@Silmarilz1701 here: Hey guys, an important announcement. Due to some severe, chronic health issues, I have about 8 chapters of this fic left to write, and need to postpone it until the end of the semester. As such, this will be the last update until about December most likely. We have about 30 chapters left to go and most of them are written, but there are enough that aren't that we need to press the pause button. I'm splitting most of my time split between bed rest and classes and as such, this needs to sit on the back burner for a little while. We hope you understand.

Little by little, Zhanna's determination melted away, pooling in the courtyards of Mourmelon. It ran, mixing with her hope, puddling in the garrison's cool depths. Sveta's skin grew pale in the darkness of the garrison and Zhanna's fingers grew colder as she scrabbled for purchase in the barren path that lay before her.

Still, she pushed on, when Winters had stopped fighting, when Nixon's drink was refilled and his interest drained, and Ron's persistence had been dulled by overuse. She didn't let them forget, either, that Sveta was behind bars.

It wouldn't be fair to say that they didn't help at all. Dick had met with Sink, though both insisted that nothing could be done. Nixon had done some digging but whatever he had found was clearly more incriminating than helpful, his eyes meeting Zhanna's with some kind of pity. Ron had held on but even his hands were tied by rank and by duty. She had thought at the very least, they would have tried harder.

Zhanna hadn't seen Sveta imprisoned, though she would have liked to meet with her. Maybe she could have come to the root of the problem, seen what Sveta would do. What would Sveta do? What would Sveta have done if Zhanna was the one behind bars?

Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered so much, if she was curled up in the corner of the cell. What would anyone have done for Zhanna?

Zhanna would do what she would want Sveta to do for her. Zhanna would keep pushing, keep fighting. Sveta wasn't dead yet, and neither was Zhanna so no debt had been paid. If their feet weren't safely planted on Russian soil, Zhanna wouldn't, couldn't rest.

"Zhanna," Dick said, again. He sounded tired, not of her but at her insisting presence. He had begun to use her name with more purpose, more urgency every time she was found on his office's doorstep. "I told you there is nothing I can do."

He really wasn't paying attention, half-expecting every knock on the door to be her small blonde head poking into his office. Zhanna had spent nearly every morning digging for news, trying to tie together some kind of support for Sveta. If there was any loyalty to Sveta in Easy Company, it had melted away like this winter's snow.

"I understand," Zhanna said. "I'm not here for you. Nixon, where is he?"

Dick shrugged, letting the flurry of papers be whisked away and replaced with more. "Officer's club? Barracks?"

"Thank you, Major Winters," Zhanna said, saluting to leave.

"Zh-" his voice caught as the orderly returned, a fresh set of papers for him to review and sign. "Casmirovna, I have put in an order for your ammunition but they are hard to come by. The quartermaster is doing his best."

"I understand," Zhanna said. "Thank you for your efforts."

Effort. Maybe Zhanna was putting in too much of an effort? She didn't think so, as her boots clumped in their newness on the cobbled roads of Mourmelon towards the officers club. She hadn't spent much time in its walls though the NCOs and other officers were known to find drinks, cigarettes, and good company inside it's tables and booths. Sveta had been a frequent patron.

She let the strings keep pulling her along, working with the currents. Together, they gave enough to force her feet towards the slumped form of Lewis Nixon in the quietest corner of the room. Heads turned and voices whispered in hushed tones as Zhanna passed, the only woman walking free in Mourmelon-Le-Grand.

"Casmirovna," Nixon said, twisting his lips into a smile around the brim of his glass. "Nice of you to join me,"

"Nixon," Zhanna said, sliding into the seat across from him, letting her rifle rest beside her. One bullet remained and Nixon eyed it warily. She had, of course, promised to use it on him.

"If you are going to ask about Svetlana," Nixon said, swirling the remaining dregs of his whiskey. "Will you shoot me if you don't like the answer?"

"That depends," Zhanna said, pulling the bottle of Vat69 to her side of the table, and taking the glass from his hand. "What do you have to tell me?"

Nixon looked around at the still staring eyes of the bar, the patrons and other officers of the Airborne had heard whispers of the Russian liaison behind bars. Gestapo and assassin ties were only adding to Sveta's infamous reputation.

"When you lived with the Samsonovs, did you know what your friend's father was doing?"

"I wasn't in the room for a lot of discussions but yes," Zhanna drained Nixon's glass and, filling it once more, slid it across the table to him. "I know what Alexander Samsonov did."

"You know of his work in the great purge?" Nixon asked. "Of his orders for the NKVD to execute and round up Poles?"

Zhanna nodded, unable to force out a response between her gritted teeth and tightened jaw.

"Isn't your family Polish?" Nixon pressed on, ignoring the whiskey glass she had placed in front of him. "How did Samsonov feel about you living there?"

Heavy shoes that she could stomp as loudly as she wanted. Nights pressed between the Svetlanas, watching dancers twirl. Curling up in the window seat, listening to the voices of Veronika and Alexander spit and shout. She was a presence of charity, the pocket of rebellion that Veronika was allowed to keep. What good did that do her now?

"I did some digging," Nixon said, nonchalantly twirling the napkin on the scarred wooden table. Zhanna traced the scratches with her finger, claws and gashes left in the wood.

"The NKVD, Alexander's army of toy soldiers," Nixon said.

Marching the way he told them, sent to break, rip, and shatter every home in Zhanna's neighborhood. Family and friends running. Hands slipping and figures running and Zhanna could never catch up.

"The NKVD was known to work with the Gestapo. They worked with Krauts." Nixon said. "You know what the Krauts are said to have rounded up? Jews."

He threw down the napkin, his voice rising with the desperation that Zhanna felt crawling, clawing, up her throat. Zhanna recoiled, as if the words were a slap to her face.

"Zhanna, I saw that necklace you used to wear," Nixon said, gesturing at her bare throat. "Not only are you a Pole, the thing her father hunted, you are a Jew. Sveta should hate you."

"Nixon," Zhanna's voice was rough, catching somewhere between her lungs and her lips.

"Sveta should hate you and you keep defending her," He snatched up the whiskey glass and downed it, slamming the glass back onto the wood with so much force, Zhanna was sure that it would leave a fresh scar. "You should be glad she's behind bars."

"You spent all that time watching us in Toccoa and Aldbourne and you still know nothing," Zhanna shook her head. It was her turn to pity. Leaning forward, she hissed. "I owe her a debt, something you would never understand."

Sitting back in her chair, Zhanna glanced around at the bar. The eyes were still watching, drawn back to their table by Nixon's indignance and Zhanna's very presence.

"Now," Zhanna said, lowering her voice and her eyes advising Nixon to do the same. "How can I get her out?"

"If she is a spy, I think we should let the justice system take its course,"

"This isn't justice, Nixon," Zhanna insisted. "It's a witch hunt."

"So she isn't guilty of having a father who worked with the Gestapo and with the government program that sent your own family into hiding and to their own death?"

Zhanna had thought about it all. She had connected every dot, pulled every string that twined them together, and tested the strength of every chain. She had considered all of this. Maybe Sveta was just as guilty of being a toy soldier, a pawn, with a painted smile?

"So she should be punished for her family's actions," Zhanna said, trying to keep her voice even. Maybe Nixon would feed off her anger? She had tried not to be angry of late. Angry at Winters, Speirs, and now at Nixon but the intelligence officer was making it exceedingly difficult.

'She's a Samsonov," Nixon said simply.

'So our family determines our judgement?" Zhanna challenged.

If Nixon was so certain that Zhanna should be Sveta's enemy, he would have to answer for his words. Zhanna may not have had allies inside of Easy Company quite like Buck Compton but maybe she wasn't the same woman who had entered the Airborne in Toccoa?

"Zhanna-" Nixon started to say but she pushed herself away, standing upright.

"I think you have made where you stand perfectly clear, Captain," Zhanna said.

She didn't let herself run, though she entertained the idea inside her mind. It was so vivid Zhanna could almost feel her muscles stretching and pulling, feet pounding on the stones. She walked, though, no matter how her mind, body, and soul screamed at her to run.

Running had been a solace, running without a fear of how loud her steps fell had been a luxury. How long before Zhanna had to watch her step again? Or should she have been watching them all along?

Falling against crates of ammunition, none that would fit her Mosin-Nagant, Zhanna brought her knees to her chest. Surrounded by wood and gunpowder, no one would see her break. She had remained strong, she had remained hopeful.

Was Nixon right? Had she been foolish to think Sveta could be her friend? He had made it clear where he stood, against Sveta. Winters and Speirs stood, hands tied, though Ron's eyes would always look to Sveta first. But where did Zhanna stand?

A debt was undeniably a chain that connected her to the daughter of her parents' worst enemy. How long could she honor that debt before she saw herself as imprisoned? Would Sveta try and get her out or would she stand on the other side of the bar with those dark eyes?

"Cas, jesus fucking christ, you hurt?" Liebgott's voice was distinctive.

That voice had once been the sign of bruised eyes and flaming fury but now it was something of a comfort. A soldier who had followed her lead, who had believed in her, for however short a time.

"What?" Blearily, Zhanna's eyes looked up from her swimming boots to the wavering figure of Joseph Liebgott, his face stunned.

"Are you hurt?" Liebgott said again, quickly kneeling beside her in this alcove of ammunition crates, uncharacteristic concern clouding his eyes.

"No, I'm not hurt," Zhanna said, swiping a hand quickly under her eyes.

"Jesus," Liebgott breathed a sigh of relief. "I didn't think you could cry, Cas,"

"Shut up," Zhanna said, giving him a watery chuckle, hoping he would keep moving and forget he ever saw her like this. But it was too late.

Liebgott sat down beside her, his brow furrowed. "Is it Samsonova?"

"Shut up," Zhanna insisted. Maybe the tears would stop falling if he made her angry?

"Do I need to tell Malarkey and have him bring all of Second Platoon over?" Liebgott said, still looking fearful at the sight of Zhanna breaking before him.

Zhanna shook her head, shuddering at the thought. "Oh god, no,"

"Is it Samsonova?" Liebgott said, again. He didn't take no for an answer. Maybe the sight of Zhanna in the crates with tears in her eyes was truly unsettling or maybe he was offering some prenance for the bruise he had given her on the Samaria?

"It's the Americans," Zhanna said, the words exploding from her chest as they had in that attic office in Holland.

Liebgott was a victim of Zhanna's breaking walls, the flood weakening the structures around her mind. They had been battered in Holland, shelled in Holland, and now in Mourmelon, Zhanna didn't think she could hold on for much longer.

"Americans?"

"I thought you were different," Zhanna said, ripping the rest of her fortifications from her chest, taking her first real inhale in years. Her head had broken the surface and she would spend every desperate second, gasping for air. "I thought that I had left behind the missing friends and the anger and the prisons."

"Didn't Samsonova help kill a British officer?"

"Allegedly," Zhanna said. "But do you really think she would be capable of that?"

"Well-"

"No! Because I have spent seven years fighting her battles for her." Zhanna said, kicking the box of ammunition nearest to her foot. "I spent seven years of my life fighting for the daughter of the man who hated my people and my religion. I had to burn everything that made me Zhanna Casmirovna so that I could keep Sveta safe. Do you have any idea what kind of a weight that brings?"

Liebgott didn't say a word, just slid back from Zhanna as the tears began to fall again, freely, and her voice rose in pitch.

"I lost my family, my friends, and everything left of them so that I could carry around the debt I owe her. And now my sacrifices mean nothing,"

Nixon seemed to think that Zhanna was Sveta's enemy. Maybe she was. But did one give up everything to follow the enemy of her people? Svetlana's very name was written in the blood of Zhanna's family and friends and she had lived in her home, dripping with the salty stench of it for years.

"All of it means nothing," Zhanna said. "But her name doesn't."

Her name would always give her something Zhanna would never have. An innate power that would open doors for her. Or so Zhanna had thought. Sveta was trapped behind the biggest door of her grand existence and, for once, she didn't have the key. Just uttering the name, 'samsonov" wouldn't open the jail cell.

"All of it means nothing," Zhanna repeated. "For once, her name means nothing too."

She let out a sharp exhale, a strangled laugh or gasp, Zhanna didn't know. Her shoulder shook as laughter tried to escape her chest. It was almost life's way of playing a trick on her, Zhanna realized.

"Are you trying to get her out?' Liebgott asked.

"Is there any reason to?" Zhanna said. "They can't convict her. Association won't mean much to Americans, unless you don't believe that guilt needs to be proven anymore."

"I think that's stuck," Liebgott assured her. He offered her a hand.

Stuck. Just like Zhanna. Maybe Nixon didn't understand why she kept fighting for Sveta and maybe Zhanna didn't either. She could reach for some other goal, fight for something else, but she would still have to live knowing that her life had been saved by the family who were responsible for the loss of her own. Maybe they were guiltier than she had realized.

"You know what the Krauts are said to have done? Rounded up the Jews."

"Liebgott," Zhanna said, accepting his hand. He hoisted her upright and she ran her sleeve under her eyes, swiping up any remaining tears. "Do you know what the Germans are doing with Jews?"

"I heard some fucking disgusting rumors in the papers back home," Liebgott said, a hand reaching almost instinctively for his dogtags, where a star of david hung, not unlike the one Zhanna had once owned. "Murder and imprisonment. I swear that if I ever run into a fucking Kraut who did such a," His voice trailed away as he caught the pinched expression on Zhanna's face. "Why?"

"Just something Nixon said," Zhanna said. "about the Gestapo and Sveta's father."

"Huh," Liebgott said.

Zhanna shouldered her rifle, pulling the strap tight against her body. The familiar weaving was smooth against her fingers and comforting in its weight. One shot left or not, they would have to pry this rifle from her cold, dead hands. This rifle, in it's smooth wood and well-oiled mechanisms, was the only thing Zhanna had earned through achievement. Pity seemed to be the only power she could manage to get on her own.

"What are you going to do now?" Liebgott asked, watching her slowly rebuild the cool, quiet demeanor, fixing it into place. He seemed genuinely interested.

"Fight," Zhanna said, offering him a thin smile.