(no subject)
Things may be unsettled at the Inn, but Molokov, for once, is content. He is still unable to think back his suits, but at least the hated Team USA shirt is no longer an issue. He’s borrowed one of Walter’s shirts. It’s a little tight around his shoulders, but it fits very well otherwise. He’s not going to complain.
He rounds the corner then freezes. In front of him is a young woman with dark hair curling past her shoulders and deep brown eyes. Her white nightdress skims the top of her bare feet. She smiles enigmatically, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Hello, Sascha,” she says. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
It takes him a few moments to find his voice. “Nadya? How - how are you here?” His face is pale and his hands are shaking. He has not seen his sister in over eighteen years and he certainly did not expect to see her in the Inn.
“I’ve been here, waiting,” she answers softly. “I needed you.”
Molokov slowly reaches his hand out for her. “All this time?” His voice catches at the last word. She makes no move to pull away, and he finds her hand is as cold as ice.
She leans her head against his chest, toying with the top button of his shirt. “Why didn’t you save me, brother?” She continued, tightening her grip. “I called for you. I screamed for you. And you didn’t come.”
Molokov opens his mouth to speak, but the words will not come. He clings to her desperately, trying to keep some semblance of control. But all he feels is fear, and overpowering guilt.
“Why didn’t you save me?” She asks again, her voice more insistent.
“I came as fast as I could,” he manages finally. But not in time, and he had never forgotten the memory of her lying there in a pool of blood, beaten within an inch of her life. He’d heard the shot that killed her, he found out later. Just a few minutes earlier, and she would have been safe.
“No, you didn’t. My Sascha let me die, alone and afraid.” She kisses his cheek gently. “Do you know what they did to me?”
He shudders, pulling away from her. He’d extracted the details from her killers. It had been painful enough at the time, and then he’d had the satisfaction of executing them in the name of the state in the most brutal way he knew. He had no such recourse now.
“I know, Nadya. Please. Please forgive me.” The words felt hollow; nothing he could say could atone for his failure to protect her, but still, he tried. It was all he could do.
“Do you know what I thought to myself, as they hurt me?” She moved close to him again, gripping his hand tightly. “My oldest brother loves me. He will not let those bastards hurt me. He’ll rescue me, like he used to do, when we played pretend, and everything will be alright.”
He pulled his hand away and was horrified to find it covered in blood. “Please…”
The smile she gives him is like a knife twisting into his guts. “Why didn’t you save me?”
“Stop,” he pleads, moving away from her. His heart is racing, and he can barely hear from the blood rushing through his ears.
“Let me show you what it was like.” From out of thin air, three men approach Nadya from behind, their guns all aimed at her.
Molokov tries to shout, but his voice is gone. He reaches for his gun, but it is not there. He tries to run towards her, but his feet will not move. Instead he can only watch as the gunmen fire in unison. Three shots and she goes down, a smile still on her face. Her blood flies everywhere, hitting the walls, the floor, and the front of his shirt.
The men salute him then disappear. Only then can he move again, and he rushes forward to cradle her body. He can still hear her voice in his ear, faintly asking him why.