Chapter Text
Albert Einstein had once said that “there are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” Ever since Melina had read this, she believed this philosophy was true. Every part of her existence was a miracle. From the fact that she was still breathing to the particles of earth that lived under her neat, short nails.
It was not as though she was stupid. Melina was aware that almost all widows never got past the age of twenty-five in her generation, thirty in the newer ones. Most started the process of fizzling out by the time they hit twenty. The programme had only evolved slightly since she was young. Only a few remained from her year, ones that had proved their worth beyond being field agents to the board (the board being one man) through other skills.
Oksana had gotten away by working in the laboratories, being a skilled physician that was always on call for those who were useful enough to be treated. Boleslava had gotten away because of her ability to shape the minds of the next generation of girls who would be competent enough to complete their missions. Melina? She had science. Atoms and anatomy made up her life, her research that would never realistically be completed in her lifetime.
It was not a miracle that kept her alive, it was dumb luck and a project that started in America in the nineties. It was science.
It had never been uncommon for women to go out into the field and not come back. Women disappeared all the time. One’s that disappeared from the street like garbage, one’s that she had put down herself like a lame horse, staring straight into their eyes unapologetically. Never a hint of emotion on her face. She did not cry, because she was a widow and widows never cried. Widows who cried were completely useless and the next target.
For decades, only five would be lucky enough to graduate. Thirty bright toddlers dwindling down to five slowly like ice melting. Drip, drip, drip, slowly only one day only the best remained at the bottom of the bucket. They had not been trained to work together. Instead, trained to be isolated figured: get in and get out. To seduce and kill key figures in international espionage and politics (the same thing, really, once you knew the inside). To start wars, then stop them once the seed of doubt was set. Melina had been everywhere at nowhere all at once. Able to look at herself in the mirrors in the dressing rooms of the Bolshoi Theatre, only to see herself looking back from desolate dorms.
It was almost a waste to let so many girls live now. Watching classes from afar, passing glances when walking with the guards. The girls work together but the feral look of survival is still present in their eyes. That look dimmed too, once she had seen their dorsolateral prefrontal cortex’s. Had poked and prodded until the General’s goals were complete.
The General’s most feared weapons.
Alexei had never exactly been a fan of strict schedules, and was glad when the day came that he got to move from the strict labour colony to an open one. It wasn’t as though “open” meant it was some place where they were basically free. But at least it wasn’t working fourteen hour days for no pay-off, instead only eight hours, two meals a day, rec time for an hour before back in their cells.
It was nearing the end of rec, the time everyone hated because it meant they would all go back to silence, cement cells with little light and a bed made of straw. Alexei figured it wasn’t as bad for him since he could hear what the others were muttering to themselves in their own rooms, hoping that guards wouldn’t hear them making a noise. He could hear them, study them like he would in the army.
Men were getting to the end of the embellished stories they told, tattoos being finished, the third period of the KHL was starting on the old, barely working TV up by the kitchens. Alexei was invested, his home team playing in the Eastern Conference semifinals. He wanted them to get to the finals, just as Ursa wanted his team to.
“Alexei Andreovitch Shostakov, post.” the voice over the loud speaker says. A rarity: Alexei ignored it, something that he didn’t usually do. He enjoyed getting mail - the occasional baked goods that the guards stole, letters from those that were still his fans despite the decades since his “retirement” - this moment was more important. “Shostakov, post.”
“They will get testy, you know.” Ursa pointed out from the other bench, eyes not leaving the screen as one of his defence men got a penalty for high sticking. Alexei waved him off, eyes also glued to the screen, uncaring. What would they do, try and hurt him? Bah, he was a super soldier. Invincible.
Invincible until a switch was flicked, the television sputtering then turning off just as the centre shot the puck. Groans could be heard echoing through the cement and metal building, the annoyance of men hardened by years separated by the outside.
“Shostakov, post.”
“Told you.” the other man grumbled, glaring over at him as he stood up and walked over to a set of men finishing off a tattoo. Alexei sighed, heaving himself up and heading towards the mail desk. He ignored the angry looks the other prisoners gave him, they were usually jealous of him, anyway. When he had first arrived in prison, he had assumed that everyone would look at him as though he was a Soviet Hero. Which he was. Yet, when he got there, he realised that to them he wasn’t a hero: he was just a prop used for distraction.
“Post.” The man gruffly shoved the small package into the drawer and shoved it through. It was already open, the disappointment that there were no treats this time evident in the way the guards looked at him. “No sweets this time. Tell them to send more.” They laughed. As if Alexei could write letters to anyone. He was surprised others could get to him, maybe it was Ivan Dreykov’s way of tormenting him more than his mind already did: dangle the outside world in front of him like a rabbit and a carrot.
“Yes, sure.” He grumbled back, turning around and heading over to the benches. Through the grating he can see the lone table and chair set where inmates could (rarely) meet with their lawyers. He had last sat there four years ago, when he had been transferred. Alexei could remember the smug look in Dreykov’s eyes, the sound of his voice as he said that this was the closest Alexei would get to freedom.
One foot out of line, and he would be sent back.
Maybe Alexei toed the line, but he knew better than to cross it.
Ripping open the package, he frowned when he saw a notebook. He placed the other flurry of letters he got down beside him and turned it over in his hands. A simple, university notebook. He thumbed through the faces that faced him, empty as the number sequence went backwards: the wrong side. There were small pieces of writing, numbers. He didn’t pay attention to it, focused on the fact that it was grid paper rather than simple lined.
Who the hell used grid paper?
The shouting of guards in the background, shuffling of feet, scraping of metal on cement as benches were pushed back and inmates stood up. Clinking of cuffs as they were re-latched, together in a chain. He grabbed his letters and the book and started the short walk back to the barracks.
Small beds in cement cells. Alexei wasn’t sure the mattress could be constituted as a bed, but he had slept in worse. Thankfully, recently he had been moved into a new wing of the prison. They’d claimed it was because of good behaviour, not because the walls were crumbling to where even those without super strength could break through. It was better, but nothing would be good enough as fresh air. At least he had a proper toilet.
As usual, he was frisked before going into the cell. Because somehow flimsy plastic spoons he could break with his pinky would get him out of this cell. Alexei didn’t say anything, he probably could have broken out at any moment if he knew there was someone out there who actually wanted him with them.
The iron doors shut behind him with a resounding thunk , the bolts latching with a clank . The sound echoed all down the corridor as men, not unlike himself, were placed in their cages. He sat down on the threadbare mattress, leaned back, his head tapping against the wall as he stared up towards where the sky should be. Theoretically, these cells were meant for total silence. In one of his placements, he had helped make the doors for them. Padding and as much sound proofing as they could within the thick metal. Silence never accounted for super soldier hearing. Silence for him was a cacophony of sounds: the muttering of others as their minds were their only company, the conversations of guards about their mundane worlds outside of shifts, the tossing and turning and the nightmares that generally followed closely behind.
Alexei had once loved music, so he had to learn how to find the beauty in misery.
The book and letters had been tossed aside, but he looked back over at them now. Lifting up the notebook and turning it in his hands once more. There were no stains, no outward markings to say where or who it was from. The cover black, only the monogram of the branding on the front. Only the slight fraying of the edges shown on the outside that it once had a home.
Finally, he opened it.
Alexei stared at the front page for a couple of moments, the characters staring back at him not clicking in his brain. A mix of Cyrillic, Georgian, and Latin characters that made no sense together. A mix, that most, would assume was nonsense or a child scribbling across a page. This was written in a very precise and perfect cursive. A black ballpoint pen, probably cheap and gotten from the end of an aisle, .05 the cap hiding the end chewed from thought.
Dear Alexei ,
His heart stopped, a voice from decades past invading him.
I do not know what the point of writing this will be. You will not see it. It will be intercepted and one or both of us killed. Here I am. This is useless. You will not hear me. But I do not know what else to do…
It was Melina. Staring down at the words, her writing, perfect. His Melina . She had somehow found out where he was, and had sent him the notebook despite the consequences. Had written to him like she wrote to him all the time. A casual letter.
Even through his elation, Alexei could tell the familiarity in these letters. It was something he knew Melina would never let herself have, even if he had always told her it would be okay. (as it turned out, he would be wrong).
His Melina, alive.
He was not supposed to be here again so soon…
Melina thrived on routine. It was something she had grown up with. Even with Madame B and the other teachers trying to surprise them, Melina had found that their efforts were fruitless: she knew what they were going to do.
Every fortnight for the decades she had lived there, guards would visit the property to do a sweep. Monthly she would report to the General via video link; bimonthly she would visit him in person. The guards had been there a week before, whisking her away on her visit, making sure there was no contraband. Making sure that she was still useful, obedient, not a waste of resources.
These visits were truly never hard. Most of the men would try to intimidate her, stare her down as though she had not shaken hands with the devil. Leave her to the pigs, with some sort of backwards hope that she would be a quaking mess in their hands when they got back. They worked with widows, but their hopes would be broken every time. They would split up, look around the property despite not giving a shit. Congregate inside of her house.
Some were rougher, the sparse items she owned - most property of the Red Room - thrown around, occasionally broken, when they left. Others did not care, helping themselves to the food inside her fridge. It did not matter if they thought it was poisoned, because no widow her age would be stupid enough to attempt to kill themselves. That would be childsplay. Instead they would wait until the appropriate amount of time had lapsed, then leave.
Melina knew how to deal with both types of fool-hardy men.
What she did not completely know how to deal with was this sudden change. The helicopter, that was much nicer than the small aircrafts the guards usually flew, slowly approached from the west. There was no time to change into something that would please him.
“Back home!” she shouted to the pigs, herding them squealing towards the pen inside the barn. They scuttled forward, not seeming to mind that they were not going to be going through their full day of tests. Perhaps they were even happy to be sent away to the safety of the barn, away from the noise and the wind brought by the approaching aircraft. Melina clicked the lock shut, pressed the code on her tablet to arm the building. Locking it only for her presence of mind: the others could open it whenever they wanted.
Nothing was ever private.
She lost that privilege by existing.
Melina met them at the gates just as the helicopter door slid open.
“Smells like shit.” he looked around the land surrounding them without moving from his spot. Italian leather shoes looking out of place squelching in the freshly thawed mud. The sun still warm enough to melt it, but soon those too would be as unforgiving as the nights. The world was still in the stages of dying, soon giving way to death. “Looks like shit.”
The instinct to clench her jaw held back, Melina kept her face impassive as he looked her up and down. Work overalls changed her in ways she could tell he did not like, a large difference from the Widow suit she generally wore when on campus.
“General Dreykov.” she spoke, eyes focused on the spot just over his shoulder. Never make eye contact, just as she and thousands of others had been taught. Fingers clasped in front of her. Submissive.
“Come, we will talk.” He does not wait for her, instead making his way towards the farm house without invitation. Melina does not walk faster to overtake him, instead lets him lead the way as though he owns the place. Which, in a sense, he did. Thoughts tried to worm their way into her head, questions about why he had shown up, but she was skilled at pushing these down. The General had known her longer than most, seen her more than most - the downside of being a favourite - would know what she was thinking. What he believed her to be thinking.
Melina remembered those long days sitting in front of screens, not allowed to blink or look away. Eyes taped open, the threat of punishment looming not far away. Remembered the books, the lessons, the screaming and the talking, the cells with metal walls: blood flaking off.
Thinking was to be suppressed unless it was about the mission. Otherwise, she was a robot, thoughtless.
The General made himself comfortable at her table, sneering at the science journals that had piled up on one end. Melina did not get the pleasure of ignoring him like she did his lackeys, instead making her way to the seldom used cupboard and pulling out the only two vodka glasses. Taking the bottle from the freezer, lets him watch her uncrack the seal. Placing everything in front of him.
He pours them both a glass, watching her intently as she throws back a shot first. Pausing a few moments, and once properly confident she had not poisoned it, pouring himself a double and downing it like water before adding more.
Standing, waiting, hands clasped, not sitting before he tells her she can.
“It is time,” he says, wiping the spare liquid off his lip with his hand, “that we impart valuable wisdom on the younger girls. As they become more… should we say, physically viable for the program, they appear to become ill in the mind.” his gestures towards his head. Melina watches but does not, eyes trained on the windows behind him. She can see the guards checking everything, one of them frustrated that they stepped in pig shit.
“We need them to be smart, Melina, able to withstand the seduction of the western world.” he continues, a pause, another shot. Eyes travelling over her obviously, up then down, eye contact, filling both glasses once more. “Well?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.” she agreed without thinking, blinked, and looked back at him. Staying still.
“And who better to teach them all this than my best widow, yes? My Iron Maiden .” he tilted his head slightly, a disgusted look taking over. “Not so iron anymore though, eh? Next time wear something better.” The General looked down at his watch, as though it was a scheduled business meeting run long, rather than an impromptu and unwanted meeting. “I know you won’t fail me, will you Melina?”
“Yes, sir.” she replied on both fronts, following him with her eyes as he leaves his half filled glass, grabbing the bottle and lumbering out of the room. Melina followed behind, forcing the racing words that tried to penetrate her wall of nothing into pieces.
One of the issues with growing up around the leader of the organisation you unwillingly worked for, was that he could tell if she was lying on almost every front. Could see when blank stares hid the thoughts rattling around in her brain. Thoughts and ideas were dangerous, because they often bloomed into individuality.
Individuality was not prudent when building an army of submissive women to seduce and assassinate anyone that you pleased. It was better to stomp out the bud before it took root.
Melina was his, and she knew this; knew it more than most ever would.
The General snapped his fingers at the guards still inside the helicopter as they approached. One of the guards turned, scooping something lazily out of the back of the helicopter. A small body, placed on the ground like a limp doll.
Melina did not have to look closer than a cursory glance to know it was the body of a small child. Perhaps not a child, a toddler who in a normal world would soon be heading to school. Hardly old enough to have fully started their training, that acting out could cost you your life; but old enough to know that when one of these men told her what to do, it was in her best interest to comply.
The same guard stepped back to the helicopter again, ignoring as the heavy boot crushed fine dark hair into the rocks. The child did not wake up despite the painful jerk of frail limbs. He pulled out a file, millimetres away from stepping on the child, to hand it to the General.
“Her file.” The General barely glanced at her as he looked down at the schedule he also held. “You will still be on site the usual day. Good luck, my girl.” the General turned to her, cupping her face softly for a moment - reverently - a father with his chil- then a painful sting as palm met flesh.
The helicopter started to whirl as the General sat inside, the doors sliding shut. Melina took a step back as she watched it lift off, a file clutched in her hand painful as it flew away.
Alexei looked away, swallowing painfully. This wasn’t a diary full of hidden thoughts.
The lights above flickered as the generator shut down, the faint whirring dying out, the crying of prisoners who hadn’t yet run out of tears tearing through the night. He moved to the sliver of light left by the hole into the night.
He felt like a child, reading by candle light late at night. Wanting more time to read about the heroes beating the villains. One more chapter, one more chapter, the Alexei inside him chanted.
… a child, Alexei. They left me with a child…
Time unfortunately did not pause. Melina watched herself walk inside, the file gripped in her hand even as she pulled the trick latch in the pantry to go into the weapons room. All movement was mechanical, from the way she walked to how she watched a pale hand put the folder down on her keyboard. Flipping the pages open so that she could find out the widow's name.
She was not shocked that no name existed.
Subject 20 .
Melina was not a fool. She knew what this meant. Door closed behind her, the click barely audible. She would need to oil it; would only accept silence. Grabbing the glasses away from the table, walking to the sink to meticulously wash them under water too hot to stand. Staring out the window at the little girl in the sun set.
There would need to be some sort of assessment before she could even deliberate what tests to run. See where the widows training had gotten to before being ripped away to the middle of Russia. Melina would not put it past the General to give her some sort of lost cause they had planned to put out to pasture. Watch her losing battle at fighting for her life before it all would end.
He got off on the pain of his girls, she knew this first hand.
Once all the dishes were washed, dried, repeated, then put back into their spots like there had not even been anyone to visit, Melina decided it would be best to return outside. By now the sky had darkened, and the transitioning winter weather froze the air. Melina left the child for a moment longer, foolishly hoping that maybe if she turned away, she would not be real (a fantasy she brought back from America). She put feed out for the pigs, making sure they had enough water for the night, cursing the General for choosing that moment to appear when she had been making more progress with their training.
Progress would never be enough for him. He wanted more and more until no more could be done, and still not believe that they were done.
Being stuffed back inside your body was not a comfortable process. Melina felt as though she was being squeezed from inside out, the small amount of liquor in her stomach threatening to show its face once more. Her arms went underneath the girl, scraping the frozen ground, watching as her head flopped back like a rag-doll as Melina stood. She entered the house, manoeuvring through the hall easily. Wondering why they believed that this child was better than the others, wondered if they knew they had started pulling the trigger before she had even started.
Melina placed the child prone on the bed in the spare room, only there for appearances if some unfortunate traveller happened to find themselves this far out in the forest. She sat down on the chair beside the bed, ignoring the faint pains of hunger that she had learnt to suppress in her early years, and waited.