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| PART ONE |
CHAPTER ONE
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Novomodarsk International Airport still suffered structural damage after the Movement for Free Sokovia riots; the destruction caused to terminal A had still yet to be repaired despite having been caused late last year, and as Coulson made his way across the floor for international passengers under the name Maximilian Doležal, he pushed his sunglasses further up his nose to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight, which managed to escape through the cracks in the nearby window's blacked out glass. It was deafening; on top of the light, the roar of turbo engines also slipped through, and with the warble of foreign voices acting as a potent undercurrent, Phil Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division blinked away the jet-lag and winced at the chaotic scene of international travel before him.
Unless he opened his mouth, Coulson was confident that he'd pass for Sokovian; the blue eyes and hair that had lightened from age helped, his choice of attire, helped, to the point that he was unconcerned about immigration based on his appearance alone. It wouldn't matter much in the short-term; the papers he carried and flashed in pretend exasperation to the nearby gate guard and immigration officer was enough of an act, for now, but he had orders to be discrete.
For an undisclosed period, to boot. So when Coulson stepped off the plane to feel the chill of northern Sokovia, he was as discrete as any well trained SHIELD agent could be, given the circumstances.
A country that had been beaten down by a cold-blooded dictator and destroyed by war, Sokovia had become acclimatized to native citizens bearing the documents of foreign organizations, but that did not mean that the people were strictly happy about it. Yankiekurva was the latin term; the Cyrillic word itself went over Coulson's head — but the sentiment could be understood by mere emotion alone. Americanophobia was rife in Sokovia. The immigration officer sneered as he waved Coulson through, with his fake Sokovian passport and his, also fake, papers entitling him to the perks of the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees.
"Ignore it," Agent-Commander Dara Bartos, at least, did not have to pretend to be anything other than her ethnic Sokovian. Verbally, she greeted Coulson with a terse whisper — in English, but otherwise projected the body language of someone who was very glad to see Coulson, or more likely, the so-called Maximilian Doležal, and they embraced as family members might do, playing up the friendly act for anyone who happened to be watching. "There's a protest mounting on the east side of the district; we need to move."
"Ah," Coulson burst into what little he knew of Sokovian when they pulled away. "Dugo se nismo videli, Kako si?"
A smirk from the younger, shorter fellow agent. Bartos humored him in an accent infinitely more legitimate than his own. "Dobro sam, hvala. A ti?"
Coulson gave a side-eye glance to the immigration officer way yonder. He shrugged. "Tako-tako."
The smirk burst into a near grin, and Bartos laughed shortly as she led the way out, taking one of the two suitcases Coulson had on his person. A feature for show than actual requirement — Coulson could pack any and all necessary belongings in a small shoulder bag, if need be, but today was about authenticity; and that meant looking like the average diplomat who had been flung to the far end of the world at the whim of a far greater authority. That, and it was a classic show of respect from Bartos, a sort of deference that Coulson would understand.
At least, until they made the long trek down into the carpark and dumped his bags into a waiting SHIELD vehicle that looked alarmingly similar to a luxury ESV. Then, the cheerful demeanor of Bartos evaporated in the same time it took her to wrench open the back door and fling herself inside.
"I thought you complained about budget cuts," Coulson teased in what he hoped classed as friendly than that of accusative, and Bartos snorted.
"This? This is a gift from the Ambassador," she flicked a hand to the nearby window. "We've actually knocked a good couple of thousand of the price in order to make it functional."
The driver sat before them laughed. "All it needs now is the insignia."
"On your life, mate." Bartos grimaced.
"This is our idea of covert." Coulson analyzed, slipping back comfortably into his native American accent now that he needn't perform.
Bartos shrugged. "We're foreign enough as it is," and then she blinked. "Well, I'm not, but I'm wearing American colors so I might as well be." The agent grimaced and set one booted foot against the flesh of her opposite leg's upper knee, and regarded Coulson plainly. "Novomodarsk is straight for foreign diplomats but after what happened with Prime Minister Kowalchuk, there's been more upset than normal. We don't expect to get hurt any more than usual, it's... just the other parties, we're concerned about."
It had been a nasty incident. Kowalchuk was an equally nasty piece of work who won a rigged election and used his old position as a junior bank official to fraudulently lend large sums of money to his own wife and parents. He then used the money to buy shares in areas that should have been going to the rebuilding effort in Novi Grad. Instead, it went into offshore bank accounts and private education for his six children; an undercover reporter got the limelight in Western Europe, and with the refugee crisis in full swing, nobody was all that surprised, but there was certainly outrage.
Sokovia had been rioting for years before the incident with Ultron; now it appeared to have come full circle.
And HYDRA was beginning to feel safe, which meant that Bartos' Infantry Battalion VI and the small contingency of Intelligence Agents stationed in the country suddenly had a very good reason to be very nervous.
"The reason why I'm here," Coulson added, but said nothing of his true motives — Bartos knew, and knew that Coulson knew; she was the one who had requested for additional personnel after... something with HYDRA went down, but Coulson only had to read Bartos' rather obvious body language to know that it was strictly confidential. More for the benefit of the driver than them. Sometimes the weight of the truth did that to good commanders.
The younger agent snickered, but the tightness of her mouth suggested that she was on edge. "When the, uh, other Director—" this was said quietly, to avoid being overheard by the driver. "—informed me that you'd be the one reporting in some of my unit nearly freaked. You've got fans, old man."
Bartos got a glare for that little sentiment, but Coulson let it go. You often had to, with SHIELD's Infantry Division. Dara Bartos was from a different strand of SHIELD; talkback was tolerated against Agents of the Intelligence Divison, even Tactics, so long as you got the job done. It was the Soldiers Vs. Suits mentality that couldn't be rubbed out no matter how many times Mace begged HR to try.
But Bartos wasn't disdainful of Coulson's work in Intelligence. Quite the contrary. Coulson had worked with both Bartos and this particular Battalion before, and he did have adherents — it was a humbling thing to experience. Coulson respected the work SHIELD troopers did; he wasn't Agent Hand, or even Fury, using Troopers simply because they were convenient. During his early stint as Director, he'd gained as much popularity as Gonzolas had, and that was a tough opinion to garner. Troopers were notoriously stingy about falling under the command of regular Agents and their choice of figurehead tended to show it. It was the main reason why so many of them were found on the Iliad; the separation had only made them more effective, free from under the shadow of the field agents and intelligence personnel.
The opinion so far of Mace was... unreliable, however. Coulson couldn't figure out how the troopers felt simply because they didn't really know themselves.
"All I know is that he's American and it sits uncomfortably with us easterners." Bartos shrugged again. "But then I've got Russia breathing down my neck so what the heck do I know?"
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There were six of them, today. Three little kids, two other ones who might be medium-aged and a bigger boy, easily over twelve.
Across the auditorium, where they held their daily moral assemblies, the new children stood in their ill-fitting uniforms and blinked at the sharp, strong looking kids who all stood proud in theirs, who stared back with general discontent and mutual understanding. There were twenty-four of them, boys and girls, divided into three lines of eight, smallest to biggest. They stood in front of the stage, while the new children had been instructed to stand before the chairs, facing the others at first but then told to turn around, so that they were all looking the same way.
It did not take them long to find out why. A tall man with grayed short hair, easily over sixty, walked into the room with a sense of utmost purpose, in the more form fitting uniform of the Russian army. He was hawkish, with a shrewd pair of blue eyes, but he smiled when he saw the children.
"Young comrades!" He greeted, in Russian. The children at the back, the ones who fit their uniforms, blinked in understanding. Only three of the new children understood — the older boy, one girl and one little boy. "Are you ready, soldaty?"
A thunderous noise from the children at the back. "Always ready, comrade!" They shouted back in the same language, and, as one, snapped their booted heels together as they lifted up both arms, their hands clenched into fists. "Hail Hydra!"
The man looked toward the other children, and gestured to them, his arms wide. "Young comrades," he repeated again. "It is tragic that you have come to us betrayed by the enemies of the True Purpose."
Confusion struck first, then bewilderment. One child dared look back at the others; the recipient of the glance simply looked back at them, impassive.
"But you are blessed, dear comrades! For you have been redeemed by HYDRA! Sent by the Master to serve the True Purpose and save the world from the enemy scourge!"
It was obvious that it meant little to the newer children. The other children meanwhile, especially the older ones, appeared to drink it in with some recognition; some of the younger ones simply stared in awe of the man in the uniform.
"Here, in our most glorious institution; the HYDRA Political Education Academy, you will learn everything you must need to become the saviors of this world — to bring the message of the Master to the ignorant, to destroy the enemies of the True Purpose." Excitement was present in his voice, as if he truly believed in the words he spoke; it affected the room around it, and the children, it left some of them feeling strange, inspired by the weight of meaning in his voice. "Here you will become true comrades, loyal to the order and superior above all! Hail Hydra!"
On cue, the children at the back all slammed their feet together and raised their arms; but they did not repeat the sentiment this time. Instead, they waited as another adult, a woman with her blonde hair pulled tight into a severe bun, walked up to the new children and told then — or simply forced them — to raise their arms in the same gesture. Once they were all stood with their arms thrown upwards, she and the other children thundered back as one.
"Hail Hydra!"
Once the sentiment had been adequately addressed, the blonde haired woman returned to the line and gestured for the children to turn around, so they were facing the other children again, and the small stage. A red-haired man sporting a matching beard stood above the children, dressed in form fitting black training fatigues, looking down with an unreadable expression pulling at the corners of his mouth. He and the one in the uniform, who was slightly taller than his counterpart but much smaller in overall comparison, shared a nod.
When he was sure that all attention from the new children was on him again, the man in the Russian uniform pointed to himself. "Comrade Klokov!" He shouted at them, and repeated himself. "Comrade Klokov!"
And, in response, the man with the red hair and the woman both shouted in unison. "Hail to Comrade Klokov!"
"Comrade Klokov!" The children, the ones who had been here the longest with their backs to the stage, shouted back in unison. "Hail Hydra!"
The silver haired one then pointed to the red-haired man, and said. "Comrade Askakov!" Another, very deliberate, point in his direction. "Hail to Comrade Askakov!"
Again, the other children spoke up. "Comrade Askakov! Hail Hydra!"
Comrade Klokov then gestured towards the woman. "Comrade Koneva! Hail to Comrade Koneva!"
"Comrade Koneva! Hail Hydra!"
The other children understood it, then. Some of the braver ones, mostly the youngest who found it to all be a good game, shouted out too. The gray-haired man nodded, and gestured to them. "Very good!"
With the introduction of the adults complete, the stern looking woman walked up to the very end of the line of children, on the left, and put her hand on the smallest boy's head. She patted down firmly, gesturing to him. "Comrade Patrik!" She said loudly, as she patted the boy's head again. "Patrik!"
The man with the red hair shouted. "Hail to Comrade Patrik!"
"Comrade Patrik!" The children shouted back in unison. "Hail Hydra!"
The other children joined in, but judging by the boy's face, he didn't understand why he was suddenly being called Patrik.
Next, the woman moved up the line and put her hand on a little girl's head. "Comrade Klara!" And again. "Klara!"
"Hail to Comrade Kalra!" The man shouted.
"Comrade Kalra, Hail Hydra!"
Next in line, a slightly larger blonde boy. "Comrade Pyotr!"
"No!" the spell was broken as boy shouted out, forcibly. He screamed in in broken English, and all heads turned sharply in his direction. "My name Peter!"
There was a tense silence. The children all blinked, alarmed, but nobody said anything — or even moved.
"Ne!" The woman, Comrade Koneva, snapped back. She spun the boy around and, shocking some of the newer ones, slapped him hard across with face with such force that the boy very nearly toppled over. He was saved from the full fall by her grip, which held the baggy sleeve of his sweater, and he hung there until the woman forced him back onto two feet, back straight. The other adults looked on impassively. "Ne!" Comrade Koneva moved in so close to the boy's face that their noses almost touched. "Ne! Py-TOR!" She jabbed a finger into his chest. "Pyotr!" A pause for emphasis. "Kalra!" She pointed back at the stunned girl. "Da?"
The boy nodded frantically.
"Comrade Pyotr!" She slapped him hard on top of the head and spun him back around.
Askakov looked sullen as he shouted out again. "Hail to Comrade Pyotr!"
"Comrade Pyotr, Hail Hydra!" The children shouted. Some of them were smiling, now. Not many, but some.
The second-oldest seeming boy became Aleksei. The girl became Margita. The oldest boy, when the woman came to him, too tall to have a hand on his head so settled for having his shoulders held, was called Diederich. Judging by the lack of expression on his face, he already knew; or was simply used to the whole thing already.
Once they all had their new names, Comrade Klokov clapped his hands together once and shouted a command in Russian. In response, all children at the front of the stage turned in one fluid motion, to face him. "Comrades!" he shouted.
The children brought their arms up again, feet stomping together.
"Hail, Hydra! Immortal Hydra! We shall never be destroyed! Cut off one head, and two more shall take its place! We serve none but the Master — as the world shall soon serve us! Hail Hydra! Hail Hydra! Hail Hydra!"
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The drive from Novomodarsk International to the SHIELD facility took at least an hour and a half; a trip made far quicker in Sokovia than it did America. It was partly the blame of gas prices going through the roof; nobody could afford to run a car unless it was necessary. As a result, the highways had little traffic and the surrounding roads were practically deserted. Especially in the inner cities, where travel bans on personal vehicles had been imposed on Sundays unless you had a permit, and all transport after twenty-one-hundred were banned on all major highways in an attempt to conserve gas. Coulson personally felt that it was in an attempt to crack down on civil disturbance, but Bartos had very little to say on the matter other than that, as SHIELD personnel, it didn't affect them.
So he was surprised when they pulled up to a derelict-looking hotel just off of a major road to the nearby city of Nemačkigrad, in the province of Volosovsk. Jet lag, coupled with the blur of high-speed travel and the small print of paperwork left Coulson's perception of time disturbed, and he squinted through the frames of his sunglasses as he tried to gauge the time. Easily gone evening.
The base was known as the Balmanor Hotel, a dismal affair that used to belong to a wealthy tourist conglomerate until the financial crisis of 2002, after Kamil Novoty's dictatorship and the whole enterprise of tourism fell apart against a constant onslaught of riots and recession. SHIELD acquired the site for a reasonable price and a word of secrecy from the government, and it was used up until Ultron primarily as a garrison for SHIELD peacekeeping infantry. After Kowalchuk, of course, nobody was entirely sure if this code of silence on behalf of the Sokovian government was kept, but the personnel here had no reason to be worried.
Balmanor, know effectively known as Camp Sebastian after the SHIELD military officer who died during Ultron's initial attack, was run down but still livable; a term that did not merit much comfort, as 'livable' was often a SHIELD soldier's shorthand for, "well I'm not dead". Power was maintained by a duel-core Palladium generator four floors down into the mountainside, and water was maintained through natural springs. Like most SHIELD bases in unstable locations, it was designed, on almost all fronts, to be as self-sustaining as possible in the event of an attack, but of course, survivability did not mean comfort. The base housed fifty-odd personnel and everyone was either bunked in three main buildings or, if you were really unlucky, seven unfinished pre-fabs made largely of concrete, metal sheeting and plywood.
Until a replacement for the SHIELD academy could be developed, all new personnel from Sokovia and the nearby continent all came here for initial training. It created an influx of manpower which bolstered the importance of what used to be a fairly overlooked position.
"Home sweet home," Bartos said with sober false cheer as the car drew to a hesitant stop before the main entrance. Coulson's bags were retrieved by a balaclava-clad Trooper not of the infantry but rather in the solid black uniform of Tactics.
Bartos greeted him by the name Koba.
"Room three-oh-four," the Commander directed to the Commando and, then, turned to Coulson. "Full wardrobe or...?"
"Leave it for now," Coulson replied. He'd rather not have anyone go through his things. The trooper, Koba, had his hands full so he couldn't salute in response; instead, he clicked his heels and turned smartly on his heels when Bartos dismissed him with a flick of the hand. Once he was out of earshot, with Coulson's things, the field director turned back to Bartos. "I take it I don't get much in the way of recess?"
"I think there's something you ought to see, first." Bartos replied grimly. "Besides," the Commander indicated towards a corner window three floors up. "The General wants to see you."
››› | HYENADA | ‹‹‹
SO this is... this thing.
Most of the main characters will probably all feature at some point; you had a glimpse of Diederich, Bartos, and Askakov. All of the characters won't be featured all the time; sort of how TV works, some characters have big chapters, some have small, and once the groundwork has been set, they'll all alternate and change in "prominence" as the story goes on. Some will feature heavily for one part of the story, some will taper off as time goes on, or only be mentioned in passing until later on in the story. This is to encourage gradual character development; it will mostly be character introductions up until part two. After that, we get into the deep stuff.
If any of you are interested, I've started writing up my post-chapter thoughts and ideas up on my LiveJournal page, as well as worldbuilding and general rambles on the MCU as a whole. You can find it at Max-Hyenada . livejournal (. com), and it's probably where I'll start writing up the essa- I mean, answers, to the questions I get fairly frequently. It's where I thought-vomit. Come and whitness the horror that is my sleep-deprived mind if you so desire.
For frame of reference, most of what you will read about Sokovia is based on the Earth-616 and Earth-199999 on top of the MCU. Characters such as Kamil Novoty are really only found in the comics, but I brought them out to play because while this is Canon Assisted AU, I really have nothing to work with when it comes to the country as a whole. It's a scenario where there is little stuff to play with, lots of space to do it in.
Aside from that, we have a few more characters to wait for until we're ready and set in earnest.
Auf Wiedersehen!
