Compliance
The first thing I notice is the fence. Tall dark walls, made of weathered stone. They stretch off into the distance before dissappearing into the snow. The second thing I notice is the feeling of familiarity. I’ve never been here but I know it. I know just how far it is to the main gate, to the gymnasium, to the dormitories. I couldn’t tell you the name but I could tell you how far it is to the next exit. The knowledge makes me feel seasick. Steve’s voice fades into the distance as I concentrate on walking steadily. From the way Bauer laughs I know I’ve not succeeded.
“What’s wrong Soldier? Worked out where we’re headed yet?”
Bile rises in my mouth as I try to answer. My brain can’t form a reply under the barrage of information it’s trying to process. Names and procedures, rules and directions. What the doctor was quizzing me on before this. A baton to my side interrupts my train of thought and I gasp. My mouth spills out unfamiliar words.
“да, сэр”
I haven’t spoken Russian in a long time, except the occassional sessions with the doctor. For a moment it startles me. Bauer seems to have been expecting it and he grins at me. His yellowed teeth don’t help the nausea.
“Aren’t you well behaved today?” He sneers. I stay silent. There’s no response that I can give that makes any of this easier. Steve’s the first to say anything.
“Is that our entrance?” I tilt my head to see what he’s referring to. A large gate, wrought iron. All delicate twists and sharp points.
“My entrance. You and you, with me! Everyone else wait here.” Bauer gestures at two faces in the crowd as he speaks before walking away from the group, the chosen pair marching behind him.
No ones happy about waiting. I don’t need to be able to hear the curses thrown in my direction to know that. Steve looks like he’s just about developed frostbite. I turn away from the group and stare ahead. Watching the way the snow falls. Pretending I can’t hear Bauers grating voice talking inside the compound. Some words catch my attention. “The Red Room.” Someone whispered it behind me. I don’t know what half buried memory gives the phrase so much meaning but it makes my skin crawl. I plant my feet firmly into the snow in an attempt to mask the desire to flee. At least I don’t feel like throwing up anymore.
Someone jogs out of the compound. One of our men. “Escort the Soldier in. The girls are waiting for us!”
The rowdy cries from the group around me make my stomach flip. The poor girls. Steve grabs my arm, flanked by a man I don't care to the remember the name of and we march in. The snow crunches beneath my feet before giving way to a stone floor. I can hear voices around me. Unfamiliar ones. I don't look up. Instead my eyes stay trained on the floor. The seasick feeling is returning, making me grateful for Steve's arm gripping mine. The pain in my side is growing stronger. Bauer did more than bruise me. I need to focus on the conversation. I can't slip away into my mind again.
“How was the journey Soldier?’ A woman's voice. Russian words.
I reply in Russian. “It was fine ma‘am.”
“Eyes up Soldier.’
She's tall, with long black hair and piercing eyes. Eyes that are staring me down. Alexandra Morozova. I can just make out the people behind her, mainly women. Not my concern yet. My focus rests on the woman in front of me. Maybe in her 30s. Her face mirrors mine. Assessing me. The sharp gaze makes the hair on my neck stand up, my brain desperately sifting through the information implanted in it. It only intensifies the pounding in my head. Her gaze shifts to stare down Bauer.
“You understand how useful this could be for both of us?”
“I do.”
“And just how disastrous it would be if something went wrong.”
“That's what the skinny kids here for. He'll make sure the Soldier stays in line.”
I shift my weight to rest on the other foot. Steve. As my handler?
“You can test it out. He won't hurt you.” Bauer continues. The look Morozova shoots him in return makes me nervous. From the way Bauer grits his teeth it has the same effect on him. “Unless you say the right words he won't be able to hurt you, no matter how much he tries. The doctors thorough.”
Morozova turns back to me. There’s snowflakes in her hair. I’m still looking at them as she pulls out a knife. She lunges towards me as I duck out of her path. I move to punch her but my arm doesn’t react. Instead I wrench my shoulder forward and nearly collapse as a blinding pain fills my head. I spin around, recalibrating. If I can’t fight can I flee? There’s no way to run that means I wouldn’t be taken down instantly.
There’s no way out until she decides it. I whirl around to face her. I can dodge again. Or give in. Sweat drips down my face. The knife glints in her hand. I watch it, panting as I try remain upright. I don’t know this woman. Implanted knowledge is no replacement for memories. Knowing she’s dangerous doesn’t teach me how to protect myself from it. My shoulder burns and my ears are ringing. The knife flips in her hand. My weight shifts on my feet as she lunges again.
This time she grabs me. Knife to the throat. My whole body trembles. I can feel the urge to fight back welling up in me. Adrenaline floods my body. My body doesn’t move. I stand there, panting and trembling. A soft hand on the small of my back guides me to kneel. My legs press against the freezing snow and I distantly imagine losing one to frostbite. The doctor tells me it’s how I lost my arm. My eyes catch Steve’s. His eyes are darting between Morozova and me, and his fingers nervously pull at the loose threads on his coat. He looks cold. The knife presses more firmly into my neck. I can taste vomit.
“Impressive.”
The knife forces my head further up. An unnatural angle that reminds me of prayer.
"See how he trembles?” her voice, again. Addressing the girls behind me. “You weren’t exaggerating.” This time to Bauer, judging by how his chest puffs with pride. I swallow back vomit. I look weak enough like this without throwing up on her shoes. The knife digs into my neck, drawing blood. I can’t die like this. Her hands move expertly, cutting an even line around the front of my neck. It stings. Only a shallow cut. She pushes my head forward and I cough as she releases me, filling my lungs with frosty air. My head slumps forward for a moment. Enough to see the drops of blood spattering my shirt, the snow beneath me. I’m still trembling.
“Ivanova will help you get cleaned up, and show you to your rooms.”
As Morozova moves to address Bauer an arm grabs me. A brunette girl. Steve rushes over to hold onto my metal arm. The girl, Ivanova, looks no older than 25. I force myself upright. I don't know if I'd be able to walk without them to lean on. My entire body aches. Red flashes of pain from my neck, throbbing pain radiating down my side, splitting pain that disrupts my thoughts. They're talking. Hushed voices. She's asking Steve questions as she leads us towards the main building. I fight against the bone deep exhaustion in an effort to pay attention. It's a fight I lose. Instead I just watch as I'm marched in the side door. It's shadowy in here. The dim light is a relief, a welcome contrast to the blinding brightness outside.
The room she takes us to is small and windowless. Shower, sink, bathtub.
“Clean off. I'll be back with clothes for the both of you. There's hot water.”
Steve smiles tensely at her. “Thank you ma'am.”
I'm already stripping off my shirt as she turns to leave, eager to get into something new. Something not ice cold and dotted with my blood ideally. Steve's fiddling with the taps above the bath. Adjusting the temperature over and over.
“Is this a good temperature James?” The tension in his voice is still there. It doesn't stop me from half smiling at his words as I strip off my pants.
“It's fine.”
The soldier never complains. Only complies. The thought rises in my mind unthinkingly. An old lesson. I shake my head, readjusting my focus to here and now as I sink into the bath. A hiss of air escapes my mouth as the warm water soothes my aching body. This is better than I could've expected. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Steve finally takes off his winter coat. He looks more normal now he's not drowning in different layers of fabric. He keeps glancing at me, his face a mix between blushing and the look of someone severely constipated. I grab a cloth, drenching it in water, and begin scrubbing at myself. My sides an ugly mess of purple. The scrapes from before are almost all healed. The cut along my neck is another story. I can't see my back but the tender feeling doesn't bode well. Whatever Jones did is still healing.
“James?”
“Mm?”
“Can I help?” I turn to him. I'm more than capable of doing it myself. Maybe it's because he's supposed to be my handler now. The thought fills me with dread, and a heavy sense of shame. I shouldn't think so negatively of my handlers. I know this. It doesn't stop the thoughts. The feelings of dread and terror and hatred.
“Of course.” I reply. Eventually. He pads over and takes the cloth from my outstretched hand. He wrings it out before beginning to gently wipe at my back. Everytime his hand brushes against my shoulder, or I feel the cloth touch against the mess of scars along my shoulder, I resist the urge to flinch away from the touch. The silence hangs heavy between us.