Archive of Our Own

Freedom is a lie, P-3 repeatedly told himself when he first emerged from Facility 3826. A short, sweet lie because Doctor Sechenov was not one to leave any loose ends — with Polymer, even death is useful so the boss would have him one way or another but it was still a lovely lie that P-3 held on feverishly like a prayer.

It was a precious lie he was willing to believe in just for a while.

"I'll spit in his face when they come," the Major muttered to himself, cleaning his gear. He knew the basics: always maintain your weapon conditions, back to the wall and block out all but two entries for a chokehold and escape. If it kept him alive in the Facility, it would work here. "Whatever bullshit he has to say, he can keep it to himself."

He wouldn’t fight against Sechenov, but that didn’t mean he was going to go back like nothing happened.

Don't go down without a fight, he told himself. He was reborn into this world a feral dog and he would return to the void the same.

The first few days P-3 spent never stopping, always moving — nowhere in particular, simply away from Facility 3826, Chelomy and the Boss. Into the countryside, there were villages and small towns with people. Real living people who had no idea what was happening. He ignored them because he couldn't trust them. Any robots would have spotted him if he tried to approach. Hell, even a clock would sell him out.

Then days turned to weeks, and it was nearly a month of constant movement when P-3 began to slow down. Not by choice but even with his enhanced limbs, he had to rest. 

The worst part of leaving was the silence. Sometimes the Major would comment on the weather, a loud bird call or an oddly shaped mushroom and wait for a reply. Then he would look down at his left gloved hand and snarl at himself for being so stupid.

…Or sometimes he would hear a phantom Charles — no, Chariton's reply back. So the answer was easy: the Major stopped talking. It was better anyway, less energy to waste until the quiet slowly drove him wild.

"You know, when I wished for silence, I didn't mean something like this," P-3 said when he gave in, voice rough from disuse.

But you did , the ghost of Chariton said, cold and indifferent. You knew what you were doing, Major.

"Hah. Got me there."

At least the Polymer glove still worked as intended, although he had to be careful with resource management. No NORA to restart or repair.

-

The first civilization P-3 dared consider was a tiny backwater village. They must have been forgotten in the stone age, because holy shit they had no electricity, he saw a blacksmith sharpening a stone blade and people still using horse carts.

Nothing like Chelomy, clean and shiny and bright. Here, it was dirty, gross and probably had a hundred different flea subspecies living on the people there.

It was perfect.

He had planned to go in during the cover of the night, steal some food and leave. Nothing too bad, just enough to keep him going. Then P-3 had to be an idiot. He picked a house at the edge of the village, an old farmer lived alone with two dozen smelly cows. The old geezer also had a small fruit orchard, which was P-3's aim — who knew what kind of parasites were in the meat if he tried for beef. The trouble took the form of a wolf, dark gray fur and edging around the fence. P-3 took one glance at it, then ignored the beast. 

Not his problem if a cow or two go missing.

Sneaking in and out of the tiny house was easy, snatching the fruit crate — apples, hah — was even easier. P-3 stepped out to the kitchen and noticed the wolf had slipped into the house when he left a gap in the door. They eyed each other, the canine ever so slowly making its way to the side of the room, where the old man's snores came from.

"Don't be stupid," P-3 whispered to both himself and the wolf. "There's food out there. Shoo."

Perhaps the old farmer had killed the beast's whole pack and chopped off its balls because the wolf darted into the room anyway and P-3 —

Well, he didn't follow because why chase something down when you can easily halt them in their tracks with mass telekinesis? Of course, the Major didn’t put too much force into it. Just enough to drag the now yelping and screaming wolf off its feet so he could grab it by the scuff and storm out the door. In a funny way, he could see himself in the wolf, angry and starved for blood. Instead of snapping its neck, P-3 just tossed it lightly over the fence. The wolf ran with its tail between its legs into the woods so the Major followed suit, because in the house came startled yells of the shepherd now awake. The last glance he threw over his shoulder is the old man with a stone axe in the doorway, waving it threateningly at him.

Pssh. Whatever.

-

P-3 was munching on the last apple, only two days since the wolf incident when he ducked under the closest tree. 

There, a LUC-1 Owl flew by slowly.

So the shithole village still had some connections to the modern world and his freedom only lasted a month…or maybe more. Time was a little hard to keep track of here. Sechenov must have been too busy to look for him until now. 

"Don't you have bigger fish to fry?" P-3 growled at the Owl as he raised his Kalash and fired. Three shots, the first in the sensor to blind it, second in the wind turbine to knock it off balance and the third to take it down — yet the Major knew it was too late. The Owl's optic had turned to focus on him just for a moment when he pulled the trigger.

In that split second, Sechenov already knew everything.

If I may, Major, but this whole escape idea of yours might be futile.

"I didn't ask for your opinion, asshole."

Indeed, yet even you have to agree there's some sense to giving up and returning to Doctor Sechenov. The longer you refuse, the angrier he will be and you do not want him angry. 

"I'm not listening to the one who gives stupid ideas like guys making milk."

I'm not the real Charles, Major.

"And I'm ignoring you now."

It became harder to lie to himself when the robots came. Usually flyers, Owls led by a Drofa to hunt him down with their missiles and lasers replaced with electric nets and tranquilizer darts. Sometimes armored androids with the resemblance of a VOV-A assistant, but equipped with camouflage, tasers and stun batons — the military tier robots Chariton had mentioned before. The implications were enough to encourage him to move quicker.

The latest hunter was a Pylusch, upgraded with a silver Polymer device around its head to tame it. The creature was faster than its predecessors, going through the forest that the Major was hiding in effortlessly and moving unpredictably so P-3 did what he knew best: he fought back. It took nearly all his Fatman rounds but it eventually fell. Crushed the device along with its skull, scavenged and ran.

"Maybe I'll go to the Caspian sea," P-3 said to nobody in particular, vaguely recalling the great lake was South. "I always wanted to visit the sea."

Do you even know where the South is?

"Sure. I know East and West with the sun. Guessing South is 50-50."

-

At some point, the robots seemed to have lost him. The next questionable settlement was a lone house in the depths of the woods, but the main focus was that it had a garden with vegetables and he knew what tomatoes fucking looked like. The lapse in hunger for food that wasn't wild berries, nuts or game meat made the Major careless. He didn't notice the white form during the scan, or that it was moving towards him with its walking cane. He snatched a red juicy tomato and shoved it into his mouth, grunted when something smacked his side. Twice, it didn't hurt but he felt it. Then the shouting began in Kazakh, speaking too fast for him to understand.

"Ow! Crispy critters, lady! Watch where you're swinging that shit!" The Major shouted back, munching furiously in case this was his last meal of the day and dodging the next swing and took in his opponent. 

An old woman, wrapped in floral shawls and a white scarf over her head swung at him again. She missed — blind, he noted as she started to shout in Russian instead. "Out, damn bear! Out!"

"Look, granny, I’ll pay you." His talking had the lady turning, suddenly well aware of his new location so he caught the cane and wrestled it from her shaky hands. "I've got money! Just stop — oi!"

Without her walking cane, the old woman resorted to kicking his shins.

Here, the Major found solace in an old woman that vaguely reminded him of Granny Zina. Baba, she called herself. Except here, Baba also was nothing like Zina. She was cranky and blinder than a bat, but apparently had a sharp tongue and sharper ears to notice him sneaking. She spoke mainly Kazakh and some Russian, the latter enough for him understand two main things:

One, nobody touched her prized star fruits. Two, her back was hurting so he better help her with the well water.

P-3 grumbled and rolled his eyes but ended up helping the old hag with the damn water, then chopping firewood. This was followed by collecting the eggs from the chicken coop and she even got him to awkwardly milk the whole goat family in the back. The excuse was Baba's hunched back, but that sure as hell didn't stop her from reaching up and twisting his ear when he called her lazy. Somehow, the Major spent the whole day reluctantly doing mindless chores for the insane old hag to finally be dragged to the dinner table. A bowl of reddish-brown soup greeted him, bits of meat and herbs floated in it.

"You work, you eat," was all Baba said.

P-3 took a spoonful, then gobbled the whole thing. He burned his mouth but it was worth it.

"Pig," Baba snapped and without missing a beat, she pushed the bowl of fermented balls of cheese to him. "What, nobody fed you for years?"

He managed to swallow, ignoring the burns. "Something like that."

Baba let out an uncommitted hum, sounding almost gentle and soft for a moment. Then she took his bowl and refilled it. "Poor, poor pig bear."

"If anyone's a bear, it's you with that nasty temper," the Major shot back and ducked the slap to his head.

Staying was not the best idea but for the first time in what felt like a long while, Major Nechayev felt human again.

The first nights he dozed off in the shed outside Baba's house, too paranoid to let his guard down and kept awake by the clucking of hens and goat shuffles. Woke up, did chores and fed. This worked out until Baba kicked him into a small bathroom to shower in and then ushered him into a dusty bedroom. Pink faded wallpaper, old sketchbooks and dolls. After some snooping, P-3 found that the room belonged to a daughter who grew up and went to the city to work as a teacher. Married to a banker with two children, visits during the summer. Middle class family, happy and healthy judging the letters he found tucked in the living room shelf. Good chance they were already in Kollectiv.

Baba also had a husband and son lost to the war, wasn't born blind and hated potatoes but still cooked some anyway so he could eat. Part of the Major wondered if this could have been his life, once upon a dream. Sitting with his mother in law in the main room, listening to the radio while his forgotten wife was out of the house. Another contrast to Zina and a frankly comforting fact: there weren't many working electronics here. A broken down car dumped at the back of the house, an old radio that didn't work half the time that required a good hit to the side. It was no Radio of the Future and half the songs were in Kazakh, but it was alright. Every evening at dinner, they listened to the news — or Baba did, and P-3 pretended not to care.

"Kollectiv 2.0 has launched, come get your THOUGHT devices at the local square today," said the radio, spitting out a buzz of static. "Representatives will visit towns and villages — "

The Major leaned over to turn the dial back to the music. Baba, of course, retaliated but she was blind as a bat, not noticing that he just moved the radio from her left to her right side while she tried to strangle him.

Here, with a shaky routine, good food and company, it was an easier lie to himself until the inevitable arrived.

-

The thing that P-3 liked about old Baba was that she didn't bother with formalities. Like when she stumbled over parts of the Dominator the Major had meticulously spread out to clean, and she ran her hands over it before he could stop her.

All Baba did was grumble. "Clear your toys, Bear."

Bear was what she had taken to calling him, since he didn't share his names, code or actual. Her cold, skinny and rubbery hands had groped his arms and poked his waist. Even roughed up his hair. "Bear," she had announced with an air of finality in Russian, "circus bear."

The Major had glared at her. Not that she noticed. "Not an animal."

She laughed loudly and waved him away. "Such a noisy bear."

"Crazy old goat."

Said crazy old goat just smacked him in retaliation.

It was scarily peaceful living here. Weeks rolled by with no issue. No neighbors unless they walked for nearly six hours through the woods, old Baba goes to the main village every Wednesday to buy meats and canned foods — enough solitude to keep the Major's paranoia on the slow burner.

The most trouble P-3 had were getting pecked at by the brooding hens, shooing away the occasional foxes stalking around the farm and arguing with Baba over what kind of dumpling filling was best. Obviously the last one was half pork and beef, but the old hag insisted mutton was the right one. Still, he found himself patrolling the grounds and mentally mapping out the area. Tracked the path Baba used to the village, noted any dens or burrows of brown bears and vipers. The Major knew he was going back into old habits of his job, but he didn't mind.

The efforts paid off when he noticed Baba taking longer to come back from her shopping trip. She was an hour late, he noted as he set down the Swede — then picked it up as he set off. Didn't bother with locking up, Baba had nothing of value that he knew and he would hunt down the robbers if there were any.

He found Baba just off the forest trail down a short but steep slope, breath hitching when he slid down to her. "Crispy critters! Baba, are you okay?"

To his dismay and relief, she woke up and grumbled. "Damn bear. Just when I was having such a good dream."

"Well, you'd dream better back home," he remarked as he checked on her. No head wounds, slight scratches on hands and knees and a sprained right ankle. To think instead of getting up, the crazy old woman took a fucking nap in the bushes. Huffing to himself, P-3 shifted the Swede and her grocery bags onto one arm and easily scooped her up with the other. "Don't hit me, or we'll both fall."

"If we do, make sure to cushion me."

The Major had expected an injured Baba was more annoying but she was oddly demure. Stayed in bed most of the time, ordering him around to put heated coals under her bed to fight off the night chills that came with spring and fussing when he left his blankets with her. The only time she got cranky was lunch and dinner time, forcing her way into the kitchen and cooking despite his arguments so he'd stay to make sure she didn't fall.

Watching the blind Baba casually slice the carrots was nerve-wracking, despite knowing she had been living alone for a long time. She eventually got fed up by his staring, turned around and pointed the knife at him — missing by a few good inches to the left. "If you're here, might as well help."

"With?"

"Do the onions and slice the meat."

The Major ended up learning to cook Uzbek plov. Onions, garlic and carrots stir-fried in mutton fat with herbs before rice was cooked over them. Baba nagged over everything he did but the food came out alright, in her opinion. He found out the soup from the first meal he had here was called sorpa and the weird cheese balls were kurt. The jugs in the back are full of mare milk and yogurts. There was no refrigerator so Baba rubbed salt and spices into the meats and hung them above in the rafters. Learning these and being ordered around were fine, but what was not fine was when Wednesday rolled by and Baba handed him a plastic bag. 

"Look for a big van, the seller already knows my order. Just tell him I sent you."

That low brewing paranoia reared its ugly head up and P-3 swallowed thickly. He had been asked once to follow her to the main village and declined, Baba didn't ask again but now he had no choice. 

In his silence, the old woman frowned. "Bah. Nevermind. Next week then."

The Major learnt the meanest hen is named Anna, who liked to jump and kick at him like the chickens back at Facility 3826. The goat kids liked to climb on his shoulders when he bent down to milk the mothers, chewing on his hair and that the car outside wasn't a complete piece of junk. He could probably fix it up with the right tools, but there weren't any roads or destinations around for him. Plus, Baba didn't like it when he hogged the toolbox.

Wednesday came again, and this time: Major Nechayev didn't hesitate. He took the bag, counted the money in it and sure Baba had everything she needed before leaving. The MP and Pashtet would do. Everything else would be too noticeable.

-

The main village is a sleepy row of houses filled with elderly folk. All the young people went to the city, P-3 assumed, and his presence was very noticeable. They were painfully friendly, old men waving him over for drinks, grannies gossiping about the new strong man in their territory but the Major was here for the seller. His nerves were already on edge, hearing the faint buzz of a TV or the whirling of a standing fan. Too close, too risky.

The van was in the middle of the village, doors rolled open to reveal a whole shop. The seller only eyed P-3 curiously, smoking next to his wares when the Major approached. "Baba sent me."

"Didn't know her daughter's back. Or remarried so soon."

P-3 nearly choked. "I'm her son's friend."

His only answer was a skeptical raise of the brow but the bag was returned full and money taken. With that, P-3 turned tail and basically fled. 

Being stared at was nothing surprising. Personally, P-3 had never cared for being looked at, by the doctors or science staff or occasional reporters Sechenov met with while the Major stood guard along with the Twins — the only person whose attention he paid mind to was Sechenov's. Yet, at the edge of the village, he couldn't help but feel uneasy. Glanced over his shoulder casually, pretending to adjust the plastic bag. House on his right, leaning against the open door. Male, late fifties at most and younger than most of the residents here. Nicely dressed, a son visiting his parents — and a THOUGHT device wringing along his forehead.

Crispy critters!

“Don’t steal my line, asshole.”

The man watched P-3 with a dazed look, a splash of milky white in his eyes before his expression morphs into something frighteningly familiar: fond amusement.

Major Nechayev ran back home. A runaway circus bear hurrying to hide from the ringmaster with the old witch of the woods in this sick fairytale. Baba didn't ask why he came back in a rush, and he didn’t explain himself. She only listened in silence as the Major rushed to the bedroom to pack his gear, then quietly went into the kitchen.

"What the hell do I do, Charles?" P-3 sighed to himself without thinking, crumbling to his knees. He dragged a hand through his hair and tearing frantically at his braids, just simple pain to keep himself from panicking. Honestly, he did not want to leave.

Leaving again would mean never resting again, always looking over his shoulder and flinching at the slightest noise. Part of him regretted leaving Facility 3826, missed Chelomy and being under Doctor Sechenov. But he just couldn't stand the insanity of everything, from the accusations of Granny Zina to Charles' angry demands. To go back now, dragging and screaming, would be to be punished for fleeing.

Staying here was to endanger Baba, who for all her grumpy faults was an innocent civilian. Sechenov wouldn't have her killed but she was a lone woman alone in the forest, who knew what could happen. He could never live with himself if she got hurt just because she let a fucked up monster into her life.

Go back to the village, kill that man and destroy him completely — both the device and body to remove the Polymer leftovers.

"No, that man's innocent. His family is literally there with him."

Take out the family too. They are likely a liability as well, considering the packaged deal for group Polymer injections was rather popular amongst country folks. 

"Fuck that! You're insane, Charles!"

In this case, I have to argue that the possibility of you being insane is higher. Do you have a better solution then, Comrade Major? To remove the device would at the very least stop the data location emitting until the backup arrives. 

"No, I don't but maybe if you shut the fuck up, I'll be able to think better!" P-3 snarled as he punched the floorboards, wincing when the wood snapped under his fist. "Shit."

"Did you fall, bear?" Baba called from outside.

"Uh, yeah. I tripped." How the fuck is he gonna fix this shit? Maybe he can nail another plank of wood over it or something.

Footsteps from the kitchen, walking cane tapping the Major on the back. The old lady held a sack to his face. "Here." Inside was a mess of canned meats, packed dried fruits and black bread bundled in cloth. Buried at the bottom were unripe star fruits. "You'll need it more than me."

Shakily, P-3 took the sack from her. He remained on his knees, shoulders heavy with guilt and bone deep weariness. Baba seemed to know he wanted to speak, trying to find the right words and she waited for him. "Baba," the Major breathed quietly, holding the gifted sack to his chest. "What would you do if I told you I was a monster?"

Ah, I see, Chariton jeered at him. Getting your new master to throw you out so you can crawl back to your old one without too much heartache. Interesting tactic, Major.

"What kind of monster?"

Major Nechayev hung his head in shame, covering his face with his hands. "The kind that kills people because he's too angry to stop himself. The kind that forgets his own wife and runs away from his problems because he couldn't stand it."

Technically, that wife part is involuntarily, you know.

P-3 gritted his teeth and ignored Chariton. Then he flinched when Baba sighed heavily above him. 

"Angry to stop? Am I a dead person then? No!" Baba snapped and lightly slapped the Major's lowered head. "If you were that kind of monster, we wouldn't be talking. Now stop being so sad and help me with the potatoes for lunch."

Despite himself, P-3 obeyed and followed the old woman into the kitchen. Left his gear and the gifted sack in the bedroom.

This won't end well, Comrade Major, Chariton warned him knowingly but the man just nodded wordlessly.

He would burn the bridge when he got there.

-

Sure enough, a car arrived in the early evening of the next day, engine quiet enough not to startle the chickens to death.

P-3 stood by a window, KS-23 in his arms but it was not an army of robots or a squad of soldiers that stepped out when he peeked. It was a family of four — no, wait, five. A man taking out bags from the back, a woman carrying a baby and two little children squealing in excitement as they ran out of the car and towards the farm.

"Oh! Irina!" Baba suddenly exclaimed from the living room and got up with surprising speed. When P-3 caught her arm before she could slip out the door, she only patted his hand soothingly and said: "My daughter."

The Major only watched as old lady Baba and Irina conversed in Kazakh, the two kids — a small girl and a smaller boy ran up to him and stared. "Papa! There's a man here!"

Crispy critters, he forgot he was still carrying his gun. With a grimace, P-3 put the KS-23 away and tried to escape but the two kids grabbed at his overalls and tugged here and there. Trapping him, unless he wanted to rip them off their feet and throw them aside with mass telekinesis.

The father walked over with a smile on his face. "Hello there."

Scanning them revealed that Irina and her husband glowed bright red-orange. P-3's fingers twitch for his guns. Crispy fucking critters.

"There's no need for violence, P-3," Irina said to him when she walked in with Baba hurrying to cook a family dinner at the surprise early visit. Her smile was sincere, but eyes were empty. "We only want to see how you've been."

"Mind your own business," the Major hissed as he glanced down unwillingly at the sleeping baby in Irina's arms. 

Irina's husband stepped away from his wife to stand too close for comfort, eyeing P-3 up and down — pretty creepy, scanning and sending feedback to the network. The Major only sneered and glared back, refusing to back away. "We're glad you're doing well, P-3.  You are expected to return from this impromptu vacation in a week. There will be a Bumblebee and vehicle to collect you and — "

No.

"No."

The man paused, eyeing him curiously as he echoed. "No?"

"Yeah. No, I'm not going back until Sechenov explains himself. This whole mess of Kollectiv, what Charles — I mean, Chariton said and what Filatova showed me in the underground archive, all those people in boxes and what he did to me !" The Major had to stop himself, knowing he was almost shouting. He took a deep breath, ignored the worried looks the children gave their parents and this strange angry man. "Tell Sechenov I want answers."

The parents tilted their head to the side in confusion at the same time, creepy. It reminded him of the Twin, always moving in sync and — ugh, no. Don't think about them.

"Major Nechayev, you don't fully understand your situation, do you? This is not a request, it is an order."

"Fuck your order."

Between them, the baby started to fuss and hiccup yet neither parent took their gazes off the Major. An unnerving tension settled on the parents as they stared P-3 down, like he was a naughty child but he only raised a brow and returned the gaze in challenge. The baby was crying now, taking little gasps of air to build into a wail. P-3 knew he should give up, throw some vague answer that wasn’t quite a no so they would back off but he was too stubborn. It was stupid, so fucking stupid because Irina only blinked — new data sent to her — and sighed. "Your refusal and disobedience has been noted."

With that, the two members of Kollectiv turned away from him. For a moment, P-3 believed he won. He had to muffle a hysterical giggle at the absurdity of it.

Doctor Sechenov’s ire is no laughing matter, Comrade Major. If this is a game, you've won nothing but a harsher time. 

Baba called them to the table, chatting in a mix of Kazakh, Russian and English. The husband introduced himself as Henry, a man from the UK who met Irina during an international school exchange and moved to the USSR to join her. The kids, Olga and Andrey and baby Marina, the latter who had settled down when cuddled. Watching the parents acting normal was slightly freaky but P-3 tolerated it until he excused himself for the night.

He started for the bedroom, to grab his gear and leave but then froze. There wasn't a sound from behind the door, but his gut feeling had him scan the area — nothing there. Either there really wasn't anything there or it wasn't moving for the scanner to pick up. Instead of chancing it, P-3 stepped out of the house, headed to the window and held up his left fist. It was an asshole move but sometimes he liked clearing a room with mass telekinesis, without even entering the room. He heard his gear, the sack and other random stuff move then dropped them. The resounding thud was loud, but no hurried shuffling of metal against wood floors to get back into position. Clear.

Hm, you know Major, you're surprisingly cunning for a soldier.

Shrugging, P-3 opened the window and slipped in. He was grabbing Baba's sack of supplies when he noticed the open sketchbook on the table. Someone had scribbled a message over it, pencil carefully placed beside it in an attempt to look like the writer was in a hurry. The Major felt a chill down his spine. He had always placed Irina's sketchbooks back after snooping around, that and the writing in the book was a near perfect match of his. 

I take that back, Chariton remarked as an arm abruptly hooked around P-3's neck from behind, pulling tight into a chokehold. Not as cunning as these men.  

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up," P-3 snarled as he struggled against the hold. Shoved his right hand between the arm and his throat, left reaching back at the body against him. Warm, he realized with dismay, a human soldier. 

Regardless, P-3 still fought back. Shok right into the soldier's chest, broke out of the chokehold and slammed the first melee weapon he grabbed — unfortunately for the enemy, it was the Zvezdochka — into their head.

Well, that will be quite annoying to clean. Poor old Baba.

P-3 ignored the voices, both in his head and from the house as he fled out into the forest. Three more operatives, two humans and one military robot tried to stop him but they met the same fate as their first pal.

In the distance, P-3 could see the promised Bumblebee carrying what seemed to be a large glass tube.

Those are containers used to transport victims for medical treatment , Chariton reminded him helpfully. Submerged in Polymer, it can keep a person static until they’re awakened. We saw plenty of that with the Pylusch and those volunteers in the morgue, did you forget?

“Nah, I remember that shit clear as day. It’s game over if I’m stuffed into that then.”

Indeed, do your best to avoid that.

Without a word, P-3 took aim with his MP and started to snipe it from the air. The Bumblebee flinched and wobbled then after emptying a whole magazine, finally fell from the sky with the transport container. No satisfying crack of glass, but P-3 didn’t care.

-

Briefly during his run, P-3 wondered if he was supposed to feel guilt. Destroying robots was one thing, mutants another but actual human pursuers? 

He probably was supposed to at least hesitate and show some mercy, knock them out with their own non-lethal devices but he didn’t. Just kept fighting, looting and moving like before. The Major only killed those who stood in his way, those who retreated were ignored — that was good enough, right?

No, not at all. In fact, you should give chase before this comes back to bite you in the ass.

“Clam it. I’m not wasting energy hunting them down.”

You’re wasting energy from talking to yourself as you speak.

P-3 frowned and shook his head. Talking was fine, it kept him sane. It was scary how easily he lapsed back into the maddening silence so he made a point to keep chatting with this ghost of Chariton in his head. So far, it worked and he managed to focus on not getting caught. Out of ammo for all his guns, leaving him only with the Electro and Dominator and depending on his energy reserves. The Swede’s handle broke and the Zvezdochka’s lower blade was looking wobbly despite his efforts to maintain them. Crispy critters.

…You can’t run forever, Comrade Major.

“I can try.”

Perhaps you should consider returning to Granny Zina and begging for her help. Even better — or worse, depending on whose perspective you use — beg Sechenov for his forgiveness.

“Granny Zina would kick my ass, probably become good friends with Baba.” P-3 pretended not to hear that last part about his former boss. Or was it the current boss? Since the good doctor never did actually fire him officially.

Unfortunately, the stupid ghost in his head was right after all about the running bit.

The Major needed to rest, a quick nap of ten minutes would do. Picked a small cave, dragged out the snakes and spiders living in it with telekinesis and tossed them outside before barricading the entrance with some Polymer goo — deep enough that nobody passing outside would notice unless they entered the cave. Admittedly, P-3 was sleep deprived and feeling slightly faint. So what if there was only a single entrance and exit? He could just defend himself and wait it out. So he slept, no bright coloured world or fuzzy paws. Sleep was heavy and deep, coaxing him into its embrace and there shouldn’t have been anything wrong with it.

P-3 woke up and forced himself to check the Polymer wall. Still there. Cool. Back to sleep.

The issue came when he woke up the second time. It was more than enough rest, yet his limbs felt oddly heavy and he was starting to drift off again to his growing concern. Weird. He had never been a slow waker, snapping to alertness was part of his training.

The faintest hiss came from somewhere to his right. 

Shit.

Not the warning noise of a snake biting him in his sleep, but the hiss of an air canister. Sleeping gas then.

Fighting with his useless limbs, P-3 miraculously got his left hand near his face. The frostbite took several tries to activate but when it did, it fucking worked. Gasping from the cold, P-3 jerked back and immediately aimed the spray of ice at the canister to seal it until it stopped leaking.

“Crispy fucking critters,” he mumbled tiredly to himself as he sat up. Now that he looked, there was the faintest gap in the Polymer wall, a shallow hole where someone had covered it with their own goo. Ew.

You are compromised, Major. I suggest you run.

“Eh. Surely those snakes and spiders out there will slow them down, right?”

Not if they’re machines.

“Yeah, alright, gimme a bit,” P-3 grumbled sleepily as he reached for the Dominator. Then from the Polymer, a shape emerged through it seamlessly. First a silver hand, fingers sharp and piercing through the goo, followed by the long arm and a dark torso. A head of golden braids greeted him, blank face not even flinching when P-3 fired the Dominator at her.

“You got to be fucking kidding me!”

As you occasionally like to say, this really crisps your critters, doesn’t it?

“I've never said that before!”

Right slipped into the cave with him, her large frame making the place significantly more claustrophobic. She grabbed at him, snagging his ankle that was too slow to dodge and pulled. The bright light outside blinded P-3 briefly — did he literally sleep the whole day away?! — and allowed Right to throw him over her shoulder, trapping his arms to his sides and tossing the Dominator away. “You are being rescued, Comrade Major. Please do not resist.”

“Fuck you! Let me go!” P-3 roared and kicked and struggled but the iron giant did not falter. No Polymer ability seemed to work, only mass telekinesis making Right pause for just a moment. She stood there, letting P-3 hold her with the force before it became too much and his body slumped. Then she simply continued walking while he laid on her shoulder, panting and weak from the drain. Somewhere, P-3 could hear the hum of a Bumblebee and his thoughts returned to that shitty medical container.

“Fuck!” The Major choked out, borderline delirious from the drug induced sleep and panic. He could feel his heart racing, but eyes weight down and drowsiness tug at his consciousness.  “Chariton, help me.”

I cannot, Comrade Major. I only exist in your head. The phantom sounded almost pitying, and P-3 couldn’t help but wish he still had the bastard. He would be able to do something, anything. Hack the Twin, shok overload or even tickle her until she releases the Major. There is nothing I can do for you.

“Please.”

Beg. 

Even at the threat of being shipped back to Sechenov for punishment, P-3 couldn’t help but chuckle at the cruelty his mind managed to cook up. The chuckle grew into full blown laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks and hiccups when he realized what the ghost meant.

God forgive him.

“E-Ekaterina,” Major Nechayev gasped weakly. It was wrong to do this, to address this…thing as his wife. “Katya…Katya my love, please let me go.”

Right did not stop, did not respond and there was an extremely high chance Sechenov was observing them right now but he had to try. “Katya, I beg you — don’t do this .”

“You are in a state of temporary insanity, Comrade Major. You will receive treatment under Doctor Sechenov’s personal care.” It might have been his imagination but P-3 could have sworn the arm around him squeezed ever so gently. “There is no need to worry, Comrade Major.”

Major Nechayev only hung his head in defeat. He was already crying from laughing so hard, a few more wouldn’t matter. 

The only hopeful thing that happened was when the Bumblebee landed and the transport container slid open to receive its patient, Right didn’t set him down. Instead, the ballerina doll started to check the safety locks and pressure components that controlled the Polymer goo inside.

“Transport deemed unsafe for use.”

With that, Right elegantly stepped in the vat, too big for it but she settled in anyway. P-3 was maneuvered to sit on her lap and curl up against her bosom. The shockingly intimate position was mocking him, the brush of fabric against the side of his face and the living steel under was the cold reminder as P-3 fell back to sleep.

He could only hope that Right would somehow lose her grip on him and let him fall to his death.

-

The room they locked him in was comfortable. Not with lavish designs or a built-in jacuzzi, just comfortable.

It wasn’t the glass containers that P-3 saw housing the countless volunteers. The walls were an inoffensive pale gray that didn’t have a mark when punched, clean plain toilet, bullet proof false windows similar to the many safe rooms of Facility 3826, the bed was nice and the temperature was just right. Not too hot or cold.

The only issue was the lack of a door but it revealed itself, Polymer walls silently slipping apart for Sechenov arrival. Before the doctor could say anything, the Major cut him off with a simple: “I quit.”

“Rejected,” Sechenov replied without hesitation. He came alone, no weapons in sight or the Twins. Perhaps that freakish red Polymer creature was somewhere hidden here. Not that P-3 could search, he was too focused on his boss’s expression. It wasn’t of disapproval or anger, it was one of sincere sorrow. An expression that P-3 had only seen once, when he first woke up in the hospital where then stranger Sechenov had asked ‘do you remember me?’ and Major Nechayev shook his head.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

The doctor only shook his head, ignoring P-3’s question. “How have you been, my boy?”

“Shitty, now that I’m here.”

“And here I thought you wanted answers. I’ll give you three questions.”

That made the Major pause. He truly did want them, but part of him wasn’t sure he could take it hearing the truth from Sechenov himself. “Fine,” he managed to bite out. “Were you really planning to take over the world?”

“Do you want the short or long answer?”

“I don’t care.”

Sechenov only frowned at him. “It was never my aim. Kollectiv is meant to better humanity as a whole, to push us forward as one.”

“That was a yes or no question.”

“No, not if I could help it.”

P-3 sneered at him, moving to stand at the false windows. Here, he was furthest away from the other and for what it's worth, the distance seemed to upset Sechenov. “What about Chariton? Did you really kill him?”

“That was two questions, my boy. And no, Chariton Zakharov willingly chose to become Polymer. I only placed him into the glove to be of some use. I didn’t expect him to attempt to kill us all,” Sechenov lamented as he stepped over to the bed and sat down, ever the picture of composed calm. “He was going to betray you, did you know that? I assumed that as soon as I die, he will turn on you in order to take control of Kollectiv.”

“You’re not him. You don’t know that.”

“I know him better than anyone else. Make your last question count.” 

“Crispy motherfucking critters,” the Major muttered to himself, crossing his arms and stopping himself from pacing back and forth. There were so many more questions he had, but Sechenov was waiting. “So what happens now?”

“What do you think will happen?” Sechenov countered lightly, leaning back slightly with his hands in his lap and fingers intertwined loosely. Calm — like looking into an eerie lake with no movement. Dangerous.

“I die. America fights back against the robots and loses. You win.”

“We all win, my boy.” Sechenov watched him curiously. “Why do you think you’ll die?”

P-3 let out a humorless laugh and shrugged. “We all have to die, well, everyone but Chariton I guess.”

“You will be punished, not killed but what would you do if I told you I’ll give you a choice to decide your fate?” The doctor offered softly, and for all P-3’s combat experience and abilities, he cannot help but find the deadier person here was casually sitting on the bed. “With your current insubordination, it has been suggested that you should be…replaced, in a sense.”

“Do it, I said I quit. Get someone else to handle this shit.”

Sechenov shot him a warning look at the interruption before he went on. “You would become P-4. Perhaps P-5 or even P-6 depending on how the Voskhod extension will function after the wipe.”

“That’s…” The Major drifted off in horror, unable to say anything. To his confusion, the other man nodded in agreement.

“Horrible, unfair and what most will condemn to be evil — which is why I disagreed, and why I am speaking to you. The alternative is re-education, where I will personally retrain you to an acceptable state.”

“I’m not a fucking dog, Sechenov.”

“Sergey Nechayev, I’m giving you the choice to pick.”

“These fucking choices suck!”

For the first time since he arrived, Sechenov narrowed his eyes and his lips twisted with a hint of frustration. “Then will you prefer it if we chose for you?”

Swallowing, P-3 grounded his teeth so hard he heard them click. To lose yourself completely or to give yourself up willingly, like either way was better — but maybe in the latter, he can hold off long enough to run away. Or kill himself. Even if Sechenov didn’t allow him a weapon again, the Major could always find an open window to accidentally tumble out of or a particularly sharp object to fall and land on with his head so conveniently.

“Well?”

Clenching his fists and glaring at the plain floor tiles, P-3 shook his head and heard Sechenov sigh. 

“Use your words, my boy.”

Crispy critters. “I don’t want to change my callsign.”

“I agree. In that case, shall we start your training?” Nechayev could hear the soft smile in Sechenov’s voice, could feel the other internally preening in the victory that was guaranteed the moment that goddamned Owl spotted him back in at the start. Even so, he nodded because that was all he could do now. “Come here and kneel down. Arms behind your back”

Sechenov tapped the space in front of him with a spotless shoe, waiting until the other reluctantly obeyed. “Your rank as Major will be stripped until I deem you fit. From now onwards, you are only Sergey Nechayev and you will address me as sir, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the words rolled from Nechayev’s tongue tonelessly. He focused on staring at Sechenov’s shoes, on the hard ground against his knees and on his own steady breathing. He twitched when a hand touched his head, fingers dragging through his messy braids and brushing the tips of his ear. Ignored when that cursed hand curved down to cup his face, gentle and loving and full of patience.

“You have always been my most precious creation,” the doctor above him confessed quietly. “The perfect blend of flesh and steel, the gift of free will has always been one of the many aims humanity seeks to recreate.”

Being this close, Nechayev could reach up and snap Sechenov’s neck. He’d done it before, to Molotov and Filatova, rip and tear the other until nothing was left. With that terrifying thought, Nechayev moved — stained hands wrapped around his boss’s throat. Somewhere outside, the room rumbled. The Twins, the red goo freak, whatever security bots were attempting to break in to stop them. They would be too late, it would be easy to just press and shatter the neckbones under his fingers but to Nechayev’s horror, Sechenov only smiled at him and continued to stroke his cheek so softly.

After what felt like eternity, Nechayev watched his own hands slowly uncurled from his savior — his captor’s fragile neck. He took a shaky breath, held it and returned his arms to their previous position behind his back.

There was no trick, no module from stopping him. Nechayev simply chose not to kill him and Sechenov’s smile grew by the slightest with approval. 

“Good boy.”