Bonus chapter (:

Chapter Thirty-Three
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In the upper left corner of the room, a spider spun its web.

Dmitri watched as it skittered along the gossamer strands, so light it appeared as though the little black creature were dancing on air.

Just below it, the door hung ajar from when Mia had left, just hours ago.

He could acutely recall the moment when he saw her standing at the foot of his gurney, all bruised eyes and hollowed cheeks. She'd been through hell; but her eyes only spoke of his pain, the misery of this, the regret.

He believed that part, about her regret. The apology sounded sincere enough.

But there was no changing the fact that Dmitri had been utterly terrified of her.

The heart monitor had betrayed him. Showed every skip of his pulse, the racing of his blood every time she made even the smallest of gestures.

Mia's visit had been short. Dmitri wished she hadn't come at all.

Despite his fear of an assassin, Dmitri had still been able to detect the traces of the girl underneath. The smattering of freckles, the long lashes, the flick of her hair. The little details that had befuddled and enchanted a boy in love.

The love of a child. The love of a fool.

The thought angered him — face heating in shame, chest tightening as he fought with himself. It suddenly became difficult to breathe, the air felt thin and shallow. Pain shot through his shoulder and lung. He coughed, heavy and wracking and awful, gripping the metal rail of the gurney to steady himself. Dmitri closed his eyes and focused on calming down; those meditations a dancing instructor had taught him so long ago, finally put to good use.

When he could breathe normally again, he opened his eyes. The spider was gone.

Dmitri enjoyed the peace — if he could enjoy anything in this hospital, that is. The constant noise of the machines he was attached to, the strain of the stitches in his shoulder, the pain that wracked throughout his body. His right arm in a sling.

"Six months until full recovery," the doctor had said. "But I'm afraid you might never be as strong as you used to be."

And Dmitri had been lucky. No vital organs had been hit.

And even then, he would be bedridden for months. His shoulder had been ruined. Scapula, broken. Muscles and tendons torn and shredded.

He would never dance again.

"What a shame," a nurse had whispered to another just outside his door. "Such a pretty boy…"

That was all he was to them. A patient with a sad story and a sweet face.

The perfect victim.

He hated it.

There was little to do here. There were a pile of books and magazines, and a small TV placed in one corner. But Dmitri never opened a page, or turned on the screen; he had no interest in any of it. Very little held his interest nowadays.

One of the nurses had brought in a radio some time ago; tuned it to a classical music station. She smiled at him when a piece from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake filled the room, melancholy flutes, sweet harp notes, and somber horns. Said she heard he was a dancer, and thought he'd like it. As soon as she was gone, Dmitri unplugged the radio. The music was just another reminder of what he'd lost.

Two weeks. Two weeks and an eternity to come.

His mother's funeral had been five days ago. Dmitri, lost in a medically-induced coma, had missed it entirely.

Dmitri just watched as shadows passed in front of the doorway. A nurse came in to exchange bags of fluid. Dmitri said nothing to her; didn't smile when she complimented his improving appearance. Then she left.

His father arrived shortly afterwards.

Lev Kasyanenko looked a little paler than usual (not helped by his choice of black overcoat), but compared to his son he was in much better health. The only sign of his injury was a slight limp, a hunching of the shoulders, the wince in his features when he sat in the chair next to Dmitri's bed.

"How do you feel?" His father asked quietly.

Dmitri didn't answer. Turned his face away, not wishing to speak any longer. The small conversation with Mia has been taxing enough; Dmitri did not want to talk to another liar.

After it became clear that Dmitri wouldn't answer, his father sighed and tried again. "I saw your friend had visited. What did she say?"

"She's not my friend."

"I was under the impression you liked her very much."

"And I was under the impression she would never try to kill me," Dmitri shot back, turning his head to glare at his father. He threw up his hands, but the gesture was weak. His voice broke. "Yet here I am."

Life, nearly ended. Career, ruined. Mother, dead. Father, a criminal and a fugitive.

Everything he had ever known, gone.

Lev didn't say anything. Dmitri looked back up at the spider's web, too angry to look at his father. "Is it true? Were you the one that did that to her? Made her a… a weapon?"

Lev picked up his head, appearing surprised by this question. He considered it for a long moment. "Yes. Is that what she tried to say to you earlier?"

"No," Dmitri said, a frown pulling his brow downwards. Mia hadn't blamed his father. She hadn't blamed anyone. Didn't try to excuse her actions. Wasn't looking for forgiveness. "She took full responsibility. But that's not true, is it? She was just following orders."

Dmitri wasn't sure what that meant, or how he felt about it. He wanted to hate Mia for what she did to him. He wanted to, he wanted to hate her so much, because everything that happened seemed to begin and end with her. How different things would have been if Mia hadn't been there, if they hadn't met at all. It would have been so easy to hate her.

...but he couldn't.

Not quite.

"In a way, yes."

"In a way?" Dmitri cut his father a suspicious look. "What does that mean?"

"It means she wasn't in full control of her actions." Lev said, speaking slowly as if choosing each word with careful diligence. He didn't look Dmitri in the eye. "She was… reconditioned."

"And you did that to her."

Lev didn't respond. Dmitri didn't take his eyes off his father. He demanded, "Why?"

The man he thought he knew so well just ran an impatient hand over his hair. "I had my reasons. I'm afraid if I told you, you wouldn't understand —"

"I don't understand anything," Dmitri cut him off viciously. "All I know is that everyone has been lying to me. My father is HYDRA. My friend turned into some… some machine," it was the best word he could think of describing Mia when she had shot him and his father. "Now Mum is dead, and you're going into, what, into hiding? Faking your death?"

"It's a little more complicated than that, but yes."

Dmitri just snorted. He couldn't believe he'd been led and manipulated by his own father for years. Never saw the true man right in front of him. "Complicated. Sure."

Lev let that slide without comment. "Will she be seeing you again?"

"I asked her not to."

"Hmm." Lev nodded quietly, apparently taking this into deep consideration.

"You won't hurt her," Dmitri said immediately, sensing something decidedly calculating about his father's reaction. A strategist making his next move. Dmitri would make it clear he had none. "You won't do anything to her, won't… control, o-or recondition her ever again. Not if you ever want to see me again."

Lev straightened in his seat, casting his son a disapproving look. "Dmitri, you hardly understand —"

"You just told me what she did was against her own will," Dmitri refused to hear anymore of his father's excuses. They weren't enough anymore. "If that ever happens again, because of you, then I promise I will never forgive you. I don't want anymore to do with you."

Lev just stared at him for a long moment. Dmitri himself was rather shaken by his own words; he'd never spoken with such coldness, such harshness, such finality to his own father before. To anyone. He was afraid he sounded childish.

But instead, Lev seemed to take this seriously, not speaking for a long moment as he weighed his options in deep contemplation. At last, he gave a nod. A reluctant surrender, but surrender nonetheless. "I understand. You have my word."

"Good." To be honest, Dmitri hadn't been sure that would work. He had gambled that his father cared more about him than whatever value Mia had for his… organization. That a father loves his child more than anything in the world. Would do anything for them.

And Dmitri had been right.

A silence stretched out between them. Dmitri had said what he'd wanted to say; had learned what he could. What he wanted to know. He may not be able to forgive Mia for her actions, but Dmitri could at least be rest assured that what happened to him would not happen to anyone else.

That she wouldn't feel that pain again.

At length, Lev cleared his throat. "... There's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

"I didn't say I wanted to be on speaking terms."

"Dmitri, I'm serious," a warm, dry hand rested on top of his. Dmitri almost wanted to yank it away, until he met his father's gaze, and was intimidated by the grim look on Lev's face. "You won't see me again for a long time. You'll be on your own. Without your mother, or me, you won't be as… as protected as you were before. You may face reprisals from my enemies who may now feel emboldened by my death, who may want revenge."

Revenge? The fear Dmitri felt before now returned with new vigor. The veneer resentment and spite he'd displayed earlier had vanished. He went very still under his father's touch. Alone. Alone and injured and facing a world that was no longer safe. A world that might still want him dead. Dmitri couldn't speak, his body utterly frozen by dread for the future.

He never felt weaker. Like a child.

Dmitri closed his eyes, tried to fight the burning behind his eyes. Shaking slightly. Trying to control his breathing in an increasingly out of control life.

He just wanted his mum to be here.

"Next year, you'll be eighteen. You'll be independent. But vulnerable. My one regret is that I didn't prepare you for adulthood as much as I'd hoped." Lev sighed, shaking his head. His hand tightened around Dmitri's hand. "But I do have a solution."

Dmitri found it difficult to speak. His chest felt like cement, his shoulder aching. His voice was weak. "What kind of solution?"

"If you wish, I can offer you a way to learn how to protect yourself." Lev began, leaning forward and lowering his voice — even though they were the only two people in the room. "There's this special facility, in Siberia. An academy, part of the Bolshoi Ballet Company — along with recruiting dancers, they teach children how to defend themselves, how to be…" his words drifted for a moment. "How to perfect themselves. You won't need me or anyone else to protect you anymore."

Dmitri remained silent, listening intently. He had to admit, it sounded tempting. It wasn't like he had any place to go after this. He was too injured to dance anymore. With his father's reputation, he could hardly step back into public life at all. "What's this school called?"

"It has no official name," Lev said. "But it's been part of the state since the early 30's. Amongst my peers, it's referred to as the Red Room Academy."

Amongst his peers. As in, the KGB. HYDRA.

Dangerous people.

Dangerous people who knew how to survive.

Lev continued, "I need you to understand, Dmitri, this academy is not for the weak of heart. Once you enter, you cannot leave until you graduate or…" Lev didn't seem able to finish, and instead switched tracks. "I can't bail you out if you change your mind. Once you choose this, you can never go back. Your life will change forever, Dmitri, and I don't want you accepting if you're not fully prepared. You'll be at a disadvantage there. Your injuries will be a problem, as well as being my son, but all the other… trainees, they'll have been there a lot longer than you. They'll know much more. They'll be your competitors. Graduation will probably be the hardest thing you would ever accomplish in your life. And most never make it."

Dmitri felt his body go cold at that. He didn't fully understand what failure meant there, but he knew easy enough what it meant to do well or wash out. This academy sounded a lot like other dancing companies he'd grew up around. For training, for recruitment, you had to have passion, you had to be the best, and most importantly you had to be better than your classmates — if at any time the director thought someone unfit for a role, the student would be passed over for a more promising understudy.

What his father described didn't sound much different than what he'd been doing so far.

Dmitri had been the top of his class. He would be, again.

Dmitri didn't want to be afraid anymore.

"I'll do it," he whispered.

His father stiffened, surprised. "Dmitri —"

"I said I'll do it," Dmitri repeated, louder, meeting his father's gaze. He was done being a plaything of everyone else.

It was time Dmitri learned to take care of himself. So this would never happen again.

Lev stated at his son for a long moment, a flicker of uncertainty passing across his face. Then he gave a tight nod, squeezed Dmitri's hand. "Alright, then. I'll make the arrangements."

With that, his father rose from his seat and headed for the door. Dmitri had to admit, he was relieved to see him go. He was tired of speaking. Tired of fielding lies and half-truths from faces who only looked at him with pity and pain.

Then Lev paused at the door. He seemed stuck in a moment of indecision, perhaps regretting his offer. Dmitri couldn't tell, as his father's face was turned away.

Hand on the doorknob, Lev took one last look at his son. "If we never see each other again, I just want you to know — you're very brave, Dmitri. I'm… I'm proud of you."

Dmitri said nothing. He watched as his father bowed his head, the click of the jamb echoing in the small, still room. Empty. Hollow.

He stated out the window, wondering what it was he just agreed to. Wondering if it was just another lie. Maybe he still had a chance. The Bolshoi Ballet was one of the most prestigious companies in the world; if Dmitri could prove himself to them, then he could dance again. A professional. With a career, a job, a life. His own life. No one else's.

Something tickled his hand. Dmitri looked down to see the little black spider traveling across his knuckles. Spindly, graceful legs rolling back and forth. Small body suspended, light as a feather, strange and ethereal.

He lifted his hand, twisted it around and watched as the spider sped along, first upside down then right side up again, in his palm. It had traveled a long way from its home.

Seen. Then unseen.

In that moment, Dmitri understood why so many feared the small creature. They had such a deceptive appearance.

So small, so delicate.

So easy to underestimate.

Beautiful. But always a threat.