Chapter Text
0800
Under the bleak neon glow of a derelict warehouse in Prague, you prowl the darkened halls, gun cocked at your side. The air is thick with the mustiness of decay and the sharp tang of fear that seeps from the cells lining the corridor. Each step you take is measured, deliberate—echoing off the concrete with a cold, rhythmic certainty.
The prisoners are mere shadows behind bars, their faces gaunt, eyes hollow. You’ve walked this path countless times, your gaze sweeping over them with a detachment that borders on indifference. They are part of the scenery here, pieces in a larger game that you've learned to play under Makarov’s behest.
"Move along," you command tersely to a guard who lingers a moment too long at one of the cells. Your voice carries the weight of authority, the kind only bestowed by proximity to Makarov himself. The guard snaps to attention, a mumbled "Yes, sir" escaping his lips as he hastens away.
You walk on, your leather boots echoing off the stained concrete. You pass by a cell where a frail inmate cowers in the corner, his eyes pleading for mercy. His pleas fall on deaf ears as you continue your relentless march. The metal door at the end of the corridor beckons you, its rusted hinges grating under the weight of your approach. You reach out a hand to push it open, the cool metal biting into your skin through the worn leather of your gloves. Without hesitation, you step into the dimly lit room beyond.
The air is dry and dusty, leaving a gritty residue on your tongue with each breath. It's a taste that leaves a sour aftertaste, much like the uneasiness that permeates the room.
Your lips purse in frustration as you taste the dust that swirls in the stagnant air, kicked up by your movements as you tidy the cluttered desk.
There is a hint of bitterness in your mouth as you grit your teeth in frustration at the disarray before you.
Set against the far wall is an aged oak desk; maps and charts strewn across it in a chaotic, unorganized mess. Your eyes narrow.
Father hates messes.
It would not do to have him walk in on this. You move forward with renewed purpose, your gloved hands making light work of the cluttered papers. Chaos becomes order with each hasty movement, maps and charts organized into neat stacks.
The surface of the desk is rough and splintered, the result of years of neglect and abuse. The scattered papers feel weighted and thick between your fingers, adding to the sense of clutter and disarray.
As your gloved hands reach for the papers, you feel the rough edges of the maps and the smooth, cool surface of the old desk beneath your palms.
You handle each map with care, smoothing down the curled edges and creases. One by one, they are sorted and stacked, the tallied numbers of territories won and lost now in orderly piles. You take a moment to admire your work, before the door opens and the scent of Alpha permeates the air.
The scent is strong, instinctual and sharp. It's a scent that makes the hairs on your nape stand erect, your fingers stilling above the desk, your eyes narrowing in anticipation. The door groans on its corroded hinges, admitting a man whose very presence commands attention and respect.
Makarov, Father, your mind supplies, steps into the room, Yuri marching behind him. A tense silence hangs heavy in the air as you meet Makarov's gaze. The dispassionate calculating glint in his eyes makes a shiver run down your spine, even though you've known that look since you were a pup.
"Report," he says smoothly, his voice a gravelly rasp that sends a tremor through the room. Yuri, ever the loyal shadow, stands rigidly by the door, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl.
You suppress the urge to fidget, forcing yourself to maintain a posture of steely composure. "The eastern checkpoint is secure, reinforcements have arrived from Voronezh. The prisoner transfers will commence on schedule," you reply, your voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Makarov's gaze lingers on the organized desk for a beat longer than necessary. "Good," he finally says, the single word laced with a subtle hint of something akin to approval. But it's fleeting, replaced with a new question, "Any… complications?"
The tension in the room thickens. You know what he's asking – any sign of weakness, any hint of betrayal. His eyes, sharp as a hawk, search yours for any trace of deception. "None," you reply, your voice devoid of any hesitation but still brimming with respect. "The men are loyal and the prisoners subdued."
Makarov's stern face softens minutely, though it would go unnoticed by those who didn't know him as intimately as you do. His gaze scans over the maps once again, each territory marked and accounted for, a testament to the loyalty and obedience he commands.
"Very well," Makarov says. "Keep it that way." There's no room for interpretation - it's a clear order, couched in the authority he has wielded over you for years. He turns dramatically, Yuri trailing him like an obedient hound. His shoulders are straight and stiff, his hands clasped behind his back in a way that emanates authority and caution.
“Wait!” You call out automatically before your brain catches up with your mouth. Fuck, you flinch as he pauses in the doorway, Yuri craning his head back to stare at you with a single, icy eye.
You shakily clear your throat, “Am I coming with you to Moscow?"
Makarov pauses, the silence in the room stretching on for seconds, minutes. When he finally turns around, his eyes are as cold and calculating as ever. He studies your face and you fight the urge to squirm under his intense gaze.
"What makes you think I'd need you in Moscow?" His voice is calm and collected but you can't help but feel the underlying sting of his words. You swallow, fighting the urge to back down under his intense scrutiny. “I...I thought I could be of help," you stutter out slowly, "With the negotiations. You trained me for this, did I not prove myself capable in the handling of the Dagestan operation? Commander." You hastily add when he does not respond.
Makarov's gaze is inscrutable, lingering on you as you stand your ground. The tension thickens, becoming almost palpable as he steps back into the room, walking slowly towards his desk and placing the tips of his fingers lightly on its polished surface. His eyes never leave yours, holding you as surely as if you were caught in a snare.
"You did well in Dagestan," he finally admits, his words measured and precise. Your Omega preens at the praise, ecstatic that Father, that Alpha, was pleased with you. There's a pause as he continues to study your face, and then his lips curve into an almost invisible smirk. "But Moscow is a different beast entirely,” he says. His voice is like the winter chill, biting through the silence that hangs in the room.
“Commander, please.” You don’t beg, you never beg but it is a near thing and you internally wince, praying Makarov doesn’t hear it, the desperation creeping at the edges of your words. He seems to relish your anticipation, taking a moment before responding.
"Your heart is in it," he muses, his gaze cutting into you like a blade over ice. Behind the cold impassivity of his voice, you sense an undertow of something indescribable — a hint of satisfaction, perhaps, or amusement at the display of your sincerity. Before you can gather your thoughts and respond, he cuts you off. "You want to come with me to Moscow, show me you are indispensable."
Your heart thuds against your chest like a prisoner rattling the bars of his cage. There is a hint of a challenge in his words, a silent dare coaxing you to take the leap. With one last look that says, 'choose your next words carefully,' he folds his arms and leans back against his desk, waiting for your response.
Your breath hitched, a knot forming in your throat. Every instinct, every scrap of conditioning you'd endured under Makarov screamed at you to avert your eyes. This wasn't right, wasn't how things were done. But the silence stretched on, a suffocating weight pressing down on you. You fought the urge to flinch, to disappear into the shadows as you always did. With a desperate effort, you straightened your shoulders, pulling in a ragged breath that did little to calm the frantic pounding of your heart. Meeting Makarov's gaze was like staring down a hungry wolf, and the primal part of you, the Omega conditioned to never defy an Alpha, let out a whimper of protest. But, this was what he wanted, wasn't it? To see if you were audacious enough, desperate enough to—
"Commander," you began, your voice a hoarse whisper despite your forced composure. The title hung heavy in the air, a test, a challenge in itself.
"I am indispensable." The words tumbled out, fueled by a potent mix of ambition and fear. You surprised yourself with the force of your statement, each syllable cutting through the silence like a knife. Makarov's eyes narrowed slightly, his icy gaze appraising you. A long silence ensued, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. It felt like a lifetime before Makarov finally moved, his footsteps deceptively soft as he walked closer to you.
"Is that so?" His voice was impossibly calm, yet it brushed against your nerves like a live wire. His sudden proximity doused your bravado, and you almost faltered before the towering figure. But retreating now would render all your efforts useless. You swallowed, throat dry, and forced yourself to keep looking at him.
"It is," you stated, forcing each word out with a boldness you didn't feel.
Makarov's gaze held yours, a penetrating stare that seemed to scrutinize the depths of your soul. Finally, he broke eye contact to pace around his desk, tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the gleaming surface. The silence was unbearable, tightening its grip around your throat. You watched as he stopped his pacing and swiveled to face you once again. His hand stopped tapping, resting on the corner of his desk as he leaned against it.
"And why do you think that?" he asked, every word carefully measured and precise, just like the man himself. His tone wasn't cold or harsh; instead, it was filled with a controlled curiosity, a remarkable patience that put you even more on edge.
The weight of his question hung heavily in the tense air, the dimly lit office seeming to close in around you. A simple query, yet its answer had the potential to tip the scale between your survival and your downfall. Beads of sweat trickled down your forehead, and your words got caught in your throat.
Shakily, hesitantly, you spoke, “I am your son.” Inside, you yelled at yourself, he already knows that, worthless, disgraceful, disobedient, little pup, your omega cried.
But you steeled yourself. The words were out there now. You couldn’t take them back, and nor would you want to. Your declaration had been duly noted. A son’s loyalty, his very existence, was forever bound to his father.
Makarov, seeming to take this in stride, was silent for a second, before speaking, “Yes, you are, Pup. You know better than anyone what failure means, yes?”
"Yes," you replied, as the slight tremor in your voice betrayed your anxiousness. His words echoed in your head, a chilling reminder of the price of failure. A shudder rippled down your spine at the thought, and you could not help but lower your gaze.
"Look at me, Pup," Makarov commanded, and you obeyed immediately, lifting your eyes to his icy steel gaze once again. There was no room for hesitation or rebellion under that stare – it was an unwavering command, a demand that echoed through the silent room and seemed to penetrate your very being.
"Good," he said, his voice a soothing balm against the raw nerves of your anxiety. "You are my son, and as such, you carry my legacy, my expectations." His gaze never wavered from yours, his steely eyes penetrating deep into your soul.
"You have a weight to bear that others can only dream of," he continued, his voice taking on a hard edge, like flint striking steel, sparking a fire of urgency in your heart. "You exist to uphold our name, to expand our influence. You can't afford to falter."
His words were an acknowledged reality, a proclamation you had heard countless times since your inception into the “family business”. It was a chant, a mantra, drilled into your very core. His expectations were the air you breathed, the water you swam in, and the earth beneath your feet. Every decision was shadowed by his influence, every action a dance on the strings he held.
"And Pup," he added, breaking the piercing silence with a softened tone that felt somehow more eerie than his previous harsh words, “You will not disappoint me.”
You swallowed hard, feeling the knot in your throat tighten with anxiety, you mumbled a barely audible ‘Yes, sir.’ before following him out of the room.
At least you’re going to Moscow.
****
The acrid tang of cordite filled your lungs. Gunfire rattled the skeletal remains of the factory, dust raining down from the shattered ceiling. Bullets whined past your ear, the rhythmic staccato a grim counterpoint to the pounding in your chest. You glanced back, a flicker of crimson staining the worn concrete where a stray bullet had found its mark.
"There!" A voice boomed, accented by the unmistakable growl of a British rifle. Damn it, they were closing in.
Another burst of gunfire ripped through the air, sending a spray of plaster showering down. You sprinted towards a gaping hole in the factory wall, the city sprawling out beyond, a labyrinth of smoke and fire. This was it. All or nothing.
Your boots clattered on the debris-strewn concrete as you hurtled towards the gap, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. Just as you neared the edge, a bullet whizzed by, nicking your shoulder and showering your path with sparks. Grimacing, you pressed onward, leaping into the dark void beyond the factory confines. The cold rush of wind embraced you, momentarily numbing the sting in your shoulder, a bittersweet relief before the inevitable gravity took hold. Below, the snow-covered streets of Moscow came rushing up to meet you.
Luck was on your side - or perhaps it was just the instincts honed by years of dangerous escapades - as you managed to crash land into a particularly deep snowdrift, which cushioned your fall. Pained and disoriented, you pushed yourself out of the icy embrace and staggered to your feet, catching sight of your pursuers at the factory's breach.
Their faces were twisted into masks of frustration as they watched you escape. A cruel satisfaction swelled up within you as you turned, thrusting your tired body into the depths of the city. Snow crunched beneath your boots, each step leaving a dark imprint on the once pure landscape.
Your mind raced while your body moved on autopilot, each turn through the alleyways a reflex honed by years of navigating a warzone you never asked for. The once-vibrant streets were a shell of their former glory, buildings reduced to rubble and people – your people – mere shadows flitting through the gloom.
A dull ache throbbed in your shoulder, a rhythmic counterpoint to your frantic heartbeat. You pressed yourself against the cold brick, wincing as the rough texture scraped your wound. It would have to wait. You had seen stronger men than you fall to these… these…
These terrorists! They were like a malignant tumor, burrowing into the heart of Russia and spreading corruption wherever they went. Here they were again, unwanted, uninvited, their very presence a blight on your homeland.
A shiver wracked your body, fueled by a potent mix of dread and righteous anger. You continued your staggered run, your instincts guiding you through the labyrinthine city dotted with skeletal buildings - their facades stripped bare by the ravages of war, reminiscent of decayed teeth in a once radiant smile. Each hollowed-out structure was a grim monument to the conflict that seethed relentlessly beneath the city's frostbitten skin. Each ruined building, a testament to the barbarity unleashed by those foreign dogs, filled you with a cold fury.
The bitter air stole your breath, leaving behind wispy trails of frustration. Beyond the need to survive, a gnawing ache settled in your gut. This wasn't supposed to be your reality. Your Russia, vibrant and strong, lay shattered, its spirit broken under the weight of a war it didn't choose. The bitter cold coaxed tendrils of fog from your mouth with every breath.
Families torn apart, dreams turned to ash – all because of these unwelcome guests who stirred the pot of simmering tensions. You believed, with unwavering faith in Makarov, your Alpha, your leader, that Russia could heal, could reclaim its former glory. He, unlike those outsiders, understood the true needs of his people. He wouldn't allow needless bloodshed; he would restore order, even if it meant taking a firm hand.
The adrenaline thrumming through your veins masked the dull ache in your shoulder as you navigated the maze of bombed-out buildings. The once familiar landmarks were now unrecognizable, transformed into jagged teeth jutting against the bruised winter sky.
Every corner held the potential for an ambush by those foreign invaders. You spat on the ground, a silent curse directed at Taskforce 141. They were like locusts, swarming into your homeland and leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.
In the distance, a lone skyscraper pierced the smog-choked sky, a target they wouldn't ignore. A surge of panic gnawed at the edges of your blind loyalty. You needed to buy Makarov time, lure those invaders away long enough for him to vanish into the underbelly of the city.
The Rossiya Hotel, once a symbol of luxury and progress, now stood alone, its once-gleaming facade marred by shrapnel scars and missing windows. But even in its state of disrepair, it remained the tallest structure in the city, offering an unparalleled vantage point.
A plan, reckless and desperate, began to form in your mind. It was a gamble, one that could very well cost you your life. But the thought of Makarov, your Alpha, falling into their hands was unbearable.
Reaching the base of the Rossiya, you scrambled through a broken window, ignoring the shards of glass that bit into your flesh. Adrenaline pumped through your veins, dulling the pain and fueling your desperate mission. The air inside was thick with dust and the stale scent of decay. But you didn't stop. You pressed on, driven by a loyalty that felt increasingly like a noose tightening around your throat.
Reaching the top floor, your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Below, the city sprawled out like a broken mosaic, the distant sounds of gunfire a grim soundtrack to the chaos.
You unslung your Kalashnikov rifle, fingers expertly sliding over the worn-down grooves as you loaded a fresh magazine. Each resounding click was like a jarred symphony, a melancholic tune that sang tales of weary battles. With a deep breath, you raised the weapon to your shoulder and peered through the broken scope, surveying the city below.
An armored convoy snaked its way through the ruined maze of streets while a pair of attack helicopters circled overhead like vultures. Taskforce 141 was closing in, following a false lead that claimed Makarov was in this building. Pulling your battered overcoat tighter, you steeled yourself against the chill wind that sliced through your thick coat.
You didn’t have much time.
Ripping open the satchel slung across your chest, you pulled out a series of small, homemade explosives, each with a digital timer attached. Your fingers, numb from the cold and trembling with adrenaline, moved with practiced precision. Starting at the topmost floors, you set the explosive packages in strategic locations - by columns and load-bearing walls, nestled in the nests of exposed wiring and tucked into empty elevator shafts - each one a crucial cog in the destructive symphony you were poised to conduct.
Descending through the eerily quiet building, your blood pounded in your ears, drowning out the distant cries and gunfire that echoed off the skeletal remains of the city. You glanced at your wristwatch; the time was running out. The seconds seemed to pass like hours, and the mere thought of failure made your heart lurch sickeningly. You couldn't afford mistakes, not now.
You counted the seconds, gaze wild as you snapped your head back towards the convoy truck now stopped outside the hotel’s doors. Three men, presumably Taskforce 141 clambered out of the vehicle, their silhouettes stark against the setting sun. Their movements were cautious, their eyes scanning the area for anything out of place. They moved like seasoned veterans, men who had seen too much and lost even more.
You retreated into the shadows as the trio advanced, their weapons drawn and body language rigid with tension. There should’ve been a fourth one. Where was he?! You wanted — no, needed — them all together when you set off the explosives. Your plan hinged on their collective. Biting back a curse, your eyes darted frantically around the desolate landscape. The setting sun burned bright against the smoky sky, casting elongated shadows that danced with every gust of wind.
The buzz of the helicopters above grew louder, their circling path growing narrower as their focus closed in on the building you were in. You pressed your back against the cold wall, breaths growing shallow and fast. You needed to be patient, you told yourself, but time was a luxury you couldn’t afford. Searching through what you could see of the city, you frantically looked for the fourth member, the one who could make or break your plan. Your eyes skipped across the torn-up streets, through shattered windows and abandoned buildings. You noticed a flicker of movement in the distance, but it was swallowed up by the encroaching darkness. You grit your teeth in frustration as tension knotted in your gut.
Suddenly, a bright, burning pain erupted from your side.
A bullet ripped through your flesh. You gasped, clutching the fresh wound, your hand coming away slick with blood. Your body buckled under the intense pain.
Two combat-laden boots appeared in front of you. You shakily raised your head, heart thumping wildly in your chest. Was it him…?
A large, hulking figure. Alpha, your Omega crooned. You ignored it. Cold, inhumane eyes surrounded by a ring of black. A skull mask and balaclava.
The fourth member. Ghost. There he was.
Finally.
Your world trembled as the numbers on your watch ticked down to zero, and then all you knew was engulfed in darkness.