A/N: Thanks for reading!

...see through you...

Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly

For all her dislike of Nixon, Zhanna couldn't deny he could keep a secret. When the Vat 69 had left her body and the desperation for numbness had likewise departed, she realized how much she had told. The puzzle was half completed and she had just handed Lewis Nixon the rest of the pieces. It wouldn't take long for him to put them into place and she hadn't been too convinced of his ability to shut his mouth. Much to her surprise and relief, not a word was said, even when they moved from The Island to Mourmelon.

Before the whiskey had left her system, she did tell a bloody-knuckled Sveta, of her parents' death. Zhanna didn't have to live with any ill feelings for her secrecy for long. Sveta and Speirs, out on patrol one night, were shot and sent to a hospital in France. While Sveta had been sympathetic to Zhanna, there was an underlying feeling of hurt.

Zhanna hadn't told her about Janusz until after it was discussed with Nixon and Winters. Zhanna, again, hadn't told Sveta about Casimir and Agata until Winters and Nixon had been informed. It wasn't intentional. Zhanna would rather have told Liebgott about her losses in life than share it with Nixon but when the moment had come and the news had burst from her chest, Sveta wasn't there and Winters and Nixon were.

If Nixon had put two and two together he didn't let on, and for that small mercy, Zhanna was grateful. She was also grateful that she saw very little of Winters as they settled into their new position. He was much too busy with the new CO. In their final days in Holland, Moose Heyliger was caught in friendly fire and had been taken to France for recovery. They hadn't heard much news, none had reached Zhanna, and all they knew was the outlook wasn't good. They had lost one CO and they had received another in his stead, a man named Dike. Zhanna's opinion of him wasn't kind. As first impressions went, she thought their introduction a sad excuse.

He had seen her from behind, not participating in the formation marches that had filled Easy Company's days now that they were off the line and were activities that Zhanna had never taken part in. She was a First Lieutenant and there was no platoon in her charge. She had stood near Winters, and then Heyliger when such drills were performed. Zhanna had last marched with Sobel, a miserable memory that she tried to forget.

"Soldier, why are you not in formation?"

"Sir?" Zhanna turned, her helmet had covered her cropped blonde hair and from the back, her small frame concealed her as a very thin soldier. Liebgott was slighter than she was so Zhanna had never cared but coming face to face with First Lieutenant Norman Dike, she couldn't be denied for what she was: a woman, and a woman of the same rank as Easy's new CO. She narrowed her eyes, warning Dike but he plunged onward, not caring or recognizing who she was.

Zhanna had come to assume the same kind of power Sveta had possessed in Stalingrad but hers had a different weight to it. Zhanna's power came from the calluses on her hands and the rifle on her back. Soldiers knew who she was. They knew that she was one of the Russians, the sniper, the one who had broken Liebgott's nose, and had turned an outfit of Germans on their tail during the battle for Carentan. They knew who Lieutenant Casmirovna was and what she did. That kind of power was addicting and she devoured it. Would it last after the war? Unlikely but in the space left by the hope for her parent's safety, Zhanna stored up the giddiness and the strength that the men's respect gave her. Dike would learn too, what a Polyakov was capable of.

"Soldier, why are you not in formation?" He repeated.

Zhanna's lips lifted, it could be passed off as a smile. She let him think that's what it was. She could have held her tongue and gotten into formation, marching for this new CO as she had for Sobel. If they were still under Captain Winters' command, Zhanna would have complied but, unlike when Sobel was in charge, she wasn't worried about getting home. Why would she, when there was nothing left?

"Lieutenant," she said sweetly, "I prefer not to march with the Americans."

Dike's mouth hung open, trying to figure out who she was and why she was refusing him. Zhanna stretched out her hand and said. "First Lieutenant Zhanna Casmirovna, Liaison from the Red Army."

As if he didn't know what else to do, Dike accepted her hand and shook it.

"A pleasure to meet you."

"You don't…" His voice trailed away.

Lieutenant Peacock, sensing a struggle, and knowing what Zhanna was capable of and who she was, jumped in. "Sir, Lieutenant Casmirovna does not participate in drills. She has permission from Colonel Sink himself."

Colonel Sink, who had called Zhanna into his office once again after the battle of the crossroads, and had asked her about Janusz. It seemed her cousin had claimed her while being processed for transfer. He had wanted to know if it was true. She hadn't lied. He couldn't tell her where Janusz was going but he had sensed the emotion that wracked her frame. She had been let go without further question but Zhanna knew she could use this admiration for her personal gain if needed.

"They called him Foxhole Norman back in Holland," Skip said, kicking his feet up on the crates of ammunition, his helmet used as a headrest. Zhanna hadn't been surprised. Something about the man and his fearful eyes at her confrontation hadn't boded well for their future combat.

"You think he's gonna be like Sobel?" Penkala asked.

They gathered, post-training and drills, behind the command tent, where crates and transports were parked, hiding them from view. Zhanna preferred to keep out of sight, lest Nixon get too confident and try to present her whole story to the entirety of Easy Company. That, and she didn't feel like everyone's eyes on her. With Sveta gone, and Buck's absence now stretching some three months, she was tired of being stared at with no shadow to hide in. Muck, Malarkey, and Penkala were good company but she wouldn't tell them her secrets. And she couldn't unload her now battered heart's grievances to them.

"I don't think anyone could be like Sobel," Malarkey lit a cigarette and then passed it to Penkala, who regarded it with distaste.

"Did you get this from Cas'?" He asked, studying the cigarette in question.

"It's not one of Speirs'," Zhanna assured him and with that confirmation, Penkala took a long drag from the cigarette. She was out of Speirs' Lucky Strikes and he wasn't around to acquire more. Luck. Casimir said you had to make your own. Had theirs run out?

Zhanna hadn't allowed herself to unpack that corner of her mind, leaving it locked up and bound by a silver chain. She didn't want to think about it and she couldn't, not without the tears welling. Zhanna didn't want to cry. Zhanna didn't want to fight, either. She didn't know where she was going. And Zhanna didn't want to be afraid of the unknown. So she kept pushing. Life wasn't done with her yet. She could cheat its jaws for a few more weeks. Berlin by Christmas seemed like a pipedream now but the men were saying March. March, and then she would be free. Get Sveta home, and then free.

And after that?

Well, she didn't need to worry about that. Who was to say she would even see Stalingrad's streets again?

"I think he's gonna be like Sobel," Muck continued, accepting the safe cigarettes from Malarkey.

"And we'll do what we did with Sobel," Zhanna said.

"And what was that?"

"I said it often," Zhanna said. "Do you not remember?"

"I don't remember half the things you say," Skip confessed. "Sometimes I forget you can even talk."

Zhanna shook her head in mock disgust. He was trying to lighten the mood. They were all aware that a bad CO would cost more lives. They all knew the cost of war now. The ranks of Easy were quickly filled with men who had never seen Benning, MacKall, or the skies of Normandy. Fresh faces mean green rifles and they would follow any orders down to the letter. That was dangerous. And it was terrifying.

"We follow orders until we can't anymore," Zhanna reminded them. "Orders aren't law. They are guidelines."

"What defines, 'can't'?" Malarkey asked.

"Life and death, and your better judgment," Zhanna said. "We've seen Normandy work. We've seen Market Garden fall apart. Trust yourself."

"Do you?" Penkala asked.

Zhanna looked down at her boots, American. Her skin, pale as the Russian snow. Her hair, blonde like her Polish father's, fell into her eyes. She had seen survival first hand and she knew its cadence well.

"Yes," Zhanna said. "I do."

She knew how to survive, she had been doing it for years but it was hard to teach it to men who had grown up in relative safety. Never questioning if their neighbors would turn against them or if the law would suddenly snatch them up. Siberia, gulags, and certain death weren't realities in the Easy Company vocabulary but Zhanna knew it well. She had read every lesson, practiced every word, and her tongue could form them without thought. But would that be enough?

"It would be easier if Winters was our CO again," Malarkey said.

Zhanna nodded, looking over her shoulder. The red-haired officer was coming out of the command tent, his dark brown jacket deeper in the weak sunlight, and his face was ruddy in the cool wind. He looked up from the report in his hand and met her eyes. He might have smiled, Zhanna looked away before she could study his face further.

"It would be easier," she said.