A/N: Please note that this is a companion fic to my Rebel Columbia series, and is concurrent with the third sequel, Liberty Horizon. You don't have to read those to understand this one, as this is a standalone, but know that this story is going to have a LOT of spoilers for the first two fics in the series. If you don't care, then full speed ahead!
If you are reading the rest of the series and do care about spoilers, please don't read this fic until you've finished Bitter Protocol! Or you'll be sorry (:
⧗ CHAPTER ONE ⧗
The Siberian landscape stretched out in an endless sea of ice and snow.
The truck's thick wheels rumbled over the unpaved road, little more than a rocky dirt path across the landscape. No music played, the driver and the escort completely silent except for a few radio communiques in Russian. Dmitri wasn't bothered by this. He had no interest in music or conversation for a long time.
The ache in his shoulder had diminished to occasional twinges now and then, although sleep still posed a problem. Five months and he was still on the mend. Dmitri often woke up sore, struggling to find a comfortable position at night. Hospital beds had not made for the most lush experience. It was nice not to be wearing a scratchy cotton gown anymore, although Dmitri was still stuck with the sling outside of physical therapy.
But now he had left that place. And he wasn't going back. Father had kept his word.
The Red Room waited.
It had been a long journey. Ten hours by helicopter and another three by road. No one used a map here, knowing the way by heart, so Dmitri had no idea where exactly they were within Russia. Only that they were north, farther north than he's ever been.
Not a soul for hundreds and hundreds of miles.
Maybe he'll finally get some good rest out here.
Dmitri's time in the London hospital had been one trial after another. It had already been bad when he first woke up — distraught over the attack, remembering his mother's death, the fact that his father was somehow still alive? He never said how or how he managed to hide it from everyone else. As far as the KGB — no, HYDRA — was concerned, Lev Kasyanenko was well and truly dead.
But things hadn't gotten truly awful yet. Not until after Mia visited.
After that came the nightmares. The hallucinations. Dmitri, waking up screaming in the middle of the night, to be held down by half a dozen nurses who couldn't see what he could, couldn't see the Soldatka looming in the darkest corner of the room, her pale dead eyes watching him dispassionately, blood splattered across her armor. How she hunted him in his dreams, to shoot a bullet or drive a knife between his ribs. To lay a bomb under a car. To his mother and father and everyone Dmitri ever cared about, while he remained helpless to stop her.
One night had been so bad, Dmitri had woken up to blood all over his sheets, and had believed he had been shot again in his sleep. But he had only ripped his stitches.
Sometimes the nightmares were simpler. Mum, smiling at him, reaching for a hug, before she was engulfed in flames the same color as her hair.
Dmitri shuddered, squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again. Trying to blind himself in the great white expanse beyond, to bleach the images from his mind.
It was over now. She — the Soldatka, Mia — was never coming back.
No one was ever going to hurt him again.
Dmitri looked down at the photograph he had in his hands. They hadn't allowed him to bring any possessions, but this had been in his coat pocket. Now, he couldn't focus on anything else.
The picture was from almost nine months ago, when Mia had invited him to that winter fair on Coney Island. The photo had been taken by Peter while they were on the Ferris Wheel; the two of them, Mia and Dmitri, sitting side by side, surrounded by twinkling lights. The cold had flushed his cheeks and the smile on her face was serene, genuine — even if she had yelled at Peter about the picture after it was taken.
He'd remembered holding her hand afterwards. Wanting to kiss her. Almost getting the chance.
The shiny vellum folded and wrinkled easily under his grip, and the ripping noise brought satisfaction; then regret. Mia had told him she'd never destroy Peter's photographs, they were precious. They were his art.
And now here he was, doing the exact thing she despised. The exact thing Dmitri never imagined himself doing.
Well, Dmitri figured he didn't know himself as well as he thought.
He clearly never knew Amelia Fletcher very well, either.
The two halves glared up at him, accusing. Himself, once utterly naive, in one half. Mia, with her trademark mysterious half-smile, in the other. Split nearly perfectly in the middle, except where their hands were almost touching.
The man next to him, Ivan, shifted, and Dmitri quickly tucked the photo away before anyone could see. As much as it brought bile to his tongue, Dmitri didn't want the photo to be taken away. It was his only reminder of the life he was leaving behind. Of what he was fighting for now. He couldn't forget that.
Ahead, the driver announced, "Были здесь."
We're here.
Dmitri perked up, eyes turned from his window to up front, leaning to see over the front passenger seat. The truck rounded over a hill, and then he saw it. The palace.
A small gasp escaped him.
It was beautiful. A long, elegant structure of white marble and green glass, long columns decorating the exterior, the structure reminded Dmitri of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. Framed by the mountains in the distance, it was a Tsarist hall in the middle of Siberia; perhaps it had once been a summer getaway for the old royal family. The grounds around it were a mix of fountain garden and training ground, even a landing pad.
Now it was home to one of the KGB's greatest secrets.
Hearing him gasp, the driver chuckled. "Beautiful, is it not?"
"Yes," Dmitri breathed. There was no point in denying it. Was this to be his new home? The very thought awed him, even intimidated him.
"Well, fair warning," The driver said with a faint smile as he began to slow the vehicle. "As with everything in this place, nothing is as it appears."
They approached the courtyard, in which a pair of great double doors sat waiting. Dmitri thought he saw faces in the windows above, but they disappeared when he tried to get a second look. The truck came to a stop and his escort made to help him out, but Dmitri was determined not to be helpless, and opened the door himself — although he wobbled a little as he dropped to his feet, a little lightheaded. The journey had drained him greatly. His breath puffed in the frigid air, shivered in his too-thin jacket. Normally, the cold didn't bother him too much, but Dmitri had lost some weight over the months, and it had taken a bit of his body warmth, too.
Atop the steps, one of the great white doors opened, a guard inside waiting for him. Dmitri scrambled up the steps, trying not to be slow but also wanting to take in as much as possible. He had to crane his neck all the way back to see the top of the palace, the glittering crystal icicles that hang from its eaves.
But the exterior was nothing compared to what awaited Dmitri inside.
Pink tulle and antique mirrors.
The walls of the foyer were painted white and trimmed in gold. High ceilings painted with galloping horses and rose-cheeked angels. Crystal chandeliers twinkling in the firelight that flickers from the hearth. Beyond the velvet-curtained windows revealed the impenetrable veil of snow and ice he had just come in from. Black, craggy peaks pierced the sky, their razor edges bleeding thunder from the roiling clouds.
The marble floor trembled from the distant storm, but it echoed the soft orchestra playing from the radio.
Dmitri walked slowly, jaw hanging as he looked aroun, wanting to take in everything at once. The guard led the way down the corridor, passing open doorways. One doorway was the source of the music, along with the shadow of movement.
Dmitri glanced inside. Two dancers, male and female, moving in perfect synchronization. He in black, she in pink. Lithe, slim, powerful bodies, drifting arms and sweeping legs.
They were beautiful. Dmitri could've stayed there forever, mesmerized by the dance, the music that had only a week ago filled him with so much hate, now gently wafted over him with sweet nostalgia. Oh, how he missed dancing. Maybe that could be him, one day soon.
A throat cleared.
Dmitri jolted out of his reverie, whirling around to see a woman standing beneath an archway some twenty feet down the hall. In a dark blue dress suit, she was shorter than Dmitri, but the way she held herself with such poise and grace had Dmitri feeling like a tiny child. She regarded him with warm blue eyes, and he found he couldn't determine how old she was. Mid-forties, maybe? There was an experience in her eyes that held much, yet with her dark hair and flawless skin, she seemed ageless.
Dmitri had no name for her, but he immediately knew on sight alone, that she was the one in charge here. Realizing he was faltering, Dmitri stumbled over an apology as he caught up to her. "I-I'm sorry, I got distracted. They were —"
"Extraordinary, aren't they?" The woman smiled kindly, knowingly. Her hands folded neatly in front of her, and that's when Dmitri noticed she was wearing white gloves. An odd little detail. Her voice drew his attention back to her face. "We only allow the best here, Dmitri. I hope your journey went well?"
"Well enough," Dmitri shrugged. Sore all over and exhausted, but fine. He couldn't bring himself to look away from her, there was just something so magnetic about this woman.
"I'm glad," She gave him a dazzling smile, stunning Dmitri with her beauty. So much so that he was completely defenseless when she brought him into a hug.
"Ah, Dmitri," the Madame whispered into his ear, soft and warm, like a mother to her prodigal son. "Welcome back."