Work Text:
September, 1995, Somewhere in the Caucasus Mountains.
Rain tapped softly against the cabin windows.
Former Major Dimitri Radimor sat alone in his favorite armchair, a glass of bourbon resting loosely in one hand.
The fire crackled quietly in the stone hearth.
Outside, the mountains were hidden beneath fog and darkness.
A peaceful place.
A place a man like him could grow old.
The flag he’d marched under for nearly half a century no longer existed.
And despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to miss it.
In truth, he had hated it for most of his life.
Not openly.
Not foolishly.
But quietly, secretly.
Ever since Berlin.
Ever since 1945.
Ever since he watched his best friend die at the hands of a child.
War.
War disgusted him.
War brought out the worst in mankind.
The long list of dead and missing friends he left behind across Europe and Afghanistan was proof enough of that.
Gregori Irinovskaya.
Radek.
Dozens more.
Some he remembered.
Some he had forgotten.
Gregori Irinovskaya, uncle to Little Sofiya.
Bright.
Talented.
Full of promise.
Then Afghanistan came.
War had a habit of taking things apart.
Into making people into monsters.
The old major swirled the amber liquid around his glass.
American bourbon.
Twenty years earlier he would’ve laughed at the idea.
Now he found it preferable to vodka.
Less bitter.
More honest.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
His eyes drifted toward the stack of folders sitting on the nearby table.
Reports.
Names.
Children.
The word escaped him like poison.
“Girls…”
His grip tightened around the glass.
For nearly fifty years he’d watched governments find new ways to justify old atrocities.
Different flags.
Different speeches.
Different excuses.
Always the same result.
Dead children.
Broken families.
Ruined lives.
Minsk, Berlin, Moscow, Kabul, Washington.
All the same.
The Ministry.
The “Ministry of Wounded Sisters.”
A religious charity on paper.
Something far darker in reality.
He had seen enough intelligence operations in his life to recognize one when he found it.
The Americans weren’t saving those girls.
They were weaponizing them.
Just as the Soviets would’ve.
Just as anyone would’ve.
The old major closed his eyes.
And suddenly he was eighteen again.
Berlin.
1945.
His PPSh bucked violently in his hands as he emptied an entire drum magazine into a German position.
Smoke.
Dust.
Screaming.
His friend Radek climbed over a pile of rubble first, Mosin rifle in hand, running head long.
Young.
Dumb.
Loyal as a dog.
Then a child appeared.
No older than nine.
The boy held an improvised grenade against his chest.
For a moment neither moved.
Then—
The explosion.
The memory ended there.
Half a century later.
Nothing had changed.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Radimor’s eyes opened.
“I was wondering how long it’d take.”
The silence that followed told him everything.
Ivan stepped from the shadows first.
His old limp was still there, a souvenir from Afghanistan.
Josef remained near the doorway.
Neither man met his eyes.
Radimor sighed.
“I taught you boys better than this.”
The old major took another sip of bourbon.
“After everything…after everything we’ve been through. Everything we’ve seen and done…”
He looked at Ivan directly.
“You saved my life, and I in return…and this is the thanks I get?”
Radimor chuckled.
He set the glass down.
“They sent my own officers.”
Neither brother answered.
They didn’t need to.
Radimor already knew.
The old major had become inconvenient.
A problem needed to be dealt with.
The old man rose from his chair.
“What are they telling themselves these days?”
His eyes moved between them.
“That they’re protecting the world? It’s for a greater purpose?”
Still no answer.
A faint smile crossed his face.
“That’s what we used to say too.”
For the first time since entering the room, Josef looked at him.
The old major could see the conflict in the young man’s eyes.
Good.
At least one of them still had a soul.
“I’m not angry,” Radimor said quietly.
“Just disappointed.”
Ivan was next, his face was hardened but his eyes were not.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
A genuine laugh escaped him.
Tired.
Worn out.
Almost sad.
“Harder?”
He shook his head.
“You’re the one wasting time, Ivan.”
The fire crackled softly.
“I died forty years ago.”
His eyes drifted toward his old, trusty Nagant 1895.
“In a city called Berlin.”
He slowly reached for it.
The Novik brothers watched as he slowly examined the pistol, turning around to face them.
“I’ve just been a walking corpse ever since.”
He slowly walked over to Josef, and presented him with the pistol.
Josef stared at it before, shakingly, he took it with his gloved hand.
“I-I’m sorry…Major….”
His voice trembled and his eyes grew watery.
Despite Ivan’s stoic stance, his eyes grew misty too.
Years of discipline.
Years of loyalty.
Years of friendship.
All collapsing at once.
“I know you are, son.”
He guided the young man.
Pressing the barrel to his forehead and cocking the hammer.
“That’s why you have to do this…”
And for the first time in decades, Dimitri Radimor felt tired.
Not exhausted.
Not weary.
Simply tired.
His thoughts drifted briefly to Berlin.
To Radek.
To Gregori.
To Afghanistan.
To all the men who never made it home.
To Sofiya.
The little girl wanting to be an Olympian.
Before the wars.
Before the scars.
Before all of it.
A faint smile crossed his face.
“Take care of each other.”
The words were barely above a whisper.
Josef squeezed his eyes shut.
Ivan looked away.
Outside, thunder rolled across the mountains.
A single muffled gunshot echoed through the storm.
Then silence.
Only rain remained.