Zhanna hadn't spent much time in the water but in the Polyakov family philosophy, she had played in it's tides more than once. The idea didn't haunt her now, the shores of the lake were actually inviting. Her time in Austria was drawing to a close and for once, she didn't mind the idea of the lapping waves. Maybe wading into the river was in order.

She had asked after Winters, wanting to know where he was. With the war closing, the points being tallied, and Zhanna quickly overstaying the American welcome, she wanted to say good-bye, before she was sent across the ocean.

If Winters could not be found in CP, Zhanna was told he was sure to be down at the banks of the lake. He took morning swims there, enjoyed the quiet, and seemed to spend every unoccupied moment there. Zhanna didn't need the whole world to know that she was trying to find him, just a few. Welsh had given her a knowing look, his gap-toothed grin on full display.

The walk down to the lake was a trail of soft sand underfoot and rustling leaves overhead, a peaceful respite from the still crackling tensions of the American occupying forces. She hadn't wandered down to the lake's shores often despite being in Austria for several months. There had been many ties that had held her back from it's glittering waves but the trail was soft and inviting now. Zhanna didn't know why she hadn't ventured out before.

Zhanna owed Winters but it wasn't like her debt to Sveta, which she now considered paid in full. After the hearing in that conference room where Sink, Winters, and Nixon had reached and scrambled for anyway to save Zhanna from her actions, the fallout had been quick and certain. Svetlana Samsonova was an enemy of the American military, sent from Austria with a swift transport. No fanfare. No smoke and mirrors. No goodbyes.

Zhanna didn't regret not saying goodbye. Zhanna had owed things to Sveta, things she had made up and tied herself to but Winters wasn't a debt to be paid, it was a trust that was shared. Things were given and gifts exchanged but no payment was needed. It was a kindness but not the chain binding kind.

"Polyakova," Winters said, looking up at the sound of her approaching footsteps. He sat on the low stone ledge that broke the waves, his face flushed and his hair damp. He wore the PT gear that had been common place in Benning and Mackall, places that seemed a distant memory now.

"You can call me Zhanna," She said, choosing to ignore the fact that she still called him Winters in her head. "I'm not a liason anymore."

She wasn't, that deal had fallen through with Sveta's return to Russia. Zhannna was just a sniper who had done a service to the American army, no real ties, and she didn't forget it. She tried her best to be seen as only that but the men would still refer to her as Captain.

He had called her Zhanna before but had fallen back into the habit of using her patronymic even in private in the months following her return to Easy Company. Even when they sat on the balcony of his office, basking in the sun, her patronymic remained. Even when her mind could summon the warm memories and tousled hair in an instant. She missed it, maybe just a little more than she let herself acknowledge.

"What can I do for you, Casmirovna?" Winters asked, the name still a stumbling block. She should call him Dick but somehow they couldn't speak those words here. Not on the shores of an Austrian lake, even after all they went through together.

"I've come to say goodbye," Zhanna said, dipping the toe of her Austrian made shoe in the sand. She had turned over the American boots with her American uniform. The European made clothing felt strange on her skin, a cotton dress the color of the pale Austrian sky.

"Oh," Dick's voice was soft, a little disappointed. "Are you going to Poland or-"

He let the question trail off. Did he dare to hope for an outcome?

"America. Nixon tells me of a place called New Jersey that has a need for women to push pencils," Zhanna said, sitting down beside Dick. The sleeve to her dress brushed his bare arm. Not sodden or cold from a dip in the river but warm, very much alive.

"Not quite the same skill set," Dick observed.

"No, not really," Zhanna said, once again digging her toes in the sand. She fixed herself firmly to this moment, pressing her heels into the ground and refusing to let it go. Zhanna had never reached out to snatch what she wanted, taking only the scraps that were offered or neglected.

"So New Jersey then?" Dick asked.

"I suppose." Zhanna said. "I do have a unique offer from Colonel Sink to consider,"

"Oh?" He looked surprised. Zhanna certainly felt surprised. She didn't know why so many people wanted to help her other than a combination of guilt and debt. Zhanna knew Colonel Sink felt more than responsible for her time in the Airborne and a little indebted. Nixon felt sorry for her and was maybe a little more fond of her than even he let himself realize.

"I hear Washington is in need of a good translator. Your Russian ones are sloppy, as we all know, I think," Zhanna twisted her hair around her finger. It was curled around her ears now, brushing her cheekbones. The sleeves of her dress didn't cover the numbers tattooed across her wrist.

"Do you know which you will take up?" Dick asked.

"Nixon has bought my passage across the Atlantic so it's only fair to take him up on his offer for the time being." Zhanna twisted her hands together, her fingers pulling against each other. "But who knows, maybe Sink will win me over in the end,"

"Lew will take care of you," Winters said, confidently.

"What about you, sir?" Zhanna asked, almost unsure if he would respond.

"Where will I go?" Winters asked.

Zhanna nodded. When this war was all over, when the men could go home. Easy Company would likely be jumping into Japan, somewhere far, far from Zhanna's corner of safety. But would it be too much to hope that they wouldn't see another jump?

"Home, to Pennsylvania. Nixon offered me a job as well when this is all over,"

"Well, in that case, I'll say 'Goodbye for now'," Zhanna said, rising to her feet. "We'll likely see each other in Nixon's good graces."

"I'm sure," There was no certainty but Dick spoke with such authority, Zhanna wished it would be true.

"You aren't leaving today, are you?" Dick asked, standing and towering above her. His eyes flashed at the thought. Zhanna's insides squirmed at the idea of being so close and having so many unsaid things strung between them. She wanted to thank him for opening those doors, offering those shelters.

Zhanna shook her head. "My boat leaves in two days. I'll catch a ride tomorrow."

"Well," Dick said, twisting his own fingers into a knot. "In that case, I'm sure we'll have time for a more proper goodbye,"

A proper goodbye. One that didn't happen on the banks of a river after nearly two months of wind-ruffled hair and faces pink from the sun and laughter. Proper goodbyes didn't happen between people who had been taking the other's presence for granted and people who had tossed every bond and debt to the wind.

"I'm sure," Zhanna said.

A long pause. Zhanna's mind only knew passivity but she wished, for once, that she was the type that took what she wanted. Plucked her heart's desire from the river of life but Zhanna was never like that. The war had made her many things she wasn't, taught her how to do things she wouldn't have. It was so close to the surface, a new life, a new home. She could have reached out and touched it.

"Should we correspond," She said, finally.

"I would like that very much," Winters said quickly, filling the gaps that strung between them.

"Who should I address the letters to?"

"Mr. R. D. Winters," He said, the barest trace of a smile. It sounded like a relief, like a real person underneath all the military issued clothing and medals that he had accumulated. "And yours?"

"I'm sure I'll have to change my name," Zhanna said. It was something Nixon suggested and something Zhanna had readily agreed to.

"Of course," His eyes were a lighter blue than her own. Paler than the sky around them, at the top of this mountain. She might have called them icy but now she knew the tremble they gave was nothing to fear.

"I've been told that Zhanna sounds like English's Janna," Zhanna said. The differences in Russian and English had baffled her at one time but now she embraced this simple slight of the tongue.

"Janna?" The name sent a shiver down her spine. A new name with this new dream. It sounded like just the thing she needed. She would still be Zhanna, of course but a Zhanna her parents had hoped for, dreamed for, and prayed for.

"Address them to Janna Casimir,"

Casimir's voice still tickled her ear at night, his hand rough in her own dream-like hand. She couldn't erase it fully, this past she was turning away from. Russia, Poland, her parents. None of that could melt away but she would build more, and dream higher.

"Janna Casimir," He repeated her new name, considering them. Something in his eyes flickered and he smiled.

"Yes," She said with the most confidence she had possessed in years. Since the journal was pressed in her hands and her parents had pressed their kisses upon her forehead. Her own lips parted in a smile, real and warmer than she had felt in years. "That will be fine,"

While Malarkey had been removed to Paris on a favor from Dick, Zhanna had found her enlisted alliances dwindling. Wandering Army bases alone was an experience she had begun to forget. So much had happened in the years since her arrival at Benning that Zhanna had let the loneliness and alienation of her early days in Easy Company slip away. As familiar faces, friends ,and bonded, were lost to the tides of transports headed in every direction of the world, Zhanna was lucky to see a few old friends cropping up in the crowd. As if the river was returning the sacrifices she had offered up or had unwillingly given, penance was received in the form of a tall blonde man pushing towards her in the crowded streets, with confidence and a bright smile that hadn't been anywhere to be found in her remaining memories of him.

The name had been pressed down and forbidden to cross her lips for so long. It wrenched itself free from her chest, shattering the crowd around her. "Buck!"

Her ally, her friend. Buck Compton strode towards her, pushing aside a private who strayed into his path and wrapping her in the tightest embrace she had known. Pressed against his chest she could smell the familiar scent of lucky strikes and army issue soap that had been a comfort and a reminder of safety. She didn't know the tears had fallen until he pulled away and brushed them back with a hasty hand. Spluttering, she laughed though tears quickly replaced the ones he wiped away. It wasn't sadness. It was a relief.

"Cas, what the hell happened?"

"Nice to see you too," Zhanna said, her voice hoarse from the choked back sobs. Their enthusiasm and her tears were drawing attention. She wasn't a soldier anymore and she didn't quite like the idea of all these eyes thinking that this contact was permitted by all. "Now let go of me."

"Right," Compton pulled away, squeezing her thin shoulders. This was the Buck she had made an alliance with, not the shell of a man in Bastogne. He was full, he was alive, he was really alright. And he was back. "They said you'd be with Winters,"

"I took a walk," She said. Compton looked at her, really saw her, like he had so long ago. Another military camp had crossed their paths and set Zhanna in motion. In motion for what? Betraying the only friend she thought she had? Letting Svetlana take the fall for her?

Zhanna was sure she looked different than how Compton remembered her. Maybe she was the shell of who she had once been but she felt alive for the first time in a long time.

"I heard about Samsonova," Compton said. "She was fucking crazy for-"

"I did it."

"Oh. wait, how could you be so fucking-" Buck looked from her short hair to the black numbers that marched across her forearm that was dwarfed in his hand. "Oh. And she took the fall-"

"Yes,"

"And you are okay with that?" Buck said, slowly.

"I'm living with it." Zhanna said.

"You've a lot to tell me," Buck said. "You could have written, you know,"

"No paper," Zhanna smirked, dodging the nudge Buck aimed at her shoulder. "We have time to catch you up,"

"I'm afraid I'm wanted at the field in a few hours," Buck confessed. "I have to kick Martin's ass at baseball. Care to join?"

"I'll be a spectator," Zhanna said, calling over her shoulder as she led the way to a more private spot. "I don't know how to play."

Following in her footsteps, Buck spluttered in disbelief that Zhanna had never learned to play such a world-altering game as baseball.

Zhanna's final hours with Easy Company were spent in the shade of the lakeshore, bringing Buck up to speed. He was a sympathetic listener and an even better advocate in the recalled memories. He fought them as if they were fresh and present dangers, not catastrophes that had happened months and weeks previously. While Zhanna appreciated the gesture, she didn't need to be angry anymore. She could live with it, all of it.

She spent the afternoon in the warm sun, perched on the hood of a jeep, watching the game play out before her. It was a simple task, to just watch; Zhanna had been doing it her whole life but she had never considered willingly watching while others did the work. It was like the chess game that Zhanna had thought of as international diplomacy. Russia's queen had been sent back in disgrace. She was in the out, if Zhanna understood baseball well enough, which she didn't.

Buck's explanation had gone over her head, she had to admit. The only thing she remembered was the home run, clearing the three bases and making it back to home base without a hit or strike. Zhanna understood running and she understood making it home. Baseball wasn't quite as high stakes in survival as Zhanna was used to, (unless Buck was involved, then it was life and death) but she understood the principles.

Her first base had been the Samsonov home, and she had made it with a sprint that had left her breathless. She knew that it was temporary, she had thought that it would be safe.

Her second base had been in the American military, with the idea that she could push through and make it home. She could make it home if she just gathered her strength and kept her wits about her.

Third base had been somewhere in Bastogne, with new eyes and new allies. She had seen others fall, some got up and some stayed down. She could see home in sight, though the idea had changed. Some of her dreams stayed the same. The curtains and the flowers were constant but the location shifted. Maybe it had once been Russia and for a brief moment it was Poland.

She was ready, muscles tensed and breath bated, for the final stretch, the last dash to home. She'd beg, steal, borrow or barter anything for that dream to become a reality.

Her eyes glanced over the field of men that she had shared foxholes with, that she had spent years training beside, fighting beside, and dying with. Zhanna would be saying good bye to this war and these men but they would continue to fight. She would miss them, more than she had ever thought was possible. If she had thought of the possibility of missing Easy Company back in Benning, Zhanna would have laughed.

"Easy Company! School circle!" Speirs called the group together, his tone harsher and his eyes darker since the transport to Russia had been slammed shut.

Zhanna dropped to the ground, not caring if she wasn't assigned to Easy anymore. No one seemed to mind when she brushed shoulders with them and it wasn't because of Buck's presence anymore.

"Listen up!" Dick, his face open and happy, bursting with whatever news he had to share. "Got some news,"

A collective breath was taken by the group that had gathered. News only ever came in two varieties to Easy company. Bad or very bad. Zhanna knew it, the men knew it. Things were never easy for Easy Company.

"This morning President Truman received the unconditional surrender from the Japanese," Dick smirked, watching the faces of the crowd before him. No one dared speak, no one dared breathe. This was something no one had anticipated. "Wars over"

This war was over. Really over. Zhanna's breath released with a startled gasp, breaking the silence of the men. They were quiet at first, muttering curses under their breath until it sank in. Until the news really hit them. The war was over. They were going home.

Zhanna's knees could have collapsed from relief for them. Buck was going home. Dick was going home.

With the news sinking deeper into their bones, the men dispersed from the group, breaking free into the field. The game was abandoned in favor of chasing one another, whooping and laughing. She felt the men clap her shoulder, jostling her to and from. Buck picked her up in a embrace and spun, her feet skimming the tops of the grass. Sat back on her feet, the dizziness rushing her sense, Zhanna held out her arms to steady herself.

Over. It was really over.

They were the lucky few who had seen it through to the end. Tears smarted in her eyes as she met Dick's gaze, the same thought crossing his mind.

"They did it," She muttered, a grin spreading across her face. "They did it."

The officers were laughing, Lew was offering his flask around to anyone willing, and Zhanna couldn't stem the flow of relief flooding from her lips. Even Speirs looked hopeful. The men still ran laps around them, shouting and screeching as if they were wild things. Bull picked up Perconte, threatening to toss him, only adding to the noise as the man threatened him with a string of expletives.

It was really over.

The celebration took hold of Zem All See, shaking the town to it's very core. Music blared from military-issued radios, the men making new lyrics for the songs in languages they didn't understand. The skies were filled with rifle shots and smoke as the sun set over the American forces, their revelry going late into the night. Buck led the way, with liquor borrowed from the long suffering residence of the Austrian town, marching the company of conquering heroes to the patio of a lakeside hotel where the celebrations once again resumed. Zhanna followed, the dutiful shadow, slipping back into her comfort space. Buck had left her out in the sun and she'd blinked, blinded, and scrambling desperately for a new hiding place. She found she didn't need one.

As the locals mixed with the soldiers, dancing ensued, the night growing darker but the mood lightened until there was no trace of the war in the paratroopers' eyes, just in the lines on their faces. Zhanna didn't dance nor did she drink. She stepped back and took it all in. Sveta could have been threading her way through the crowd if Zhanna hadn't fired her last shot.

Zhanna wasn't remorseful. She wouldn't be. She couldn't be.

Her boat would be leaving in a matter of hours, her reunion with Buck had been short lived, covering the highlights of her time without him. There were things that she wouldn't be able to voice, words and places that would never cross her lips. The numbers on her arm were a nameless weight on her mind, an anonymous pain that no one would truly understand. She didn't fully comprehend those weeks in her own mind and instead, did as she had always done: shed the burdens too heavy to carry with her. The boat would sink if she brought it all with her. She had no doubt that she could leave these little chains of silver in the Austrian grass.

She watched the men prance in their flushed, drunken states. She would see them again, she was almost sure of it. Dick played responsible oversight to this fete, declining the drinks offered and smiling with strained amusement as Luz and Buck bellowed some gaudy lyrics to an Austrian tune. Liebgott and Sisk shouted at someone who was lost in the crowd, easy smiles on their faces. Zhanna would see these faces again, surely.

Somewhere in those crowds should have been Skip and Alex. Somewhere in the crowd, Sveta could have been.

She would be lying if Zhanna didn't admit she had spent sleepless nights wondering if she should have stepped up, and spoken up. Stood her ground and spoke the truth. Svetlana would have been the one watching the soldiers celebrate, drinking the fine Austrian liquor l and Zhanna would have been in the transport to Russia, in the darkness and alone. As it should have been.

She looked up, from her tightly clenched fists to the blue eyes that watched her with a carefully guarded concern. Her brow must have furrowed and a storm brewed in her expression for Dick's face darkened. Any amusement was replaced with quick action, a leader who was planning a careful battle. Skirting around the crowd, Dick was cautious, smiling and bidding the men he passed good wishes. He paused by her side casually, as if it was a social exchange.

Zhanna refused to believe that anything they did was purely social in nature. There were no words, caught on both of their dry lips. Zhanna hadn't a drop to drink since Nixon had split the cellar with her and Winters never drank. Two sober individuals, a Pole and an American, standing side by side while their comrades in arms revelled in victory.

She let Dick pull her slightly away from the crowd, her shoes sinking in the soft dirt as they once again found themselves on the lakeshore. The water lapped against the sand, a gentle lull that was a stark contrast to the stamping feet and whooping yells from the stone patio above them. It was as if they were in a whole other world, untouched by man or war. A moonlit beach that was waiting just for them.

"Miss Casimir," Dick said, then, catching her eye, amended. His uniform, hat tucked into the belt, was uncharacteristically crumpled. He didn't look as pristine as she was accustomed to finding him. "Zhanna,"

He looked more like the unshaven man who had let her fall into his foxhole on that cold night. He looked like the untidy haired man she had demanded her bottle of wine from. They looked like Dick and Zhanna here, on this little beach.

"Yes?" She said, her mind still whirling and her heart still hammering from the news and the anticipation. Had she taken a swig from Nixon's flask when it had made its rounds on the baseball field? She couldn't remember but it was the only explanation for these fluttering, swaying feelings. Zhanna wasn't frozen and stiff but melting into the silver-laced lake.

"I'm afraid that I haven't been completely honest with you," He conceded.

"Should I be worried?" She asked. His name was nothing but a breath on her lips, an idea. She didn't dare utter it loud enough to be heard.

"I don't think so," Dick said. Reaching in his coat pocket and withdrawing with something clenched in his fist, he beckoned for her hand. Turning over her palm, she let it stretch between them as he pooled the silver contents into her waiting hand. A silver chain rained onto her skin, warm from his body heat, ending with the weight of a single star that glistened in the moonlight.

"How did you-" Her voice trailed away. "I left this in Aldbourne,"

Silver in the brown mud, a burden she had mourned and parted with. And all this time, it was only ever a few foxholes away.

"I didn't think you'd want it trampled by every boot in the Airborne," Dick rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. He seemed worried that she wouldn't appreciate the gesture, that she wouldn't want the necklace back in her palms

"You've had it this long?" Zhanna said, in disbelief. The chain was foreign to her after so many months separated but something tugged at her stomach, nonetheless. Foreign but so familiar.

"Made the jump with me. Both of them."

He had carried it through D-Day, through Market Garden, and through Bastogne. He had kept it for her. She had thought that her parents would weigh her down. She had let them weigh her down instead of pushing on, pressing on.

"Thank you," she murmured. She could have clasped it around her neck, letting the chain brush the scar of the bullet from Normandy but she didn't.

Zhanna wanted to turn these scars and these chains into beauty, sowing the burned soil with something alive and thriving. Zhanna didn't need a chain around her neck, not so close to her heart. Wordlessly, she wrapped the chain around her wrist, the silver striking against the blackened numbers marching up her arm. The charm glistened, so small it was almost unnoticeable. Zhanna would never have thought she'd willingly tie herself down to any part of her past. She had thought rebirth meant removal but she was used to the weight of chains and this was a welcome tie.

"If there was ever a doubt in which offer you should take up," Dick said, turning her wrist over to admire the new adornment. "I would advise New Jersey with Nix,"

His thumb traced the star, her pulse quickening beneath the touch. She had thrown it, thinking it was too heavy to carry but now she welcomed the weight, the reminder. Maybe she was stronger than she had thought.

"Dick was right about you," Nixon had said.

"Maybe I would consider the advice," Zhanna said, smiling. "If you offered some insight on something our friend Lew said."

"And what was that?" Dick's hand stilled, but held onto her wrist with an assurance that grounded Zhanna's shoes to the Austrian sand.

"He's said, 'Dick was right about you,'" Zhanna looked up at Dick, her lips pursed in mock seriousness. "Right about what?"

Were his ears turning red in the shadows of the moon or was her mind playing tricks on her?

"I'm not a betting man, Miss Casimir," Dick said, taking a step closer. She was still rooted to the spot as he looked at her with the visibility that had frightened her in America and comforted her in Europe. "But I've had my money on you all along."

Dick Winters saw her as more than her field kills or her alliances. She was more than the shadow of a quiet rebellion. She was more than just a Samsonov pet.

Her heart threatened to pound from it's cage of ribs but before she could find a response, Nixon's shout startled them both.

"This is where you two ran off too!"

Dick stepped back but didn't release her hand. Zhanna turned to look at Nixon as he draped a heavy arm over her shoulder, begging him to walk back the way he had come. He offered the flask first to Dick and then to Zhanna, both refusing. They were drunk enough on the words they had shared without liquor but Nixon didn't seem to be bothered. Shrugging, he took a swig, booming. "Well, it's been fun, kids. See you all in Jersey?"

Looking down at their joined hands, Nixon let out a muttered curse, something Zhanna didn't quite make out.

"We should go," Dick said, shrugging off the arm that Nixon had slung over his own shoulders and Zhanna did the same, slipping away.

"Where are you two going in such a rush?" Nixon called. "Leaving me all alone?"

Before Dick or Zhanna could reply to their destination or their next reunion, a shadow fell across their path. Looking up, she let Dick's hand fall away. Speirs stood at the top of the path, watching the three of them with such contempt that chills ran down Zhanna's spine despite the warmth.

"Captain Casmirovna," He said, before addressing Winters and Nixon in turn. Zhanna had avoided him since Svetlana's removal. He had been in that dreadful room and the fury that had crossed his face was a storm she didn't dare test.

"She's not a Captain anymore," Nixon said, muttering out of the corner of his mouth. "Sorry, Zhanna,"

"It's fine," Zhanna said, stepping forward. "It's the truth, I'm not affiliated with the American military anymore."

It was almost a relief. She had never felt quite at home in the American boots but she wasn't at peace with the Russian Pilotka any more. Whatever peace was, it was with her past behind her but not forgotten with a chain around her wrist and a scar on her shoulder.

Reaching into his pocket, Speirs withdrew a crumpled piece of paper and offered it to Zhanna. "This is why she did what she did."

She. Zhanna had convinced herself that she wasn't guilty, that the phantom weight of those long worn chains didn't weigh her down. She had been gone for only a few weeks. She had always had the luck, or so Zhanna had thought.

The paper that had been in Sveta's hand, gripped tight in her fist as the bullets flew and Zhanna had been sent flying. This paper was the fuel to her fire that day. It wasn't an excuse, it was an explanation.

"She's an enemy of America because of you,"

"Ron," Dick said, his voice hard. It was the sound of the major speaking to his subordinate. It was blame and it fell heavy and hard like the executioner's sword onto Zhanna's neck. It was deserved.

"No," Zhanna said, raising her hand and silencing Dick's stern tone before he could say anymore. "He's right. She took the fall for me."

Zhanna had fell through countless skies for Svetlana but she had taken the final jump for Zhanna. For who she had thought was her friend.

"But you didn't ask her to," Nixon said.

"At one time, I would have done the same thing for her." Zhanna looked from the paper to Speirs's hopeful face. "And what can I do?"

"She was going to defect," Speirs said. "She was going to run but she's been sent back in chains."

He looked at them, the three spectators to Sveta's final downfall. She had spat and hissed like a creature backed into a corner and the words she had thrown fell short of their mark but flew far enough to send her home. Was that what she wanted? To take the fall for Zhanna or did she want to go home?

"She felt like she had to pay you back." Speirs explained.

"I have spent my life owing Svetlana," Zhanna said, wryly. Was it her imagination or did the chain around her wrist tighten at the memory? "I know the feeling."

"And she took the punishment. Shouldn't that count for something?" Speirs urged.

"Count towards what?" Nixon asked, sobering up by the severity of the conversation. He had been Sveta's enemy as much as he had been Zhanna's, and she knew that they had clashed more than once over Zhanna herself. "What do you think we can do for her?"

"Clear her name," Zhanna whispered. "Prove that she was valuable, that she was useful…"

"...so she can leave Russia and go where?" Dick asked.

"Anywhere," Speirs said. "America, mostly."

"How can we do that?" Nixon asked again.

"You can't," Zhanna said, softly. The paper was wilting in her hand, melting like snow in the tightening of her fist.

"She can," Speirs looked at Zhanna. She had been the driving force behind Sveta's betrayal of the American's trust. Zhanna had been the final nail in Sveta's coffin and she was being sent to give a eulogy. She had some kind of weight that the others didn't, her own power.

"One final debt. A foreseeable ending." Zhanna muttered. There were no chains this time, no weight or sluggish drag. Only the silver she bound to her past and the bullet that had passed through her shoulder.

"One last payment," Ron said, relief spreading across his face.

"And when it's done, I'll be finished."

Looking up at the sky, Zhanna stared at the stars that glistened like the one on her wrist. There had been a time when Zhanna was sure that everyone, even the Americans, would have helped a Samsonov. Now the name meant treason to the Americans. It had held power, it had been a pitying charity on her life. She could live knowing Svetlana had taken the fall for her. She could live with it but could she rest with it?

Peace was her past behind her, but not forgotten, with a chain on her wrist and a bullet scar on her shoulder. A mark of everything she was and everything she had been. What she had owed and what she had paid.

Zhanna wanted to move on, move past this chapter of her life, burn these words and these ties Without any remnants of guilt or debt. Not everyone wanted to help a Samsonov after all. Maybe Svetlana needed a Polyakov's power to provide safety?

The little grey wraith in Sveta's shadow had taken center stage as the final curtain fell on the Samsonov power. There was no shadow now, no one to hide behind or maybe she could find a new one. The sweeping shade of Nixon and Winters didn't chill her to the bone. Zhanna wasn't weak for relying on them. This little grey wraith had found a new shadow.

Zhanna, the one who had gotten Sveta into the Motherland and would see her out of it again, stepped forward. She had once thought she would fight to the death for Svetlana Samsonova. Maybe there was still a piece of that somewhere.

Tucking the paper into her pocket, Zhanna said. "I'll get her home."