Chapter 1: Who I Am Hates Who I've Been

A/N: This story has literally been in the works for about four years, ever since I first watched the original 'Red Dawn'. It will deal in a lot of angst, self-hatred, and posttraumatic stress disorder (but with the angst thing, when was the original film not angsty?) There are tons of spoilers in this story for the original film, so tread carefully if you haven't seen it yet.

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~All my nightmares escape my head
Bar the door, please don't let them in
You were never supposed to leave
Now my head's splitting at the seams
And I don't know if I can~

-"Welcome Home", Radical Face

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He knew the boy.

Of course he did. Ernesto Bella, a high-ranking commander in the Cuban army, had seen a lot of things in his life, and had met a lot of faces; most of which were enemies who were of no consequence and were therefore unworthy of his time other than the few seconds it took to kill them. Oh yes, how many faces he knew! Many, he remembered, had faced death fearfully, their eyes and posture revealing just how terrified they were facing his weapon. Some had even begged for life, as incredible as that sounded. Bella had scorned them for it. Didn't the cowards know that it was better to die proudly, without all the fear and crying they had always pleaded with? Not one had faced him as a human being should.

Not one, that is, until he had faced the boy only the night before. And that was simply incredible to him. The boy had faced Bella without flinching and—well, perhaps not proudly—but resolutely. He could easily remember the stark look on the boy's face, the challenging look to the eyes that told him to finish it. He had seen that lifeless look many a time before, worn by hard-bitten veterans who were burned out and unable to enjoy life. Never, however, had he seen that expression on the face of one so young.

Bella did not quite understand why he had let the boy live. This was war, after all. The United States had to be overtaken, the Soviet forces would take control—it was destiny, the Divine's promise. The USSR would not fail, it was too powerful.

Deep down, he understood that he had let the boy live because he was simply tired of killing. And seeing such a young lad standing before him, facing him like a man in the drifting snow, holding a fallen comrade in his arms, made Bella come to realize that in the space of an instant that he would not be able to kill him. Had he sunk to such a level that he would murder a child in cold blood?

Of course, he had known even then that the boy was not innocent, and was in fact one of the reasons why he had lost so many men during the past few months. He had known that very night that the boy was part of the group called the "Wolverines". Duty told him he should have killed the boy. Compassion told him not to. Perhaps it had helped his decision by knowing that the boy would likely not survive the night anyway, just as his companion certainly would not.

It would seem, however, that Fate worked in mysterious ways. Even with the town of Calumet in complete and utter chaos from the Wolverines' attack, a group of men had been sent out to look for anything—or anyone—out of place. And they had found the two boys Bella had seen earlier. One of them, the younger, had already died, a bullet to the chest clearly the reason. The other, the brave one, had been also injured but was not yet dead, though it had been a close call as doctors worked on him.

Now the boy was lying on a cold cot in the makeshift hospital for prisoners. Each bed, of which only a few were occupied, were sanctioned off into separate sections—cells, in other words—with the doors locked. Doctors were the only ones who had the keys for the individual locks, and the prisoners were often isolated while their healing wounds were inspected. The boy had not yet woken from the surgery that had saved his life.

And there was another mystery Bella had to contemplate now—why had he decided to come here in the first place?

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The first thing Jed was aware of when he woke up was the aching pain that seemed to pound through his whole body. He found it hard to believe that the human body could feel pain to this degree. His skin felt hot and he could tell he was probably dehydrated if his dry mouth and throat were any signs. What had happened? The last thing he could remember was sitting on the bench of the park, holding Matt in his arms. He remembered oddly, too, how cold he'd been, how tired…

"I don't want to be too cold…"

Toni. Oh god, Toni. Her pain-riddled voice as she lay dying echoed in his memory, reminding him of the rest of those horrible months hiding in the mountains. Matt… Without conscious thought he tried to sit up and cursed softly when fire suddenly seemed to flare up his side and into his chest, leaving him breathless as he lay back down. Slowly it all came back to him, through the confusion and chaos of his mind; the time hiding in the mountains, the group of teens he had taken charge of, their time fighting back against the Russians and Cubans who had invaded their home. He remembered their deaths, one-by-one until it was only him, his brother Matt, and Erica, and Danny. He and Matt had decided to attack the Russians sown in the town of Calumet so that Danny and Erica could escape to Free America.

He smiled bitterly to himself. Matt had been shot be a Russian commander who had, moments later, died at Jed's own hands. That particular memory brought the nineteen-year-old no pleasure even knowing that his brother's killer was dead because Matt was dead. There was no use kidding himself about that, no use denying it; he had seen Matt shot, had seen even in his fear and hatred that his younger brother had been mortally wounded.

He wondered if he would feel grieved about that later. Now—well, now he felt nothing but a deep despair, an almost numb sensation that had settled over him. It was only then that he noticed his surroundings and the visitor standing there.

Motionless, Bella watched as the boy finally stirred. It took him a long moment to realize that the Cuban was standing there, but when he did there was no expression on the young face, conveying no interest whatsoever in Bella's appearance. He didn't seem daunted by the fact that he was clearly a prisoner. He watched as the boy shifted where he lay, grimacing slightly at the pain that came from moving.

"I see you are aware of where you are now," Bella said in English—it still felt odd to speak in such a language. "I trust you will be smart and not create… disruptions." There was little chance of that happening at the moment, Bella thought—the boy likely wouldn't have the strength to do anything strenuous for days.

The lad sneered at him, clearly showing his opinion of the man standing on the other side of the bars. Bella wondered if the boy recognized him. Probably not—he likely didn't even care. "And what happens when I do?" he retorted. "Will I be shot for disobeying?" There it was, that look that just challenged Bella to do something. Such spirit—it was a pity the boy was not interested in helping with the Communist cause.

Bella raised an eyebrow. "Do you think we would?"

His question caused the boy's eyes to darken. "I know you would," he replied quietly, but his tone was ugly, conveying a deep wound not yet healed over. "My brother witnessed our father lined up with others and shot as if they were pigs for slaughter."

Ah. So that was the focus point for the boy's rage. A suspicion seized Bella, and he took a step closer, ignoring the way the boy tensed where he lay. "How long ago was that?"

"In October."

The hatred in the voice had not diminished, and Bella did not press for details, but in his mind he was making connections. October had been the same month the Wolverines had started their guerilla warfare. That made sense, Bella supposed—it was clear that the killing of the Communist soldiers had been for revenge. They had started it only days after the first mass shootings that had taken place on the plains outside of town. Bella realized from the timing that the boy's father had been shot at his personal command. Realization gave way to something he had experienced little of in his life—shame. Being the trained soldier he was, however, Bella betrayed none of his thoughts or emotions, and instead crossed his arms.

"You are the leader of the Wolverines, are you not?"

The question took them both by surprise, Bella most of all, since he had nt meant to say it; but it was a question that needed to be asked. He knew virtually nothing about the actual group of ruffians who had been such a threat to the Communist cause—he didn't know if this boy was the leader or not, but decided that surprise could work to his advantage here.

The question certainly startled the boy. He blinked in surprise, then frowned, as if fighting with himself. Finally: "Yes. I am." And before Bella could ask the boy continued, his vice hardening. "But they're all dead, so you could say I was the leader."

"All dead? Really?" Bella personally found that hard to believe; after all, before he died, Strelnikov had been sure there had been at least eight left… "How many of you were there?"

Jed glared hotly at the dark-haired stranger while all of his insides screamed to stop talking. He could easily feel the hate bubbling in his stomach, and he wanted to shut his mouth—but it seemed that now that he had actually already spoken his tongue wouldn't still. But it was painful to keep speaking about the group, it was difficult enough to keep the guilt from eating away at his sanity. It was really his fault that the others were dead, all except for Erica and Danny, and who knew? They could be dead, too, for all he knew. It was he who decided to keep fighting, it was he who had the chance to stop and didn't.

It was the stranger who looked away from their staring contest first. For a moment, Jed thought the man looked familiar somehow. It was a fleeting memory that reminded him, but he could not quite remember where he had seen this man—his mind was still too jumbled from the pain of his wound, the confusion of waking, and the dim light of the room to think clearly.

Curiosity, however, caused him to speak again. "When did you find me?"

Something was off about the tone the boy was speaking with, Bella thought—something that spoke of a grief not yet realized completely. "Last night, you and your comrade together," he responded.

"Brother."

Bella blinked. "Come again?"

Now the boy looked up at him again. "He was my brother, filth," he spat, "and he was shot in cold blood by a Russian who thought to kill me too."

Bella felt his own anger flare, burning away his shame and pity. How dare he be insulted like this, and by a mere child? "You attacked us, boy," he replied, trying to keep calm. "We were protecting ourselves—"

"Protecting?" Jed couldn't help but feel his sense his fury and shock deepen. It gave him strength. "Is that what you call it?! You attacked us! What in hell gave you the right to come here and round us up like animals, to murder us, to shoot down helpless people? Who gave you the right to tell us how to live our lives?!"

Bella almost shook from his anger. Gone now was any pity for the boy, it was only a fleeting memory soon to be forgotten. Instead of violence, however, Bella merely settled for a threatening glower. "Watch your mouth, boy, or you'll meet the same end as you brother."

The boy's fce drained of color as if he had been slapped, and the look on his face was so bitter it nearly made Bella back away. "Go ahead," he heard him snarl. "Go ahead and kill me, then! That's all you are, anyway—a murderer!"

Jed watched the man's face and could tell he had hit a nerve when saying that. The stranger's mouth opened, gaping like a fish, then it snapped closed and he was hatefully glared at, until finally the man turned smartly and walked away. Jed watched him go, and somehow felt lonelier than ever.