CW: Mild gore

A man with a blade stands over the unconscious body of one Eddie Clark.

A terrible concatenation of events plays out. Again, and again, and again. Again.

He couldn't save everyone. And it will weigh on him forever.

What remains of the shot-pierced Linda Trace's chest cavity coughs out blood in equal measure to her mouth hacking up laughs.

Allison Reeves' still-warm corpse lies, in a growing pool, on the floor of the third Sno-Cat.

Nassim's fingers do not allow themself to stray from the steering-wheel.

Johannes Schwarzenberg kneels at the tangled clew of bodies, and the tangled clew of deaths, and his hands shake.

Johannes killed -

Eddie killed -

Linda killed -

Allison killed -

Nobody. Nobody, nobody, nobody.

His hands still, and he pulls Eddie's still-breathing body off of the pile, and he ignores the screams, and he inhales.

He did what he could.

He struck the back of Eddie's head, with the hilt of his sword, as Eddie fired shot after shot into Linda, who had just finished severing the tracheal-cord that connected Allison to the living world, via her neck.

The chain could continue.

Johannes kills Eddie, and…

…

…No. No, of course not.

He would not even think of such a thing.

For all chains must end. Especially the cruel.

He stands, he raises his bloodless sword, and he asserts—

“No more deaths.”

The moment that Janusz forgets about this, many months later, is under the Zeit cafe's canopy by the ever-flowing Spree, flagging down a waiter to pay for his and Peter's luncheon. Direktor Severov's sweeping changes to the structure and workflow of the Bundesgeheimnissessamt have meant that these kinds of mid-day breaks are becoming more common. Something about getting out of the office, maybe. Any improvement on the prior stagnancy is something. Severov is something of a revolutionary, by comparison.

Mr. Vasilyev, accompanied by his dog—a lovely beast, albeit slovenly—chews on his sandwich, blinking at the river as it flows by. He mostly finishes his mouthful before he starts speaking, his hand tapping idly on the plastic menu resting atop the iron-grille roundtable.

“So. Retirement, hm?”

Janusz Chernyak's jaw moves, imperceptibly. It does not, however, move quickly, or sharply, or inconsiderately. It moves with the weight of someone who hasn't felt paranoid or suspicious in quite a few weeks. It moves with the character of someone whose sword is tucked away in a well-kept box, under a bed in a spacious Berlin apartment. It moves comfortably.

He nods.

“Yes. Yes, soon. Not just yet, but soon.”

Peter chuckles. His dog's eyes roll up, and look at Janusz, wetly.

Janusz has forgotten most of what occurred at APERIS. Feelings, still, have lingered. A sense of protectiveness towards this younger colleague of his. An odd list of contact details, some of whom have responded to him; and some of whom haven't. A strange, steely determination, set inside him in a fashion that he can't quite describe.

As the dog looks up at him, he catches a glimpse of a woman named Linda Trace, her eyes wild, her smile broad, her expression ecstatic; even in death.

At that time, he can't quite place her name.

And he never will think of that day again.

And though the Bundesgeheimnissessamt shall return to those frozen wastes once more, three years and six months from this day, he shall not accompany them.

He will not remember it, but it was, perhaps, he alone that understood the tyranny of division, and how unity alone would overcome it.

September 23rd, 2012.

A surprisingly brisk morning for September. Hoarfrost coats the blades of grass and what leaves remain on trees in the early hours of the day: a cold front had rolled in the past night, leaving temperatures below freezing for long enough for the ice to form.

A black-clad figure steps across the frozen earth, running his gloved fingers across the icy branches of the trees. The crystalline fragments glisten in his palm. They feel… familiar. Something tugs at the back of his mind. A feeling, a memory that he should remember but doesn't, like a dream so vivid that he knew he had but cannot recall no matter how hard he tries. It lasts for but a moment. He flicks his hand, and the crystals fall down to the earth.

Just a dream, he thinks.

Frozen soil crunches beneath his boots, his long woolen greatcoat shielding him from the harsh morning breeze. Again, that sense of familiarity. Was he somewhere cold in this dream? The bite of the wind felt almost like an old enemy, and as he turned, the stone obelisks and monuments seemed almost to shimmer. His right hand tingled for a second, but he kept walking. None of it was enough to make him pause for more than a second. None of it occupied all too great a space in his mind, whether intentional or not. Whatever caused those feelings was far, far away, detached from the here and now.

But the sword remained. Ever since last year, it felt wrong in his hands. Heavy. Tainted. Something had happened, a switch flipped that he couldn't quite place. It was a family heirloom, yes; it should feel nostalgic, evoke a sense of longing and memory. But it didn't, not anymore. Now it was just a cold, sharp sliver of steel. Functional. Balanced. Perfectly deadly.

It didn't feel right. He didn't feel right.

The last five decades of his life had been filled with one singular purpose. Cold and focused on the surface, like the blade he held by his hip, but hiding a hot, passionate, rageful fire underneath. A double life that had swallowed his being to such a degree that it took over his names as well. But something had blunted it. Put a dent in his steel, doused his fire. Perhaps he had failed. Perhaps he had even succeeded. But what had it all meant? What was it all worth?

Was he truly a fighter for the people, the bane of tyrants everywhere. Or was he just an angry boy who had everything taken from him far too soon?

Perhaps he was both. Perhaps he was neither.

The figure stepped further down the path, eventually coming across four more of those stone momuments. Two were dark with age, coated in a thick layer of moss. The other two were newer, shinier. The ground beneath them still carried the memory of its violent disturbance a year ago.

Johannes Schwarzenberg knelt before the grave of Ignacy and Maria Chernyak. His hands produced a trowel from somewhere under his greatcoat, digging until they hit the hard wood of the casket. A thin hole, just long and wide enough to fit the missing piece.

The sword fell in, hitting the wood below with a thud filled with finality, before the dirt was put back, finally as it was supposed to be.

Janusz Chernyak stood from the grave of his parents. The space next to his hip felt empty, slightly hollow. But he felt lighter. He turned, glancing back one last time. Promising to do what his parents would have wanted him to do, but now truly understanding what that really meant.

So he turned and walked away, beyond the walls of the cemetery. Back to the home of his parents, and their parents before them. Back to his real home.

Warsaw.

Written by Alyssa A.