Sydney ꫂ ၴႅၴ

New writer to the community, Moots? 18

[angel-liz2]

Where to find things:

Master list of fanfics

Intro

Main account

Maybe a future playlist? Or nah.

[angel-liz2]

Unaccounted For

Chapter 1 , oc x Price (platonic, father daughter.)

Price has been in the dirt long enough to be able to name every sort of soldier.

Professionals. Patriots. Fanatics. Mercenaries.

Kids weren’t supposed to be on that list.

And yet Nadja kept showing up on it.

A ghost story passed between units, a name muttered in briefings with a mix of irritation and something no one wanted to call concern. Makarov’s little runner. Too young, too quick, and bloody impossible to keep contained. Captured twice by Task Force 141—twice she’d slipped through their fingers before wheels even left the ground.

Price didn’t believe in records like that. He believed in mistakes.

And he didn’t like making the same one twice.

—

The base had already gone sideways the moment they saw the trucks.

Ghost clocked it first. “Cap’n. Look.”

Price followed the line of his skull mask’s gaze—black transport rigs stamped with markings he knew all too well. Not military. Not standard.

Makarov.

Price exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. “Of course he’s here.”

Too late to pull out. Too deep in the mud already.

“Stay sharp,” he muttered into comms. “We’re not the only predators in the room.”

They split.

Price moved left, rifle up, boots silent against concrete. The place reeked of oil and metal, distant gunfire echoing through the structure like a heartbeat gone wrong. He muttered under his breath—half irritation, half habit.

“Bloody circus…”

Then—

Impact.

Something small slammed into him, hard enough to knock off his balance for half a step. Instinct took over before thought—rifle snapped up, barrel pressed firm against a forehead.

“Don’t—”

He stopped.

Nadja.

She’d hit the ground on her knees, breath sharp, but she didn’t scramble. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t curl in on herself like she had the last times.

That was the first thing wrong.

The second—she wasn’t holding a weapon.

Price’s eyes flicked over her quickly. No rifle. No sidearm. No blade tucked into her boots.

Nothing.

“Where’s your gun, kid?” His voice came out low, gravel dragged over stone.

He nudged her shoulder with the muzzle. Testing.

Still nothing.

Just a shrug.

Loose. Careless.

That wasn’t right either.

Price’s gaze shifted to her face properly then—and his stomach sank just a fraction.

Pupils blown wide. Swallowing the blue of her irises whole. Skin clammy, a sheen of sweat catching the dim light. Breathing just a touch too fast, too shallow.

He’d seen it before.

Not on kids.

“Christ…” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Up.” His tone sharpened, all business again.

He hauled her to her feet, quicker than gentle but not rough enough to make it worse. Cuffs snapped around her wrists in one clean motion.

She didn’t fight.

That was the third thing wrong.

—

Extraction was messy, but they made it out.

Back of the vehicle, engine roaring, tension thick.

Ghost drove. Soap kept glancing back like he didn’t trust what he was seeing.

“You think she’s high on somethin’, Cap?” Soap asked, voice cutting through the noise.

Price didn’t look up from her.

“Don’t think,” he said flatly. “I know.”

Nadja sat there, quiet as a loaded gun.

Her eyes weren’t still.

They tracked everything.

Doors. Windows. Distance between bodies. Weapons.

Calculating.

Even like this… she was working angles.

Price didn’t like that either.

—

The infirmary lights were too bright.

They always were.

Nadja was cuffed to the bed, metal biting into skin that looked too thin for it. She didn’t complain about that. Didn’t seem to notice it.

What she did react to—

That was worse.

Laswell stood off to the side, arms folded, watching with that sharp, unreadable expression of hers. Price stayed closer, planted like a post, eyes never leaving the kid.

The test took longer than he liked.

When the device finally gave its sharp little ding, the doctor’s face said enough before he even spoke.

“This… is not good at all.”

Price’s patience snapped thin. “Spit it out.”

The doctor hesitated, then stepped into the hall. Price followed. Laswell right behind him.

“She’s got triple the lethal dose of Trinity in her system.”

Silence.

Heavy. Immediate.

Price stared at him, jaw working once.

“That’s not possible,” Laswell said, but it didn’t sound like disbelief. It sounded like calculation.

“It shouldn’t be,” the doctor admitted. “But it is.”

Price let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over his beard.

“Makarov’s given the kid Trinity,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

Not an order.

A fact.

And a problem.

—

Back inside, it got worse.

Hours of it.

The meds didn’t take.

Didn’t even dent it.

Nadja’s body fought everything they gave her like it didn’t want saving. She’d jerk against the restraints, breath hitching, muscles locking and releasing in waves that looked like they hurt to the bone.

And then the noise started.

Not screaming, not at first.

Just small sounds.

Broken ones.

“Stop—”

“Please—”

“I’ll— I’ll be good, I—”

She slipped into rapid Russian between breaths, maybe prayers.

Price’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

He’d heard soldiers break before.

He’d heard men twice his size beg.

This was different.

This wasn’t a soldier cracking under pressure.

This was a kid who’d been trained to think pain was part of the job.

And still couldn’t take it.

One of the doctors moved in again, prepping another injection.

Price stepped forward, voice cutting clean through the room.

“That’s enough.”

No one moved.

The doctor hesitated. “Captain, if we don’t—”

“You are,” Price snapped, sharp enough to stop a bullet. “You’re pumpin’ her full of God knows what and it’s not doin’ a damn thing but hurtin’ her.”

Another strained breath from the bed. Another twitch against the cuffs.

Price’s gaze flicked to her—really looked, not as a target, not as an asset.

As a fourteen-year-old who should’ve been anywhere but here.

He exhaled, slower this time.

“We’re done ‘ere,” he said, quieter but no less firm. “If she’s gonna come down, she’ll come down with time.”

The doctor didn’t argue again.

They stepped back.

The room settled into something tense and awful.

Price moved to the side of the bed, dragging a chair over with a scrape. He sat, forearms resting on his knees, eyes still on her.

“Easy,” he muttered, almost under his breath. Not an order this time. Not really.

More like… habit.

Or maybe something else he didn’t feel like naming.

“She’s what,” he added after a beat, voice rougher now, quieter. “Fourteen?”

No one answered.

They didn’t need to.

Price already knew.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 14, finale

The Slavic Asset

Will pin the playlist in the masterlist.

“You know it your last few days before your contract is over? Kove?” He says, his voice weary. It’s been a year, It’s been the best year of my life, but I have everything waiting for me back home. If I stayed here I would betray my country but if I go back home I abandon Tf141.

I lower myself onto one of the chairs in his office, my eyes on the hems of my sleeves where my fingers pick at them anxiously.

“I want to go back home.” I say quietly, almost inaudibly.

“What was that?” Price asks, urging me to speak up.

“I want…” my words get mangled in my throat but I swallow my fear. “To go home.” I pause, I’ve never really gone against anybody before, let alone a captain, a superior, a close friend? It all gurgled around in my stomach and pushed until I wanted to throw up.

“Then there you go, I’ll figure it out, you can leave as you like.” Price says, gentler than what I’ve ever heard from anyone.

I got up to leave, making my way to the door but my feet stall before my mind catches up when I hear his voice again.

“Under one condition.” He comes over closer, I turn on my heel to face him, his calloused hand brushes away my hair with that ghostly touch that barely even touches my skin but still manages to send shivers throughout my shoulders.

I wait for him to propose this condition, normally I’d expect the worst but with Price I felt safe.

“You have to visit sometimes, hm?” He says gruffly. I nodded, I did want to see him even after I go back home. He pushes his phone into my hand, I oblige and type my number into a contact. I give a small smile, he gives me a slight curve of the edges of his lip.

I thought about him the entire plane ride back to Ukraine.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 13 tw: fade to blacks smut, stop reading after he tajes her home if you don’t want to read it)

The Slavic Asset

The mission had ended cleaner than most.

Not easy, not quiet, but clean. No one lost, no one left behind. Just the usual exhaustion settling into your bones, that dull ache that came after the adrenaline burned off. The kind that made everything feel a little slower, a little heavier.

Price didn’t go back to base.

You noticed it immediately. He didn’t say anything, just turned off like it was instinct, like he’d already decided long before the mission ended. The rest of the team split off, heading their own ways, but you stayed.

Of course you did.

“You always disappear after?” you asked, falling into step beside him.

He glanced at you briefly. “Not always.”

“Just when you don’t feel like talking to anyone?”

A small pause. “Something like that.”

You huffed. “Lucky you. I don’t feel like talking either.”

He didn’t tell you to leave, and that was enough.

The bar wasn’t far. Dim lights, low music, worn wood that had seen too many nights like this. The kind of place where no one asked questions.

Price went straight to the counter. “Whiskey.”

You slid onto the stool beside him. “Of course you drink whiskey.”

He looked at you, one brow lifting slightly. “Got a problem with that?”

“Nah. Just expected it.”

“And what do you drink?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

You shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Mood. Situation. Company.”

His gaze lingered a second longer this time. “And what’s the verdict tonight?”

You smiled, small and knowing. “Still deciding.”

The bartender set his drink down, amber and neat. Price took a sip without hesitation, shoulders easing just slightly after. You noticed that.

“Alright,” you said, “I’ll have vodka soda.”

That earned you a quiet huff from him.

“Russian.”

“Do I fit a stereotype?”

The first drink didn’t do much, just took the edge off. Conversation stayed easy, light in that not-quite-effortless way. You talked about the mission, filling in gaps for each other, small details you’d missed in the moment.

By the second drink, something shifted.

Price wasn’t sloppy, not even close, just… looser. His posture relaxed, voice softer around the edges, words coming a little slower. He leaned back instead of forward, arm draped over the chair instead of braced.

And he looked at you more.

“Careful, Captain,” you said, swirling your glass. “You keep staring like that, people might get the wrong idea.”

His gaze didn’t move. “And what idea’s that?”

“That you’re enjoying my company.”

A small pause, then the corner of his mouth lifted. “Dangerous assumption.”

“But not wrong.”

He took another sip. “You’re awfully sure of yourself tonight.”

“Or maybe,” you leaned slightly closer, lowering your voice, “you’re just easier to read after a couple drinks.”

That got his attention properly. Not defensive, just sharper, more focused.

“Think you’ve got me figured out, do you?”

“Not completely,” you said. “But I’m getting there.”

He set his glass down, watching you now. “Go on, then.”

“You act like you’ve got everything under control all the time,” you started, tone lighter than the words. “But you don’t. You just manage it better than everyone else.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“You don’t come here just to drink. You come here because it’s quiet. Because no one expects anything from you.”

A beat passed.

“Because you don’t have to be the one in charge for a bit.”

Silence settled, not uncomfortable, just real. Price held your gaze for a long moment before exhaling quietly.

“Not bad,” he said.

You smirked. “Told you.”

“But you missed something.”

“Oh?” You leaned back slightly. “Enlighten me.”

“I didn’t come here alone tonight.”

That made your breath hitch, just briefly. You covered it with a scoff. “Wow. That almost sounded intentional.”

“Maybe it was.”

“You’re flirting.”

“Am I?”

“You are.”

His smile was slower this time. “And you don’t like that?”

You met his eyes. “Didn’t say that.”

By the third drink, the space between you had shrunk without either of you acknowledging it. Your knee brushed his once, and neither of you moved away.

“You always like this?” you asked.

“Like what?”

“A bit softer.”

He huffed quietly. “Wouldn’t go that far.”

“You’re definitely less terrifying.”

“High praise.”

“I try.”

He turned slightly toward you, closer now. “You’re not exactly intimidated, though, are you?”

You smiled, slow and deliberate. “Should I be?”

“Most people are.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he said, quieter now, “you’re not.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. You looked away for a second, just to steady yourself.

“Careful,” you said, lighter again. “You keep talking like that, I might think you’ve got a soft spot.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“There it is,” you grinned. “Thought I lost him.”

He shook his head, but there was warmth there now, something easier.

“You always this bold after a mission?”

“Only when I survive it.”

“Fair enough.”

A brief pause settled between you, softer this time.

“Glad you did,” he added, quieter.

That one you didn’t deflect. You just looked at him, something real slipping through.

“Yeah,” you said. “Me too.”

You stayed longer than planned. Long enough for the tension from the mission to fade into something else entirely. At some point, his shoulder brushed yours and stayed there. At some point, neither of you bothered pretending there was space between you anymore.

“You’re staring again,” you muttered.

“Can you blame me?”

You raised a brow. “Careful.”

“Or what?”

“You might say something you can’t take back.”

He leaned in slightly, voice low. “Who says I’d want to?”

Your pulse kicked, but you held steady. “That the alcohol talking?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head just a little. “You’re trouble.”

“So are you.”

“Should probably call it a night.”

A beat.

“…You coming with me, or heading back?”

It sounds casual, but there’s weight under it. The choice was all to me, it was new, not being thought of as an object. I could say no but I nod and follow him out of the bar, his hand on the small of my back.

We got to the motel, booking the room for the night, going inside he flicked the light on. I drop my bag on the floor by the couch.

We sit on the couch, some movie turned on before we had forgotten it, occupied with each other. I wasn’t that good at it, I’ve never had time to practice. I was slightly embarrassed but I couldn’t care enough to apologise, he seemed to he enjoying himself too.

My fingers nimbly went to the waistband of his jeans before looking back up to him, a silent ask of permission.

“Yer’ sure, love?” He confirms, his voice gravelly.

I nod, “words, love, words.” He adds.

“Y-yes please.” I murmur shyly. It was weird, saying something that I want so bad out loud.

“Knees, ‘front of me.” I obliged, his hand light on my arm, and he undoes his jeans, working off his boxers. Heat trickles into my stomach.

(I’m sorry, I know people hate fade to blacks but I’m not comfortable writing any further.)

[iure-ch]

Please just read my fic I SWEARR IT'S COOL

https://archiveofourown.org/works/81960476

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 12,

The Slavic Asset

Oc: Kovalyova Belykh

It was after a mission. During it, I had been rifling through leftover USBs, hunting for hidden files, and Price had been trying to rush me along because footsteps were approaching. I had snapped at him. I don’t even remember what I said.

All I remember was the way he clenched his jaw and didn’t speak to me again for the rest of the mission.

No excuses though. This was my third mission in a row without sleep. It was no one’s fault but my own. The schedule gave us breaks. I just couldn’t shut my brain off and everyone around me was paying the price.

We had just finished debriefing at the safe house. My vision had blurred in and out of focus the whole time. I was grateful no one needed my input. I couldn’t even form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

In the sleeping quarters, being around the team should have made me feel safe. Instead it made me restless.

I assumed I was the only one awake. I walked through the small safe house, pausing to peer into empty cabinets and corners, checking every nook. Probably overkill but I had to be sure. No enemy could be silently hiding here.

“Kovalyova?”

The familiarity of his voice made me spin around. Price was running a hand over his face tiredly. He had probably noticed my empty bed.

“Mm?” I hummed, glancing back toward the window, then meeting his gaze again.

“What are you doing up?” His accent was rough, British, tired.

“Uh just looking around.” My hands fiddled with the hem of my T-shirt. He knew exactly what that meant. I had had another nightmare and needed to make sure the dream hadn’t bled into reality.

“Come back to sleep, kid.” His voice was soft now, worn from exhaustion.

I stayed where I was, shifting my weight. He sighed when he didn’t hear my footsteps behind him and turned back toward me.

“You’re afraid.” His voice was almost a huff, like it was obvious.

I said nothing. I didn’t deny it either. Deep down I knew he was right.

“I can tell you haven’t been sleeping right. That’s why you’ve been snapping at people.”

I started to apologize but he cut me off.

“Don’t. Happens to the best of us. Just come to bed. Or the couch? I can stay up until you fall asleep.”

I hesitated but eventually nodded.

“Couch, please.”

He led me there. The couch looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. I didn’t care. Price grunted as he settled in. I eased myself down, folding my legs up to my chest.

Being near him made me feel safer.

Almost asleep, I felt a soft press against my temple. A kiss. Maybe I imagined it. I didn’t have the strength to ask before sleep claimed me.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 11 — Kove’s POV

The Slavic Asset

Note: sorry this chapter is bad, I didn’t want to edit it.

The nightmares were treading back in, jolting me awake with a harsh shock that ran down my spine and left my chest tight, like I’d forgotten how to breathe properly. It took a second to realise where I was, another to steady myself, but the feeling didn’t go away. It never really did.

I’d woken Price a few times already tonight. Every time it was the same—he’d stir, half-awake, check I was alright, then fall back asleep like it was nothing. And every time, I felt worse.

Guilty for dragging someone else into my mess just because I couldn’t deal with my own head. I should be able to handle this. I was trained to handle worse than this.

But every time I shut my eyes, I see Trusova. Not moving, not speaking—just there, watching.

Then it shifts like it always does, and I’m back at the base, walking the same halls, hearing the same echoes. Sometimes it won’t let me leave. Not until I wake up again, heart racing like I’ve just run for my life.

Trusova always said nightmares were normal, that every soldier gets them, that it just meant your mind was catching up to everything you didn’t have time to process.

But I’m not supposed to be normal.

I was raised to be exceptional, built to handle pressure, to function through anything, to not crack under it. So what does that make me if I can’t even sleep without falling apart?

I turned onto my side, staring at the faint outline of the ceiling, trying to slow my breathing as the storm dragged against the walls in a low, constant hum.

“Can’t sleep?” Price’s voice cut through the dark, rough with sleep.

I stilled. “Did I wake you again?”

“Was already half awake,” he muttered, shifting slightly. “You alright?”

I hesitated. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t stay asleep.”

“Nightmares?”

“…Something like that.”

He didn’t push. He never did. Just let the silence sit until it didn’t feel like pressure anymore.

“What were you like as a rookie?” I asked suddenly.

There was a pause, then a quiet breath of amusement. “Bit of a jump.”

“Just answer it.”

Another pause.

“Rowdy,” he said finally. “Thought I knew more than I did. Argued with people I shouldn’t have. Didn’t listen when I should’ve. Standard idiot.”

A quiet exhale left me, almost a laugh. “You? Hard to picture.”

“Yeah, well,” he shifted slightly, “most people don’t start out the way they end up.”

“I think you’d be exhausting,” I said. “A rookie who thinks he’s always right sounds like a nightmare.”

A low chuckle. “Oh, I was.”

I turned my head slightly toward him. “So what changed?”

“Consequences,” he said simply. “You get it wrong enough times, you either learn or you don’t last.”

That shut me up for a second.

“And you?” he asked after a beat. “What kind of rookie were you?”

I hesitated.

“…Quiet. Followed orders exactly. Didn’t ask questions.”

“Yeah,” he said, like that confirmed something. “Figured.”

I frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re predictable. You do what you’re told, do it properly, don’t waste time trying to prove something.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“Didn’t say it was. Just means you’re the opposite of me.”

“Good.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him. “Careful, you might hurt my feelings.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

I shifted slightly, tension easing just a little.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I added. “You either followed orders or you didn’t last long enough for it to matter.”

He went quiet at that, then softer, “Yeah. I’ve seen places like that.”

I didn’t respond.

Another pause stretched between us before I spoke again, quieter this time.

“You’ve been in the military longer than I’ve been alive.”

A short pause, then a low chuckle. “When you say it like that, makes me sound ancient.”

“It’s true.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to point it out.”

I hesitated. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“No?”

His tone shifted, amused now. “Go on then. Explain that.”

“I just mean—you’ve got experience.”

“Experience,” he repeated slowly. “That what we’re calling it?”

Heat crept up my neck. “Yes.”

“Hm.”

A small shift, closer this time. “Careful, Kove. You’re starting to sound impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m stating facts.”

“Right,” he said, unconvinced. “And here I was thinking you were getting a bit soft.”

“That’s not happening.”

“Shame.”

I turned my head away slightly, annoyed at how easily he got a reaction.

“You enjoy this.”

“Immensely.”

“Of course you do.”

“It’s not often I get to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Talking back.”

“I always talk back.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

That made me pause.

“You keep your head down,” he went on. “Pick your moments. This? This is new.”

I frowned slightly. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Then why’re you still awake arguing with me?”

I exhaled sharply. “Because you won’t shut up.”

A quiet chuckle. “There it is.”

“You were definitely a problem as a rookie.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said easily. “Couldn’t take orders properly. Thought I was smarter than everyone training me.”

“You weren’t.”

“Not even close.”

A quiet breath of laughter slipped out before I could stop it.

“And you?” he added. “Never questioned anything?”

“No.”

“Not even once?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Don’t believe that.”

I frowned. “It’s true.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “We’ll come back to that.”

“There’s nothing to come back to.”

“Sure there isn’t.”

I rolled my eyes slightly, even though he couldn’t see it.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re easy to read.”

“I’m not.”

“You are when you get defensive.”

“I’m not defensive.”

“You just snapped at me.”

“I did not—”

“You did.”

I dragged a hand down my face. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Of course I am.”

The storm cracked faintly outside, light flashing just enough to outline him for a split second. He was awake. Fully awake. Watching me.

I looked away first.

“…You’re staring,” I muttered.

“Yeah.”

“That’s weird.”

“Only if you make it weird.”

“You’re making it weird.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “You’re the one who brought up how long I’ve been in.”

Heat flared again instantly. “I just said—”

“You said I’ve been in longer than you’ve been alive.”

“That’s a fact.”

“Mm.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That tone.”

A low chuckle. “Didn’t realise it got to you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Right.”

I turned onto my side, back to him.

“Go to sleep.”

“Not tired.”

“Then be quiet.”

“Not happening.”

I exhaled, but there was no real frustration left—just something restless, something that kept me awake.

“…You really thought you were invincible?” I asked quietly.

A pause.

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

“Why?”

“No one had proven me wrong yet.”

I shifted slightly. “And when they did?”

Another pause.

“I learned.”

Simple. Flat. Enough said.

“…I think I was the opposite,” I admitted. “I never thought I was invincible.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

“I just did what I was told. Even when it hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“After training sometimes I couldn’t walk the next day. Didn’t matter. You still showed up.”

“Course you did.”

“Some didn’t,” I said quietly. “After their first mission… they’d come back, but then they’d just disappear.”

“They told us not to ask questions.”

Silence settled heavier for a moment.

“That’s not how it should be,” he said finally.

“No,” I said. “But it’s how it was.”

Another pause, quieter now.

“You didn’t break,” he said.

“I followed orders.”

“You didn’t break,” he repeated.

I didn’t argue.

The storm softened slightly, rolling further away.

“Still think I sound impressive?” he asked after a moment, that teasing edge slipping back in.

I huffed quietly. “You’re not letting that go.”

“Not a chance.”

I hesitated.

“…Maybe a little.”

“Yeah?” His voice dropped slightly.

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“Too late.”

I shook my head faintly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still talking to me.”

A small breath escaped me, almost a laugh.

“…Go to sleep, sir.”

“Only if you do.”

“Deal.”

A pause settled between us, quieter now, less tense.

“…You’re not asleep,” he said.

“Neither are you.”

“Fair.”

Another pause, softer this time.

“Try again,” he murmured.

I closed my eyes, the tension in my chest easing just enough to let the dark settle without dragging me under.

This time, it didn’t feel like something I had to fight.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 10 - mentions of blood,

The Slavic Asset

Oc: kovalyova belykh

Chapter 10 — Price’s POV

I’ve had a shift. I’ve never had a conversation like that with someone—not in years. Not since before I built this team, before I learned what it costs to get close to people you might lose. Distance keeps things clean. Keeps decisions sharp. It’s part of the job. It should stay that way.

But Kove… makes that harder than it should be.

I don’t see her the same anymore. Not after what she told me. Not after the way she carried it—like it was just another fact, not something that still sat under her skin. She’s not just a soldier I can move around a map. She’s… someone. And that’s a problem.

I’m her captain. That line doesn’t blur.

The team had been preparing all day. Standard checks, standard silence before something delicate. I was up before most of them, running through the plan again, but I still found myself at her kit. Everything was in order—precise, clean, exactly how it should be. She didn’t need me checking it. I did anyway. Adjusted things that didn’t need adjusting, ran through it twice, then stepped back like I hadn’t.

She was still asleep. On her back, one arm half off the cot, breathing even. She doesn’t wake at 0300 as much anymore. Less pacing. Less noise in the dark. Good. Means she’s getting rest, or close enough.

Something tightened in my chest and I looked away, like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

Irritation spikes in the back of my mind, I know this isn’t right. I should stay away from her, I huffed before walking away.

I went back to my own cot after that. Slept easier than I used to.

Didn’t question it.

—

The truck ride was quiet. Engine humming, no one speaking more than they had to. I kept my focus forward, but my attention drifted more than I liked.

We slowed. Stopped. Doors opened.

Cold air hit as we unloaded. I let the others move ahead, catching her just before she stepped off fully.

“Kove.”

She turned straight away. Always attentive.

“Today’s delicate,” I said, keeping it low. “Keep your eyes peeled, hm?”

She nodded once, but didn’t move off immediately.

“May your aim be steady and your heart stay pure.”

It caught me off guard. Not the words themselves—just… the way she said it. Like it mattered.

“Where’s that from?” I asked.

She hesitated, just a second, then shifted her weight slightly. “Something we used to say,” she started, then added, quieter, “Me and Trusova. Before… anything important. Missions. Training. It’s just habit.”

There was something in the way she said his name. Not fond. Not afraid. Just… ingrained.

I held her gaze a moment longer than necessary, then nodded. “Right.”

She moved ahead of me this time. I let her.

Watched her go for a second too long before following.

—

The perimeter came into view through low light and mist. Guards posted where we expected. Patterns predictable, but I don’t trust predictable.

Hand signals. Positions taken.

Kove moved clean. Efficient. No hesitation, no wasted motion. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d been doing this her whole life. But I do know better. Whatever trained her wasn’t standard. It shows in the way she moves—quieter, sharper, like she expects something to go wrong even when it hasn’t yet.

We slipped through the first gap without issue. Cleared the outer fence. No alarms. No noise beyond what we made.

I kept her in my peripheral. Not obvious. Just enough.

Entry point ahead.

I gave the signal. Breach.

We moved in.

Inside, it was tighter. Narrow corridors, blind corners. The kind of place that punishes hesitation. She took point on the left flank without needing the order. I let her.

Trust.

That’s new.

A guard rounded the corner too early—she handled it before I could step in. Quick, efficient, silent. No mess.

I didn’t comment. Just adjusted our path and kept moving.

We reached the objective room without raising an alarm. Soap worked the lock while Ghost covered rear. I stayed just off Kove’s shoulder, close enough to step in if needed.

Didn’t need to.

Door opened. Clear.

We moved in, grabbed what we came for. Quick, clean.

Too clean.

I don’t like clean.

“Exfil,” I ordered.

We retraced our route, but something had shifted. Not enough to set off alarms—just enough to feel wrong. Patrol pattern slightly off. A door that should’ve been shut, half open.

Kove noticed it too. I saw the way her head tilted, the way her pace adjusted by half a step.

Good.

We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

We cleared the last corridor, slipped back through the perimeter, and only once we were a good distance out did I let the tension ease—slightly.

Extraction was already in position. Rotor blades cutting through the air as we approached.

One by one, the team climbed aboard.

Kove came up just behind me. I turned to check she was clear and saw her pause halfway up, her hand going to her sleeve.

She went still.

Too still.

“What is it?” I asked, sharper than I intended.

She frowned slightly, fingers pressing into the fabric like she’d found something. Sticky.

Blood, I thought immediately. Missed injury. Something we didn’t catch.

She pulled her sleeve back just enough to check—and then she let out a short laugh. Quiet, breathy, like it surprised even her.

“Grease,” she said, almost under her breath.

I exhaled before I could stop myself, a low huff leaving my chest as the tension dropped all at once. “Right,” I muttered, shaking my head slightly.

She climbed the rest of the way in, settling into place like nothing had happened. But I didn’t miss the way her shoulders loosened, just slightly. The way that moment had gotten to her.

It had gotten to me too.

I took my seat opposite her, eyes lingering for half a second longer than they should’ve before I looked away.

Mission complete. No losses. Clean.

Exactly how it should be.

Didn’t feel as simple as it used to.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 9 - minor mentions of past abuse

The Slavic Asset

Oc: Kovalyova Belykh, x John Price

My eyes opened at 0300 without needing a clock.

It wasn’t unusual anymore. Years of broken sleep and old routines had wired it into me, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it. The room was almost completely dark, just a thin strip of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds and stretching across the floor.

For a second, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening.

Quiet. No movement. No voices.

I pushed myself up with a quiet yawn, rubbing at my eyes before swinging my legs over the side of the bunk. I didn’t need the light—I already knew the layout well enough to move without tripping over anything. Still, out of habit, my gaze flicked to the other bunk.

Price wasn’t there.

I paused, just for a moment, staring at the empty space before looking away.

Not my business.

I pulled on a pair of sneakers and grabbed some clothes, changing quickly. Sleeping after 3 had become pointless, so I’d started running instead—better than lying there thinking too much.

The cold hit me the second I stepped outside.

It clung to my skin, sharp and damp, the grass dark with condensation that soaked through the edges of my shoes if I stepped too far off the path. The sky was still heavy with night, no sign of sunrise yet, just that faint, early grey creeping in at the edges.

I started at an easy pace, following the perimeter road that looped around the base.

A few soldiers were out, switching shifts, their voices low and tired. Engines idled nearby where vehicles were being prepped, the occasional clank of equipment breaking the quiet. No one paid much attention to me—this hour belonged to people who didn’t ask questions.

My breath came out in short, visible puffs, curling into the air like smoke as I settled into a rhythm.

Footsteps approached behind me, steady and familiar.

I didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Price fell into step beside me like he’d always been there, matching my pace easily. He gave a small nod, more acknowledgment than greeting.

“Mind if I join you, lass?”

“Uh—yeah. Sure.”

We ran side by side, the silence stretching out but not uncomfortable. Just… there. The kind that didn’t need filling.

For a while, it was only the sound of our footsteps against the pavement and the distant hum of the base waking up.

Then, of course, he broke it.

“You were going to say something last night,” Price said, voice even. “About being younger. Then you changed it.”

I exhaled slowly, watching my breath fog in front of me.

“…Yeah. I did.”

“How young?”

I let a few more steps pass, like I could outrun the question.

“Depends what you’re asking.”

“When did you meet Trusova?”

There wasn’t any hesitation in his tone. No judgment either. Just direct.

“1999,” I said, the number feeling heavier than it should’ve. “I was three.”

Price didn’t react straight away, but I could feel the shift in him—subtle, controlled.

“And he started training you when?”

“Twelve.” I shrugged, keeping my eyes forward. “I was already living on base by then, so it just… made sense. Would’ve been stupid not to.”

Silence again, but this one felt different. Thicker.

“You’ve got a funny definition of ‘makes sense,’” he said after a moment.

I huffed a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a dismissal. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“At twelve?” he asked, not raising his voice, not slowing his pace. “You think a child signing up for that kind of life is ‘working’?”

“I wasn’t signing anything,” I muttered. “It was just… how things were.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

I glanced at him then, just briefly. His expression hadn’t changed much, but there was something set in his jaw, something firmer than before.

“You don’t know what it was like,” I said, sharper than I meant to.

“Then tell me.”

The words landed heavier than anything else he’d said.

I looked away again, focusing on the stretch of road ahead. My pace didn’t change, but my chest felt tighter, like the cold air wasn’t going down as easy.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I said. “He trained me. I got good at it. End of story.”

Price let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a sigh.

“Kids don’t end up on bases for no reason,” he said. “Not at three.”

My steps faltered for half a second before I caught myself, pushing forward like nothing happened.

“War,” I said simply. “That’s the reason.”

“Doesn’t explain why you stayed.”

I didn’t answer straight away.

Because that one didn’t have a clean answer.

“It was safer,” I said eventually. “Food, shelter, people who knew what they were doing. Better than… the alternative.”

“Safer,” he repeated, like he was testing the word. “Or controlled?”

I shot him a look, sharper this time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said evenly, “there’s a difference between being protected and being kept.”

I looked away again, jaw tightening.

“He gave me a purpose,” I said, quieter now, but more defensive. “Something to do. Something to be good at.”

“And if you weren’t good at it?”

The question came too quickly.

Too directly.

“I was,” I said immediately.

“That’s not what I asked.”

I stopped talking after that.

Not because I didn’t have an answer.

But because I didn’t like the one in my head.

We ran in silence again, the sound of our footsteps filling the space where the conversation had been. The sky was starting to lighten now, just barely, a thin wash of grey-blue creeping over the horizon.

Price didn’t push again straight away.

But he didn’t let it go either.

“You were three,” he said after a while, quieter this time. “That’s not an age you choose anything.”

I swallowed, my throat feeling dry despite the cold air.

“No,” I said. “It’s not.”

Another few steps passed.

Then, before I could stop myself—

“The bombs hit before that,” I added, voice lower now, more distant. “I don’t remember all of it. Just… noise. And people running.”

The words slipped out easier than they should have.

“I ended up there after,” I continued, eyes fixed ahead. “Didn’t really have anywhere else to go.”

Price didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t soften it.

Just listened.

“That’s when I met him,” I said. “So yeah… maybe I didn’t choose it at three.”

I let out a quiet breath.

“But I did at twelve.”

This time, when I glanced at him, he was already looking at me.

Not judging.

Not agreeing.

Just… seeing it for what it was.

“Did you?” he asked.

The question sat there, heavier than anything else he’d said.

And for the first time since the conversation started—

I didn’t have an answer ready. The question sat there, heavier than anything else he’d said.

And for the first time since the conversation started—

I didn’t have an answer ready.

I let out a breath, a little uneven, and looked ahead again, focusing on the road like it might give me something solid to hold onto.

“…I thought I did,” I said finally.

Price didn’t respond straight away, but I could feel his attention shift, like he’d locked onto something important.

“How’d he train you?” he asked after a moment, tone still even, but quieter now. Careful.

I huffed a small breath, almost a laugh, but there was nothing funny about it.

“Hard,” I said. “That’s the short version.”

“I’ve got time,” he replied.

Of course he did.

I slowed just slightly, not enough to stop running, but enough that the rhythm changed.

“It wasn’t like here,” I said. “No structure. Not really. No ‘you’re done for the day’ or ‘good work, take five.’ It just… kept going until he decided it didn’t.”

Price’s footsteps stayed steady beside mine.

“And when he decided that was?”

“When I couldn’t get up again,” I said, shrugging one shoulder like it didn’t matter.

Silence stretched for a second.

“I mean that literally,” I added, glancing at him briefly. “Some days I couldn’t walk the next morning. Legs would just—give out. So I’d either stay in bed… or use crutches if I had to move.”

His expression didn’t change much, but his jaw tightened again, subtle but there.

“You were twelve,” he said, low.

“Yeah.” I looked forward again. “Got used to it.”

“That’s not something you should get used to.”

I didn’t argue that one. Just kept running.

“It wasn’t just me,” I went on after a second. “Everyone trained like that. You either kept up or… you didn’t.”

“And if you didn’t?” he asked.

I hesitated.

Not because I didn’t know.

Because I did.

“They’d push harder,” I said at first, like that was the answer. “Until you did.”

Price didn’t say anything.

Didn’t accept it.

So I exhaled slowly and kept going.

“And when you hit legal age,” I added, voice quieter now, “you got sent out. First mission.”

His gaze shifted to me again, sharper this time.

“At eighteen?”

I gave a small shake of my head.

“Legal where we were,” I said. “Didn’t always line up with anything official.”

That told him enough.

“And after that?” he asked.

I swallowed, my throat tightening again, the cold air suddenly feeling harsher going in.

“You’d come back,” I said. “Most of us did.”

A pause.

“But not all.”

The words felt heavier now.

“There were always a few,” I continued, slower, more careful. “The ones who didn’t do so well. Maybe they froze. Maybe they messed up. Maybe they just… weren’t what he wanted them to be.”

Price’s voice was quieter when he spoke again.

“What happened to them?”

I kept my eyes forward.

Because I already knew if I looked at him, I might stop talking.

“They’d disappear,” I said.

No reaction. Not out loud, anyway.

“Next day, their bunk’s empty. Their stuff’s gone. No one says anything.” I let out a breath, a little shaky this time. “You learn pretty quick not to ask.”

The base around us was starting to wake up more now—voices in the distance, engines turning over—but it all felt far away.

“And at night…” I hesitated again, but the words came anyway, quieter now. “Sometimes you’d hear it.”

“Hear what?” Price asked.

“…Sobs,” I said. “Down the hall. Quiet. Like they were trying not to be heard.”

I shook my head slightly.

“Didn’t always know who it was. Could’ve been anyone. Everyone.”

A few more steps passed, slower now, like the weight of it was dragging at my pace.

“You just… kept your head down,” I finished. “Trained harder. Didn’t give him a reason to look at you like that.”

Price didn’t respond straight away.

When he finally did, his voice was lower than before. Rougher, almost.

“That’s not training,” he said. “That’s survival.”

I let out a quiet breath.

“Same thing, where I was.”

He stopped running.

It took me a second to realise, another step or two before I slowed and turned slightly, looking back at him.

Price stood there, hands resting briefly on his hips, catching a breath—but his eyes were on me, steady, sharp, and a lot less neutral than before.

“No,” he said firmly. “It’s not.”

The words weren’t loud.

But they landed harder than anything else he’d said.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

So I just stood there for a second, the cold air settling around us, the early light finally starting to break over the horizon.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 8 - forced proximity

The Slavic Asset

I didn’t really know how I ended up here, moving what little I owned into shared quarters with Price.

Storm season had hit while we were out on that last mission, and by the time we got back the water had already started seeping into my room. It wasn’t much to begin with, but whatever I had left wasn’t worth salvaging. So I just grabbed my bag, the same one I’d had for years, and moved.

Didn’t take long. It never does when you don’t have anything to sort through.

I shoved the bag under the bunk and left it there, unopened. No point unpacking when I still wasn’t sure this was somewhere I’d stay. Better to be ready, just in case.

I’d learned that early. Don’t get comfortable. Always have something packed.

Back in Ukraine, the base wasn’t exactly secure, and when I was younger, Trusova would hand me a bag and tell me to disappear for a few days. Said he’d call when it was safe again. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t, but either way I learned quickly how to leave without hesitation.

I knew how to fit my entire life into a backpack before I ever needed one for school.

“That all?” Price asked.

I glanced up. He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, watching me like he’d been there the whole time, like he hadn’t missed a single movement.

I nodded, pushing the bag further under the bed with my foot. “Didn’t bring much.”

“Why?”

I shrugged, keeping it simple. “Don’t own much.”

He didn’t respond straight away, just gave a small nod like he was storing that somewhere for later, and the room fell quiet again. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just… still.

By the time it hit 2100, I was already pulling my boots off and climbing into bed without thinking twice about it.

Price let out a quiet huff, something close to amused. “You know most soldiers don’t actually go to bed at lights out, right? It’s more just a cut off for training and dinner.”

I looked over at him, confused. “Huh?”

“Most of us can’t sleep anyway,” he said, leaning back slightly. “So lights out’s more of a suggestion than anything.”

I stared at him for a second before looking back up at the ceiling. “Trusova used to make me do push-ups if he found me awake after lights out.”

There was a brief pause.

“That’s odd,” Price said, a slight frown pulling at his expression. “You’re an adult. You can stay up if you please.”

“I was youn—” The word slipped out before I could stop it.

I shifted immediately, reaching for my water bottle and unscrewing the cap just to give myself something to do. “Different unit. Different expectations.”

It came out too quickly, too clean, but I didn’t look at him to check if he noticed.

“You ever have a strict superior?” I added, keeping my tone casual as I took a drink. “Like that?”

“Right,” he replied, flat enough that I knew he’d caught it.

He didn’t push, though.

“Yeah, had a few,” he continued after a second. “But not Trusova strict. Sounds more like a prison guard than a CO.”

I let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh if I let it go any further.

“What else did he do?” Price asked, tone still even, but there was something more behind it now. Not pressure, just attention.

I hesitated for a second, staring at the wall instead of him. “After bad missions… he’d keep us awake. Couple days, sometimes.”

Saying it out loud felt heavier than it should have.

I didn’t give him time to respond, just turned onto my side and pulled the blanket up slightly, shutting my eyes like that ended the conversation.

The room stayed quiet for a moment.

Then, softer this time, “Right.”

I couldn’t tell if he believed me, or if he just chose not to question it.

The lights clicked off not long after, the room dropping into darkness.

I kept my breathing steady, even, pretending sleep came easy.

Across the room, I could hear the faint shift of his bunk as he lay back.

Neither of us said anything else.

Neither of us slept.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 7, mentions of abduction, blood, fainting

The Slavic Asset

Oc: Kovalyova Belykh

After a few weeks of training, I was finally cleared to go on a mission.

I didn’t show it, but something in my chest felt lighter than it had in a long time. It wasn’t like before—wasn’t like being sent out under Trusova, thrown into operations with people I didn’t know, people I couldn’t trust. Back then, you watched the enemy and your own team in equal measure.

Here, at least, I knew who I was standing beside.

That had to count for something.

We split into pairs not long after insertion, spreading out to cover more ground.

A hand tapped my shoulder. I turned and met John Price’s gaze. He jerked his head slightly, already moving.

With him.

I followed without hesitation, falling into step beside him as he scanned the area. He didn’t rush, didn’t speak—just watched, calculated. When he finally pointed, it was toward a narrow choke point between two crumbling structures.

I slowed.

It was exposed. Tight. Limited exits if anything went wrong.

I glanced back at him. He was already looking at me, like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

“You think I’d jeopardise a recruit?” he said, voice low, edged with impatience.

It wasn’t reassurance. It was a push.

I gave a short nod and moved into position.

I barely had time to settle before everything snapped.

A bag was dragged over my head, hands grabbing me hard and fast, yanking me backwards. I twisted, tried to brace, but I was already being forced forward, shoved into the back of a truck before I could properly react. My hands were wrenched behind me, zip-tied tight enough to cut.

I went still.

Forced myself to.

The sounds around me were controlled—boots shifting, weapons being checked, no panic, no noise wasted.

Too clean.

Too familiar.

They shoved me into a crate and sealed it.

Dark.

For a second, everything blurred together—confusion, then the sharp drop of realisation, and underneath it something colder that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Fifteen.

That was the last time.

Different country. Different men. Same darkness. Same smell of wood and metal and fabric pressed too close to your face. Same silence before things got worse.

I remembered the way I’d fought then—wild, untrained, desperate—and how it had cost me.

I remembered sitting across from Trusova after, blood still dried under my nails, hands shaking no matter how still I tried to keep them. He hadn’t comforted me. Hadn’t even asked if I was alright.

He’d just placed a sharpened knife on the table between us and pushed it toward me.

“You won’t get lucky twice.”

I inhaled slowly, forcing the memory down before it could take anything with it.

I wasn’t fifteen anymore.

I tilted my head, dragging the bag up just enough to see. It was dark, but not enough to blind me completely. My fingers worked at the pocket near my collarbone, prying it open with my teeth until the small knife slipped free and dropped near my bound hands.

I stretched carefully, the zip ties biting deeper into my wrists as I reached. It didn’t matter. I kept going until my fingers closed around the handle.

One clean motion.

The tension snapped.

I didn’t pause.

Knife back where it belonged.

No trace.

From there, everything was controlled—slow movements, quiet breaths, working the crate open just enough to see through the gap.

Front seats.

Simon Ghost Riley.

And Price.

The last piece clicked into place.

A hoax.

Of course it was.

I stayed still, watching, letting the rhythm of the truck settle into something predictable. When the road shifted beneath us—gravel replacing smooth ground—I moved.

The lock on the door beside me gave with a soft click.

Neither of them reacted.

I waited, watching through the gap until the land opened up—an abandoned field, dry crops stretching out with enough cover if I moved fast.

Good enough.

I kicked the door open and threw myself out.

The ground hit hard, knocking the air from my lungs as I rolled. Pain flared sharp through my side, something wrong there, but I forced myself up anyway. Behind me, I heard shouting, the truck slowing.

I ran.

The dry stalks tore at my arms as I pushed into the field, slicing through skin, catching on sleeves. The smell of rot filled the air, thick and sour, but I ignored it. Blood slicked along my wrists and forearms, but I didn’t stop.

Not until I found cover.

Not until I couldn’t hear the truck anymore.

I dropped into the brush, forcing myself still despite the way my pulse hammered against my ribs.

Footsteps approached.

Steady. Controlled.

“…she’s gone,” Ghost’s voice came faintly through comms. “Left blood everywhere. She ain’t gonna like us after this.”

Price answered without hesitation. “The plan isn’t for her to like us. It’s to see if she keeps up.”

The line went quiet.

My jaw tightened.

Figures.

The footsteps slowed as they neared me.

“I know you’re in ‘ere, Kove.”

His voice carried easily, calm, certain.

“Test’s done. You passed. Don’t make me come get you.”

I stayed where I was.

Not because I couldn’t move.

Because I wouldn’t.

The leaves shifted anyway.

Light cut through as he pushed them aside, exposing me where I’d been trying to stay hidden. For a moment, neither of us spoke. His gaze moved over me quickly, taking in the blood, the cuts, the way I was barely holding myself upright.

Something in his expression tightened.

“Christ,” he muttered, already crouching.

I tried to pull back on instinct, even though there was nowhere to go.

“You set it up,” I managed, voice rough. “You—”

The words slipped when my focus did.

He didn’t deny it.

“Yeah,” he said simply, reaching for me.

My strength gave out before I could decide what to do with that.

The ground tilted, and then his hands were there—steady, solid—pulling me upright before I could drop completely. One arm came around my back, the other pressing firm against my wrist to slow the bleeding.

“Easy,” he said, quieter now.

I let my head fall forward for a second, resting briefly against him before forcing myself to speak.

“That your idea of trust?”

He adjusted his hold, more secure now, like he wasn’t planning on letting me go anywhere.

“No,” he said, voice low, close enough that I could feel it more than hear it. “That’s how I make sure you don’t end up like you did at fifteen.”

That made me go still.

Not physically—I didn’t have the strength for that—but something sharper, deeper.

“You knew,” I murmured.

His grip didn’t loosen.

“I know enough,” he replied.

I let out a weak breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. “So you thought you’d recreate it?”

“Thought I’d see if you’d survive it,” he corrected, steady, unapologetic. “And you did.”

There was something frustrating about that. Something that should’ve made me push him away.

Instead, my fingers curled weakly into the front of his jacket, grounding myself there.

“You could’ve warned me.”

“Would’ve made it easier,” he said.

I huffed faintly. “Yeah. That’s usually the point.”

He didn’t answer that straight away. Just tightened his hold slightly, one hand still firm against my wrist, the other keeping me upright as he spoke into comms for evac.

When he looked back at me, his gaze didn’t move.

“Not for this,” he said.

Silence settled between us, heavier now.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… close.

“You hesitated,” he added after a moment, quieter.

I frowned slightly. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did,” he said, not harsh, just certain. “For a second. When they grabbed you.”

I swallowed.

“…yeah.”

His thumb shifted slightly against my wrist, not enough to be distracting, just enough to remind me he was still there, still holding me together.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

I glanced up at him, vision still blurred at the edges. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t hesitate like that again.”

There was something in the way he said it—low, controlled, but not entirely detached—that made it land differently.

Not just an order.

“…or what?” I asked, softer now.

His gaze held mine, steady, unreadable for a second too long.

“Or I won’t be there to pick you up next time.”

That sat between us.

Heavy.

My grip tightened slightly in his jacket, the only thing I could manage.

“…you were this time,” I said.

Something shifted in his expression, subtle but there.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 6 , mentions of night terrors

The Slavic Asset

Oc: Kovalyova Belykh

I jolted awake at 3 a.m., my chest hammering, heart skidding across my ribs like it was trying to escape. At first, I thought it was the usual wake-up call for soldiers. The echo of it bounced in my skull until I realized… silence.

Everybody else was still asleep. Usually, Trusova’s yelling would be slashing through the barracks by now, orders snapping like gunfire before anyone was fully dressed. Somehow, everyone else had either slept through the chaos or gotten used to it. I hadn’t.

I slipped into a t-shirt and shorts, the fabric cool against my skin, and made my way toward the training hall they’d shown me a few days ago. The corridor was dark and empty, the only sound the soft scrape of my sneakers against the concrete.

The training hall door creaked when I pushed it open, and I froze. No one.

I dropped onto a bench, still shaking from the night terrors that hadn’t quite let me go. My hands were slick with sweat as I wiped them on my knees. For a moment, it was peaceful—too peaceful. My ears picked up every tiny sound: the distant hum of lights, the faint wind rattling a window. The quiet felt heavy, oppressive even, but… it was almost nice. Almost.

I was about to get up, stretch my legs, shake the fog from my head, when the door opened with a soft push.

Price.

He didn’t see me at first. He walked past, inspecting the equipment, shifting weights, checking racks and ropes as if he could feel through the steel whether anything was off. He moved with the quiet precision of someone used to command, the kind that made people notice without really trying.

I stayed on the bench, watching. He hadn’t even looked in my direction, and yet I felt my chest tighten. Maybe it was the quiet intimacy of being alone with him like this, or the way he didn’t bother to soften his presence.

Ten minutes passed. Ten long, unbearable minutes. Then:

“Kove, get over ‘ere.” His voice cut the silence—not loud, but sharp enough to make me flinch.

I pushed myself off the bench, straightened my back, and moved closer. “Yes, sir?” My voice sounded small, even to me.

He didn’t respond immediately. Just gestured toward a piece of equipment that had come loose on the wall. “This. Fix it. Tighten the bolts. Make sure it’s secure.”

I knelt, tools in hand, pretending I wasn’t aware of how close he was standing behind me. The scent of him—something faintly metallic, leather, smoke—wafted over me, and my fingers shook, not from nerves, not entirely.

“You’re… early.” His voice was softer now, almost distracted, as if he’d realized I was the only one awake.

“I… couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, my eyes on the bolts. “Thought I’d get a head start.”

He hummed, the sound low in his throat, a half-grunt that didn’t quite acknowledge my effort. Then, after a pause, he said, “Not many people do that. Most wait for orders, wait for chaos to tell them what to do.”

I swallowed. “I like knowing what I’m doing. Helps me focus.”

He studied me for a moment, shoulders shifting, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then, quietly, almost offhand, he said, “Good.”

The word lingered between us, simple, unremarkable, but heavy. I felt it like a weight pressing against my ribs.

“I’ll check the rest of the hall in a few minutes,” he continued, not moving. “Make sure no one’s left a mess, nothing’s broken. Can’t have surprises when the team shows up.”

I worked the wrench carefully, aware of him standing there, aware of every subtle movement he made, the faint brush of his shadow as he leaned over a weight rack. My hands grazed the cold metal, but my mind was elsewhere. How could someone so rigid, so commanding, make a silence feel… intimate?

“You tense up too easily,” he muttered suddenly, and I jumped a little.

“I’m… just careful,” I said, heart skipping.

“Careful,” he repeated, like he was testing the word on his tongue. Then, almost inaudibly: “Good. But don’t let it slow you down. You’ve got speed in you. Don’t lose it worrying.”

I glanced up, and for a heartbeat, our eyes met. There was nothing overt in his gaze—just that calm, dangerous assessment—but it made my pulse hammer like I’d run a hundred meters. I looked down quickly, trying not to let him see the heat creeping up my neck.

“You learning the hall well?” he asked finally, breaking the tension, but I could hear the subtle edge in his tone that suggested he already knew the answer.

“Yes, sir,” I murmured. “Every corner.”

He nodded, satisfied, and for the first time, I noticed a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not wide, not warm, just… there. Enough to make my chest tighten again.

“Alright,” he said, stepping back. “Finish up here, then shadow me while I check the rest. Don’t get comfortable. We move fast, Kove.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, wrench clutched tight in my hand.

He walked past me toward the far end of the hall, and I stayed kneeling, heart still racing, aware that the silence between us had shifted. It wasn’t just empty now—it was charged. Heavy, tense, like the calm before a storm, except the storm might just be him, not the drills, not the mission.

[gutsybitsies]

that awful feeling when you realize a fic you're reading isn't just unpolished but most likely AI generated.

first they got the mechanisms of how a young player gets to the MLH wrong. that part's actually not unusual for someone who either doesn't know a lot about sports or just wants to handwave things away. but combined with everything else it's super fishy

the same character appears in two different roles. then i started to notice a bunch of chat gpt-isms like "he's not X, he's Y. It's Z." etc etc

guys, please don't use AI to write your fics. it doesn't have to be unpolished. wouldn't you want someone to earnestly connect with something you came up with 100% on your own?

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 5 - dinner time in the mess hall with tf141, no tws for this one

The Slavic Asset

I spent the last half hour unpacking, then sat on a lone stool that looked like it had been left behind by someone long gone. I let myself just sit and think.

Escape plans ran through my head. What if TF141 was a hoax? I traced every hallway, every door, every stairwell I’d seen. My teeth were clenched, fingers tapping against my knees in the rhythm that always helped me focus.

The wall clock ticked. 1900. Dinner.

I thought about staying in my room, hiding away. But I was starving. Slowly, I made my way through the winding hallways. Everything looked the same—lockers, grey walls, signs in English that I could barely read. I sighed. Keep going. The mess hall had to be somewhere.

Voices drifted from up ahead. A group of soldiers talking, joking. I followed at a distance until the hall opened up. The mess hall was loud. Trays clattered. People laughed. There were casual briefings over meals, stories swapping back and forth. Not at all like back in Ukraine, where we ate in silence, maybe whispering about schedules if we were lucky.

I grabbed a tray at the start of the line and snagged a sandwich from one of the piles. At the end, I almost handed over my old Ukrainian ID before remembering a few crumpled UK bills. Paid, I scanned for a seat. Most were full.

Then I heard it—someone mangling my name. A guy with a mohawk waved me over. I hesitated, then moved toward him. At the table sat a few others, including Price. My stomach tightened.

“Hey, Kovelova! You’re the new one, right? I’m Soap.” His Scottish accent made my name almost unrecognizable.

“It’s Kovalyova,” I murmured, sliding into a spare seat.

Soap waved it off, introducing the others. “That’s Gaz, that’s Ghost, and I’m assuming you’ve already met Price?”

I nodded. Price didn’t say anything. Just a short, measured glance that felt like it weighed me up in a heartbeat. I kept my eyes on my tray, trying to steady my pulse.

The conversation went on around me—Soap teasing Ghost, Gaz rolling his eyes, small jokes bouncing across the table. I answered when spoken to, short words, careful. Mostly I just ate.

Price’s eyes flicked to me again. Something in the way he watched made my stomach tighten—not fear exactly, more awarness. Like he noticed the smallest things. Every time I met his gaze, it felt like a slight unfamiliar tingle.

Soap nudged me. “Don’t choke on that, new girl. Wouldn’t want you out before you’ve even started.”

I let a tiny smile slip. Price’s jaw twitched slightly, almost a smirk. I caught it out of the corner of my eye before he looked away.

The hall buzzed around us—laughter, clatter, smell of stew and coffee. I focused on eating, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of him watching me. Dangerous, yes, but strangely… alive.

For the first time since arriving, I didn’t feel that awful haze threaten to take over.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter Four (mentions of dissociation and anxiety but briefly)

The Slavic Asset

The truck slowed as we passed through the security checkpoint of the military base. Price handled the registration quickly—no surprise, given his high rank. I wasn’t so lucky; the guards seemed unsure what to do with my Ukrainian ID.

Eventually, they let us through. Price muttered under his breath, “How hard could it be?” as he found a parking spot. We climbed out of the truck, hauling our bags along.

“I’ll let you drop your bag at the barracks, then you’ll meet Laswell. Mandatory interview,” Price said quickly, already moving. I stretched my legs after the long ride and jogged to catch up.

I focused on his words, trying not to slip back into that haze. Breathe in… out.

“Laswell?” I asked softly.

“Kate Laswell,” he replied. “Overseer of Task Force 141. CIA station chief.”

I nodded, catching maybe twenty percent of what he said. Ukraine didn’t use these ranks, but it sounded important, respectable. The name rang a distant bell somewhere in the back of my mind.

The base was larger than anything I’d seen in Ukraine: more soldiers, more recruits, and obviously more funding. Everywhere, soldiers chatted, trained, or ate—overwhelming.

I dropped my bag in a small quarters: sterile white walls, a bed, and a drawer for uniforms and personal items. I wasn’t complaining—I’d shared a room with a dozen other soldiers back home, in a space that probably violated every military regulation on safety.

Following Price deeper into the base, we stopped at an office. He rapped his knuckles lightly.

“Kate, yer in there?”

A few seconds later, the door opened, and Laswell ushered us inside. Price took one of the chairs in front of her desk; I hesitated a moment before sitting across from him. Laswell settled behind her desk, eyes on a stack of briefing notes.

“So, Kovalyova,” she began. “We’ve been in contact with Trusova recently. He’s sung your praises—that’s why you’re here. I just have a few compulsory questions before you can officially join the team.”

I nodded, hands fidgeting under the table, stomach tightening like it always did. She seemed to take that as permission to start, while Price leaned back, watching. Laswell was intimidating, precise, and the room felt suffocating.

“Who trained you? Not just recently—anyone during your career,” she asked sharply, eyes still on her computer.

I thought carefully. “Trusova… maybe one of his soldiers when he was away.” My voice stayed steady.

“How long has he been training you?” she added, scribbling on a post-it.

Trusova would want me to lie—to make it look legal. My palms felt sticky; I wiped them on my jeans. Six years, if we were counting the “legal” way.

“Six years. Pretty much every day,” I said. Laswell gave me a look that made my voice falter. She knew I was lying. She didn’t comment, though—maybe she didn’t care yet.

“Who do you call in a work emergency?”

“Trusova… my captain,” I stammered.

“And in a medical emergency?”

“Trusova again. He was my legal guardian before I turned eighteen,” I added quickly.

“Convince me I won’t regret this,” she said, closing her folder with a sigh.

I swallowed, trying to sound calm. “I may not have as much experience as some here, but I make up for it once I see what needs to be done.”

Laswell didn’t say anything, but I caught the shift in her posture: she was already thinking where to put me. Price stood, cracking his neck.

I followed him out, smoothing my shirt.

“Training starts at 0600. Dinner’s at 1900 in the mess hall. You’re welcome, but it’s not mandatory,” he said gruffly, before turning and walking away.

I paused for a moment, then headed to my quarters, letting the base’s noise wash over me.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 3 tw: mentions of dissociation

The Slavic Asset

Being called up for the second time this week definitely couldn’t be a good sign. So every step I took up the stairs to Trusova’s office felt like I was slowly dripping into a haze, a haze where I couldn’t completely control my body. It was like autopilot without consent.

I haven’t felt like that since I was 12 handed a gun aimed at a prisoner, to prove my loyalty to Trusova. I wailed for months after that incident—I’m sure you can guess what I had to do with the gun.

When my hand circles around the silver door knob a small break in routine crashes me out of that haze.

An english accent, rough, jagged around the edges. Am I being replaced? I could’ve sworn Trusova was proud of me, but maybe I had assumed incorrectly. The door clicks open, Trusova opening the door before I even had time to knock.

He probably thought I was taking too long.

“Ah, Kovey. You’re here already.” He smiled again, unsettling, unfamiliar.

His hand was on my shoulder as he led me deeper into his office, a man I didn’t recognise was sitting in the chair I usually sat in when I was called into Trusova’s office. And for some reason it ticked me off.

I barely register the sharp hiss of Trusova in my ear speaking in our mother tongue, Ukrainian. Which he never does around english speaking guests.

“Let me do the talking for once, please. Sit, look pretty. This is a big deal.” Trusova hushes into my ear. I nod before snapping my attention to the stranger. He had oceanic blue eyes and brown hair. He had a hat, bucket hat, but it was sitting in his lap for the moment.

“You must be Kovalyova, pleasure to meet you. I’m John Price from TF141 in England.” He reaches out to shake his hand but I barely even clock the movement. More just confused on why he was here and how he knew my name. Especially if he was from an elite team like his.

I tried to speak but I had slipped back into that haze again. I stuck with a nod before Trusova pointed me to another seat.

Trusova briefly fills me in on the basics.

“Price wants to recruit you, especially after that mission in Russia. He wants to know if you’d… be up to that sort of thing, hm, kid?”

“Recruit me to where?” I stumble over my words like a bloody idiot.

Price pipes up again, his words gruff from a history of yelling orders and smoking endless cigars.

“To TF141, we’d ship yer over to England.”

“For how long?” I ask again, my mind felt faint with this. I wasn’t sure why.

“TF141 tends to be a… permanent decision. But if you’re really unsure, we could do a year long contract and if yer like it you can extend it like all the rest of us.”

My stomach tightened, I felt nauseous. New team, new training regimen, new exhaustion, new abuse. I’d rather stay with Trusova. At least I know all of his vicious tricks, how to avoid them.

I was about to reply before Trusova answered for me after I was silent for too long apparently.

“She’ll do it.”

“Really? Cuz’ I’d like to hear it from her.” Price shoots back, Trusova beginning to grate on his last nerves.

“Uh, yeah I’ll do a year.” I say quietly.

“Great, pack your stuff, we’re leavin’ in an hour.” My eyes widened slightly. An hour? And hour to pack my entire life into a small box and check it off some list?

I just nod in reply, forcing a polite smile before navigating myself to the barracks. I grab my essentials, toothbrush, uniform, toiletries, clothes, that’s all. I almost leave the room to rush outside to the truck they were waiting for me in.

I turn back around, I couldn’t leave BonBon. That would be cruel, right? I was too old for this shit but I shove it into the bottom of my bag, making sure it wouldn’t be seen at all.

I get into the truck that Price waves me into, he was driving. He insisted I sat front seat, he wanted to talk, get some rules, things done to save time. I reluctantly climb into the front seat, my bag by my feet. I was silent until Price broke it.

“I heard about the mission in Russia.” He says simply, like the mission actually mattered when it was just a mission failed successfully.

“It’s nothing, really.” I reply back quietly.

“No, seriously. That was bloody okay for a first mission. Especially for a scrappy kid like you.” He huffs back.

“Scrappy?” I echo.

“Yeah, small, swift, survival instincts. It’s a good thing.” He explains back.

I nod slowly, absorbing the information. My english was very poor in some places, especially when it came to descriptive vocabulary like that. Ukrainian being my native it was easy to slip into old habits, strong accents, et cetera.

“Trusova says strength is superior to speed, gave all his soldiers some real grief about it.” My memories gently drift to the times where Trusova would make us work out twice sometime three times during the day in hopes to beat out the soft.

“I don’t care how you do your job, as long as you get it done.” Price adds after that crumb of information about Trusova. No wonder his team was mediocre, it was corrupted with burnt out soldiers while he lit the wick and watched them smoke into thin air.

[angel-liz2]

Chapter 2 - JOHN PRICE x OC , we meet Price in the 3rd chapter, promise.

TW : AB*SE

The Slavic Asset

Oc: Kovalyova Belykh

“Kid, come on. Get back up, I know you can do it.” Trusova encourages, we’ve been on the training mats for hours now. Blood drips from my temple after it got cut while sparring. I didn’t feel good…

“C-can’t… train anymore..” I cough up bile and almost throw up in my mouth but I manage to swallow my exhaustion down.

“When you’re on the field, you think a seasoned war vet is gonna wait for you to catch your breath? Huh, Kovey?” His voice was getting more agitated the more I refused. And I wasn’t getting out of it whether I liked it or not, and it’s easier fighting a calm man compared to an angry one.

I push up onto shaky feet, before I could even square into a fighting stance his fist collides with my face… I think I’m gonna pass out…

My vision flashes white before fading to black, I fall backwards, the ceiling fans were moving too fast, making me even more dizzy. Where am I?

“Kid… you good?” Trusova asked, brushing off my shirt and getting me back to my feet. I nod sloppily in response, still seeing excess colours everywhere.

“Can I go now?” I ask hopefully, though my heart still braced for refusal. Trusova waves dismissively to my quarters and I scurried off.

- a few weeks later -

My first solo positioned mission, I was hesitant to go on this mission. I didn’t have a good intuition about it, but Trusova used the handy overused phrase.

“You think a war waits for a good feeling to start?”

I repeated the phrase in my mind like a mantra, it spiralled around my thoughts.

Most of the mission flew in a blur, pretty straight forward. Just like all the other missions that Trusova had told me stories about. I try to assure myself that it was all good, as long as we stick to the book.

“May your aim be steady and your heart stay pure” Trusova affirms to me in confidence as usual.

“May your aim be steady and your heart stay pure.” I repeat back to him before directing myself to my position.

Then the rain began bucketing down, soaking our boots, and distractingly pouring down our faces. This would’ve been fine if it was just rain, but it was hell. A storm so heavy we couldn’t even see a meter in front of ourselves.

Couldn’t hear each other over the rain drops splatting against the ground like bullets. The winds were severe, every step forward was three steps back.

A yell rings out. Not a whistle, not a signal, a yell. Trusova?

I try looking around but I could barely keep my eyes open in this weather. My heart pounded as I wailed around, feeling like a penguin’s first day on earth.

Then I saw Trusova, pinned down by an enemy’s boot with a gun aimed between his eyes.

I try to shove the feeling down but a cruel hidden part of me wanted to leave him there. Let him suffer for every painful backhand across the face, for every dragged out training session until I was heaving on the ground.

I try not to act on that thought.

After I snapped back to reality I had already shot the hell out of that guy fitted in enemy uniform. Blood leaking out of the side of his head. Oh.

I’m already dragging Trusova back, putting pressure on his gunshot wound so he wouldn’t bleed out right on this very pavement in this backend alley. Extraction, where was it? Where did they say it would be? My mind races.

My thoughts cut to silence when I see the headlights of the extraction truck flashing to get our attention through the harsh rain. I huff in relief before using the last bit of my energy to drag this man to safety. My arms throbbed, they trembled violently. I wondered if it was from how many coffees I drank this morning or the cold rainwater.

The drive home with one of Trusova’s men navigating the slippery roads mostly consisted of me trying to keep Trusova conscious.

- few days later -

Trusova recovered swiftly, though when he got back behind his desk and looked at his emails, and a few notes left from the debriefing after the mission and a realisation washes over him.

Kovalyova was called into his office, still in uniform from training, wondering if she was about to get a lecture or latrine duty for something she hasn’t noticed she’s done wrong.

“Yes, captain?”

Trusova smiles and waves over to one of the seats by his desk, that’s when Kovey got suspicious. Trusova was never happy to see her, let alone this happy.

Kovalyova sinks into one of the chairs, tapping her fingertips on her knees, sweating bullets.

“You’ve made a name for yourself. I knew you could do it.” Trusova says, as if he hasn’t belittled me every single day since I was three years old.

“Why? How?” I stammer.

“The debriefing of your mission is making its way around the industry, Kovey. Do you know what that means, kid?”

I shake my head vigorously but still curious.

“Means you’ve got eyes on you now, which also means you need to work harder, train more, slack less.” He scolds slightly.

I was already training every day all day. What more could he want? But I push down that bitter resentment and nod with pursed lips forcing a smile.

“I’ve got people wanting you on their team, kiddo. So work harder, I’ll keep you updated.”

My stomach tightens, new teams, new training regimens, more missions, more work… yay. I nod again and left the room, pulling in a huge inhale after holding my breath for the entirety of that conversation.