Happy Holidays ya hooligans, your gift this year is more angst and suffering. ENJOY.
Chapter Twenty-Five
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"Damage report?"
"Negligible, sir."
The cold cement walls of the bank vault surrounded the operation. Empty safe deposit boxes lay open, rows and columns of polished metal.
"Minor bumps and bruises, a few lacerations. A few cracked ribs."
Around two dozen agents were hard at work in the basement underneath Newman Bank and Trust — which had foreclosed several months ago.
"There's extensive damage on the palms of the hands and the soles of the feet, but we've stitched them up and they're already starting to heal."
The electricity in which they used, to power both the flickering green fluorescent lights, as well as the advanced equipment they kept around, did not appear on the local power grid.
"We've seen no trouble in mobility or fine motor skills."
"Excellent," Alexander Pierce was relieved. His glasses were perched on his nose to better read the report the analyst had given him. The events of the previous few hours had gotten a little out of hand, but they were, in the end, favorable. He glared at the Winter Soldier standing next nearby. "Good to know the Asset didn't do too much harm before we could make any use of her first."
The Winter Soldier, who'd been standing very still, shifted ever so slightly on his feet. His gaze flicked up to meet Alexander's; the Secretary's expression was so scathing that the assassin flinched, just a degree, and looked away again.
Sound echoed strangely down here. Both too loud and too contained at once. With too many people, it could easily become suffocating, but the vault was surprisingly quiet. Aside from the click-clack of keyboards, the whir of machinery, and low whispers shared between bowed heads, there was very little distracting noise.
In one corner, the soldatka sat, quiet and still as a medic carefully stitched up a cut on her hand. The girl didn't flinch, didn't shift, didn't blink; the only movement were her eyes, drifting back and forth, watching the needle as it slipped in and out of her skin.
The tears, long gone.
She did not appear to notice that she was being watched.
The Asset's performance tonight had been less than satisfactory. Least to say, his arrival in Alexander's kitchen late at night had been inconvenient. Alexander still wasn't sure what made the Winter Soldier disobey a direct order like that — he'd never done it before, so now had been significant. Had the soldier heard the girl's voice, recognized it?
Alexander cut another look at his asset. The Winter Soldier, too agitated to look at Alexander, had focused his eyes on the girl instead.
Hmm. Alexander wondered how much this apparent connection would cause a problem. Only time would tell.
Honestly, the only thing he hadn't been able to fix was Renata. That was a genuine mistake. Had nearly turned the entire night into a disaster. She had been Alexander's one true regret of the night. It was hard to find good help in DC. Now he had to find a new housemaid.
"Mission-ready, then?" Alexander asked, studying her for a moment. He'd read the reports of all the times the girl broke or bled out of her protocol whilst in the Crucible; keeping an eye out for those signs now would save him some trouble later. As of yet, Alexander saw nothing. The perfect little soldier.
"Y-yes, sir," The analyst nodded, eyes wide behind thick lenses. He wore a bowtie and had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His name was Branson. "All is functioning perfectly."
Alexander liked Branson. Branson showed just the right amount of fear for a man of his position.
"Good," Alexander smiled, and checked his watch. "I have a flight to catch in an hour. Have her prepped by then."
It was time to visit an old friend.
~o~
EIGHT HOURS LATER
The beauty about quinjets was how quick and efficient they were. If it weren't for Stark's contributions, Alexander Pierce doubted he and his small team of STRIKE agents would've reached St. Petersburg in such good time. Hmm, Stark… Perhaps Alexander owed him a visit, too…
The STRIKE team took out the manor's security in under thirty minutes. They were so good, in fact, that Alexander was able to walk right through the front doors without raising the alarm.
The marble halls stretched out in all directions. Formerly a Tsar's palace, the estate now belonged to the people — or rather, an esteemed banker.
And his son.
Alexander Pierce himself did not stick out. This was a occasion for a suit, and he never let a single hair out of place. He strode confidently inside, following the trace of voices somewhere deep inside. The elegance, the gold filigree, the grand oil paintings — all passed by without a glance.
His earpiece relayed that the target was in the French smoking room off the East wing. Alexander couldn't help but smile as he entered the thicky carpeted room, the red velvet curtains. It was warm and lush in here; the perfect haven from the unseasonal blizzard outside.
"Здравствуйте." He greeted upon opening the doors. Father and son had equal expressions of shock when the doors opened and Alexander appeared. "Smoking, Lev? I thought you quite years ago."
Those dark brows scowled, and he pulled the cigarette from his mouth. "This is a bold move, Alexander. Are you sure it's the one you want to make?" He jerked his chin towards the bodyguard standing in the corner, speaking in Russian: "Igor, get Dmitri out of here."
"But —" the boy began, looking between his father and Alexander in growing alarm. When Igor tried to pull him away, Dmitri pulled himself away, only to be snatched back again. "Wait, what's going on?"
He clearly had no context for the situation. Alexander almost pitied him.
As it was, Lev should've kept more security on his person.
"Never mind, Dmitri," Lev replied without looking at his son. His eyes were firmly locked on Alexander's. The shoulders under his black jacket were stiff, but he had the eyes of a man undaunted. "Just a misunderstanding between trade partners. It'll be over shortly."
"Yes," Alexander said, with a serene expression. "It will be."
Igor dragged the boy to the other exit, the grand double doors behind them. Thick, heavy wood painted white with gold filigree and handles. Wonderfully crafted, impossibly gauche, and a terrible thing to be splattered with Igor's blood and brains after he'd opened them and met the gun on the other side.
The bang ricocheted off the walls. The windows rattled. Dmitri cried out and both he and Igor, sans face, crashed to the floor. An acrid smell filled the air.
The boy scrambled back to his feet, returning to his father's side, unable to tear his eyes away from the Igor's body. Or from the girl who shot him.
"...Mia?" Dmitri whispered, horrified, as she stepped into the room. Hair braided back, dressed in black tactical gear, and a newly painted shield — same red star, but now with black and grey stripes — she hardly looked like the girl who'd waved him off only a day before. In fact, she wasn't the same girl at all. The soldatka just wore her face.
At least, Alexander hoped, that's what the boy would realize. And if he didn't, he will soon enough.
Normally, she'd wearing a mask, goggles, to prevent facial recognition. But Alexander didn't see the point of it for this mission. Everyone here already knew who, and what, she was. And there was something truly special in watching their entirely individual and separate reactions when they had recognized her.
Sometimes Alexander couldn't resist a little drama. It was, as they say, the spice of life.
"An ambush!" Lev snarled, staring at the soldatka before whirling on Alexander in a rage. He grabbed Dmitri and pulled him away, placing the boy behind him, away from both Alexander and the girl. What was it like to face your own creation after having it so effectively turned on you? Alexander delighted in the irony. "We had a deal."
"Oh, don't be like that, Lev," He tsked, shaking his head in feigned disappointment. "You knew it would come to this. It was always going to come to this. Diana's death was a warning, and you failed to heed it. Did you really think you could steal HYDRA's reigns from right under my nose?"
The faintest glimmer of a smirk appeared on Lev Kasyanenko's face. The pride of a man who knew what power felt like. "As if you knew what to do with them."
"Oh, and you do?" Alexander found this idea very amusing. "You, a tyrant who couldn't even crush a civil war in his own country? I gave you Sokovia, and look what you did with it!"
"Dad, what's he talking about?" the boy asked in Russian. He seemed to be having difficulty tearing his gaze from the girl, who looked back with nothing behind her eyes.
But his father only ignored him. Lev spat, showing how much he cared for that opinion. "I took Sokovia for myself. It was already in the mud when I found it. And I held onto it, even when your move with that French diplomat almost cost us everything."
"And yet," Alexander gestured to the soldatka. "Look what fruit it bore."
"Oh, don't pretend like you meant to do it." Lev scoffed. "I discovered her existence first, and it wasn't until we activated her for the first time did you finally see the worth in it. Everything she is, I created."
The boy looked horrified, turning to his father with dismay written across his features. "You knew about this? About her?"
He pointed to the girl, and Lev faltered, just for a moment. Alexander smirked. It was entertaining to see a man's lie come crashing down on him. What fairy tale was the boy led to believe about his father? Alexander wanted to gloat, to rub it in Lev's face, but he'd rather see it play out naturally.
"It's complicated, Dmitri," Was all Lev could say, not meeting his son's eyes. Instead, the Chairman glared at Alexander, deciding to place the blame of this situation on him instead. "I'll explain it to you later."
"That's awfully optimistic of you, Lev," Alexander replied, screwing up his lips like he tasted something sour. He never liked dealing with Lev; in many ways, they could've been equals. But Lev was younger, with much more to lose. And a history far easier to exploit. "But if it makes you feel better, sure, she's your creation. She was molded by your hands. And you'll die by hers."
Lev's eyes widened. Alexander nodded to the soldatka, who had been watching the pair, but listening to him the whole time. Waiting for the signal. And now she had it.
She raised the pistol.
"No!" Before she could pull the trigger, the boy jumped into her line of fire — in front of Lev, who for the first time in all that Alexander ever knew him, looked panicked. But Dmitri was oblivious to it all, focused only on the girl, his hands up. "Amelia, don't!"
The girl froze. Alexander's smile wavered.
"Dmitri!" Lev hissed, trying to weave around his son, trying to put the boy back behind him — but the soldatka's weapon followed Lev, and wherever it pointed, Dmitri quickly stepped in front of it. The struggle lasted only a second, maybe two — but they seemed to stretch out forever in front of the gun. "Dmitri, stop it! You don't know — !"
"Amelia, this isn't you," Dmitri said, completely ignoring his father. His words were pleading as he stared into those unseeing eyes. "I-I don't know what they did to you, but I know you, Mia, I know you. You wouldn't do this. Y-you're a good person. You've always been a good person. You're my friend, remember?"
Until this point, Alexander had paid the boy no mind, considering him an extraneous detail to be taken care of quickly. But Lev's son had proved to be an unexpected variable. A remarkable sense of bravery, at the very least. The boy certainly saw something in the girl that Alexander did not.
Or, perhaps, the boy had taken advantage of a loophole he didn't even realize was there. Alexander only wanted Lev dead. The boy wasn't the target. The soldatka's single-minded nature had its limits.
"Touching words," Alexander clucked his tongue, pacing around the room so he was standing next to the girl, turning towards his hosts. Better to see the fear in your eyes, the wolf said. Alexander smiled. "But I'm afraid Amelia isn't here anymore. Isn't that right?"
He reached out a hand, and tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. The soldatka didn't blink.
"Dmitri…" Lev had managed to pull his son a step back, away from the girl and her weapon. But Dmitri just shook him off.
"Amelia, it's me, Dmitri," the boy gestured to himself, voice shaking. He tried to smile, a show of friendliness, but there were tears in his eyes. Tears of confusion, of betrayal. Such a pretty boy. An innocent one. Who cared for the girl that was no more. Had Alexander been any other kind of man than the one he was, he might've been moved to show mercy.
But sometimes mercy wasn't enough.
This entire time, the soldatka hadn't said a word. Programmed only to answer to those superior to her, she seemed entirely deaf to the boy's pleas.
"Remember?" Dmitri asked.
But in that moment, her eyes seemed to flicker.
The gun lowered, just a fraction.
A smile began to spread across Dmitri's face.
She pulled the trigger.
"No!"
The bullet slammed into the boy's chest. It went straight through, hitting Lev standing behind him, too late to throw his son out of the way.
Both went down.
Alexander let out a sigh, shaking his head as he stepped over their bodies. Broken, bleeding, still clinging to life. "Oh, Lev, I thought you would've learned by now. Never mix family with business."
Lev snarled something in Russian that Alexander did not care to listen to. Words of a dying man. Curses, vengeance, probably other things that he would not live long enough to see through. He said something to the girl as well, but she gave even less of a reaction, and simply slipped past them, her eyes washing by as if her victims had simply become part of the scenery.
"До свида́ния, Lev," Dasvidanya. Alexander just continued walking, leaving Chairman Kasyanenko to clutch his dying son in his arms. He cast his old friend one last look over his shoulder. "Or, should I say, John."
The soldatka, silent as ever, fell into step behind Alexander.
Although he would never admit it, Alexander had held a small moment a doubt when the girl hadn't fired immediately. He'd heard how certain phrases and images can displace programming; it had been recorded in her training at the Crucible, and before that, in her father, who needed a memory wipe every so often, to keep the man underneath buried away. And each time, a little more of him was rubbed away.
Soon, he imagined, the same would be made of the soldatka.
"You did well," Alexander told her, once they had boarded the quinjet. "Especially with his son. He's seen too many movies, I think. Poor boy must have fallen in love with you. Or what used to be you. Such a shame."
The soldatka didn't respond. Alexander didn't expect her to, but smiled nonetheless at her non-reaction. She had passed her test. She was well and truly HYDRA.
Even if she hadn't been successful, Alexander had his STRIKE team to ensure a complete objective.
The STRIKE team remained on the ground; gunfire filled the air around the mansion as a battle began to wage between them and the Chairman's forces. It would not be one that STRIKE could win, but it didn't matter — the damage had already been done. After ordering an evac, Alexander waited patiently for the pilot to initiate take-off.
There she stood, as the STRIKE team came charging back in — a few men short, but they didn't go back for their fallen. Perhaps it would've been different if Rumlow were there.
"It's time to go back home," Alexander said, to the group at large, but gazing at the soldatka in particular. "There's still business I need you to take care of."
Her eyes followed him as the secretary walked off, humming to herself. Then she looked down at her hand. Clutched in her fist since the moment she entered the Vault, was the compass.
She couldn't tear her eyes away from the drifting needle.