Smile, Sveta.

Her mother's voice, lyrical in its kind gentleness, echoed in her mind. Do what is necessary, play the game, wear the mask. So instead of letting her irritation and anxiety and anger paint an unpleasant expression on her face, Sveta stood with her head high. She couldn't smile, not now. But she could keep from glaring. That little lie came all too easily.

They'd arrived only half an hour ago. When the jeep they'd taken from the train had rolled up to the American military base, Sveta hadn't had many words for it other than sad. The jeep driver had rambled on about their current location being new and temporary, that across the river there were better accommodations that the airborne recruits would get to use after they got their wings. She'd listened carefully, said little.

There had been lots of marching from the men not dying of exhaustion. Chants echoed in the barren center of this Fort Benning. They sang as Russia burned.

The Colonel had asked for Zhanna first. For the briefest of moments, Sveta had felt herself starting to get angry. Not at Zhanna, never at Zhanna. But she'd not come halfway around the world, trekked through Russia to North Africa, laid low in Tangier, been smuggled to England and then to America only to be treated as second.

The usual twisting frustration from those thoughts knotted her chest. She was only first because of her name. Samsonovs always went first. But she hated what the name stood for. Sveta could see the hypocrisy in her own thoughts. She hated it.

With Zhanna gone, she'd been left to fight off the stares. Standing outside the small wooden structure now holding the colonel and Zhanna, she was alone. The stares came from curiosity, surprise no doubt at seeing a woman holding a rifle and wearing a side-cap. But then some had turned hostile.

They'd seen the Soviet symbol. It sat front and center on her brown woolen pilotka. Red star, golden hammer and sickle, it seemed to be everything these Americans feared. Well, perhaps not everything. The Nazi swastika probably made them angrier. Hopefully.

At first, she'd just been with Sergeant Evans. He'd not said much now that they'd reached their destination. His tight stance and reluctance to look at her made Sveta sure he was one of the majority who saw her and saw the enemy.

Smile, Sveta.

Then he'd been called away. Left to her own devices, Sveta became less careful about maintaining her image. The men had continued to drag their feet. She noticed a few of them appeared exhausted in a way she hadn't expected even from training. Those men stayed away from her. She guessed some of them didn't even notice her.

At least it meant less smiling. Sveta tried, for her mother. But even two years later, her mother's voice in her head brought pain more than anything else. Sveta still remembered the sound of the bullet, the red stain as blood had poured from her mother's temple onto the bed. They'd thrown the whole mattress away. Her father had said she'd been weak.

Sveta disagreed. She knew the truth. Her mother had been forced to smile one too many times.

Footsteps pulled her out of the dark thoughts. Turning to the right, she found two men, both tall, moving her way. They wore a nicer uniform, not the basic fatigues, both with the rank of Lieutenant on their collars. One, the taller of the two, had red hair in contrast to the dark of the man to his left.

Smile, Sveta. Smile.

She couldn't. Still, she forced herself to at least look neutral, hoping it would placate them and her own rushing thoughts. They stopped in front of her. The red-haired one had the decency to just look her in the face. But his comrade, his gaze swept all over her, no doubt taking in everything from her dark pants and American dress shirt to the pilotka on her head and the rifle, her precious Mosin–Nagant, at her side. She sent him a pointed look.

"Lieutenant Sveta Samsonova?"

"Svetlana," she corrected, tone harsh. She broke eye contact with the overly inquisitive one and turned to the one who had spoken. Then she tried to relax. "You are?"

He sent her a small smile. "I'm Lieutenant Dick Winters." He extended his hand.

Sveta stared at it. Americans. She'd become somewhat accustomed to their brash handshaking ways. He should've waited for her to extend the offer. With a tiny sigh, she offered her own hand.

"Lieutenant Lewis Nixon," the other said. He offered her a hand as well.

Dick nodded to her as she dropped his hand. He seemed to pause, maybe noticing her hesitance in the handshake. "I'm Easy Company's Executive Officer. Nixon's on staff. It's a pleasure to have you and your friend with us."

A pleasure. Sveta looked at them. She doubted it was a pleasure. It certainly hadn't been a pleasure for any other Army man she'd come across. They'd all looked at her with guarded hostility, or perhaps even worse, contempt.

Samsonov's daughter. Stalin's friend. Child of the revolution. Product of the Bolsheviks. Soviet spy. No doubt those were the names running through their minds. Definitely Nixon's at least. Where Winters seemed pleasant enough, Nixon knew something at least. She could tell. The way his mouth faded back into a straight line soon after every smile, how his eyes tracked her movements whenever she shifted her weight on her rifle, all tells.

"We are glad to partner with the Allies," she finally decided on. It sounded hollow to her ears, but she hoped it would convince them she meant no harm. It wasn't that she wasn't glad to partner with them;These paratroopers were perhaps her only way back home. "Hopefully we can bring some guidance to your men."

Nixon shifted where he stood. "Have you seen the good Colonel yet?"

"No," she said. It took all her effort not to sound angry. "He requested my comrade's presence first."

"Do you know why?" Nixon prodded.

She inspected him. His interest in her and Zhanna had her on edge. It was true that Zhanna didn't face the same dangers here in America as she had in Russia, or even in Africa. But she had a right to her privacy. And Sveta would maintain that. "I'm her spotter."

"She's the sniper, then?" he asked again.

Sveta's jaw clenched. "We are both snipers, Lieutenant."

"Of course," Winters added.

Smile, Sveta, smile. It wouldn't do to punch one of the men she'd be working with. Not outside of a training bout, at least. She owed it to the Motherland and to Zhanna to play nice. She'd done it for the last decade. She could keep it up for another few hours.

"You two are officers, then, in E Company?" She decided making small talk would be best. If she guided the conversation, maybe they'd stay away from sensitive topics. "This is the company we will be placed in?"

"Yeah," Nixon said. "Colonel Sink's head of the 506th and he wants you with us. He thinks Captain Sobel can make use of your talents."

She didn't miss the slight frown that spread even to his eyes, or the twitch of his lips into almost a smirk moments after. Beside him, Winters' jaw clenched. So they didn't like this Captain. "He is good Commander?"

"He knows how to keep us in shape," said Winters. "You can expect quite a bit of physical training when we get the chance."

Nixon snorted. "Yeah. Physical training. The understatement of the century, Dick."

At that moment, Sveta saw Nixon go from curious and nosy to relaxed. His body loosened, and he reached for a silver flask. The change was remarkable really. Clearly the two officers were good friends.

"Sobel's a jackass," Nixon explained. Turning back to Sveta, he gestured towards the door to Sink's. "Colonel Sink's not a bad guy, though."

"Nix," Winters warned. But he didn't contradict him.

Sveta cracked a smirk. "Oh, I think he's said enough, Lieutenant."

Nixon just shrugged. Another drink, and then he'd turned back to her from where he'd been trying to catch a glimpse through a window. "Where in Russia are you from, Lieutenant?"

"Stalingrad."

As Nixon went to say more, he and Winters looked right, back towards the rest of the base. Sveta followed their gazes. A man, tall with slick dark hair and an expression of frustration, stalked towards them. Based on the way both Winters and Nixon straightened themselves and clammed up, she guessed who it was. Their salutes when he approached solidified her belief.

"Lieutenants," the man muttered. As he moved through them, he spared Sveta a long, hard look. But he said nothing, instead just bursting through the door at top speed. Almost immediately, he stammered back. "Jesus Christ!"

But Sveta heard Zhanna's quick, frightened apology. All hope of smiling left her. She set her jaw, clenching the barrel of her rifle tighter. Sveta prepared to leave the two lieutenants behind and moved to follow. As she did so, Zhanna barreled out the door. She almost ran straight into Nixon. Quick as she could, Sveta stepped in the way and steadied her.

"Careful," she said in Russian, trying to suppress a small smile. "Forget your aim. You could probably kill these men by just hitting them with your gun." Then she looked at Nixon and Winters. She attempted a joke. "Feel free to shoot them if they give you trouble."

But she didn't have time to hear what Zhanna had to say to that. At that moment, she heard her name called. To her irritation, whoever it was had the gall to call her Sveta. They would find out soon enough that only one person had that privilege. Only one, now.

Two steps up, and then she stepped inside the door. A few feet beyond where it opened, a desk sat facing her. A young man worked at a typewriter, the click of keys interrupted occasionally by a ding and slide of the machine. At her entrance, he stopped briefly. His gaze went immediately from her rifle to the Soviet symbol on her hat. Only when she moved to pass him did he look her in the eyes. Was that fear? Probably.

Sveta knew what fear looked like. Her confident footfalls echoed off the wood walls. Passing a desk on her right, she found herself looking at an older man with greying dark hair sitting behind a desk. To the left, the man who had run into Zhanna spoke to him. But when Sveta moved to the desk, he stopped talking.

"First Lieutenant Sveta Samsonova-"

Sveta wasted no time. "Svetlana," she corrected. This, her name, that was one thing that Sveta would never compromise on. Keeping her tone as even as possible, she explained. "I should be addressed as Svetlana or Samsonova by anyone other than Lieutenant Casmirovna."

He paused. But nodding, the man stood and extended a hand. "Of course. I've got to admit, getting used to your names is gonna take some time, Lieutenant. But I'll be damned if I ain't gonna try. I'm Colonel Robert Sink, commander of the 506th."

She looked at the hand he offered. With an internal sigh, she accepted the gesture. Her name she wouldn't compromise on, but she could placate their greetings. "Thank you, Colonel, for your hospitality."

"This here's Captain Herbert Sobel, Easy's commander. He'll be overseeing your training and the training of Lieutenant Casmirovna."

Her gaze fell on Sobel. He stood about a half-foot taller, eyes taking in every inch of her where she stood. Unlike Nixon, who at least had the decency to stop the mental cataloging when she caught him, Sobel acknowledged her presence and continued.

"Now, Lieutenant, we're gonna need to ask you a few questions."

At the Colonel's comment, Sveta turned back to him. She gave a curt nod. She'd expected this. It had happened every time she'd reported to a new officer. Always an interrogation.

"Says here that you and your companion left Russia in August of 1941. This true?"

"Yes."

Sink nodded, flipping another page in the dossier before him. Sveta could've laughed at how thick it was compared to the one beside it, no doubt Zhanna's. Such secrecy was good for her, of course. It kept her safe. But Sveta would've killed to be a no-one. Or at least, to be a no-one with the skills that Zhanna had.

"Before that you two spent some time defending a city called... Smolensk?" The Colonel had to try the Russian city twice, before finally getting it recognizable. "Your companion's numbers are nigh unbelievable. You work with her?"

"Yes. I'm her spotter, and sometimes we switch," Sveta told him.

"Why'd you join the Red Army?" Sink finally asked. Not looking at her, he read through her file instead. "Your father is a powerful man. You're well educated, well off. Goddamn untouchable, if I had to guess." He looked up at her.

Sveta shivered. No, she wasn't untouchable. And based on the way Sobel and Sink both looked closer at her face, she wondered if the latter regretted his words. The white scar from the bottom of her cheek down below the corner of her mouth on her chin spoke to how false that claim was. She'd thought she was untouchable once too. But that belief had shattered with her trust in her father.

"I joined the Red Army to serve my country, sir," she lied.

Though, only half a lie. She'd joined the snipers to get as far away from her father as she could. She'd wanted to get as far from Stalingrad and the dinners and meetings and social calls as possible. She wanted to avoid Moscow. So she enlisted because what better way to atone for the sins of her father than to defend the Motherland the Samsonovs so fiercely betrayed. As much as her father would disagree, Sveta knew they had. The Great Purge had been as big a betrayal as possible to the people of Russia.

Sink inspected her. So with as much poise as she could muster, Sveta turned off the soldier and turned on the politician. She smiled, relaxing her shoulders and raising her chin a bit. With a few blinks of her eyes, she turned to Sobel. Then she turned back.

"Is that not why you're here as well, sir? To serve your country? As a good and loyal Russian, I must serve the Motherland however my people see fit."

Sink nodded. "Indeed it is, Lieutenant." He closed her folder and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "And that's what you are, then?"

She paused, realizing what he meant. For a moment, she hesitated. Was she? Was she good and loyal, was she everything the Motherland wanted? Sveta's smile dropped ever so slightly. In a split second, she forced it back. "Sir, I'm loyal to my people. And now, my people are Allied to yours. I brought the information my father wanted to send. And now I must get home."

"You're prepared to serve under American command to do that?"

She bit her cheek again. What did he think she'd been doing for the past four months? She'd endured months of travel between Stalingrad and Tangier, trips across the Baltic, and then the Mediterranean. And she'd know at the end, she'd have to serve the British and the Americans. Of course she was prepared.

With a practiced, winning smile, she ducked her head. "I will serve my country by serving yours."

Sink rose from his chair. He gave her a nod. No smile, though, she noticed. He didn't have to smile. For a moment, anger boiled over. She alone wore a mask. She was a puppet, a tool used by Stalin and Beria and her father. Even here, thousands of miles away across an ocean, she had to maintain their image. Not because she wanted to, but because she had to. Loyalty meant everything. Loyalty meant life over death.

"Captain Sobel will oversee your training. I expect you to follow his orders to the letter, Lieutenant." Sink gestured to him.

She turned to Sobel. He nodded to her, and she nodded back. The muscles in her jaw clenched the longer he looked her over. Like some sort of thinly veiled interrogation, it seemed.

"I expect you to maintain the same level of physical fitness as any of the men in my company, Lieutenant, is that understood? No allowances will be made for you or that friend of yours." His final words dripped with anger. Sobel bore a grudge, apparently.

Sveta stuffed down her attitude, but she refused to let the insult slide. With poise and tact, she smiled. This smile, she enjoyed. "I assure you Captain, Lieutenant Casmirovna and I will show you what it means to be a good soldier," she replied. Then she turned back to Sink. "Colonel." Sveta saluted.

He returned it. Looking out the window, he caught sight of someone and nodded. "I need to speak to Captain Sobel further. Looks like Lieutenant Winters is outside. He knows where you two'll be bunking."

"Sir."

She nodded to him and then to Sobel. Confident in his dismissal, Sveta turned on her heels and marched out the door. The two other men in the room paused in their typing as she passed. It took all her patience not to roll her eyes. She hoped Winters would show them somewhere close by; all she wanted to do was let her hair down and rest.

When she opened the door, she found Zhanna's mouth drawn, brows a bit furrowed. Her eyes darted away from the men with her. She looked everywhere but the source of her discomfort. Sveta spun on them. She didn't need to see Zhanna playing with her rifle to know they'd bothered her. "Lieutenants."

Nixon straightened up a bit. The way his lips twitched into a smile, she knew it was practiced. Too perfect, too well executed, but lacking sincerity of a true smile. His eyes gave that away. He was dangerous. At that moment, Sveta knew she'd have to keep an eye on him. Clearly he liked alcohol. Maybe she'd have to get him drunk, see what she could figure out. She needed to know what he knew about her, and about Zhanna.

"Lieutenant Winters, the Colonel said you know where we'll be staying." Though she spoke to Winters, Sveta refused to look away from Nixon for a few moments. She had to let him know that she knew he was playing an angle. After a few beats of glaring at him, she turned to the other one. "He requests that you take us there immediately."

He'd never said immediately. But Sveta made that decision for them. They needed to talk. Sveta needed to see what Sink had tried to get from Zhanna, and what game Nixon had been playing. She would find out, and she would do it with a smile.