A/N: And now, the deployment from Sveta's perspective.

...does she believe her fiction...

Svetlana | Silmarilz1701

18 December 1944 | Mourmelon-le-Grand, France

The dark and cold of 0400 in mid-December broke only for the flashing of headlights and zippo lighters. Sveta stood at an oil drum, hands over the raging flames in a desperate attempt to grab warmth before returning to her jobs. Shouts and pounding boots echoed around her. She had lost track of Winters and Nixon after a last-minute meeting with Sink, the former heading off to locate his Company Commanders, the latter looking to find whatever information he could from the Brass above them. Sveta didn't have to do that. She just had to look after herself.

The fragile peace of the previous night had broken while most of Easy sat in on a movie. Sveta hadn't joined them. Harry had asked her to join in on a poker match, which she also had declined. Instead, she'd been asked by Colonel Sink to do an interview with the little round-faced, blonde war correspondent she remembered seeing back in England.

The woman, who Sveta had come to know as Sophie Connors, had sat her down in one of Sink's offices at Regimental HQ. She had all sorts of questions. Apparently, the enterprising young women of America wanted to know what it was like to fight in combat. The WASPs, the WAVEs, the WAC all asked to hear her story.

Sveta didn't like the attention. Even as Sophie had poked and prodded about her time with the men, she'd tuned her out. When Sophie had come to the more sensitive ones, ones about her home life and training in Russia, she'd answered as any trained diplomat would.

Sveta knew how to say nothing an infinite number of ways. "We do our best," was one of her favorites. It could be used in almost any situation. Armed with years of half-truths and masks, she'd navigated the interrogation with poise and skill.

She'd been rather proud of herself by the end. Even as she stood around the oil drum, bare hands already cracked from the cold finding almost no relief in the flames, she smiled. The rush of freedom she'd felt while escaping the hospital, the jail cell that had kept her caged, had remained in her stay in Mourmelon-le-Grand. No Alexander, no Stalin, no Beria. Just her and her allies.

Maybe Americans weren't so bad. Sveta looked into the dark again as a group of officers from Able company hurried by. Their CO barked orders, but in the noisy chaos, Sveta understood nothing. As much as she'd hated the Americans for being so loud, it did mean she could watch from and fade into the background.

With a sigh, Sveta moved away from the flames. It didn't take long for the cold to seep back into her bones. The Americans hadn't issued winter clothing yet, and now they were headed to Bastogne. She'd never been there, but Sveta knew from the reports that winter in the Ardennes would only spell trouble for the men who were woefully underprepared.

Sveta wasn't underprepared. She'd been in true cold before. She'd spent winters in Leningrad, taken trips to Finland. And now she had a different fire to keep her warm. With every passing day, Sveta had thought about Ron's words in the hospital. Did she really have to go back? Back to the place where she was more marionette than woman?

If she got through the war, maybe she wouldn't have to.

As Sveta reached the door into the building where she and Zhanna split a room, she nearly ran into the war correspondent. Sophie's eyes widened, tensing as she saw Sveta. She startled back.

"Pardon me," Sophie said.

Sveta waved her off. Wasting no more time, she hurried through the entrance to the stairs. Inside had the luxury of no wind, but the heat had faded long ago with the endless opening and closing of doors to the outside. Sveta spared the men passing her barely a glance. They were set to leave in less than half an hour.

It surprised her that the door to their room stood slightly ajar. She supposed Zhanna had left it as such. She couldn't blame her; all of them were in a rush. As she stepped inside, she looked around. Her Mosin-Nagant sat on the bed next to her packed bag. Just as she'd left it. Inside, she'd stuffed as many pairs of socks as she could, along with six wash rags, four packs of cigarettes, and two pillowcases. She wanted to bring as many layers as she could.

Zhanna's side of the room stood empty of necessities. With a last look around at the ransacked room, she nodded to herself. Time to go.

Sveta turned to the door. Her gaze drifted to the desk. Pausing, Sveta looked closer. She knew Zhanna had gotten into pressed flowers, drying them and putting them into her journal for safekeeping. But her heart skipped a beat as she saw the ones on the desk.

Red roses.

Beside them, a slip of paper with Cyrillic script. Someone, Zhanna apparently, had begun to write a note. But she'd only gotten as far as the greeting at the top before abandoning it. She wondered who Zhanna had been writing.

She wondered why only the roses and the note had been left behind.

For the tiniest moment, she wondered if it had been Zhanna at all

But pounding on the doors down the hallway tore her attention away. Sveta forced down the growing anxiety. Of course, it was Zhanna. There were no other Russians in Mourmelon-le-Grand, and she knew Zhanna loved her flowers. She must've been called away in the middle of her work.

"Let's go! Let's go! We move in twenty!"

She pushed the door open and hurried down the hall. With her pack over her shoulders and rifle in hand, Sveta moved past the lieutenant banging on the doors for the officers. She left the shelter behind.

"Easy Company! Hurry it up!"

She heard Lipton's voice carry through the early morning chaos. The wind bit at her face even as she stuffed another pillowcase around her neck like a scarf. The Army could bill her for stealing it later. She knew that coverage would be paramount for surviving the elements. And she intended to survive.

Sveta wasn't going to die from an enemy bullet, and she certainly wasn't going to die from her own. As her boots pounded against the concrete, she smiled against the cloth. The heat of her breath warmed her face a bit.

"Svetlana, over here." Harry stood by a truck, taking names as he watched enlisted bundle into one. "We've got a lovely ride this morning."

"Fucking hell," she muttered. But she nodded, and hurried over. Accepting Johnny Martin's hand, she hoisted herself inside just in time to grab one of the last seats. "Thank you."

Martin nodded. "That a pillowcase, Captain?"

She smiled even though she knew he couldn't see. Offering him a simple nod, she turned and offered Harry her hand. He accepted, slamming into the last seat next to her. Hashey and Garcia were the last to scramble in, taking up spots on the truck bed. Both looked about as pleased with the development as she would've expected. As the tailgate slammed shut and a staff sergeant locked it, Sveta looked out.

She hadn't even seen Zhanna since the news had broken of their new mission. But she knew she probably had found her way to Compton or Winters, or maybe the mortar squad. She would be fine. Zhanna knew the cold as intimately as Sveta did.

"I can't fucking believe it," Harry muttered. "I was just starting to enjoy the time off."

She watched as his head hit the side of the truck, helmet bouncing off one of the metal beams. She smirked, and pulled down the pillowcase from over her nose and mouth. "You've been off the line for weeks, Harry."

He nodded. "Yeah, and it wasn't enough. I was expecting another letter from Kitty."

She shrugged. Hopefully, their mail would find them, for his sake. She didn't particularly care. No one she enjoyed corresponding with ever wrote her, just her father. She hadn't gotten a letter from Lana Stalina in several months, and Lana's brother Vasily never wrote. She would've enjoyed hearing from him.

The engine roared to life. The entire truck buzzed. Randleman lit his cigar, and Spina and Roe, further inside the truck, split a couple of cigarettes. It didn't take long for the whole truck to fill with smoke. As it began to move down the road, she took a deep breath.

A few hours in, she felt a nudge on her right arm. "Any idea what we're in for, Captain?" Martin asked her. He raised his voice to be heard over the clamor of irritated enlisted men.

She pulled the cover off her mouth again and turned to him. "We're heading to Bastogne. It's going to be cold."

He rolled his eyes. "I take it that's why you've got the fucking bedsheet on your face."

"Yes." Sveta broke into a grin. Looking away, she saw Randleman watching them and gave him a small nod of encouragement. Then she turned back to Sergeant Martin. "All those times you Americans asked if Russia is cold?" When he nodded, she smirked again. "This will be cold."

"Lovely."

Harry nudged her on the left. He held out a cigarette, which she accepted gladly, and lit it. A few hours later, just as the sun beneath the horizon began to lighten the sky from black to grey, the jeep stopped. The men had fallen quiet, frozen from the cold and the cramped quarters. When she slipped out of the jeep, her legs stung. Already, flaming piles of gasoline had been lit to provide a bit of comfort.

She moved over to one. Keeping her hands in her sleeves, Sveta allowed herself to adjust to standing up. They had work to do, a lot of work. They'd been short on ammo, short on medicine, short on clothes. They had gaps in their forces. They had untrained replacements and underprepared veterans.

But they would hold the line. Sveta moved away from the fire to look down the road. Men, more like zombies than soldiers, trickled down the road. Chills ran down her spine, and not from the cold.

But then she saw the snow. By the light of the early morning sun, which began to turn the sky from grey to deep blue, she saw the little flakes landing on her American uniform. She remembered the stories of the Winter War. She remembered the tales of bravery from the defense of Stalingrad. She remembered her comrades on the Eastern Front.

They would hold the line. She and the Americans would not be the ones to fall. They would stand together against the Nazis. And maybe, if she could help hold that line, Sveta could make up for the evil her father had participated in. With no Alexander, no Stalin, and no Beria. Just her, the Americans, a rifle, and the falling show.