⧗ CHAPTER FOURTEEN ⧗

By the next morning, Liza's bed was gone.

No one slept well. Each of his sisters had sobbed quietly in intervals. Dmitri wanted to cry, he should be crying — but he couldn't. The tears wouldn't come. All he felt was… nothing. Just numb fingers and frantic thoughts.

What the fuck just happened?

He saw a girl die. He saw his sister die. Liza. Elizaveta Sharapova. Dmitri couldn't recall if he had ever known her last name. It wasn't something they ever shared. Didn't need to. He didn't know her patronymic, either — none of them had one, he knew. They didn't have fathers in the Red Room. No mothers either. Just the Madame.

He had thought there would be a funeral, a time of mourning, something. But they receive nothing. The next day commences as though nothing had happened. Just one less bed. One less place setting at their dining table. One less set of tools in their classes.

Life went on.

Not even the other girls acknowledged the loss. Other girls from other classes who had known Liza, said nothing. It was like she never existed at all.

The only signs she had were in the redness of his sisters' eyes, their listless gazes, their quiet sniffles in a moment of solitude.

Only Ksenia didn't shed a tear. Not as far as Dmitri had witnessed. Her expression was ever stone cold, unflinching in the face of some cruel nonchalance. The Red Room moved on, and it seemed so had she.

The weight of the walls bore down on him, and Dmitri felt like he was trapped in some horrible nightmare. How could they just accept this? Even in his sisters' grief, they didn't writhe and wrath against the injustice of it all. The sheer cruelty, the inhumane treatment. Just… accepted it. The one time he tried to broach the subject with Oksana, she had shushed him. Sharp enough that Dmitri felt as though he'd intruded on a vigil, and didn't dare ask again.

So that was it, then. This was the way things were.

And he could only come to one conclusion. Ksenia was right. His father was right. The Red Room was no normal school. It was not for the faint of heart. Not all will survive.

And he was an idiot for not understanding sooner.

But Dmitri was here now. He had nowhere else to go.

Around him, everything continued as usual. Dmitri found himself stopping outside a classroom - another mirrored hall, a line of girls dancing in perfect unison, practicing their poses. Feet in first position, heels together and toes pointed away. Arms in fourth. Plie, releve, arms in fifth, down again, sweeping the leg. Elegance in every motion, synchronized with the music.

He'd seen it a thousand times before. In Russia, in New York, but he'd never seen anything like the Red Room. Not a step out of place.

Little dancing toys.

Liza just couldn't keep in step.

"Dmitri?"

The voice shook him from his reverie. Turning, Dmitri jolted to find the Madame standing there, nearly eye to eye with him. Where had she come from? Why hadn't he heard her approach? Why was he just standing there like an idiot? "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean —!"

She raised a gloved hand, chuckling softly. "You're not in any trouble, Dmitri. I just wanted to check in on you. I know yesterday was rather… bracing experience for you. It's been a long time since you were here last, and I feared you had forgotten the lessons we teach here. And the consequences."

Dmitri's mouth went dry, averting his gaze, wanting to hide his own horror. Back to the women dancing, completely oblivious to their presence. "...Is it always like that?"

"No," The Madame said. "Sometimes it's worse."

His fingers went numb again. "The last time I was here — there were more girls. Sofia. Inessa. Isabella. Was it… was it like that for them, too?"

The Madame threw him an admonishing look. "Now what good is it to wonder about that, my dear boy? You'll only torture yourself." But when Dmitri looked back at her, pleading, the Madame appeared to reconsider. "There's no good trying to remember the painful things, Dmitri. It's better to just let go. But if it sets your mind at ease, no. The little ones, I avoid those sorts of endings. Sometimes a girl is simply not meant to be a widow. It isn't her fault. So she's reassigned. You needn't worry where. Her challenges are not yours to face. As far as you're concerned, you'll never see them again."

Dmitri took in a deep, shuddering breath, catching in his throat. At last, it seemed, the tears wanted to rise, at the most inconvenient moment. She put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, then ran her fingers through his hair. It was a soft, soothing gesture. "It's difficult, I know. Especially after what you've faced. You returned of your own volition, Dmitri. Do you regret that?"

Dmitri squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain control of his emotions before they got the better of him. It was difficult to breathe for a moment, even harder to think. Trying to answer her question. He knew the right answer, of course. But the Madame didn't want him to repeat the party line. She wanted the truth.

And what was that? The truth?

In truth, Dmitri didn't have a damn clue what he was getting himself into. He had naively walked into this thinking it was a kind of boot camp — but a boot camp with oversight. With rules and laws and ethics and morals he had become accustomed to in the regular world.

But as he was now coming to terms with, the Red Room was not part of the regular world. It never was. And neither was he. He hadn't been for a long time.

He hated that it killed Liza. That it took his other sisters away, through death or otherwise. But that was the cost, wasn't it? Dmitri would die, too, if he stepped out of here. HYDRA may be gone, but remnants of it must surely remain. His father's enemies, HYDRA, KGB, and Western alike will all want retribution. Dmitri could no longer be what he once was.

What he never was.

Liza had known that, hadn't she? She'd known the risks better than Dmitri had, who still struggled with gaps in his memory. But he was getting better.

He understood now. The Red Room was his home. It had always been his home. He'd lived here longer than anywhere else, though strangely synced memories sometimes indicated otherwise. That was harder to decipher, but the truth remained.

Dmitri came from the Red Room. Of course he would return.

He belonged here.

And he couldn't forsake Liza's sacrifice by turning his back on it. By giving up and walking straight to his death, like a coward, a weakling.

And as awful as it was, he found he wasn't so disgusted that he wanted to leave.

The practices here were barbaric. But they were necessary.

"No," Dmitri said at last, his voice a tight whisper. The only way he wouldn't break down, wishing he had done something. Wished he had moved faster, had noticed quicker, that Liza hadn't been paying attention. She hadn't been smart enough, but they were family. He could've done something.

That was enough reason to stay, perhaps.

"Good," the Madame said, and she took his right arm, pulling it so his palm faced upwards, open to receive the cold metal object she placed in his hand. "Then you will be needing this."

Dmitri stared at the gun in his hand. A pistol, greased black steel, 7.62x25mm cartridges, the grip heavy with a full magazine. He recognized the model from movies. A modern Tokarev, a staple of cinematic Russian villainy.

Only this was the real thing. Dmitri looked up at the Madame, stunned, as she smiled, pulling her hands away. "Be careful with it now. It's a bit of an antique. But it will teach you all you need to know. Go on now, you'll be late to class."

Dmitri had been so shocked by this… gift that he'd completely forgotten his own grief, from the moment of receiving the weapon to arriving at his next destination. Another of the classes he had yet to take with his agemates. He found himself not walking into a usual classroom, but into a dark, windowless chamber. A line of stalls in front of him, a low wall separating the first half of the room from the second. The other half, against a sand embankment, paper targets hung. To the right, an attendant within an enclosed booth, locked and gated. Behind the woman, an array of firearms hung on the walls, and within cabinets. The only thing openly accessible that was readily available were noise-canceling ear muffs.

A firing range.

Dmitri was one of the first to arrive, after Ksenia (no surprise there, though she cocked an eyebrow the handgun he carried in with him). The other girls shuffled in, still puffy-eyed and sullen, but they all fell in line as their shooting instructor, Comrade Davydov, marched into the room. He was a hulking man, former militsiya, and absolutely no-nonsense. The girls already knew the routine, so the man took an especially critical eye to Dmitri, who felt like he was wielding a loaded bomb with the pistol just hanging in his hand.

Comrade Davydov looked him up and down with narrowed eyes. "You know how to use that thing, boy?"

Dmitri looked down. The last time he was this close to a weapon like this, it had been pointed at him. This time, though, only the right answer was the correct one. "Yes."

Comrade Davydov seemed doubtful, smirking slightly. "Prove it."

So Dmitri fell in step with the other girls. Fetching ear muffs and taking a stall for himself, waiting for the firing call. He'd seen how guns work. When it came down to it, the directions were simple and easy. Point and shoot.

Don't close your eyes. Don't flinch. Not even for a moment.

The chorus of gunshots startled Dmitri, even with his headphones the noise was palpable. One by one, in quick succession, small holes perforated the human-shadow targets on the other side of the range. Dmitri's was the last, thanks to his initial shock.

The kickback wasn't tremendous, but it still hurt. Dmitri had used his right hand to grip the pistol, and that was definitely a mistake, taking all the impact into his right shoulder. The pain arched up his neck and down his arm.

He cursed himself as he checked his weapon, making sure nothing was out of place. Safety off, slide pulled back, slipping forward again, cartridge fully discharged. All in working order. Surprisingly smooth for such an old weapon. He noticed the other girls' had much more modern weapons. No longer Soviet, but foreign made. Why had the Madame given him this? Why did she have it to begin with?

"Ready!" Comrade Davydov, bellowed across the length of the hall. "Fire!"

Dmitri nearly dropped the pistol in his rush to follow suit, and once more his shot was a little late. But this time he actually hit the target. This time he'd switched hands — gripping the pistol with his left and gauntleting it with his right, the kickback was much better. No pain this time, going into his stronger left side. Good, that was good. He wasn't completely useless at this. Now he just had to figure out how to aim correctly.

It wasn't so unfamiliar that Dmitri thought he was completely new at this. He must have done this before. The actions were routine, muscle memory. Pausing between each shot, checking his weapon, raising and firing again. He only had a split second between aim and firing, and in that split second he had to line his sights to the tiny circles indicating the most crucial points on the target's body.

Head, shoulders, center mass. Dmitri closed one eye, then the other, and found his depth perception best with both eyes open. It wasn't like he needed a scope. The weapon was small and the target only ten meters away, the full length of the indoor range — the other girls were hitting close to dead center.

Dmitri couldn't fail now. Couldn't fail the Madame, after reaffirming his place here. Couldn't fail Liza, who made one small mistake.

He couldn't do the same.

A long hour of Ready, Aim, Fire! Before the commands grew fewer, then none at all, and they were all operating in silent unison. Aim, fire, recover. Aim, fire, recover. The pattern made it easy to plan ahead, to know what to look for. His left arm started to ache, but not in the painful electric way his right shoulder had been experiencing.

Then, at last, the paper targets were drawn in for a final examination. They all stood in line, sheet in hand, held out for Comrade Davydov to inspect. He gave one word answers as he walked down the line.

"Excellent. Good. Mediocre. Good. Needs improvement," He came to a stop in front of Dmitri, frowning at the sheet. Dmitri knew his was the worst, even before it came to this. He'd seen it coming down the line, the random array from his first initial shots. The rest were all within the body mass, but only a few came to where he intended, near the center.

Comrade Davydov sniffed, the lines around his eyes pinching. "Satisfactory. Go now. Dismantle your weapons, clean them, and return them to the armory. Then you may go."

"You're not going to time us?" Sabina asked, as the girls began to break up.

Comrade Davydov paused, giving them all a measuring look. There was no expression on his face, yet there could be no question he'd seen all of theirs. At last, he said, "Not today. But don't be lazy. I won't excuse any tardiness in your next lesson."