BRAT'YA

Prologue

If there was a hell, Vladimir expected it looked something like Utkin Prison. Hidden in the deepest, snow covered ravine in Siberia, the barb wired brick fortress was probably the closest thing to the Devil's lair on earth, minus the fire and brimstone. But then again, Vladimir had once read that hell was actually frozen over, so he may not have been far off.

The plunging temperatures of a Siberian winter were some of the most dangerous, and deadly, in the world. The stone walls of the Utkin Prison soaked in the chill of the harsh snow and wind and turned each and every cell into the prisoners' own personal iceboxes. The guards each donned heavy winter coats, covering layers of long underwear, thick trousers, and warm sweaters, along with fur lined hats and gloves. The prisoners were left with nothing but a thin pair of pants and the bare skin on their backs.

Leaned up against one of the ice walls, Vladimir could admire the cleverness of a prison in the middle of the tundra. He could feel the cold creep into the muscles on his back, the bottoms of his feet, his frozen fingertips, and spread deep into his core, placating both his mind and his body. No man would have the energy to plot an escape; the prisoners barely had the energy to move about their own cells. The cold was a leech that sapped the will from even the toughest Russian men.

This was why Vladimir knew he would escape. He was unlike any other Russian man. He would not fall prey to the Siberian chill; his drive was far greater than any other man in the prison. He had risen from the slums of Samara to the royalty of Moscow, only to have everything he fought for stripped away by one slip up that wasn't even his own. The guards would never expect a former street rat like himself to overcome their might, to fight the winter sickness that pacified so many of the great murderers and traitors housed within Utkin's walls.

They would never expect it, so Vladimir knew he would escape.

How had always been the tougher question. And that answer came with the cold that so many others resented.

The cells of the prison were turned into iceboxes by the cold, and they acted exactly as iceboxes should. They preserved things. Things much like Alexei.

Vladimir didn't shed a tear when the older man had been deposited on the cell floor, dead eyes staring up at the ceiling as the stench of blood filled the room. Alexei had always resented him and his brother as they climbed from the depths of poverty to prevail wealthier than anyone could have imagined. He never stopped treating them like the poor hungry boys that had been living on the street when they entered the same business. Watching the guards drop his corpse at Vladimir's feet had had no effect on him, but it did give him his means of escape.

The body remained in the cell for days, the cold preventing it from decaying and causing the guards to negate removing the corpse from the room. One of their other cellmates, Oleg, who had been taken from their cell early this morning, had openly complained about the disrespect of leaving the body in the jail instead of burning or burying it, returning it to God. Oleg was horribly religious and would probably be displeased that Vladimir had decided to tear open Alexei's dead body and snap off a rib. Vladimir was not religious, but he had a feeling that Alexei would not be going to God in death. People like Alexei, like Vladimir, probably went a different direction. He didn't feel so bad stealing a sinner's rib to help grant himself freedom.

Vladimir ran a finger along the smooth edge of the rib, tracing the crimson blood that stained the bone. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the wall. He could picture it; surging up to his feet when the guards opened the door, the sharp point of the rib sliding into the man's neck, his brother at his side, freedom.

His brother. Anatoly.

Everyday Vladimir regretted letting his brother join him the day they were arrested. His little brother should have never been in the warehouse during the raid. But Anatoly had wanted to prove himself a man, like his brother and the men who had taken them in. So Vladimir had let him come, and now he was trapped in the same hellhole as the older brother he idolized.

Anatoly had been raised on the streets; he was tough and strong willed. But he wasn't strong enough to handle the brutality of Utkin Prison. Every day he grew weaker, the beatings by the guards sapping the life and will out of Vladimir's little brother. All Vladimir could do was watch and try to draw the guards' violence away from Anatoly and onto himself. Sometimes he could spew enough insults to garner the guards' attention, but days like today he had to watch the boy he had practically raised be dragged away, never knowing if he'd come back in one piece, or like Alexei.

But where Vladimir lacked faith in God, he was filled with faith in the Ranskahov blood line. They were fighters. Their grandfather had survived the Battle of Stalingrad during the Second World War. Their uncle had lived through three bullet wounds during the Sino-Soviet border conflict, unlike many of the other border guards he had worked with. The Ranskahovs were built to overcome obstacles. Anatoly would return to the cell, push back whatever injuries he had sustained, and together they would burn the prison to the ground.

Leaning his head back against the wall, taking deep calming breaths, Vladimir let his thoughts wander as he slipped into an almost meditative state. Doing the best to ignore the reek of urine, sweat, and blood that tainted the room, he kept his eyes closed, focusing on preventing his body heat from being completely sapped away by the cold walls. So was the life of a prisoner, long days of cold and uncertainty.

Vladimir was unsure how long it was before he heard the echoes of voices bouncing from the hallway beyond the reinforced door into his cell. His eyes slid open, lids remaining low, and he glanced over at the dead body of Alexei, double checking that the body covered the gaping hole in the man's chest that Vladimir had torn open with his nails and, as he was not ashamed to admit, his teeth. Satisfied that his crime would go unnoticed, he let his gaze travel to the door.

The angry shouting had centralized right outside his door. The room rang with the sound of the key in the door's lock and the heavy thud as the bolt was slid out of position. Normally filled with nothing but sun or moonlight from the small thin window high up the wall Vladimir was against, the room was suddenly lit with dim, flickering light from the hallway as the door was swung open. Vladimir squinted slightly, making out the shadows of two guards, a man limply dangling between them, before the guards tossed the listless man onto the floor.

Vladimir recognized Anatoly by the grunt of pain he let slip as he made contact with the hard floor alone, not to mention the tattoos that covered his brother's back, illuminated by the dull lighting pouring in from the doorway. He couldn't help the spark of anger that ignited in his chest at his brother's wounded noise and the foul curse one of the guards spat at the prisoners. Anatoly coughed painfully in response.

When the guards closed the door and locked it without another word, Vladimir's irritation turned to surprise. Their cellmate Oleg had been taken at the same time as Anatoly that morning and Vladimir had expected the God-faring man to be returned to the cell at the same time as his brother.

He suspected he would not be seeing the man again, but it never hurt to make sure.

"Where's Oleg?" he muttered to his brother, who still had his face pressed towards the ground. Anatoly lifted his head slightly at his brother's voice, reassuring Vladimir that he was not too damaged.

Anatoly replied in a rough voice, "It's just us now." Vladimir's concern for his brother, whose voice was heavy and slurred, overcame his disappointment that Oleg had not survived the torture. Where Alexei had been an adversary, Oleg had been a friend. Hopefully the man found the God he so often sought.

Anatoly braced a hand on the ground as though he were going to push himself up.

"We don't need anyone else," Vladimir reassured his brother as he forced himself to his own feet to aid Anatoly. His muscles were frozen and protested the sudden action, making his movements slow and lethargic. He slid over to the man, who was curled slightly in on himself, moaning softly in discomfort.

Vladimir rested one hand onto his brother's back, a gentle touch, not wanting to upset any bruising or lacerations, while he carefully wrapped the other around Anatoly's chest. With a strong tug, Vladimir pulled his brother up from the ground, towards a wall.

Anatoly gasped in pain, one hand flailing outward in an attempt to steady himself, as Vladimir dragged him to the wall, leaning him up against it. As Anatoly sighed quietly, for once not complaining about, but rather relishing, in the coolness of the wall pressed against his hot, battered back. Vladimir settled himself next to his brother up against the brick, taking in Anatoly's haggard appearance.

Anatoly was covered in blood, cuts and ugly dark bruises littering his chest and face, much as Vladimir suspected he looked like himself. Sweat soaked his hair, plastering the long strands to his forehead. Vladimir could never convince him to cut it short, as he did. Maxim had kept his hair longer, and no matter how much Anatoly admired his older brother, he always seemed to idolize Maxim just a little more. And yet, who was rotting by his side in prison? Vladimir was proud to say that his brother had quickly realized the Ranskahovs didn't truly need Maxim or any of the others once they landed in jail.

"Only each other," Vladimir finished, patting his brother, who shifted painfully to become more comfortable, twice on his clammy chest before sliding into an agreeable position of his own.

Anatoly's breathing was heavy and full of discomfort, his gaze unfocused, staring distantly at the far wall. Today had been hard on him, Vladimir could tell, but they had had worse days. The night the two brothers had been dragged off together, the night Vladimir had received the large gash across his right eye, the one that would probably scar over and forever be a reminder of the hell they had been put through, that night would haunt both their nightmares for a long time. Today had been hard, but they had survived harder.

Vladimir rested his arms on his knees, listening to his brother's breathing, for a short moment. Anatoly seemed to process his words, slowly, before giving him a weak nudge with his hand. Vladimir's eyes, which had decided to focus on his hands rather his beaten brother, drifted back to Anatoly.

In a slurred, broken voice, Anatoly murmured, "Soon, it will just be you, Vladimir." He met Vladimir's eyes briefly before his gaze wandered away again and he sighed softly.

Vladimir did not hesitate to respond, with a small shake of his head, "No, my brother."

By hearing his brother's words, and the sudden lack of faith that filled them, Vladimir knew it was time to leave. He knew the Ranskahovs were fighters; they could physically overcome any pain or illness. But sometimes it was not the wound that killed, but rather the mind. Vladimir had seen it before. It was what had claimed his father's life. The mind gives up much quicker than the body sometimes, and that can prove deadly. Anatoly's comment was too similar to their father's last words and Vladimir would not lose another family member that way. If either Ranskahov were to meet their end, it would be by nothing less than a bullet to the brain. This prison was not how they would die.

"We leave here together," Vladimir told Anatoly, reaching to his waistband, where he had stowed Alexei's rib bone at the sound of the guards. He held it out in front of his brother, watching as Anatoly's eyes widened and his jaw went slack. 'Tonight."

Anatoly's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as one hand tentatively reached out to touch the bone. "Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice sounding marginally stronger, as he accepted the rib from Vladimir's grasp.

With a grim smile, Vladimir turned his head away from his brother, his focus turning to Alexei's body on the far side of the room. Anatoly studied the rib, and then followed his gaze as Vladimir murmured, "A gift…" He gestured towards the dead man. "From Alexei."

Anatoly huffed out a quiet chuckle. He shared Vladimir's view of the man. And, as a small smile began to creep onto his brother's beaten face, Vladimir knew he was beginning to realize what that small rib bone meant for them.

"The guard's shouldn't have left him for the rats," Vladimir continued, pushing away from the wall and slowly moving over to Alexei on his hands and feet. He crouched over the body and rolled it to reveal the damage to the man's right side: a bloody, gaping hole right over the short ribs, one of which was obviously missing in the gory mess.

Anatoly's voice rumbled from behind him, "Will we see Moscow?"

"Moscow?" Vladimir asked over his shoulder.

Of course his brother would ask about Moscow. They had grown up in the slums of Samara, Kuybyshev as their father had always called it, never able to adjust to the renaming of his city, and had heard countless stories of the glittering metropolis of Moscow. Moscow was a place of wealth and beauty, and for a young boy like Anatoly, who knew nothing but poverty, the city was a dream. No, not a dream, but a goal.

Anatoly had had his eyes set on Moscow and Maxim had made the goal a possibility. Vladimir had seen Moscow; it was nothing special, just another city full of people who looked down on him. But Anatoly wanted to see Moscow and as an older brother, Vladimir would have shown it to him, simply to make him happy. But now they were in jail. Now they were going to break out of jail. They could not stay in Russia. Moscow no longer had a place for them.

Vladimir shook his head. "It's a city buried in the past," he continued.

He stuffed a hand into the wide hole in Alexei's side. He barely noticed the gore that coated his already red-stained hands. He and Anatoly were both smeared with blood of their own, so a little extra had no effect on him.

"We must look to... the future," Vladimir advised, his hand finding and taking hold of another short rib of Alexei. "America."

He had thought long and hard about where they would go once they claimed freedom. Maxim had traded with American mobs many times and with their connections to Maxim, Vladimir had little doubt that they could find themselves a place in American crime. English was easy to learn and there were cities just a rich as Moscow.

Vladimir pulled back on the rib, slowly, shifting his body weight to apply more force to the bone. "Where we will rule," he took a deep breath from his nose, tugging harder on the rib bone, "as kings."

With a final wrench and a grunt, the bone snapped off of Alexei's body with a sickening crack, one that would turn most men's stomachs. Vladimir held the bone up, turning it in his fingers as he admired the sharp point. Their means of escape.

And he smiled.

A/N: Hello everyone. I've decided to venture into a new area of Marvel for my next fic. After watching Daredevil, and absolutely falling in love with every single episode, I thought it was a good idea I dive into something new. While I was watching the early episodes, I was very interested in the Ranskahov brothers. I felt like there was a lot of interesting things going on with their characters and it sounded like they had a pretty cool back story. So naturally, they were killed off. I wished we could have gotten a little bit more about their lives, and then I realized this was a perfect opportunity for me. There wasn't a lot of information on the brothers, so I could decided what I wanted to have happened to them. I love creative freedom! So, thus this fic was created. As of right now, all I have done is the prologue, so it shall stand as its own one-shot for a while. I'm traveling abroad within the next couple weeks, so while I hope my nine hour flight provides me with plenty of time to work on this, I have high doubts that there will be updates anytime soon. Despite that, I hope this piece is enjoyable as a one-shot, yet peaks your interest to some of the original characters and back story I'm developing for this fic. I decided to make Anatoly the younger brother (even though I know that Anatoly's actor is much older than the guy who plays Vladimir) due to the way the characters interacted in the show. And once again, creative freedom. ;) So, I really hope you enjoy! -Krieg

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, Daredevil, or any other characters affiliated with the show. Maxim, however, is mine, and I can't wait to watch him develop! This is rated T for violence and language. If you watched the show, you'll be fine!