Chapter Text
—Underground HYDRA-run KGB facility, Kursk Oblast, December 1959; two years later—
His place is three feet behind the General and one foot to the right, and he does not deviate from this, regardless of where the General moves throughout the base. The first stop on this inspection had been the prep room—the pit, they’d called it during the inspection—and from there, the upper levels, one by one.
Technically, it’s a HYDRA base. This one, he thinks, was always a HYDRA base. Not so much infiltrated by a cadre of moles and gradually turned over—as an increasing amount of bases are these days, to his immense disgust—but built from the sub-levels up by the many-headed fuckers themselves and maintained with a steady crop of HYDRA assholes.
Regardless of the base’s provenance, it’s still part of Department X under the KGB, still a node in the system that maintains the Winter Soldier project, still under the General’s purview. Importantly: Still vulnerable to inspection, failure, reconfiguration of staff.
He does not want things—the General cured him of that during some foggy chapter of his long-forgotten past. But he does harbor a flickering hope that this base in particular will fail the General’s inspection and that the reconfiguration of staff—he loves that euphemism—involves reconfiguration of individual pieces of individual members of the support team. He’d not-so-secretly enjoy ripping up their tracheas if they put up any resistance to the General’s decisions.
He has no idea why that specific image is so pleasing, but it’s not his place to wonder about it, so he lets it go. He’ll tear throats or he won’t. It’s not up to him.
He’s not here because the General requires any help in assessing the base. The General knows he isn’t qualified to make any such assessment himself and that he wouldn’t be of any help. But there isn’t a single base across the entire Soviet Union that wouldn’t follow up a failed inspection with at least an attempt at failure to submit to reconfiguration.
Not everyone owns their failures as readily as he does.
No, he is there to enforce the General’s assessment. So far, the base has proven to be compliant with the protocols set forth by the Winter Soldier project, and the support staff—everyone from structural engineering crew, to mechanical and medical technicians, to data specialists and arborists—at every level has proven to be more afraid of deviating from local project standards than of falling into HYDRA’s long-distance bad graces.
It looks increasingly like there will be no reconfiguration. But there is still the base’s commanding officer left to inspect, along with all his personal effects and connections.
“Stay.”
He freezes in place, eyes flicking to the flat-handed gesture that accompanies the General’s word and then back to the General himself. Other handlers require verbal demonstration of compliance, but the General is more confident in his programming. It gives him a warm feeling of “well done” every time the General’s confidence in him is put on display. Now is no different. He basks in the General’s confidence.
The General disappears into one of the offices on this level, and when the words of the General’s conversation with the base commander are sufficiently clear that he’s certain he can keep a watch without actually observing—including monitoring where the occupants of that office are positioned—he turns his back on the door and keeps his visuals trained on the landing itself.
Right. This is the base with the fucking garland everywhere. He’d managed to tune it out when the General was in his field of vision—the General has a tendency to preoccupy his thoughts somewhat, and the garland hadn’t been housing a threat that he could see, so it slipped from his mind.
Now it’s very much in his mind. Green and a lot fluffier than he… remembers?
Yes. He definitely saw the garland before this base inspection. Maybe even stared at it for hours at a time. Who the hell would have left him awake and without a task for that long? Why? He hasn’t read the actual protocol lists for the Winter Soldier project—it’s above his security level, reading about himself—but it doesn’t sound like good stewardship, leaving him idle for more than a few minutes at a time, maybe half an hour at the outside.
The General would have assigned him something to occupy his thoughts. Some puzzle to sort out, or a problem to solve, or sometimes a language to learn, or something to read through. The General must not have been there when they let him stare at garland for hours on end.
He takes a step toward the railing, looks over the side into the pit. That’s where he belonged, the last time he was here. It looks so different from up above. There’s his chair, the halo looming in miniature from this distance. There’s the cryochamber, nothing special there. The stupid, ineffectual barred area with the metal bench. Tile, hoses, chains. A prep room like every other prep room, just deeper in the ground than at most other bases and called mean names.
The General’s voice behind him is raised, but not in anger. Irritation, but not-with-him, not-at-him. That’s good. He hates disappointing the General. He parses the words being exchanged in the office he’s not been invited to—not even about him—and lets them drift back out of his mind. He’ll come when called, or when he detects a threat to the General. Until then, his orders are to stay. He is ready to comply.
And with compliance comes reward—not a guarantee, but a pattern often enough, when the General is involved. This reward: He has the time—in between glowering at members of the support team who think about walking past him, and then change their minds and choose a different path—to stare at the garland.
Specifically, at this tiny, red bird that is tucked between two green fronds.
It is… ridiculously tiny. Insanely delicate. Bizarrely shiny. Its eyes are little black beads. Its beak is a tiny piece of… he’s not sure. He’d have to touch it to find out, or to bend down for an even closer look. From where he’s standing, just a scant four feet away, he can see tiny orange seed beads making up dainty feet, wired to the branch so that the bird will never fall from its garland perch.
That’s just as well, since the poor creature hasn’t got proper wings. Just has the shape of a bird, not all the working parts of a bird. Like he has the shape of a person. But the bird’s shape—what an exquisite little thing, what a wonder, in glossy crimsons and rich carmines, with little sequins overlapping to form the feathers along its head and belly. Longer beads, mostly red with a few in glittering black, are threaded to give the impression of feathers along folded wings.
I could touch it.
The thought comes from nowhere and everywhere, showing up suddenly from every direction, and it surprises him into taking a step back from the railing with the garland and its bird. He looks out across the open well of the pit and his eyes pick out birds… everywhere. He’d seen them before, of course, but hadn’t cataloged them as a threat. They still aren’t threats, but it strikes him suddenly that there are so many birds.
This support team must really like birds.
He decides that if he’s asked for an opinion later, that will be his opinion. That they like birds a lot. He’s not sure it’s a safe opinion—the General might be looking for something more strategic, less stupid. But there are so many birds in the garland. Every railing has at least a half dozen of the little beadcraft avians, mostly in gold and silver, but with at least one red bird in each.
There are so many that he could probably take one, not just touch it. He takes a step closer to the railing, to the garland. Takes a step to the side, closer to the loop of greenery where the bird nests, zeroing in on it. Swallows. He doesn’t notice doing this, one tiny, shuffling step at a time. His mind isn’t on moving; his mind is on the bird.
They’d never miss one—HYDRA operatives are not as observant as they could be, one of the few points in their favor as far as he’s concerned. Less observant equals easier to kill some day. When the General decides to burn them out of the country.
He has enough pouches and pockets in his tac gear. And one of those little birds—a red one; I would take a red one—one of the little red birds would fit exactly right in one of the pouches that are supposed to be, and are currently, filled with grenades. Can’t be one of the open loops. The bird would be visible. But the pouches. With the flaps. A bird could fit. A bird could hide. One of the red ones.
He would give up a grenade in order to have one of the little red birds. He could part with a grenade. It probably wouldn’t even be missed, just like the bird. No one ever sees fit to do inventory on what he brings back from the field. They’re more concerned with sending him out properly equipped to scratch everyone off his list and blow everything to pieces that’s slated for destruction.
He slowly lowers himself to a crouch in front of the railing, lost in thoughts he would be afraid to entertain except he’s caught by the glittering bird not a foot from his nose.
He always reports accurately what he’s used in the field—how many bullets, which guns, grenades or no grenades, missing knives, bloody garrotes: He’s very specific in his mission reports. It’s a point of pride, and he doesn’t have many of those. Sometimes his handlers have to order him to shut up and summarize because they don’t want as many details as he has to offer. Not the General. The General always wants to hear everything he has to report.
But the General won’t need to take his report; he’s right here. It will be someone else. Some other handler. Maybe no report at all. So no one will check his tac gear for a tiny, fragile, red beadcraft bird. If he is quick enough, sneaky enough, he could stash the bird somewhere and then— He licks his lips. And then not tell anyone what he’s done or where he’s put it. If he doesn’t tell them, they can’t take it from him, can’t make him forget specifically that thing.
A general wipe under the halo wouldn’t take something like the bird unless he told them about it and the— the— He swallows again, hard. And that team was called in. That team, if they calibrated the halo—or the… the other… if they burned it out. He sucks in a breath, shoves his thoughts sideways, away from the gaps.
The bird isn’t part of his mission, so he wouldn’t have to report it, even if someone did want a report. They would never know. No other teams need to be involved.
It can be just his, just him and this bird, no one else in on it, no one to take it away from him.
Slowly, so slowly he doesn’t register his own movements, he reaches his right index finger out toward the bird, the little red one. He really could touch it. It might be pushing the bounds of possibility to successfully take the bird, keep it secret, hide it—remember it later—but he could absolutely touch it. No one said he couldn’t.
Its beak will be sharp. That’s a tiny piece of orange glass; he can see that now, so close to it, crouched right in front of it, almost nose-to-nose with it. How sharp? His finger inches closer.
“Soldier.” The General. “On your feet.”
He stands and spins around in one fluid motion, snapping to attention before the General has even finished his command. He did not hear the General open that door. That is a failure on his part. The shame burns through him hotter than the halo ever could.
The General is looking up at him, eyes narrowed, lips thin, pursed in displeasure. He deserves that. He deserves worse. After everything the General has done for him, has given him, has fashioned him into.
Does he want a verbal confirmation? He runs through the odds in his mind. Odds are better that a verbal confirmation will be interpreted as “cheek,” and so he says nothing. Where there is a risk of disrespect toward the General, he always leans toward caution. So he simply stands, ready to comply, ready to accept a reprimand that could be physical but is more likely to be verbal.
The base’s commanding officer clears his throat. It’s not to get their attention; it’s just nerves. No one would ever prefer for this sort of attention to be leveled at themselves if someone else could bear it instead.
The sound prompts the General to end his disappointed, pinched silence, though. “Does that ornament interest you, Soldier?”
It had actually slipped entirely from his mind the moment the General had ordered him to stand, but now it slides back into place, red and glittering and delicate. He weighs his response. Truth, obviously. He isn’t even capable of lying to the General. But what is the General really asking? It’s obvious he was interested. He was staring right at it instead of standing where he was directed.
The General allows him time to answer, despite the officer fidgeting uncomfortably in the stretching silence. The General wants him to answer the right question—correctly—and is willing to wait, as always. He appreciates the kindness. The General doesn’t try to trick him. The General wants him to succeed. It’s not the General’s fault he’s an abject failure regardless of the endless chances he’s given.
“It’s beautiful,” he finally answers. “I enjoy looking at it.”
“Do you want it?” The General sweeps his hand wide to indicate the garland all around the base. “Or any of them?”
“I don’t…” He blinks, then slowly shakes his head. “No. I just… liked… looking at it.” He stops, then starts. “It’s so delicate.” He frowns. “Fragile, I think. It looks fragile. I could have touched it.”
The General makes a considering noise in his throat, looks at the garland, the flock of birds spread throughout the wide central stairwell of the base. “These were here last year as well. And the year before.” He turns to face the base officer. “You put them up every year, is that right?”
The officer stammers something about holiday spirit, and festivities, and replacing the other ornaments with more birds, and other garbage nonsense that he doesn’t bother registering in any specific detail. Not while the General is speaking to him without words, while the General Looks at him, Looks inside him, taking a measurement of something he can’t place.
He is still trying to translate the General’s expression into words when the General continues. “They’re outside of regulation,” the General snaps at the officer, gesturing at the nearest garland.
He is speaking to the officer, but Looking at him. That’s part of the message. This is meant for him. This is directed at him. The words are for the officer, but the results are for him. The General adjusts the collar of his coat, brusque, no nonsense, already finished with this conversation. “Take them down and burn them.”
A nameless screeching objection crawls into his throat, but he kills it while it's still merely an unintelligible, strangled noise that he chokes on, swallows back down as he struggles to rearrange his expression back into ready-to-comply stillness. Struggles to breathe. Struggles to keep his full-body shudder contained and partially fails, the Arm giving a whirring mechanical voice to the distress he otherwise smothers.
The General Looks at him, reads him, knows the inside of his head better than he does, but even so, he desperately scrambles to hide that he wants—yes, he fucking wants, damn it—for the birds to be safe. For them not to be burned, not to be destroyed. For them to perch in the garland and glitter in the harsh lighting and be beautiful and delicate and perfect forever.
The officer stammers and looks from the General to the garland and back. He raises a hand to snap off a salute. “Y-yes, sir. I'll… I’ll see to it personally.”
The General perfunctorily returns the salute but otherwise doesn’t bestow any attention to the man as he scurries off. The General is still Looking at him instead, radiating… He frowns again. The General is not displeased, not disappointed, not disgusted. He’s… satisfied? Sympathetic? Regretful?
“They are beautiful, Soldier.”
The General’s voice is low, both in tone and volume. He’s speaking for him alone. The General understands. He does regret. Not the burning of the garland and the birds, but something. The General has regrets, about… something. He doesn’t know what. It’s not his place to know. But the General should not have regrets, and he feels remorse for inspiring that.
“Sometimes the beautiful things in this world compromise the necessary things. You are among the necessary things, Soldier. It’s a lamentable state of affairs.” The General nods toward the stairs toward the roof, a gesture for him to go first, perhaps hold the door at the top open for him.
It is a dangerous gesture, and he does not know why.
“You’ve never been to the top of this base,” the General tells him. “You should see it.”
Ah. That is why. That is what makes it dangerous. He can see the shape of it now. This is his reprimand, the one he deserves.
The view from the rooftop over the base itself, as it turns out, is no different from the view from the helipad at the hidden transport entrance half a mile to the west, with the exception of the smoke rising from the beginnings of the garland fire where the arborists have determined it will be easiest to blend into the landscape without any danger to the base or its surrounding forest.
They stand there for a very long time, watching the smoke rise. He wasn’t specifically told to watch, but he knows that he is supposed to. It’s what the General meant, even if it isn’t what he said. He heard the unspoken command: Look at the smoke, Soldier, and know that the garland is burning. Know that the birds are burning. Watch everything burn. You did this, Soldier. You earned this; here, this is for you. Do better next time.
He watches the smoke rise, and he can hear them. All the little birds, melting and catching fire. He imagines their beaded feathers fusing together and curling up and blackening and turning into so much smoke and ash. Screaming while they die. While they’re reconfigured—and the euphemism is not so satisfying now, tastes bitter and treacherous like the smoke on the thin, frigid air.
He deserves this, but they don’t.
The birds scream at him, “Goodbye, Soldier; good riddance, Soldier; your fault, Soldier,” and he is… he is ready to… He remembers, now. They had an arrangement, once upon a time. The call-and-response. But he doesn’t know any response to what they are screaming now. There might not be one. What should he say to them. What could he say. There is no apology strong enough. He swallows his grief down where no one will find it and take it from him, and silently mourns the loss of the birds.
After another hour, the General seems to think the point has been made, and waves him back toward the rooftop door. He follows the General back down inside the base, the door shutting out the cold air but not the avian screams. The railings are bare, and that hurts, stabs at him and twists. It would have been nice to touch one of them, one of his little birds, before they died. Maybe save one of them.
A red one.