat makes some wordless noise of agreement.
It is easy to fall back into the routine.
He does not know how long he was on the ice this time, but Natalia looks older than he saw her last. Certainly not old, but perhaps in her late twenties. Older than he remembers, surely. Bits and pieces of their time together are fragmented in his head, like the ice blurred the lines, but he knows her.
And she knows him. There is a fire in her eyes when she sees him for the first time again, surrounded by young girls. Seven of them, no older than eight.
“This is the soldat,” she says. “He is here to teach you.”
The new girls are like sponges. They retain languages and combat and accents like it is the easiest thing in the world, with a single-minded determination that the soldat attributes to their youth. He and Natalia look upon them like children of their own, or perhaps younger siblings. They take to calling Natalia big sister, and him big brother. He finds he does not mind this as long as the handlers are not around. Together, they teach the girls to braid their hair and how to fight and how to wrap their tiny hands around guns.
There is a small one with blonde hair. Yelena. The soldat recognizes a fight in her that he saw in Natalia as well. He takes a shine to her, perhaps, treats her as a favourite. Works her harder, until she’s better, faster, stronger. Deadlier.
And always, he makes as much time for his stolen moments with Natalia as possible. There is no room for love in the Red Room, no, but there’s room for whatever they have.
We can have this if we’re careful. And they are careful. They sneak about the Red Room with a paranoia usually reserved for missions, steal kisses in the dead of night where the handlers can’t reach them.
And when three of the girls don’t meet Madame B’s standards of training, they bury them in the cold earth together.
A month passes that way. Then two.
Then the komandir calls the soldat into his office, already filled with scientists, and the soldat submits himself to whichever tests they deem necessary.
“You have trained these girls for six weeks now,” Madame B says to him, “which shows the most potential?”
“Yelena,” he says immediately.
“Very well,” Madame B says.
Then he goes into the cold, and waits to wake up again.
When he wakes, he does not know how much time has passed, but Natalia looks the same.
“There are more girls,” Madame B tells him. The soldat does not know where the komandir is.
Again, he spends a month or two training the new girls. This batch is older, but already trained to an extent. Natalia’s work, he thinks, but she doesn’t seem to have aged a day.
At the end of the six weeks, he goes with Natalia to kill a British man. They place evidence blaming an American organization. He sees Yelena, briefly, notices that she looks older even if Natalia hasn’t aged. When he whispers this to Natalia in the dead of night, she tells him not to worry about it.
(What did they do to her?
He’d never wish his life on anyone).
The concept of time is foreign to him, even though he knows it passes while he is in the cold. Sometimes he wakes only for a week or two, just enough time for a mission with Natalia before he goes back into the cold, and sometimes he spends six or eight weeks training the girls before he goes under again. If he asks Natalia the date, his question is deftly avoided.
Despite that, always, he cherishes his moments spent with Natalia.
“You had a life before this,” she whispers to him one night in a safehouse, “something other than the Red Room.”
The soldat hums. “Did I?”
“You remembered it once,” Natalia says. “I don’t know what happened to you, but they made you forget.”
(He thinks he has a theory).
“It doesn’t matter,” he tells her, and digs his fingers a little tighter into her soft flesh just to feel how real it is beneath him, “I don’t care about whatever life I lived before this. I have you, in this one.”
Natalia’s expression softens and she snuggles closer. “Do you ever wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
“Never mind,” she says, and that’s that.
It all comes crashing down. It has to, doesn’t it? It was too good for too long, even if he’s not sure how long it’s been.
He’s not sure what it is that tips the handlers off. Maybe they grew complacent, or perhaps their stolen moments weren’t as private as they thought, but when he sneaks into Natalia’s room one night, Madame B is already there.
Madame B and a small army of handlers.
Natalia is on her knees, hands raised above her head, at least ten guns pointed in her direction, and the soldat doesn’t need to ask why. He knows they know. He feels it in his chest. Raises his hands in submission. Falls to his knees and tries to convey with his eyes that it’ll be okay, that they’ll survive this. That she will, at least. He can’t fight back when her life is on the line, and they all know it.
“I’m sorry,” he says to her. There’s no point in pretending. The ruse is up.
“Sorry,” Madame B spits. “You’re sorry. ”
“It never did any harm,” Natalia says, her tone pleading. “We never compromised any missions. We did everything you asked.”
Madame B makes a noise in the back of her throat that sounds nearly like retching. “Attachment. Affection. They make you weak. They make you human. ”
“It’s my fault,” the soldat says, immediately. “Take it out on me, not her.”
Someone presses a gun to the back of his head. It’ll be quick, at least. He prefers to die quickly.
“This,” Madame B spits, “is what affection gets you.”
BANG.
His heart stutters, stops.
He stays alive just long enough to hear Natalia’s first gut wrenching sob.
His heart stutters, stops, restarts. Falters once more before gaining a steady rhythm.
“Soldat?”
“Da, komandir.”
“Wow,” the voice drawls. American.
The soldat’s eyes open. American. He does not serve the Americans. Fuck the Americans.
“Easy, soldier,” the man in front of him says. “Hail Hydra.”
Oh. Alright. Fine then. “Hail Hydra,” the soldat repeats. He knows this is the correct response.
“This? This is what the Russians sent us?” Another voice mocks. “One guy with a fancy prosthetic?”
The soldat looks to the komandir. Searching for permission. Permission to prove himself. He is still cold, still half frozen, but he could kill the insolent one.
“Karpov’s notes were right,” the komandir says, his tone reverent, “you are an arrogant thing.”
(Karpov? Who is this? The soldat does not know).
“Go ahead,” the komandir says, “show us what you’ve got.”
He stands. The arm recalibrates, sequential whirrs and clicks that soothe him. Turns to face the one who spoke out of turn, the one that still looks bored and unimpressed. The rest look scared. He prefers it that way. His steps do not falter when he stalks toward the insolent one, who raises his fists.
The soldat doesn’t bother with such a display. He reaches out, grabs the left wrist of the man.
“What the-”
And then crunch. Crack. Screaming. The man crumples to his knees, but the soldat keeps his grip on the wrist. Reaches out with the metal hand, grabs him by the hair.
“Go on,” the komandir says again.
It takes nothing to crush the man’s head. Nothing.
(He makes dying look so easy .)
“Perfect,” the komandir says.
The soldat preens.
16 DECEMBER 1991: BEIRUT WELCOMES WORLD BANK PLEDGE OF AID
“Soldat?”
His heart stutters in his chest. Regains its footing.
“Da, komandir.”
The komandir laughs. “Still Russian, no matter how many times we try this,” he says. He is holding the newspaper in his left hand, and the soldat stares at it. December 16 1991. The date stirs something in him. Something heavy. Like he is forgetting… something.
“There is a mission.”
“Parameters?”
He is handed a file. He longs for a cigarette, but they do not offer him one. Instead, he taps his fingers on the arm of his chair while he reads the file.
“Make it look like an accident.”
The soldat stares at the photo for a moment longer. Howard Stark.
(Familiar? No, it can’t be).
“Consider it done.”
Familiar.
Familiar.
The target was familiar-
(Sergeant Barnes? Who is-
It’s him, it’s him, he knows it’s him-)
“...erratic, we don’t know what the problem is…”
“...can’t control him…”
“...had to put him in a holding cell, but that door won’t stand up much longer…”
Familiar. He knows it, deep in his bones.
“Put him in cryofreeze!”
“He won’t go!”
No. He won’t. They won’t make him forget again. He knew that man, he knew him, he knew him-
“Put a bullet in his fucking skull, then-”
“-tried that, he killed Boyle-”
“Fuck!”
“What’s going on?” A calm voice amidst so many panicked ones.
It’s the komandir. The komandir.
Sergeant Barnes. His name is-
He won’t forget. He won’t forget.
“I’ll get him in cryofreeze.”
Four corpses surround him. He killed them for trying the same thing.
“Soldat.”
Calm. Collected. An order.
“Da, komandir.”
“If I open this door, are you going to try to kill me?”
“No.”
He won’t hurt the komandir. He can’t .
He follows the komandir into cryofreeze and does not complain.
Sergeant Barnes.
He won’t forget again.
Cold. He’s so cold.
His heart stutters in his chest, struggles to regain a rhythm.
Sergeant Barnes.
“Soldat?”
“Fuck you.”
Silence follows.
“We could just shoot him,” someone says.
“It takes a long time to recover from that,” the komandir says thoughtfully. “We need something more immediate.”
“A bullet to the fuckin-”
“Stop talking.”
The second person stops.
“Get the scientists on it. Put him back in the freezer until then.”
“32557038,” the soldat says as they drag him back to the freezer.
Cold. Again. So fucking cold.
He tries to move, but he can’t. He’s strapped down to something.
“3255-”
“Can you quit that?”
The soldat opens his eyes, scowls at the komandir.
“Fuck you,” he says again.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck me,” the komandir says. “We’ll see if you still have that sentiment by the time this is done. Y’all ready?”
“32557038,” the soldat says. It’s a pitiful stance of resistance, but it’s the only one he has. He’s strapped down, can’t move, doesn’t dare meet the komandir’s gaze. It’s easier to resist when he’s not looking at the komandir.
“Good to go back here,” someone says, and something crackles to life above him.
“32557038.”
“Alright, let’s give it a spin.”
And then there’s only
pain.
His chest is heaving. He feels like he’s just died, but different. Not dead, just…
He shudders. Tries to blink the remaining spots out of his vision, spits blood and half a molar onto the concrete floor.
“Right. Mouthguard next time,” someone says. “Soldat?”
“Da, komandir,” he wheezes.
“Are you ready to comply?”
“Da, komandir.”
“Alright. Someone get his mouth fixed up. We’ll try it again later.”
(Again? No, please-)