One more tale, Sergeant
The young girl's green eyes flared as she stood staring at the dark-haired boy snickering deviously on the other side of the silver fence that wrapped around her home. Her new blue and white dress was covered in mud, her eyebrows furrowing as he wiped the residue of the childish grenade on his brown pants. Her shallow breaths echoed through her chest producing a swirling fog in the icy air.
"Leave me Alone!" She screeched picking up a stone in her milky white hands. She blushed deeply as she released it a moment too late; watching as it pitifully hit the ground engraving a divot in the mud and grass with all the force she intended to impact with the boy across from her. A louder laugh bellowed out of the boy's throat at the scene, making the young girl stomp her foot and turn stiffly towards her home. His laughs continued to vibrate through the snow as she slammed the door.
Mason squinted in the darkness of the cargo hold inside the ship meant to take him home, accompanied by a fleet of Navy vessels destined to extract the Nova-6 he so narrowly managed to contain. He stumbled upon the empty room in an attempt to be alone and have some time to think, something he didn't get much of lately. He sighed as he fumbled to click on a light switch, scanning the names of the boxes in the area, most of which being ammunition and firearms. He cringed as he stared past the window watching as the sun set over the waves painting the sky a deep orange and purple, the ship that physically contained the biochemical weapon skipped gracefully over the waves directly across from him, and mockingly reminded him of how recently this had all been established. His mind blistered back and fourth through the scenes he had endured. Dragovich…Kravchenko…Steiner, their names etched into his mind more tangibly than he would have ever deemed feasible, were dead. One by one he made sure of it. He clenched his jaw as he looked around the room. "Reznov" he whispered to himself, anger beginning to rise from his core as reality began to settle. No matter how much he trusted him, how real he seemed, or how ingenious he was, he wasn't there…he was never there...and the fact remained that he fucked with his mind. Mason shook his head roughly as if trying to release the chip, or whatever it was that held a lock on him, from his head. "Reznov!" he said louder, glancing to and from the shadows and crevices of the room as if expecting him to emerge. "If you were nothing but an image to me then I should be able to see you whenever I damn-well please! Right?" Mason growled, "Well I want to talk to you!" Logic didn't seem to matter at this point as he stood yelling to the darkness. "Show yourself you communist pig!" He yelled clenching his teeth. Underneath his chest hyperventilation mocked him crueler than the ship full of Nova-6 skipping constantly just outside, telling him he was going insane.
Still, there was no answer.
"Fuck!" he yelled punching against the metal of the ship's wall causing his knuckles to pulse, hinting at the immanence of blood if any further abuse were to occur. "Damn it!" He all but whispered, resting his head up against the wall and closing his eyes tightly. "I trusted you!" He said between his teeth, heavy breaths escaping him from his fits of screaming. "I fucking trusted you, Reznov!"
"And why is that such a problem, Mason?" Reznov's voice echoed through the room as a rebuttal to his statement. The American lifted his head quickly turning to see the man in question as Alex knew him best, clothed in U.S. military gear, and hair trimmed similar to his own—It wouldn't be until just then that Mason would realize that his vindictive mind made the Russian's appearance in his own shadow.
"Reznov," He breathed, almost relieved, and clenched his fists tightly causing the first wave of blood to slice past the skin of his battered hand. "Why would you fucking toy with me like that! I thought we were friends!" The captain shook his head breathing a shallow laugh.
"Think, Mason! You know why I did it!" Mason winced at the suggestion. "You were programmed to kill your own president, Mason! All I did was change your objective! I sent you after the people we were both after! I helped you!"
"Last I checked, altering someone else's mind isn't help!"
"But stopping you from something you wouldn't want is! I was helping you Mason. That was the only way I could!" He asserted back.
"Why didn't you just try taking the damn thing out?"
"Do you have any idea how dangerous something like that would have been? I could have killed you!" Mason closed his mouth in defeat sighing loudly banging his fist against the wall once more, smearing crimson over the metallic silver.
"You're not even fucking here!" He said weakly. He'd admit it, he was insane, but rather he acknowledged that as truth or not didn't lessen the invariable hurt it caused. It hurt to know that he was literally an experiment to the bastards that did this too him, dead or not. He was a living puppet, and nothing more. They took away his sanity.
"I'm here because you needed me to be Mason. Isn't that what friends are?" Reznov smiled slightly patting the man's shoulder empathetically.
"Why didn't you try to escape?" Alex asked the captain steadily, attempting to regain his composure.
"Escape to what Mason? I told you how I lost my best friend to those bastards. I lost most of my family in the massacre of Stalingrad , and I couldn't have gone to your country. You admitted yourself just a moment ago that I was considered a 'communist pig', I would have never been accepted in America ." Mason frowned deeply.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-" Reznov shrugged, cutting off the apology.
"It's fine. I understand." An uncomfortable hush developed between them, a frown etched strictly on the Russian's face, deep breaths escaping his throat. The sun outside finally set, allowing the stars to breath past the royal blue sky that could only be seen over the ocean.
"Didn't you have a home?" Mason breathed breaking the steady silence.
"I did at one time, but it was nothing I wanted to return to." Reznov answered stretching his arms, and taking a seat on one of the boxes sitting nearest to the window, permitting an easy gaze outward.
"What do you mean?" Mason asked walking around to face the captain and leaned against a metal support beam. Reznov's eyes flashed as hints of a deeply repressed memory attempted to scratch towards the surface. He sighed, resting his chin on a closed fist, his elbow propped by his knee. "If you must know." He began. "I lost what was left of my family inside that house. I just didn't want to go back."
"Family? A wife?" Reznov laughed gently, a fond memory rising.
"Stasya Kadatsky. Her family and mine were extremely closely affiliated for whatever reason, for however long. I didn't know, and I was too young to care. All I knew was Stasya, the closest of the Kadtsky siblings to me in age."
"Childhood friends, huh?" Reznov laughed again, louder.
"Friends would never describe us." He explained. "She and I were at each other's throats since she was old enough to speak. I remember once," he began "I threw a clump of mud over the design of some new winter dress." He fought a frown, almost sorry for the action. "She was furious. She proceeded to make my life a living hell for the next ten years or so, and I fought right back."
"Whatchya guys do?" He slurred back in between his own laughs. Reznov turned his head towards him.
"She would pour dirt in my drink or put mud in my shoes, I would take her toy animals and burry them in the snow, put ice on her seat." Mason found himself smiling at the childish memories; Viktor shook his head. "Yeah, at that time, we hated one another" he chuckled "…but once we got older, the pranks were a little more malicious."
"Get the hell away from me, Reznov!" Stasya screeched rubbing the newly formed welt his rock engraved on her skin. She stood stomping her foot in defiance, 15 years old, dark hair waving gently behind her back, a quaint brown dress and scarf gracing her body as she watched from her porch.
Winter hadn't arrived yet, but already it was cold.
The boy she knew better than she would ever hope stood in his usual spot across the silver, now slightly rusted, fence laughing his habitual laugh. "What's the matter, Kadatsky? Can't you dodge?" Viktor commented bending to reach for another rock, much larger than the last. The girl's eyes widened with determination, taking the suggestion as a challenge. She fought back the screech trying to force its way though her mouth and clenched her jaw as he leisurely tossed the stone in the air, letting it fly to and from his hand. As if on cue, Viktor, standing at 17, prematurely tall and immaturely thickened, tossed the rock at full throttle towards the younger girl.
Stasya side stepped the threat, disregarding the general direction the rock was tossed, bending at the hip to further dodge the weapon in question. Her foot skidded over a patch of ice that slowly accumulated over her porch step, then, causing her to stumble forward onto the chilled concrete underneath. Stasya shot her hands forward to catch herself, a sickening crack of her wrist reverberating through the air as she connected with the ground. She yelped in pain, weakening her body as it fell, the white flakes of snow draping over her hair and eyelashes, so miserably freezing, chapping her pale skin. Viktor's eyes widened as she groaned holding onto her wrist, bent unnaturally backwards. "St-Stasya!" He sputtered, jumping over the fence to where she laid, a breath of guilt surrounding his actions. Tears surrounded her eyes more from embarrassment than, currently adrenaline-mired, pain. She inched away from him steadily, gasping pathetically as he turned her delicately onto her back and off of her injured wrist earning another yelp from the younger girl. Viktor cursed under his breath grabbing onto her arm and inspecting it with amateur eyes. No, he didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but it didn't take a medic to recognize how badly the bone had been misplaced. "Damn it, Kadatskya!" He hissed. "I wasn't actually aiming for you!" Stasya's eyes fell to the divot the rock made sitting a good half meter away from where she was standing, her cheeks burned brightly once again. She closed her eyes tightly still holding back the howls that were building inside her chest, and the bubbled tears finally fell; his face twisted into an unreadable expression.
"Fuck." He cursed once more draping his fingers over her wrist causing her to flinch. "I have to fix it." Unwilling to open her mouth for fear of screaming she shook her head intensely in protest. "I have to Kadatsky! It won't heal like this!" Viktor urged. He, in fact, wasn't the most balanced nor coordinated at this age and almost anytime he helped his father with damn near anything he'd break, sprain, cut, or bruise something. His father would just laugh, pop whatever it was back into place, or wrap some gauze around it and tell him that wounds make a man strong, and unafraid…that was untrue of course, he had never been on the applying end of a sprain and he was honestly apprehensive about popping in someone else's bones. He breathed slowly attempting to steady his body, and took one final look at his own wrist for reference before snapping it back to its natural shape. She opened her mouth releasing the developed scream. He flinched, covering her mouth and tightening his grip on her wrist attempting to numb the pain. "I'm sorry!" He breathed, chewing on his lip as her tears touched his hand. She pulled from him stiffly, angry breaths swirling around her mouth; her teeth stung as the impact of the cold hit them with every inhale.
"Get off me!" She shrieked pushing him away as strongly as she could, tears continuously falling. "Don't look at me!" She begged kicking her legs to move farther from him.
"Just, here let me-" He began reaching past her resistance to cradle her. He had no more than brought her to his chest as he knelt beside her before she slapped him roughly.
"Let me go! I don't need your help!"
"Fine!" He finally yelled with annoyances, dropping her back into the cold snow. "Do it yourself then!" Her eyebrows furrowed as she fumbled to sit, using her good hand to rise herself up. Her bone crackled even as she gently brushed it against her own skin causing her to fall back into the ice. She pulled her knees to her chest and held tightly onto her wrist which, surprisingly, loosened the painful twinges. Reznov sighed loudly offering his hand to the girl once more. "Just let me help you." Her eyes scanned him quizzically past what was left of the moisture.
"Why?" She whispered attempting to sit up once again; he placed the palm of his hand behind her back pushing her to sit. He shrugged at her question letting out a chuckle.
"I'm not sure. Guilt I guess." She shook her head.
"I don't want your guilt, Reznov." She was standing now with him holding her shoulders to steady her.
"Just be quiet and take my damn help, Kadatsky!" She laughed weakly nodding as he twisted the door to her home and walked her in.
"You threw a rock at her, she sprained her wrist, and that was the form of your friendship? Really?" Mason asked raising an eyebrow.
"Not necessarily, we were still cruel to each other for a few good years; I just didn't throw rocks at her again." He laughed.
"Glad you didn't go soft on my Reznov." Mason smiled. The captain nodded. "So when did you start layin' off then?" Alex asked smirking.
"I'm not entirely sure, one day I just grew up I suppose." Mason laughed in agreement; he himself had been rather mischievous as a child and had done his fair share of pranks, so he knew how maturity hits-like-a-brick when it finally comes around. The Russian shared his laughter.
"What about your relationship then? How did that go from childish pranks to love-and-marriage?" Reznov's smile faltered slightly before he let out a soft sigh.
"If I were to tell you, you really will think I've gone soft."
"Humor me." Alex insisted. Viktor smiled wider.
"Well." He paused. "It was simple really. I just…looked up." Mason cocked his head to the side.
"That some Russian-way of saying you had an epiphany?" Reznov laughed again.
"No, I literally looked up one day during a celebration for one of her siblings, wedding maybe I don't remember now…but when I saw her-" His voice faded. Mason flinched with a memory; he somehow knew exactly what Viktor saw so many years ago. A woman stood at a doorway, her hair falling around her shoulders waved and blacker than any Alex had ever seen. Her eyes glistened with the reflective light of the snow, pale skin practically painted by an artist's brush. A black dress fell over her curves lovingly, white scarf draped over her neck falling behind her and reaching to the back of her knees. She was definitely a sight. Mason nodded with understanding. "It was almost like a private joke between our families. When I asked for permission to marry her, the room echoed with laughter. They all knew we would end up together, they were just waiting for when." Mason chuckled along with him. "Of course it took some coaxing to get her to see me as more than the little boy who threw dirt and rocks at her from across her parent's fence, but when she and I finally got to talking…it was little more than an instant attraction."
"Sounds like a pretty good deal to me." Mason commented leaning off of the support beam and stretching his arms above his head.
"It…really was. She was like nothing I had ever seen before. She was so graceful, and strong. Stronger than I was, probably."
"What happened to her?" Mason asked the inevitable. The captain's countenance dropped immediately at the suggestion. He took a strong breath, unable to force out the words at first.
"Do not worry about it Mason. It's passed."
"I'm not leaving it alone Reznov, I have a feeling that this has something to do with what happened to me. I deserve to know the details don't you think?" Alex asked strictly, curiosity beginning to steadily rise.
"I told you, I wanted revenge."
"And that's why you couldn't go home?" Reznov looked up then, eyes bleeding with pain, said memory seeping through quickly. Mason looked away feeling the same aching inside the man's heart as he did. After all, he wasn't really there. Everything he was seeing…was just him.
"I'm sorry." Mason apologized once more, dropping his eyes to look at his still bleeding hand.
"It's fine." Reznov chuckled lightly. "I understand." Another long silence thickened the air between them. Mason waited patiently; watching as the captain's hands gently shook, lip quivering however slightly.
"…Just one more tale captain…just so I understand why." Viktor raised his eyes weakly, analyzing the man standing across from him.
He took another breath. "I was a sergeant at the time…"
The first metal truck, blood stained and paint chipped, sped with out the slightest hint of caution through what would probably be the last of the winter storms. All ready signs of life poked through the ice, signifying the immanence of spring. Small buds of flowers, reds, yellows and pinks, teased against the deadened ground. The arctic ice itself seemed to reluctantly weaken and pull back from the sky as hints of light penetrated through the snow swollen clouds. The men within the vehicles, exhausted, hungry, and beaten from another battle, two, three, stared at the passing ground outside their respective windows. Most of them couldn't fight past their heavy skin to force a smile to honor another year fought. Another year of friends…brothers lost. Another year alive.
It was still cold.
Private Petrenko looked up through sleep-heavy eyes as a particularly violent swerve to avoid which ever hazard presented itself jerked most of the men resting inside the back. His sergeant sat across from him, undeterred by the veer, in his preferred last-seat-on-the-left from which he never swayed, 'just in case' he once explained leaving the details to the imagination. The man's eyes lingered at the slowly disappearing road behind them; his breath was mirrored by that of the winter cold. Heavy, thick, somewhat drunken from the blood he alone had seen, and had shed. The others sat in a similar position, hearts causing a pressure on their chest like pounding drums. Dmitri could see a glimmer of unwelcome hope spark through the officer's war-hardened stature, buried deep beyond the piles of lives he had taken, beyond the resentment, and beyond the seemingly endless layers of ice. The young soldier jerked in his seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable as his superior officer sullenly sat, motionless. "Expect the worst." Petrenko managed to breath in a steady tone, eyes locked onto the other man's. Viktor blinked quickly shifting his gaze to his comrade and trying, probably harder than was necessary, to smile.
"I know Dmitri. I know." He repeated, looking down at the wooden bed of the trunk resting underneath his feet, the forced smile still pulled weakly on the corners of his mouth. This particular phrase, in fact, had passed by Reznov's own lips thousands of times to the other soldiers, part of his squad or other wise, as they sat waiting for word of their friends and loved ones. A loyal leader, he would stand next to the men whom he belayed the warning to and allow the news to come, good or bad, offering congratulations or condolences, whichever the case may be. Every combatant was conditioned, even during the earliest days of prep-camps, to abolish the idea of hope in times of war. The sergeant knew this better than any other man Dmitri had known. What the camp, the conditioning, the warnings never taught, however, was how to relinquish the forsaken idea of expectancy if ever it should seep through less than impenetrable skin. These men were not bullet proof and the slightest scratch of hope, in any sense, was akin to the glimmer of rapture beyond the years of pain and tribulations.
Optimism was purely irresistible.
Viktor let his eyes drop from his colleague promptly as he felt Dmitri's frown pierce through his already shaken composure. It had been a little more than a year since their meeting in Stalingrad. Pain still pulsed through his body any time the thought of the relentless massacre reared its ugly head. Reznov clenched his hand as the lost-tip of his finger throbbed in a sickeningly cruel way, reminding him of its absence. The fabric of his jacket stretched and pulled as he focused on trying to cover himself fully due to the fact that any skin left exposed painfully peeled with the astringent winds. The last storm is always the strongest. The final of nature's brutal hurrahs.
Moscow , the place of his birth, only meters away seemed years from his reach past the coagulating snow. The 3rd Shock Army, his loyal coalition, was to spend exactly two days to restock and sleep in the city and no more. He felt himself cringe as the tires tread through a pile of water that in a few hours will morph into a deadly patch of black ice. Ice, in fact was the man's favored element. How alike he and it were! Both offered the immanence of danger when the conditions were right. The sergeant chuckled at the thought before letting his mouth fall back into the scowl he wore so perfectly. At that moment, the city's lights shed through the frost like tides upon a desert, so stunningly unnatural. A sudden start of that hated anticipation drifted upon the soldiers as the city blended into better view. The town was a symbol of their home. The shining capital of Mother Russia was so strikingly beautiful after such an extensive time away. So inviting. Already Reznov could feel the warmth of the music and drink their presence would convey amongst the country's loyal people, and the dim lighting inviting his men to a restful night all ready practically blinded him. But Viktor couldn't think about such things. His mind was elsewhere.
As the truck skidded in front of one of the country's awe-inspiring palaces the sergeant hastily jumped outside of the truck, leaving the leather sack that contained his every belonging, aside from his gun, underneath the seat. He listened intently as his feet pounded rhythmically against the cobble-stoned streets and he allowed his breaths to mimic the echo as it recoiled off of the walls. He slung the PPSh-41 behind his back in one fluid movement, eyes strictly attached to the path he followed, fervently impossible to dissuade. Even the embrace and comforting protection his home offered couldn't calm the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. The men breathed whispers of confusion as the officer practically ran from the squad receiving no permission nor ridicule from his superiors. Even the commissioner looked on knowingly, without a word. Dmitri scrambled for his gun grabbing his respective bag and turning towards his friend's depleting image.
"Petrenko, where is he going?" One of the squad members, Belov, asked under his breath as if it were stringently covert. Dmitri, however, held no such secrecy.
"We are near his home." He simply stated heading towards his colleague. Even a man like Reznov needed comfort when the damned situation presented itself. "Reznov!" Dmitri breathed picking up his speed, jogging lightly.
Viktor didn't turn his head, but rather, simply nodded to acknowledge the man's presence. Their feet fell on the ground in unison, vibrating as they walked in silence. The private couldn't even hear the other man's breaths, and without the fog escaping in recurring intervals he would have questioned rather or not he actually was. Reznov's face displayed no emotion, his mind determined on hindering the chemicals that made his stomach curdle the acids, successfully making him dizzy. He didn't know why he felt so unbearably sick, but his natural inclination to, yes, hope was in utter confliction to his training and experiences. His hands began to shake as the building where he once resided blended into view, light post burning a welcoming gold on the street purified by the light snow. Viktor's breathless laugh interrupting the steady rhythm. Dmitri grimaced slowing his own walking watching as his sergeant excitedly ran towards his home. He could see the effects the nervousness implemented on Viktor, his steps unbalanced and swaying so differently from his normal level-headed stride.
Reznov disregarded the bell and immediately turned the door knob of his home. Adrenaline began to return as it clicked with reluctance to open. He began to pound on the door desperately, face twisted with uncertainty. Almost instantly the light of the hall way flickered on, a shadow brushing through the window. Another breathless laugh reluctantly escaped his throat and a smile spread over his face. Dmitri frowned deeper standing behind his friend at the bottom of the small stairs, more nervous for the other man's mental stability then he could conceive at this point. The door pushed and pulled as the person standing on the other side of it hastily unlocked and threw it open.
Reznov's face fell immediately as the figure loomed over as a strikingly imposing man, standing a good three or four inches above the sergeant and substantially broader. Viktor's throat convulsed as his mouth opened constricting his ability to speak.
"Of course, the first thing I thought was…" He paused; face twisting bitterly as the memory of the man flashed inside his mind.
"She was having an affair." Mason finished for him, sitting now as the captain spoke, eloquently weaving another story so clearly it seemed to almost be a memory. Reznov nodded weakly, breathing a pitiful laugh at the thought.
"I couldn't think clearly." He began again. "As soon as I saw that man, I was consumed with resentment."
"Who are you?" The figure asked bending slightly towards the man standing before him. Viktor could feel his hands pulsing as his voice caught with every attempt to verbalize.
"This is Sergeant Viktor Reznov, and I am Dmitri Petrenko." Dmitri answered for his comrade quickly taking a short step forward. Viktor still stood shaking, voiceless. The man allowed his intimidating scowl to transform into a weak smile, and shifted his legs allowing for the men to enter into the home.
"My name is Vadim Savinov, and-" Reznov slowly stepped forward. Blood throbbed through his ears making the man's words smear together in an inaudible slur, his eyes were bitterly swollen and blood shot as the thought of his partner's disloyalty hastily, deliberately pulsed around his consciousness like vermin. Dmitri's tone intertwined with the noise as he allowed his pained eyes to scan the room for his family.
"Wh-" He still couldn't speak. He felt the first wrench of sardonic tears sting at the corners of his eyes, the chemicals pulsed quicker through his throat and into his nose, drawing the pain ever nearer…ever closer to the surface. "Where is she!" He finally choked out. The men turned their heads towards him, their eyes covered in shock from his sudden outburst.
"Reznov-" Dmitri began as his friend staggered towards Vadim, a drunken rage glazed within his eyes.
"Where is she!" He screamed, pulsing with adrenaline, grabbing hold of the larger man's shoulders and slamming him against the wall causing the glass of the picture frames to jerk and fracture. "Where is my wife!" Reznov spat, voice cracking under the pressure. The trigger of his gun laughed amiably behind his back as he loosened a hand to reach for it, other palm continuously digging bruises into the man's skin.
Dmitri forced himself between the men, screaming at one another with anger. Reznov's eyes scoured the home as he searched for evidence of the woman he so deeply hoped to see awaiting his return, and instead found a man waiting in her stead. "Harlot!" Viktor continued his head heavy from the vibrations of his own voice. Dependant on subconscious thought, he felt his body turn towards the stairs behind him. He stumbled as he took his first steps, practically crawling up the single story to the top. "You whore!" His teeth ground as he felt the tears ever closer. Words of protest insisted warnings behind him as he ran across the hallway to his own room, to which he gave no heed. Viktor slammed open the door, scowling as it hit against the back wall with a bang…and froze.
The captain's anger fell at the sight of vicarious splatters of blood, dried and cracked, painting his walls. An appalling scent permeated the air as he stared, the fractured window breathing in strong remnants of the cold. The shattered glass glimmered with a brusque smile as the, once welcoming, radiance of the light post bled into the shadows of the room. He recoiled as a stream of warmth tainted his cheeks, turning to ice as they hit his skin of his neck like glaze. His eyes fell onto the hidden door behind the bed meant to protect their daughter from harm if the situation ever came. He could practically hear the deafening cries of his daughter as the heinous men callously shot her, a child no older than four. He felt his skin quiver at a second painting of repulsive crimson that flooded the ground around it.
Dmitri winced as his sergeant fell to his knees with an aberrant thud, heavy from the sight before him, sobs escaping his throat like knives. He coughed and groaned sporadically yelling the names of his wife and young daughter again and again; pleading to God that it wasn't true. The sergeant fell lower to the ground onto his shoulder, the fingers of his right hand clawing into the bleeding floor underneath him. "Stasya, no…please." He breathed no higher than a whisper. Viktor's gasps slowed to a more constant level as his tears continued, permitting only the slightest contriving gleam to peel past them.
Suicide looked beautiful.
His hand shakily reached for the gun behind his back once again, weaker than Dmitri would ever associate with the iron solider he considered Reznov to be. "No!" Petrenko yelled running to his comrade and stretching to fetter his hand away from the weapon.
"Let me go!" Viktor spoke erratically pulling against his restrain.
"This isn't like you Reznov! You wouldn't do this!" Silence arose between them, the soldier's unsystematic breaths barely able to keep him stable.
"Let me go." He said again through his grinding teeth. Dmitri pulled away the gun hanging loosely on his back and stood up, grimacing at the sergeant's actions. He had seen Viktor crawl though battle fields wielding only a pistol, undaunted, he had seen him destroy whole regimes with steel tanks, with hold the slightest idea of mercy from the enemy, even pull knives from his limbs without so much as a flinch, and here he lay sobbing, and inexorably beaten. They had found his weakness.
"How did they find-" Mason allowed his voice to trail off as Reznov buried his face in his hands, the memory proving to be too much for the man to bare.
"I don't know." He began. "I don't know if they knew that they were my family, or if it was just coincidence. I didn't really care. All I knew was they took the last of my home from me, and I knew I wouldn't even want to be in that house without them."
"I can imagine."
Vadim let out an empathetic sigh reaching his hand out for the beaten man, which Viktor brushed away angrily stumbling to his feet on his own. Reznov wiped the bitter tasting tears from his face, hands still shaking from the broken flow of adrenaline. "I'm sorry," he breathed, "I tried to warn you Viktor." The sergeant lifted his head towards him, neck cracking with the tense movement.
"Keep it." Reznov breathed grabbing the gun from his comrade's arms and pushing past the men into the hallway. "I don't need it, I don't want it."
"Want what?" Savinov asked stepping towards the man, his feet pounding heavily on the ground.
"This house." He simply answered, pushing open the door to the outside for the last time.
Dmitri ran for his friend quickly, practically skidding over the ice-slickened ground to where Viktor irately walked. "Reznov, where are you going?" He asked, resorting to his almost-instinctual ability to balance on ice, twisting his feet inward to keep from falling as he walked.
It was so cold…
"Savinov, apparently, was a friend of Stasya's, my wife. In Russia, only men could own homes, and he was the only man she knew that was still alive, so she asked him to care for the house while I was at war if anything were to happen to her...to us." Reznov explained. "I was deaf to him, blurred by adrenaline and rage, but according to Dmitri, the man had said that Stasya never once doubted that I would return. I was just a few days too late." Viktor's voice was weak. Mason shuttered at the suggestion, how bitterly scornful the idea must have been to the captain. So close to being able to save them
A left, a long right, and the men stood before a dimly-lit tavern, the name on the front long since forgotten by snow and time. Dmitri chuckled as Reznov stormed in, taking the first available seat at the bar and slamming his gun in front of him. Choruses of welcome rang from the workers, most of them calling him by his first name, indicating that he was most likely a usual customer. The younger private followed his superior's actions, taking a seat beside him and receiving a group of welcomes as well.
"What'll it be Viktor?" the bartender asked casually, leaning back against the bar.
"Whatever you have that's strong." He snapped, focusing on his gun and holding back another progression of sobs that threatened his composure. The man cocked his head before sliding over a simple glass of vodka on ice and placing the bottle next to him. Dmitri took the urn pouring his own glass and shifted his gun behind him. Reznov, hunched heavily over the bar, took a drink, coughing slightly from the stinging the drink implemented on his raw throat. Dmitri shrunk back at the stiff actions of his friend and turned his eyes to examine the room, giving him an excuse for time to think of what he could possibly say to him. The room, in fact, was small. Soviet flags hung at random, brushing over tables and chairs painting the room in blood. A few men scattered across the orange, lantern-tinted tables, drinking heavily and producing a thick haze of smoke from their cigars and cigarettes, so fittingly grey. The shadows seemed to stretch welcomingly as his eyes peered into the corners, creating the allusion that they were deeper than they actually were; an occasional laugh spilled over the somber atmosphere. Dmitri took another drink from the glass brushing his eyes over the clouded man to his left. Viktor coughed, louder this time as if sensing his friends gaze, and took another long drink of his own. The bitter tasting liquid all ready beginning to influence him, he swung his feet over the bar step lazily grabbing for the bottle in front of them. Petrenko frowned; he had never seen the sergeant drink quite so heavily. His eyes began to develop a film over them as he sat; continuously drinking away the memory that relentlessly engraved itself in his mind only a moment ago. The young private sighed. Should he mention his late wife? Ask questions and get him thinking about happier times in order to speed up the grieving process? Or perhaps, he thought, it's too soon to bring her into a conversation, even though Reznov was probably thinking about her during the lengthy moments Dmitri spent pondering his actions. Since when did it take him this long to think?
The developed blizzard beyond the wood thickened door beat against the inn relentlessly, causing the hinged sign to swing violently against the walls. Petrenko cleared his throat, opening his mouth to speak. "Don't shower pity on me Dmitri, that's the last think I need right now." Reznov interrupted unevenly, pouring another drink and waving for the bartender to bring more ice. Dmitri clasped his mouth together, shaking his head once again and taking a shallow drink before dropping the subject.
Mason cringed as Reznov continuously peered out the barred window of the ship, skipping over the chaotic waves in rhythm with its sister liners always heading home.
"Sounds pretty rough." He commented to the man sitting across from him.
"Rough wouldn't even begin to describe it." He breathed back, still not turning to look at the American. Mason had never seen this side of Reznov. Never once had he seen him shiver the way he did now. "I suppose I should have gotten over it. It was war after all, but-" He gasped. "But, she was my-" He couldn't quite find the right word.
"She was really something, huh?" Reznov only nodded. Silence rose again, thickening the atmosphere between them. First to speak loses.
"And you had a kid?" Alex lost, attempting to change to somber subject.
"Yes, she would have been five when the war ended."
"What was her name?"
"Natalia." His features swelled with a weak sense of pride. "Natalia Reznova." He sighed. "I only really got to raise her for a little while."
"Before you were sent to war you mean?" Reznov nodded.
"She was only 8-months-old." Mason cringed.
"I'm sorry." Viktor shook his head.
"I was told by some friends in Russia that even though she didn't know me well, she would brag the way children do that I was a sergeant of the Red Army, and that I was going to make the war end all by myself." He chuckled half-heartedly.
"She was proud of her dad huh?" Reznov tried to retain his smile.
"Or so I was told."
"I'm sure she was." Mason began. "Parents are everything to a child."
"Yes, I suppose we are." The frown finally won as Viktor pushed himself up to stand fluidly. "Well," he began "maybe you can begin your own family when you return home, Mason." A weak smirk formed over his features. Alex laughed softly.
"Maybe." The aura around them was different. Even in Vorkuta there wasn't as much of a tension between the men as there was now. Mason was at a lost for words. Viktor lost everything. To put things as simply as he could, the Russian was fucked out of everything he deserved. His family murdered in Stalingrad, his wife and daughter were merely civilians killed by Nazi military men, and his best friend, literally last thing he had for even a shred of comfort, killed like a lab rat right in front of his eyes. "I guess I wouldn't want to live either." Alex breathed out, a thought meant only for him. Reznov laughed.
"Exactly."
"So, where do I play a part in this grand story of yours?" Viktor smiled.
"You killed them. You killed the last of the men I was after."
"So you found the men that killed your wife then?" The Russian smirked darkly.
"You expected anything less?" Mason laughed.
"Good man, Reznov."
"Of course." He finished with a slight nod. Mason sighed softly, walking to the window the captain stared out only moments ago, he could see the vague outline of a city, the lights acting like stars shimmering on the dark waves. Just one of the hundreds of ports on the U.S. of A. stood before him. He was home.
"So…" Mason started. "What now?" What more could be done at this point? The war was far from over, but his part in it was done. There was nothing more this veteran could do for his county; all he wanted was to return to Alaska. So, where did that leave Viktor? Their bond was through battle, and unfinished business. Now that they were both completed…
"Now, I return home. They have been waiting for much too long." Viktor said turning to the cargo hold's exit. Mason didn't need him to explain, he knew what he meant. He smiled as Reznov slowly approached the stairs.
"It's about time you did." Alex started, "You fucking deserve it." Reznov looked over his shoulder, a soft smile on his lips.
"As do you, my friend." He replied. "As do you." His first steps echoed loudly threw the metallic walls.
"Mason!" Weaver threw open the door, practically running down the steps to where Alex stood. The Russian captain continued to step into the artificial lights of the ship, walking past Weaver with no emotion, and with no notice from the other man. "We're home! This god-forsaken mission is finally over!" Mason lifted his eyes to the stairs, Viktor was gone. He chuckled.
"Yeah, finally." He said simply in agreement, following Weaver, heading out to the dock of the ship. Alex cringed as he took the first steps of the stairs, his head ringing with the laughter of what sounded like a little girl. He shook his head strongly, chuckling. Reznov, I'm happy for you. He thought smiling slightly as he stared at the silver ground underneath him.
"There it is." Hudson began, the group of men who acquired the nova-6 standing around the ship's ledge, loving the sight of their country every one of them swelled with patriotism. "We're home." Mason sighed with a great sense of relief.
Thank you, Mason. Reznov's voice echoed for the last time. Alex laughed heartedly as the men rejoiced on each of the ships.
Finally, it was over...
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