#cod franchise

[angel-liz2]

Random blurb

Chapter 1

John Price has never been a good man, as soon as he enlisted his morals greyed, his inhibitions fading and fraying at the corners. Using leverage on women and children, civilians. Manipulating recruits and mouldable youngsters to do his bidding.

It wasn’t until he had met a child soldier, 15 years old, Shadow Company, under Philip Grave’s direct command that he had started doubting himself. They had caught her, her name was Priscilla Cooper.

In wasn’t until he was interrogating her when she mentioned he was the reason she kept going. He was actually quite an inspiration to her, his words, why her morals were so difficult to find. His words, specifically ‘we get our hands dirty so the world stays clean’.

Her southern accent bled into her words, a sound so sweet yet words so cutting.

That’s when everything crashed down, every child, woman, man, he has ever killed came rushing back. And the fact his words had influenced a 15 year old to do such horror.

[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]

Unaccounted For

Chapter 2 (JOHN PRICE X OC! Platonic)

When Laswell got to her office the next morning, her inbox was already overflowing. Secure channels stacked on top of each other, encryption layers she had to peel back one by one, priority tags flashing red like this had turned into everyone’s problem overnight.

Poland. Russia. Ukraine. A handful of NATO branches trying to be subtle about it and failing.

All asking about one person.

Nadja.

The wording shifted depending on who sent it. “Person of interest.” “Recoverable asset.” “Request for immediate transfer.” One message from a Russian contact didn’t even bother dressing it up. It simply read: return her.

Laswell sat down slowly, scanning each message with a practiced eye. She didn’t react, didn’t rush. This wasn’t new territory, just a messier version of it.

To them, Nadja wasn’t a kid strapped to a hospital bed down the hall.

She was leverage. Intelligence. Something to own.

Laswell filtered through them quickly, archiving most, sending back controlled, deliberately vague responses to a select few. Enough to stall. Enough to keep them guessing.

Then one message came through that made her stop.

No origin stamp. No traceable routing.

Clean.

Too clean.

She opened it.

⸻

From: Unknown

To: K. Laswell

Subject: Return of Property

You have taken something that does not belong to you.

The girl is not yours to keep.

She was built for a purpose, and you are not equipped to maintain it.

Return her, and I will consider your interference a misunderstanding.

Keep her, and I will assume intent.

You understand the consequences of that.

You have 48 hours.

• M

⸻

Laswell stared at it for a long moment, her expression flattening just slightly.

No theatrics. No wasted words.

That was him.

She stood, grabbed her tablet, and headed straight for the infirmary.

Price was already there.

Same spot as last night, leaned back against the wall like he hadn’t moved much at all. There was a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold. His eyes flicked up the second she walked in.

“You look like trouble,” he said.

Laswell handed him the tablet without a word.

Price read it quickly. His jaw tightened halfway through, the corner of his mouth pulling down into something that wasn’t quite a scowl, but close enough.

“Forty-eight hours,” he muttered. “That’s generous.”

“He wants us to think that,” Laswell replied.

Price huffed quietly, handing the tablet back. “And the rest?”

“Everyone else is circling,” she said. “Poland wants custody. Russia claims jurisdiction. Ukraine says she’s theirs by right of operation. They’re not even pretending anymore.”

Price glanced over at the bed.

Nadja was awake.

Barely.

She looked worse in daylight. Pale, drained, the kind of exhaustion that sat deeper than just lack of sleep. But her eyes were open, tracking them, sharp in a way that didn’t match the rest of her.

Still thinking.

Still watching.

Price pushed off the wall and walked over, dragging a chair with him. He turned it around and sat, arms resting across the back, posture loose but deliberate.

Laswell stayed standing just off to the side.

“Morning,” Price said.

Nadja didn’t answer.

Her gaze flicked from him to Laswell, then to the tablet in her hand.

She knew.

Of course she did.

Price noticed the shift immediately. “You’ve seen that look before,” he said, nodding toward the screen. “Haven’t you.”

Her jaw tightened slightly.

Laswell stepped closer, angling the tablet so Nadja could see the message clearly. “We need you to confirm something.”

Nadja’s eyes moved over the text. Slower this time. More focused.

Recognition hit almost instantly.

Her fingers twitched against the cuffs.

“Do you know who sent this?” Laswell asked.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

A pause.

Then, flat and certain, “Makarov.”

Price nodded once, like he expected nothing else. “Right. And when he says you were built for a purpose… what does that mean?”

Nadja didn’t answer straight away.

Her breathing shifted, just slightly. Not panicked. Not like yesterday.

Controlled.

But tight.

“It means I don’t get a choice,” she said finally.

Price’s eyes stayed on her. “In what?”

“In anything.”

Laswell crossed her arms. “Including this?” she asked, gesturing lightly toward the room, the restraints, the IV line.

That was the wrong question.

Something in Nadja snapped.

Her head turned sharply toward Laswell, eyes suddenly burning with something stronger than exhaustion.

“Yes,” she said, her voice rough but rising. “Including this. You think this is different?”

Price straightened slightly in his chair.

Nadja pushed against the cuffs without even seeming to realize it, the metal clinking softly against the bed frame.

“You took me,” she went on, her accent heavier now, words slipping faster. “You strapped me here. You test me. You watch me. Same thing.”

“That’s not the same and you know it,” Price said, his tone firm but controlled.

“Isn’t it?” she shot back, looking at him now. “Still locked. Still watched. Still not allowed to leave.”

There was no fear in her voice.

Just anger.

And something underneath it that sounded a lot like desperation.

Laswell studied her carefully. “He’s killing you,” she said, calm but direct. “That dose of Trinity should have killed you already.”

Nadja laughed.

It wasn’t humor. It was sharp, hollow.

“Not fast enough,” she said.

Price’s jaw tightened. “That’s not survival. That’s torture.”

Nadja’s gaze snapped back to him. “It’s home.”

The word landed heavier than anything else she’d said.

Silence followed it.

Short. Thick.

Then she spoke again, quieter now, but more intense.

“Send me back to Moscow.”

Laswell didn’t move. “No.”

“I want to go back,” Nadja insisted, her voice rising again. “I don’t want this. I don’t want more tests, more questions, more… this.”

She yanked lightly at the cuffs again, frustration bleeding through.

Price leaned forward slightly. “You think he’s going to stop if we send you back?”

“Yes.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes, he will,” she snapped, louder now. “Because I’ll be where I’m supposed to be.”

“Where he can keep using you,” Price countered.

“That’s my job!”

The words came out fast. Automatic.

Like they’d been drilled into her.

The room went still again.

Nadja seemed to realize what she’d said a second too late, her breathing hitching slightly, but she didn’t back down. If anything, she doubled down.

“That’s what I’m for,” she said, quieter but no less firm. “You think you’re helping, but you’re not. You’re just making it worse.”

Laswell exchanged a glance with Price.

“He gave us forty-eight hours,” she said. “After that, he escalates.”

Nadja didn’t hesitate. “Then give me back before that.”

Price shook his head slowly, almost tired. “You don’t get it, do you.”

“No,” she shot back. “You don’t.”

Her eyes locked onto his, unflinching despite everything.

“You keep me, he comes here. He doesn’t stop. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

Price held her gaze, steady and unmoving.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That sounds about right.”

A beat passed.

Then his voice hardened, something resolute settling into it.

“Still not happening.”

Nadja’s expression twisted, frustration flaring again. “You don’t have a choice.”

Price leaned back slightly in the chair, studying her.

“Course I do,” he said. “Just not the one you want.”

She stared at him, breathing uneven, eyes sharp and furious and just a little bit desperate beneath it all.

“I’m not your asset,” she said.

Price didn’t miss a beat.

“Good,” he replied. “Because we don’t treat people like that.”

[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.)

[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.