A/N: Zhanna's turn. Thank you so much to everyone supporting this fic! We really appreciate all your comments. Y'all are awesome.

...the bad, the fake, the dark...

Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly

By the time Zhanna was able to toddle along by her mother's side, she had been told to stay close and, if there was ever any doubt, to run. Agata had kept the windows shuttered against prying eyes and stray rocks. Casimir would hurry home from the factory, his breath coming in short gasps, making it in the nick of time to bolt the door behind himself, night falling and curfew called.

There were never any sure signs of a raid, never any tells that would warn the neighborhood of a missing neighbor or shrieks in the night. No one knew the hour or the night, the house or the victim. They could only cower, pray, or run. Zhanna lived under those rules and learned their lessons well. Survival was a universal language and her existence depended on it. But what kind of an existence was that?

She grew up, startled eyes and scurrying steps, with the promise of capture or death looming over her and she would never see it coming. Zhanna had learned that the most terrible things happened on the most normal of days.

Easy had been recalled to Mourmelon, a place that Zhanna had come to associate with smarting wounds. It was a place of tactical retreat, where Easy could lick its wounds and recover before being thrown at its next big attack. The battered bastards of Bastogne needed a chance to let the bruises fade and maybe some of the harshest memories follow suit.

Zhanna had been encouraged to know that Sink had respected her wishes, to wait for a promotion. She didn't want to take from Lipton's moment, now a 2nd Lieutenant. She never did want the spotlight for her own. Even as she moved to a more vocal position among the officers, speaking up, even with a slight tremor in her voice, she didn't like all the eyes on her. Zhanna could never tell which were friendly and which would rather see her sent back to Russia.

Winters had been surprising in his actions in Haguenau. Sink had ordered another patrol, after the success of the first and, much to Zhanna's astonishment, Winters and Nixon had concocted a fake report, relieving the thoroughly exhausted men from yet another patrol. Zhanna was so shocked she had let her insistence to lead the next patrol slide. She didn't ask Dick about it nor did he supply any reasoning. His deceit hadn't got in the way of his new oak leaf clusters, that sparkled in the brightly lit CP even if they were a little blurry.

Mourmelon had been a quiet place, a place of recovery. Zhanna had thought, no, expected, that the river of life would ease its beating. That the current would soften so that her head would break the surface. Maybe she'd take a fresh breath of air. Just as her face had felt the overcast sky shine its dim rays on her skin, her footing was lost.

Zhanna sat in Winters's office, beneath a blanket, shivering like she had fallen into the frozen Neva river. She hadn't. Zhanna hadn't even lost her footing. It had been a perfectly normal day, spent in a perfectly normal way. She had taken for granted the quiet avoidance between Sveta and herself. Zhanna had taken Sveta for granted.

"Dick, what the hell do they mean?" Speirs was filled with more silent determination than Foy had seen. "Suspected of espionage?"

"I have done no such thing," Sveta's voice still rang in her mind, mixing now with Skip, Agata, Casimir, and Buck, rolling together like a wave of regret.

"A Gestapo agent named her under interrogation," Dick explained. He stood behind his desk, his gaze cast between Speirs and Zhanna in turn, brow furrowed.

Zhanna had done nothing as Sveta was pulled and wrestled, dragged and cuffed. Zhanna had stood, dimly, numbly. She had stood, frozen.

"We have to go,"

"Why would a Gestapo agent name her?" Speirs spat.

She had never seen one of her neighbors taken. She had never watched a familiar face be dragged away. Zhanna had thought the empty place, the missing space, was the worst of it.

"Zhanna, we'll come back for you,"

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe watching it was the worst part.

"Zhanna, run. Zhanna, RUN!"

This is what she had been told to fear her whole life. This was the only promise. Family, friends, loved ones, even enemies would be chained and shackled. Running was the only escape. Running was the only promise.

"They can't just hold her, can they?" Ron growled, slamming his fist against the door frame, sending the glass pane rattling. "They don't have any evidence,"

"I'm afraid it's enough," Dick said, collapsing into his desk chair.

Run. Maybe if Zhanna had run, it would have been enough. Maybe if she had tried harder, stood by Sveta's side, she would have been alright. Zhanna had seen the pain flash in Sveta's eyes when Zhanna's feet had moved. They hadn't moved towards Sveta but behind Winters. Into his shadow and not toward hers.

"Some Gestapo agent who was responsible for the death of some British officer named some Russian sniper who happened to be a Samsonov," Ron scoffed. "Seems unlikely."

"Yeah, who happened to be a Samsonov in the American Airborne," Nixon said. He had been silent, beside Zhanna while Ron and Dick had been at odds. "Samsonovs who are known to work with the NKVD."

Zhanna had let Dick usher her inside his office, lest someone find her tied to the plot. Zhanna had let Nixon clumsily drape a blanket around her shoulders to try and ease the shaking. Zhanna had let Speirs say everything she wanted to.

"What does this mean for Easy, that's what I want to know. " Nixon took out his flask and brought it to his lips but not a drop came out.

"What does this mean for us?" Zhanna's voice was soft but it seemed like a shout to her ears.

"What?" Ron looked at her in utter confusion.

"What does this mean for us?" Zhanna asked again, pulling her blanket tighter. "If she is tried and found guilty-"

"She isn't," Ron insisted.

"I didn't say she was," Zhanna said. "But if she is found guilty, what does that mean?"

The Americans shared a mournful if not knowing look. Zhanna knew before any of them said a word. Every squeeze of her own trigger seemed so careless now. Every falling body didn't have their faces anymore.

"You don't have to say it," Zhanna said, pulling the blanket tighter around herself, as if the wool would give some kind of comfort. She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly, stars danced behind her eyelids.

"Surely her family won't let that happen," Speirs said, grasping for straws.

She knew it was pointless. Sveta had been so desperate. In her eyes she looked just as betrayed as she had in that field, just as she had after drinking a whole bottle of vodka. Zhanna had let her get drunk on terror and broken promises. She had watched Sveta's eyes turn dark when Zhanna had done what she always did, took a step back.

"By the time they get word," Nixon shrugged. It would be too late.

Zhanna was supposed to keep Sveta safe. Zhanna had failed. If Zhanna couldn't keep Sveta safe then how could Sveta's family ever be expected to return the favor? If Zhanna couldn't keep Sveta safe, who was to say Zhanna would ever know a moment's safety again?

"What does that mean for us?" Zhanna asked again, not caring if she sounded like the things she despised. Desperate, fearful, weak.

"But what about you?" Nixon asked.

Without Sveta, what was Zhanna? A sniper who didn't have a real place in the American Airborne? Or was she the hidden Polish Jew who had been running her whole life? Neither of those people did anyone any good.

Zhanna couldn't afford to think like that. She couldn't afford to worry about herself right now. Sveta was in the garrison, behind bars. Sveta was accused of espionage. Sveta, whose worst fear was the bloody sheets and the gifts of roses, was going to be tried and it was Zhanna's fault. She knew that the Samsonovs had friends in high places but they wouldn't be any help here. Zhanna had to use what she had. Zhanna had to be resourceful with what little power she had. Looking around the room at the men who sat with her, concern etched on their brows, Zhanna wondered what it would take for them to want to help her.

"What do you mean, what about me?" Zhanna asked.

"If Sveta is found guilty, I think we should be asking what that means for you, Zhanna?" Dick said, softly.

If Sveta was shot for treason or espionage, where would that leave Zhanna? Thousands of miles from any home she had known with no family, no allies, only a borrowed coat and two bullets. There was no one in Samsonov's circle who would care what happened to Zhanna, there was no one in all of the Soviet Union who would be bothered by another misplaced Pole.

Sveta isn't guilty, Zhanna told herself. She couldn't run, not this time. She couldn't afford to lose her footing. She had promised she would get Sveta home and those chains still connected them. Even through bars, Zhanna owed Sveta a debt.

"It won't come to that," Zhanna said, ignoring the looks of pity and uncertainty that the officers exchanged. She repeated the words, like a prayer, trying to make them come true by simply uttering them with enough force. "It won't come to that."