⧗ CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT ⧗


It was half a miracle Dmitri could walk at all after that.

In the end, he still retained the dignity of being able to return to the Red Room on his own two feet. Thankfully, Sabina and Oksana were much the same, their injuries largely superficial, only skin deep. Nothing that would leave deep, permanent scars.

Not physically, anyways.

Perhaps Dmitri should've guessed sooner. The lack of missing body parts. The fact that the torture largely remained away from his face, which the Madame considered to be their best features. Nothing they couldn't walk away from if they succeeded.

Or fail, give up the Red Room's secrets, and end up with a bullet in his brain.

It was only during their debriefing did they learn that mission was never meant to be a success. Designed to get them captured and have them believe it was the real thing. No safety nets at all, as Annika gotten herself killed, fighting too hard. Gotten too far and refused to go down until they put her down.

Ark was a real company, as was the CEO that Oksana kicked down. But the rest was as real as shadow puppets, just make-believe. Ark was little more than a shell company and a convenient place to catch them off guard. Even if they hadn't gotten caught, there would've been nothing for them to find. Mr. Svoboda died for nothing.

Annika died for nothing. Rada, too.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.

But in the end — Dmitri was glad it wasn't him.

The trip home was a silent one. They left as five and returned as three. That didn't feel like a success to Dmitri. Sure, the test was to weed out the weak. But at what cost?

Skin burned by the hot water, Dmitri could barely tolerate wearing a shirt, each itch of movement causing waves of pain across his body. It was really bad the first day, worse the second, before the third it finally started to come down a little. Their handlers gave them time to recuperate before handling the trip home. Each given IV medication and bedrest, a tender diet of crackers and watered down orange juice.

Both hands in a splint, three different fingers broken. Dmitri hardly felt like a powerful Red Room agent. Just a stupid boy who didn't figure out the trap quick enough. Not that it would've done him any favors. Even if Dmitri had realized it was a test in the thick of things, would that have changed anything that followed?

The Madame waited for them at the entryway, with wide open arms. She embraced each of them in turn, delicately minding their injuries. "Oh, my beautiful darlings. None have suffered as nobly as you."

A part of Dmitri wanted to recoil from such praise, but when the Madame's arms wrapped around him, a mother's embrace, he melted right into it before he could stop himself. He didn't want to. This was the comfort and soothing he had desired all along, to be told he was so brave and so strong and his pain was noticed and appreciated.

A gloved hand ruffled through his hair, as the Madame pulled back and looked him up and down, as she had with Sabina and Oksana before him. "You'll have plenty of time to rest now, don't worry. No more tests, hm? Your journey is almost complete."

Instead of eating in the dining hall, a task Dmitri wasn't sure he was up for, they received their meals in their dorms. But as joyous as the Madame seemed, none of them could carry it back with them. They sat, the three of them, in a suddenly very long and very empty room. From five beds to three, nothing but the evening wind rattling the windows as they ate their hot soup and biscuits in personal solitude.

Dmitri took a cold shower instead of a hot one this time, the only thing his burned skin could handle. He'd been given an ointment to spread across the raw skin, though it hurt more than it seemed to help. But better to put it on anyway. He forgoed a shirt in lieu of having to endure the bedsheets. Dmitri couldn't sleep on his back, not without agony. It didn't change the routine of having his wrist handcuffed to the bedpost.

At this point, the handcuff felt more like a comfort than an annoyance. A constant presence reminding he was home, he was safe.

~ o ~

"Tell me, Dmitri. What is on your mind?"

This did not feel like a casual cup of tea. Dmitri knew the Madame was evaluating him. Each of them, after the last test. Torture was a dangerous game, perhaps, toeing the line between practice, teaching, and permanent damage. He wasn't sure he avoided the last element.

He wondered how Sabina and Oksana had answered. He knew so little now. They had barely talked since their return, and on the one hand, Dmitri couldn't understand why. On the other, he thought he knew the exact reason why. And not just his own misgivings regarding Ksenia but — everything else. Everything that had followed.

Everything that laid before them.

"I'm just —" Dmitri knew he couldn't say he was fine. No one ever believed that lie, not even the most gullible. "Just trying to remember why I'm here."

It wasn't a bad answer, but he could tell it wasn't what the Madame expected to hear. Her eyes narrowed slightly, a tilt of her head. "How do you mean?'

"I just get distracted, I think," Dmitri replied, trying not to stammer. Every time he thought about that room, the false American, he remembered the fear he felt. The horrible realization that his father's enemies had found him. "I thought it was real. I thought… what they wanted to do to my father, they'd do to me."

"Ah," The Madame nodded wisely. "Yes. Each experience is unique, tailored to each of your weaknesses. But you stood the test, Dmitri. And Lev's enemies still have no idea who or where you are. And you're all the stronger for it."

"I suppose." Dmitri mumbled. It wasn't just the American that had gotten to him.

The Madame studied him, unconvinced. "Is there something else?"

"Is it normal to, er, hallucinate?" Dmitri made a face. He already felt like his next question would be a strange one, but felt he might as well lay the groundwork.

"Given a sufficient amount of deprivation, yes. Though it makes the victim less reliable and compliant."

"Oh," that seemed to make sense. Dmitri mulled it over for a moment, then continued, "I saw someone. I thought she was there to kill me."

A clink as the Madame set the cup back into its saucer. "Who?"

Dmitri almost immediately regretted bringing it up, but it's too late now. "M— the Soldatka."

The Madame blinked. For a moment, he thought he detected a hint of surprise in her face. But it was gone so quickly he thought he imagined it. "Ah. So your father told you the truth, didn't he?"

"N-not exactly," Dmitri decided he'd rather not get into minutiae. "He didn't want me to find out. Not like — not the way I had."

"She shot you, didn't she?" The Madame said, though in such a way that she'd already known. "She killed your father. I won't say I ever shed a tear for that man. But I was amused by the irony. What happened to you, though — a tragedy. You were never supposed to be there, Dmitri."

Dmitri frowned. "You're not worried she won't… that she won't come back?"

"On her own?" The Madame chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, no. I'm keeping tabs on the girl, don't worry, Dmitri. I can assure you, she's far too busy with problems of her own design. Besides, given her condition, I doubt she remembers this location. She was never as competent as her father."

"The Winter Soldier," Dmitri said. The man, the mystery that killed his mother. Not directly, but it might as well have.

"Yes," The Madame sipped from her tea. "Now that is a loss I'm afraid we'll never recover from. Your training will be all the weaker for it. You'll fight very few enemies as dangerous as a super soldier, but that sort of experience is invaluable to have. You won't win every fight you encounter, Dmitri. But you'll learn it's better to run in order to survive. And that even the greatest foes have a soft underbelly. It's our prerogative, our gift, in being able to strike it."

"And what's that, for a super soldier?" Dmitri asked.

The Madame laughed a little, as if he were playing dumb on purpose. "Oh, you're serious? Come now, Dmitri, give it a little think. When the time comes, I believe you'll know exactly what it is."

Well, he hoped she was right, because Dmitri couldn't think of anything at the moment. "And Dreykov? He's not interested in them?"

"Oh, I highly doubt it," The Madame seemed deeply amused by this idea. "I'm afraid a super soldier is a bit… beyond his capabilities. Not that he wouldn't want one under his thumb, I'm sure. But he lacks the resources, the wherewithal. No, he'd rather steal from our own hard work than do any of his own."

"And you're not worried?" Dmitri asked, as he considered what might be most advantageous to Dreykov. At the Madame's quirked eyebrow, he continued, "That he might target you? Because, I mean… you're the only one standing in his way."

"Hm," The Madame pressed her lips together, apparently intrigued by this. She was silent for a moment, then set down her teacup. "Come, walk with me."

Surprised, Dmitri obeyed without question, though with great trepidation as he followed the Madame out of her office. He didn't know where she was leading him, but quickly discovered it to be a wind of the Red Room that he had never ventured to before. The palace was huge, and not all of its many wings and corridors were utilized. This one, as she led Dmitri down the west end, was darker, mustier, with drawn curtains and rooms filled with unused equipment and furniture.

And then they came across one long wall filled with paintings and portraits and photographs. A series of them, about ten inches long each, were lined up on a single level. The closest one was a class photo from a year ago. All the youngest girls sitting around the Madame, who stood in the center, tall and proud. Like a Kindergarten portrait.

"I've been here for many years, Dmitri," the Madame began, reaching out to straight one frame, though it had not appeared askew. "I've taught so many students. You're not wrong to think that Dreykov would see me as his greatest obstacle to overcome. Were he to command this place, I imagine it would become the very nightmare I was born from."

She turned from the latest photo and began walking further down. Each passing year, a new photo, a new class, descending in years. About a dozen down, she stopped again, smiling faintly as she cleared the thin layer of dust to reveal a series of familiar faces. "Dreykov is not the first usurper who thought he could outwit me. Nor will he be the last. Like every man before him, he fails to understand what it takes to create beautiful creatures such as my spiders. It is not just about pain and discipline. But to nurture and cultivate strength and resilience."

The Madame walked on, though Dmitri remained, just for a moment. To stare at his own face from more than ten years ago — so small, so bright and hopeful. Did he really used to look like that?

And all around him, the cute little faces of girls that he no longer knew.

His heart clenched, and he quickly caught up with the Madame.

"Machiavelli once asked us if it was better to be loved or to be feared," The Madame continued. "In truth, it is better to be respected. To be loved and feared in equal measure, to know one's place in the order of things. That is what I offer here in the Red Room. A healthy fear, to be sure, and also a certainty. A comfort, a home. Dreykov does not care to be loved. He wants to be feared. To be worshiped, even. He sees any question of his authority as a threat, the highest offense, instead of seeing it as a way to acknowledge personal worries, and engender further trust. He's a stupid man, as so many are."

She turned to give Dmitri a smile over her shoulder. "But not you, Dmitri. Of course, not you. I hope you feel as welcome here as all of your sisters."

"I do!" Dmitri insisted, as they passed more and more photos. He'd lost count at this point, but looking behind him, he was rather startled by the distance. But of course, the Madame had been here for many years. Even ten or twenty was bound to create quite the line of class portraits. Though they hadn't stopped walking… "I've never been afraid to ask questions."

Was that true? Dmitri couldn't be sure. He was whatever she wanted him to be. But Dmitri definitely wasn't here, at this moment, because he kept his mouth shut.

"And that's why I love about you, your curiosity," The Madame smiled. "So few seek out the mysteries of our past. Dreykov certainly isn't a curious man — not when it doesn't benefit himself directly. If he had been, though, he might have realized long ago just how out of his depth he truly is."

At a certain point, the Madame came to a stop. The photos here were so old, so untouched that they all had a thick layer of dust on them, to the point that Dmitri couldn't see underneath it. The Madame swiped a gloved hand across one. Below, the date read '1979'. A group of young girls in dated uniforms, and the Madame, in a different hairstyle, different fashion of skirt. Looking only a little bit younger than she was now.

"The Red Room contains many secrets, so few are privy to," The Madame said, pausing to admire the photo, before walking on again. Dmitri frowned, wondering why this one, but did not have the chance to ask as he followed. "The Winter Soldier is one. Our Widow's Bite another. Trade secrets that have never escaped these halls. The Red Room is not just a school, but a house of progress. We are always seeking to improve, even in the most experimental ways."

Then she stopped once more, a swipe of her hand again. 1960. Another class, another Madame. Younger still, and yet clearly not as young as she should be. A full grown adult, her face unchanged aside from a decade or two of age, in the half century or more that has passed.

Dmitri stared at it. Was that real? Surely it must be some form of photo editing.

"This was my first class as head of the Red Room," The Madame continued, smiling faintly at the old image. "Not long after I'd undergone an experimental procedure of my own. You see, Dmitri, the Germans and the Americans weren't the only ones to attempt their own super soldiers. But the Russians as well. I cannot speak to the origins of the Winter Soldier, but our Red Guardian was one such success story. And I was another."

"What?"

The Madame laughed at his expression. "Oh, I know, I don't look much like one, do I? But I assure you, my apparent immortality was not innate. There is more than one way to enhance humanity, Dmitri. The stupid seek to enhance strength and speed and other ridiculous traits that will be rendered useless given the endless march of advanced technologies. But mankind has yet to find another means for the mythical fountain of youth. Some men want to live forever. So few understand exactly what that means."

"You're —" Dmitri kept glancing between the photo and the woman in front of him, trying to comprehend what she was saying. "You're immortal?"

"Not in so many words," The Madame shrugged delicately. "But functionally, yes. I have lived for a very long time; I should be nearing the end of my natural life by now, but I am in fact in the peak of health. My body has yet to break down upon itself, and though I age at a slow rate, my mind remains as sharp as ever. Man seeks eternal youth, when in fact, what he wishes for is immortality of the mind."

"Previous subjects have gone mad," She continued. "As youthful as ever, but succumbing to dementia, insanity, what have you. The body lives on as the brain shrivels. I can't speak to how the standard super soldier ages, if the Winter Soldier were allowed to age normally, if his mind would hold up as well as mine, if he would live as long without the breakdown of age. But there are other reasons, more important ones, as to why he was kept frozen between objectives. Meanwhile, I have the advantage of learning from experience, and remembering it all, with no detriment to my mental capacity."

Dmitri stood there, stunned. His mouth hung open for a moment, before he could finally gather his thoughts again. "Does Dreykov know?"

"I'm sure he has inkling," The Madame smirked. "Difficult to escape notice when he's turned into a wrinkled bulldog over the decades and I've hardly changed at all. But I doubt he knows the true scale of it, and he'll never have it anyways. The scientists who developed the serum that changed my life are long dead now. Very few are worthy of this gift, Dmitri. I've been very selective with who I give it too. Even after all these years, the serum is finicky. It doesn't always work. I'd rather not destroy one of my beloved students in case things go awry. But every once in a while, I get lucky."

"And why are you telling me this?" Dmitri asked, already fearing the answer. He didn't know why he was afraid. The sudden realization that the Madame was so old was more than a little intimidating. That even if she were not as strong as someone like Mia, the Madame had her own clear advantage. It was the kind of secret Dmitri wondered might get him killed.

"Well, I suppose I trust you, Dmitri," The Madame replied, a little amused at his confusion. "And I hope someday to pass this gift on to someone else. I cannot have children of my own. That is the price of a Black Widow. But in turn, I've raised more daughters than four generations of hapless men. And my lineage has stretched wider and farther than any man with a worthless title or crown upon his head."

She reached out, tilting his chin up with one silk finger. "Perhaps one day it might be you."