The arrival of the Second Battalion into Berchtesgaden was like running through a ghost town. Fluttering curtains and broken glass crunching under the tires and boots of the Americans. It was empty, leaving nothing but the echo of shattered windows and whispers of paratroopers down the empty alleyways.

Zhanna shivered, thought the wool blanket was still wrapped tight around her shoulders. A taut viel of reverence was strung between every man as they swept through the streets of a once idyllic city built under the shadow of Hitler's nest. It was too familiar, this empty feeling and the anticipation but it was an unwelcome familiarity. These homes had been filled with people like the Samsonovs. People who wanted people like Zhanna dead.

The paratroopers were respectful, at first, but as the pillaging and looting of homes began, all reverence for the families who had once made their homes on the mountain was lost. Zhanna tried to keep a hold of it, remembering the empty homes and broken windows of Stalingrad, or she would have, if the Nazi swatstika didn't glare down at her at every turn.

She couldn't enter the buildings, even as the CP and the barracks were distributed. And she sure as hell didn't ask to join the men on their trip up to the top of the mountain. That mountain could have been an altar, the temple of the ideas that she was in variance with. While Dick and Nixon had wandered and looted of their own, she sat on the steps, watching the sun climb in the sky.

Birds flitted through the eaves of the buildings, paratroopers setting up perimeters disrupting their peaceful nests, and Zhanna's brow furrowed, as the birds circled their home, trying to find a safe place to land.

With Hitler dead and the seat of his rule under Allied control, the war could only be a few weeks or even days from ending. To finally have an end to the only constant that Zhanna had known was too good to be true and it came too late. She wanted the war to end when the jump wings were still shiny and new. She had wanted the war to end when she still had her thoughts on paper, hair brushing her neck, and milky clean skin. The end had come too late. She was already dead, wasn't she?

She didn't have a nest to land in, her wings were tired and what did she have to show for it? The men had medals and stories and while Zhanna had the rank of Captain, any promotions in the American Army didn't matter to the Motherland. She had no place to land when her flight from the Motherland ended. Home had been first with her parents, and then with Sveta, or so she had thought.

Victory in Europe came sooner than anyone expected. While her quarantine was finished out between the bright room in the officer's billet and the sun filled patio below, Zhanna had spent little time exploring the surrounding mountains and had certainly no bounty to call her own. Like a magpie, bringing shiny bits back home, Malarkey would occasionally bring a few offerings to Zhanna's nest of blankets. Under the watchful eye of Spina, she would chat and smile, trying to convince him that everything really was alright. And, no, she would not take the silver chain with its glittering diamond that Malarkey offered. But still he left them, glittering in the sunlight and Zhanna watched the light flit off them, wings casting shadows overhead.

Victory came in Europe before the first houses had been really cleared. Zhanna met it with a summons to some desolate chateau in the outskirts of town, about half-way up the mountain. Zhanna had been called by Nixon, of the utmost urgency. She had been released from her nest with stern instructions to remain careful and to not strain herself too hard. Zhanna had nodded, agreeing to appease the medics and Colonel Sink. Her feet hit the cobblestones of the street below and her hand snapped for the keys to the nearest jeep.

The bounce and jolt of the vehicle was a little too close to the feeling of that plane but the ground below her was solid. Solid and strong. Accelerating, Zhanna could outrun anything that threatened to chase her. Faster than her own weary legs, maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

Following the instructions given to her by the page, she turned off the main road and jostled towards a half-collapsed house with scorched bricks and a dumbstruck Nixon standing in front.

"You called?" she said, allowing the jeep to stall before cutting the engine. Her hand trailed along the hood of the jeep until her feet were sure beneath her again.

"I want to show you something," He said, ridiculous looking aviator sunglasses perched on his head. "Dick gave me this."

He gestured at the house. It would have been beautiful, if it wasn't destroyed and it wasn't owned by one of Hitler's inner circle. Zhanna knew that being inside the council privy to the secrets was awarded a certain amount of privilege. The Samsonov's home had been beautiful, in the same intimidating and just too grand way.

"Winters gave you a house?" Zhanna said, uncertainly.

"Even better," He gestured for her to follow him into the entry hall and down a set of stairs into a circular cellar. Pigeon holes riddled the walls, filled with bottles of wine nestled in straw. The sheer amount was astonishing enough but, as Zhanna pulled one free, the label was shocking enough. This was good wine, better than whatever the Paris hotels had to offer, that was for sure.

"What's the occasion?" She asked, still confused. Dick had always been passively disapproving of Nixon's love and reliance on the Vat69. Maybe he felt the same way about Zhanna's preference of pick me up.

"Victory in Europe," Nixon said.

"Fuck," Zhanna said. The ghosts had been silent, their voices dying away to a distant hum in Mourmelon and dying with her on Varsity. They had been silent but Skip's voice was distinctly apparent in her mind. He should have there to say it to her, to go out for a celebratory drink with her. She could almost hear him as if he was in the room with her.

"You fucking did it, Cas,"

She had done it. She had won the war in Europe, she had fought hard and something in her had died in the process. Now what?

She would have gone home. She would have found her parents or she would have gone back to Russia with Svetlana. These options weren't available to Zhanna now. The war was drawing to a close but what now?

Looking around at the wine surrounding her and her gaze falling on the label in her hand, the words had crossed her lips before she had thought about them.

"Do you think Dick would mind if I had just one bottle?" She asked.

Nixon laughed. "Tell you what," He gestured at the wide selection that really was too much for one man. But two?

"Split it?" Zhanna said.

"Sounds fair to me." Nix conceded.

"You do owe me," She said.

Nixon opened his mouth as if to dispute the claim but he shut it again, accepting that he was indebted to Zhanna. It was a nice change, Zhanna realized, to feel like someone owed her instead.

The bottles were opened and the floor was claimed. The first taste of wine touching her lips was too good to be true, though she knew that Spina would snatch it from her. Forbidden wine tasted better, she decided and smiled.

The wine got to their heads quickly and the cellar echoed with their laughter. There was nothing particularly funny about a war being over but the relief was comical and their situation even more so.

Nixon was disheveled, sitting across from her, boots splayed out before him and the bottle in his hand nearing empty. He didn't look like his usual self, the scheming look in his eye gone. He was relaxed, sunglasses perched on the unkempt head of hair. Two years ago, Zhanna had spent every waking moment avoiding Nixon's gaze and steering clear of his presence. Zhanna had never thought she would willingly sit in his company or join him for a drink, let alone a whole cellar.

The war had changed many things. Like the chess game that Zhanna had started to associated foreign diplomacy with, there were pieces lost and pieces taken. Ground was gained and lost but it wasn't always measurable in meters and distance.

"If the war in Europe is over," Zhanna said. "What do I do now?"

It had been a possibility until this moment, a not so distant idea or dream. She had no idea what she would do. Maybe someone could tell her what her fate was.

She wouldn't be eligible for transfer with the rest of the unit. She was attached to the Airborne's favor to Russia, that favor being Svetlana's safe return. With not a word spoken between them since her return, Zhanna wasn't sure she'd be welcomed back into Russia. Particularly after her rise in ranks in the American military.

"You'll get shipped on the next truck to Russia, Cas. Unless," Nixon said, taking a swig of his wine, with a grin.

"Unless what?" Zhanna asked, using her nail to trace the characters on the wine label. The words were in German but were apparent in their wealth.

"I might know someone who'd be willing to help a pretty girl out," Nixon said. "How do you feel about being a secretary at a company in New Jersey?"

The wine was addling her head, the splitting headache already starting but she took another swig to stave it off. She had nothing outside of the military, nothing without a gun in her hand. Would she be willing to switch the gun with a pen?

America. She had thought that they were her enemy. They had been Sveta's enemy. Sveta wasn't home anymore, could America be home?

"You think I'm pretty, Nixon?" She said, her smile so wide it hurt.

"I know someone who does,"

Zhanna laughed. Maybe it was all some joke, this proposition of America and a job. Her parents had thought that if they could make it to Poland that life would be better. Maybe if she was in America, she would be safer.

Zhanna looked Nixon up and down with an appraising eye. "Those sunglasses are ridiculous."

"Thank you,"

She extended a hand, palm open and waiting. Nixon, not understanding, slapped his palm atop hers and gripped her hand.

"No, the glasses," She said, a laugh bursting from her chest. "Give me the glasses."

"For what?"

"If you give me the glasses, I'll go to New Jersey with you."

"Who said I would be going,"

"Let's not pretend like you have an overabundance of friends, Nixon," Zhanna said.

"I have quite a few in high places, thanks very much," Nixon said, laughing but he reached up for his sunglasses. Placing them in her open palm, Zhanna wrapped her fist around them, holding on tight.

She should have held on tighter to a lot of things. She should have held tighter to her mother's hand, reached farther for Buck's arm. Maybe she should have let the chains draw a little closer to the ground, letting the full weight fall in the slack. She couldn't hold onto the ghosts of regrets but she could hold onto this new dream. It was cool beneath her skin but real. Zhanna wasn't known to take hold of the things she wanted, she had never stepped forward or held on tight enough but Zhanna refused to let this go.

"New Jersey, huh?" Zhanna said. "Is it cold there?"

"Dick was fucking right about you," Nixon said, laughing as he reached for another bottle.