Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Sixteen: Nostalgia

Part of keeping the Soviet kingdom in check was maintaining order over every country, province and town. Every inch of land we held dominion over had to be constantly intimidated, indoctrinated and integrated. Every country was a cog in a clock, and every country ticked differently - some cowered in their hovels devoutly swallowing every order whilst some had civil unrest, rejecting ever law, doctrine and courtesy.

Whole towns were burnt to the ground if they didn't obey.

It often occurred to me: how did people let this happen? I won't deny, as an empire, our arsenal of weaponry was enough to exterminate the entire face of the earth, our wealth was as bottomless as a pharaoh's and our legislation as harsh as Henry VII's. But we're just one web of countries, in an allegiance secured by fear; beyond us - surely people knew? Slaughters of citizens were a day to day thing for me, and it almost didn't bother me anymore.

Almost.

But beyond that Iron Curtain, the buffer countries that segregated us from Europe and Asia, why did no one infiltrate our borders? Why did no one step in? Why did no one stand up? Our people, the Soviet people, they were powerless. Subjugated, brutalised, extorted. Americans, they killed innocent civilians, they stole documents, they pointed weapons. Why didn't they aid uprisings?

And people look at me, look at James; they see us as the villains. We've just been branded with the same name, because we're - on the surface - allied with the government. Antagonists, that's what we are; those who oppose justice. Antagonised antagonists. No one has sympathy for the villain, sympathy for the devil. Nine times out of ten, I'm willing to bet you look at them, opposed from the second you clap eyes on them, and think: they deserve to die. Motive is a little acknowledged thing. Question villains, or those who you see as villains. Nothing is ever as it seems. Fallaces sunt rerum species.

On our way to another town burnt down to ashes as white as snow, it had occurred to me.

"Let me tell you a bit about myself," the luxuriated kingpin stated casually. A short glass of vodka sloshed in Lukin's hand as he spoke; in by far the nicest seat in the hellish clunking vehicle. The icecubes made a tuneful clinking noise against the glass.

Yelena, James and I turned our attention from the icy landscape in the windows to the man propped aloofly in the seat.

"This town you're about to visit, though we burn many ourselves - eradicating weak links in the chain - it wasn't us who burnt it to the ground. The Americans...President Nixon is interfering with our affairs. He's unhappy about Hungary and Czechoslovakia... Still, he's somewhat weaker than Kennedy. Thank you again Winter..." He raised his glass to my catatonic partner in crime and snapped him a wink. "Though you still haven't explained how you got that bullet to curve... Survivors is what you're looking for. And the pesky capitalists who have brought the Soviet wrath upon themselves..."

"But what has this to do with yourself, sir?" Yelena fluttered her eyelashes innocently and perched herself on the edge of her seat with attentiveness.

Aleksander gave a happy hum at her, and his foot snaked forwards across to her seat, the side of his shoe affectionately trailing up her ankle. "It was from similar circumstances I got to where I am today. During the Second World War we did nothing but help the Americans, but they never returned the favour. They let us suffer. The Nazis, The Red Skull and Hitler's men, they came through the singed my town to the ground..." He looked up at me, almost with understanding. "I watched my own parents burn to death. Captain America..." A snarl appeared on his face and then a scowl turned to James, who seemed to shiver at the name. "He stepped over them. Stepped over me. We meant nothing to the Americans, that much was clear. We were collateral damage; they marched straigh through. Vasily Karpov, god rest his nurturing soul-" I felt bile rise in the back of my throat. "He scooped me up from the ashes, he made something of me. When I was so sure I was going to die in the cold of the Siberian snow."