Fic Update: DWP - AU Intuitive, Chapter 23
Devil Wears Prada -AU
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Rating: NC-17/M
*The information and general ideas are based off of one of my favorite international intrigue authors: Eric B. Lustbader. Derived from his Asian-American-Soviet-era, Nicholas Linnear novels such as The Jian or Second Skin, I began to imagine Miranda and Andy in such a startling and complex world where loyalties are few and the shadows are often dangerous.
This story has some disturbing images of violence and sexual violence, but is necessary to the storyline. Please pass if this is makes you uncomfortable.
Please allow for some serious artistic license and any historical and cultural inaccuracies, I’m only a ‘fan’ of history, not an expert. But I read lots and watch lots of documentaries, so hopefully that’s gotta count for something… right? lol
Finally, my interpretation or illustration of various cultures is not a suggestion that they are correct; I’m just a humble fanfic writer, sharing the love.
A/N I sincerely apologize for the hold-up on this story. Along with busy RL issues, my computer and I were "breaking up" and as a consequence it was harder to find somewhere to update/write. I'm working on a replacement as we speak, especially since I 'see' the finish-line of this fic. Nevertheless, I hope y'all still enjoy the updates and I thank you for your patience w/ me as I continue to work out the logistics of... everything.
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Chapter 23
Breathing heavily, almost gasping, Miranda stood on rubbery legs over the sink, staring at her bruised and bleeding image in the mirror. Bloody homemade medical supplies were littered around the sink and floor. She managed to get the bullet out and slap a dressing on the wound. The line of redness around her neck was painful and steadily swelling, it certainly hurt to swallow. She supposed she could have looked worse, like the three men she’d most recently encountered before escaping. She knew she’d eventually have to get proper medical treatment for the bullet-wound still oozing blood through the dressing, on her right side. But she was simply unable to move at the moment. The body had the capacity to process trauma, fatigue, and fight-flight response before a person shut down; whether it’s psychologically or physiologically, perhaps even both.
As a highly trained operative, she was both lucky and skilled enough to persevere until she got herself somewhere safe. Felix… did not make it and the grief threatening to overwhelm her already strained reserves was more than she could stand. Hence the reason she was standing half-naked, bleeding, slightly shocky, with tattered clothing (no doubt from her sprint through the East Berlin sewers), in a dingy bathroom. She finally made it to West Berlin, but the relief Miranda should be feeling had yet to make itself known.
Thoughts of what was waiting for her, after all these years, , extracting long-awaited vengeance, defying death, even ignoring less than unsavory conditions, was what kept her moving. The fact that she was unable to reach Andréa also made things difficult. They were supposed to do a check-in in Austria. Wearing a dark-haired wig, a drab overcoat, and sunglasses, complete with false papers which she paid handsomely for in preparation, she limped her way to a designated café, gave a signal to one of her contacts, and was led to a storage backroom, where an ancient phone awaited her. Luckily Miranda has total recall; otherwise she would have lost the slip of information containing the all-important number back in Moscow.
While Miranda had become somewhat desensitized to committing murder - one didn’t become a high-ranking official within the Soviet Union’s security apparatus without losing some squeamishness around death or murder. It was still used as a means of defense or an impromptu offense so that she didn’t have to play defense. Yes, there were the occasional situations that required immediate, yet careful deliberate ruthlessness, such as the situation involving that scruffy, brown-haired assassin. But he threatened someone who’d become very… essential to her. However, in the case of Grigory Olav and Alexi Kurylenko, Miranda planned, re-thought, planned even more for years before executing her plan. She only needed one. She thought Alexi would have been the easier the target since he’d seen little combat, and similar to his position with the Nazis, often delegated his dirtier work to others.
But when she snuck into one of his safehouses, she was lucky she heard the quiet hiss of a steel wire, allowing her to get her hand underneath it, before it completely tore into her throat. Nevertheless it still bit into her throat, closing off some of her air. She used her other arm to sharply elbow the body behind her. The oof she got in response, as well as the slight give in the garrote allowed her to sweep one leg back, while turning into her assailant, and then bringing her free hand to shove up into his sternum. Thankfully the garrote fell away, but she knew she’ll be feeling it later. A quick snap to her cheek, made her immediately re-evaluate her next move, before dropping down to one knee, and giving an upper-cut into the man’s groin.
The gasp he gave was instantly cut off while he instinctively bent over in an attempt to instinctively protect more damage to his privates, as Miranda gave a vicious head-butt. His nose bursted like a sun-ripened tomato. She knew she had to quickly get to her feet, to gain a stronger position against a much stronger foe. Even though blood spattered along the bottom of his face, Miranda could still recognize Kurylenko. However, as she stood up a suddenly enraged Kurylenko let out a roar of anger, while tackling her into the wall. He then brought his knee up into her ribs, causing her to cry out in pain.
Miranda knew that if she didn’t get out of this position, she’d be dead. As he started to wrap his hands around her throat, Miranda somehow managed to get her arms in between his and then jerked down, momentarily breaking his hold. With his arms still up, it left his torso unprotected. She managed to deliver two quick and vicious kidney strikes with the palm of her hand. This time it was Kurylenko who cried out. But Miranda showed him no quarter, not after finding Felix’s throat cut with an implement rumored have been used in one of the Nazi concentration camps.
Miranda managed to miss getting punched in the temple by finally slipping out of her vulnerable position the former Nazi had her in. They were in some type of office, because after Miranda managed to deliver a round-house kick that managed to catch the slightly woozy male in the jaw, sending him to one knee, she grabbed a paperweight off a nearby desk. Since she dropped her knife near the entrance, Miranda used the paperweight as a weapon and smashed it against his temple. Regardless of his weakened attempts to protect himself, lucky for her he was too late, unlucky for him, it sent him crashing to the floor, if not totally unconscious, well on his way there. She frantically looked around for something to finish him off completely; Miranda knew she had moments, if not seconds before back-up arrived.
Sighting her short-sword, she quickly scooped it up, only to have Kurylenko weakly grab her ankle. Blood coated his hair and most of his rapidly-swelling face. Jerking her leg from his hold, she gripped her sword, used her foot to shove him onto his back, and took a moment to center herself, staring coldly into Kurylenko’s dark eyes.
“Since I can’t deliver you to the Israelis, I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.” She quickly and expertly stabbed the sword into his heart. She bent down to the last words he would hear, “this is for all the Jews you’ve murdered, including my family, and Felix.” As he began to cough up dark blood, his eyes widened in surprise, right before the next round of coughing finished him. His eyes began to dim, all the while staring at Miranda, giving her an intense sense of justice and pleasure that he met his demise at her hands.
Miranda wasn’t exactly the type to gloat; she always believed that actions spoke louder than words. But she wanted to ensure that he would know it was a Jew who killed him. However she had no time to revel in her victory, the squeal of tires outside indicated she needed to leave five minutes ago. The adrenaline coursing through her veins allowed her to ignore any aches and pains.
Grigory Olav was an entirely different story and perhaps it was his complete lack of regard for humanity, or maybe it was the sheer pleasure he derived from personally and cruelly hurting others. It was definitely his complete disdain for women, that added up to his downfall. Perhaps he’d been so busy being a monster that he’d been unable to recognize when one finally descended upon him. When she entered the room he was hiding out in, he already had a gun pointed at her, like some kind of ridiculous, stereotypical villain from a James Bond film.
Arrogant in his assumption that he had the upper-hand and of course, his devout belief in her inherent weakness as a woman, he wasn’t prepared for just how talented Miranda was at disarming and then neutralizing opponents. He also didn’t know that she had acquired a ‘gift’ from Japan - just enough to completely immobilize a person, not kill them. Hopefully. After seeing how effective those little poisonous darts were, she decided to coat, just enough a few of the sharp implements Andréa gifted her with before they parted.
But Miranda had to time it just right; when Grigory pressed the alarm, she moved. Readying herself on the balls of her feet, she readied the weapon in her gloved-hand. She was moving as she threw the throwing star. It nicked his cheek. Unfortunately the bullet nicked her side. More shots peppered the wall behind her as she used the desk to hide. When she heard Grigory stumbling, Miranda knew the poison was working. He fell over onto his desk, twitching. Gasping Miranda quickly stood, with some stumbling herself, holding her hand against the bullet wound. She heard running feet heading in their direction so she went into motion, ignoring the wound on her side.
She somehow managed to push his heavy body back into his chair, rifled through his drawers until she found the bottle of vodka. Pouring two shots, she leaned over his body, giving off a faux intimate scene. When two Soviet security officers bursted through the door with guns drawn, they paused in surprise.
Miranda gave off a fake, slightly embarrassed, giggle, “I’m so sorry, but we drank too much vodka and General Orlav hit the button by accident as he passed out.” The two men shared a look, suspiciously glanced around the office for anything out of the ordinary.
Taking a major chance, Miranda once again played a shameful female Soviet officer. “I would like to take him home. If you could help me take him to the car I’d be ever so appreciative.”
After some more half-hearted questions; after all the two men were used to finding drunk officers, Miranda managed to convince them to drag Orlav to the car she had waiting. Once she assured them that she was not too drunk, she got into the car, and drove out of Moscow forever, but not without the obvious physical damage, as well as some… emotional concerns.
It wasn’t that Miranda believed herself to be a monster, but when committing such crimes, killing another person, up-close and personal, no matter how justified always left her feeling… unbalanced. And she’d been waiting so long. Grigory had been left humiliatingly naked, tightly trussed like a pig, and heavily drugged in secluded abandoned home outside of Salzburg. After completing her transaction, she hung up and then made another call. Perhaps the most important call yet.
Speaking fluent Hebrew, she said a few words, and then hung up. Grigory was about to have an even worse day. She wished she could stick around to see the end results. But she’d been promised that she’d be contacted once the… job was completed. Taking a few moments to gather herself, Miranda finally pushed herself from the chair, taking note that she was slightly feverish, she knew she needed medical attention, but she had no time. She knew how the Soviets worked - she trained many of them, so she knew her time was running out. She needed to be somewhere; the trick will be getting there.