They may have heard it, seen it, but the copters wisely stayed away whilst the dust was still settling. Boulders creaked and groaned; the sound of faraway landslides and avalanches echoed off the fresh sheet of snow in the distance. Conflicted to the core, Mattias remained on the rock where Zak had rudely thrown him down.
Rotund as he is inside his cocoon of clothing, there's very little he can do to go up against the brute's manhandling. Zakhar sat to Matt's left, idly polishing his remarkably unscathed blade as they waited. Now that he had his sword back, they didn't need a campfire. Frost and snow melted on the war-stained surface of the rocks, heated to a pleasant warmth by that thing's natural heat.
"... Is that costing you momentum?" he asked.
"... A little," Zak replied. "Why, you worried? God, you're such a girl~."
Matt would have reached down and grabbed a handful of mud slurry, were he not positive there were likely human remains mixed amongst the rancid slush. Just because you can't see it on the surface doesn't mean it isn't there. This was Russia they were talking about—home to the highest death count of the war. About a third of global deaths happened out here.
"You look like you're gonna birth an egg."
"Eat shit, Zak."
".... Fuck."
Throat raw from the number of times he's groaned today, Matt decided making it even worse was a good idea.
"You're worse than I am, and I'm having fuckin' withdrawals."
The gloved hand stopped its anxious cleaning.
"You're what?"
Ah, shit. Slip of the tongue—wait.
"You had my medical records. I thought you knew?"
Cifer's semi-exposed from under his few layers of too-small clothes steamed.
"Lev had your records. What else aren't you telling me?"
His shoulders slumped as the smaller alpha's entire body deflated with defeat. Speaking of deflation—his knot had gone down completely. Still, he had noticed no pain, and ended up completely forgetting about it in lieu of the resounding pain of being thrown from the side of a mountain.
Lord knows he's wearing enough clothes to have put pressure on his cock enough to ease him through it.
"Stop spacing out. What are you coming down from? Is it A?"
The warning growl that vibrated out from deep inside that inhuman part of his throat had them both stiffening.
"I'm not taking aval. I was on scent and hormone blockers."
For a second, Matt thought he'd misheard. It almost sounded like Cifer wheezed out a breath.
"... That explains fuckin' everything."
"Shut up, asshole."
Cifer abandoned his task and turned his head to examine Matt's barely visible features. "... How long?"
"How long, what?"
"You been on them."
"... Since I got back to America. After the war ended."
Somehow, the blond man looked paler than before. "How the fuck are you not sick?"
"I am sick, genius."
"That's not what I'm fucking talking about and you know it."
Mattias fell quiet. Normally, he would explain these things to the traitor if he asked. However, the answer involved Niklas, the U.S. government, and experimental supe-borne treatments. There's no way in fuck he was sharing government secrets with the man who sold them out to Russia.
… May have. With the man who may have sold them out to Russia. Matt wasn't so sure anymore.
"You got ten seconds to start talking, or I'm setting your ball of clothes on fire."
He had to think of a plausible lie. No, the bastard could tell. What about a half-truth, then? It's worth a shot.
"... I'm a smoker."
"What the fuck does that have to do with—"
"Have I asked for a cigarette once since you dragged my ass outta America?"
Silence followed his question; the gears must be turning inside his head.
"I dunno what it is, but I just don't get addicted or sick from certain things. Hormonal, sure. My body is gonna go ham now that the meds are gone. But… really sick? A fever here, some nausea there. Delirious sometimes, but other than that? Nothing. At least, not compared to the rot, anyway."
"... What'd Nik say about it?"
Time for the lying part of the half-truth. Here goes nothing.
"He thinks it had to do with my being a designer baby. Might have been something new or deliberate, but since the war pretty much destroyed whoever I was meant to be—and all my records—it's hard to say for certain." Matt's fingers curiously lifted to rest upon the heated handle of Cifer's blade.
There it was; that indentation. It's like something round, and flat was meant to fit inside, but it was gone. He traced the grooves with his thickly covered fingertips, trying to force his brain to recall exactly what was missing.
Cifer grabbed his wrist moments later, ceasing his almost intimate glide.
"... Fine. Let's say I believe you. Why the fuck did you get on it to begin with?"
His face contorted. "What do you mean, why? You guys said it yourselves. I'm infectious as hell. The last thing I need is some omega trying to hop on my knot because they think I smell good, or vice versa."
Cifer's eyes widened like he remembered something, and he turned his face to look away from Matt.
"Right."
His face screwed up even harder. Matt attempted to tug his wrist away from Cifer as he shot him a loathsome glower.
"I'd ask what the fuck that's supposed to mean, but I don't want you turning into a corpse again."
Cifer balked, leaning away in a visceral reaction of pure bruised ego. Matt took the opportunity and yanked his hand away.
"What did you just call me?"
"A corpse. A dead fish."
Cifer lunged at him, but Matt took advantage of his layered outfit and rolled off the rock.
"Fuck you!"
FWUMPF!
Matt burst into a fit of decidedly loopy laughter, but it was a peaceful sound that was devoured by helicopter blades beating the air. Rolling onto his back, Mattias spied a menacing, massive, anti-supe helicopter in the air. It was absolutely military, if that mounted machine gun had anything to say about it.
Whatever expression he unknowingly sported faded into oblivion. It was harrowing, the way his reality came crashing down on him all over again. Bitterness bubbled up inside his belly, and in his peripherals, he caught sight of Cifer throwing his blade into the air.
It spun around once before disappearing in a brilliant flash of orange and blue. As the noise grew painful, Cifer stood up off the rock—unsteadily, which caused Matt to shoot up with an instinctive concern. Cifer's left shoulder blade and much of his back was bruised and torn up. Was he even okay?
Plus, the prick had used too much momentum. That was exceedingly obvious the moment his sword disappeared; it was freezing again. Matt's teeth chattered as he tried to roll himself onto his feet like a turtle. That powerful, yet trembling and not as rough hand gripped his shoulder and dragged him to his feet again.
Violently to his feet, mind you. Ugh, he got shoved forward, too. Almost like he's some kind of—
Prisoner.
Hell, why was he forgetting this so often? These tranquil moments with Cifer Calaway were getting to his head. It made experiencing Zakhar Bogdanov even harder to swallow. The man stayed on his feet, despite the uncouth treatment, and didn't bother covering his ears as the helicopter landed in a clearing between the trees nearby.
Bad enough he looked comical in what he was wearing, but covering his ears? Neuter his knot right now and call him an omega, why don't you.
Eventually, the thing landed and powered down. It didn't take as long as the old helicopters would have to get the blades to stop spinning, but it was agony all the same. By the time the doors opened and men dressed in modern Russian military suits began pouring out, Matt's ears were bleeding again.
The price an alpha pays for his masculinity. Cifer wasn't in the same boat. He's a supe. Took a lot more than that to mess him up. The monster was just in a fucking train crash and flew off a mountain. One he caused, but still. He survived, probably using his ability to break both their falls and take the brunt of the damage.
Thoughts distracted him from the men wearing nitranium anti-supe suits, camouflaged with whites and shades of very light grey. Two men stood out among the rabble that surrounded them, but he had very little chance to get a good look at them right away. Knees met the rancid snow so harshly, even his padded layers weren't enough to protect him from the sting.
The soldiers were on him in an instant, tossing him down with incoherent shouts of Russian words Matt was unfamiliar with. It'd been years since he was last in Russia, and despite having been force-fed the knowledge of how to speak their language by a supe's ability, that was twenty years ago.
"... There you are, Zakhar."
An unfamiliar voice made Matt nearly swallow his tongue. Did that man just call Zak by his fucking name? This was the mafia, right? There's no way the most powerful family in Moscow, a name everyone's mother apparently knows, would allow some plebeian to call him by his first name.
Who the hell was this prick? Legs and barrels of automatic anti-supe rifles were in the way. He couldn't see properly. With his hands lifted into the air, the American prisoner cracked his jaw together and listened.
"Yes," replied Cifer.
"Must you always derail trains?"
"Yes."
He bit back a terse laugh.
The stranger clicked his tongue. "Why didn't you remain at the crash site?"
That was Matt's doing. If it made things harder for these fuckers, then his chest swelled a little with pride.
"Too dangerous. Cliffs were unstable."
"Stable enough to weather the crash."
Man had a point.
"It doesn't matter. You're with us now. Lev, get your ass over here."
Lev? His head snapped up, and he leaned to the side just enough to peek past a pair of legs. It earned him the icy barrel of a gun against the side of his head, but he was wearing enough layers not to feel it too terribly.
It was worth it, though. Matt watched Lev stumble over, his pudgy body partially exposed. Clearly underdressed in just a long-sleeved button-up shirt and dress pants, Lev was black and blue. He looked as though he'd suffered a train crash just as much as they did; the idea both satisfied him and made him remember the fact that there was an entire other segment of train that they'd derailed from.
Did it stay on the tracks? What about the innocents? Shit, why was he only thinking about this now—
"Please, Alexei, have mercy! It wasn't my decision—it was hers! She told me to do it! She paid Kvasov, and—"
"Shut your fucking mouth!"
Lev shut up instantly. Alexei. So that was the hulking figure he could barely see, standing in front of Zakhar?
"Do you see this? He lies through his teeth and defames your family. He betrayed us. This was his doing, and now he slanders my wife. I demand justice."
His wife. This guy's wife? Was she the one Lev's been raving about since they got out here?
"You don't need to demand it. I was planning on killing him the moment I saw him again." Zakhar said.
There was a dullness in the blond brute's voice. It planted an ugly, sickening ache inside Matt's belly when he heard it.
"No, please! You bastard, you're on her side! You're both in on it! Justice, I demand justice! Quickly, I want Kremlin intervention! Someone call President Ignatev! Commander, you—"
"Shut up. The Kremlin has nothing to do with this. We're here to escort a missing man from the Bogdanovs. Nothing more. If you have a problem, solve it among yourselves."
"You cowards! You're all under her thumb, aren't you?!"
Whoever this commander was, it sounded like he spat into the snow.
"Of a woman? And an omega one, at that? Are you insulting my standing as a man, let alone an alpha, and you beg me to save you in the same breath? Bah!"
Alexei snapped his fingers, and Zakhar's body twitched to life. It was unnatural the way he slowly stepped towards the fat man. Lev tried his damndest to flee, but got caught seconds later. In a moment of clarity, the bastard's shoulders collapsed, and he ceased his fighting. Yet he snarled in Zak's direction as he closed in on him.
"Damn you all to hell! Take your bloody empire and shove it up your asses! May your nukes explode and your lives be forfeit!"
Zak reached out and grabbed the man's face. The gesture was disturbingly tender, even as the man flinched in pain and screamed himself hoarse.
"You have no balls! I'll rip your ass and poke out your eyes! Blow my cock, then make a wish—"
Russian insults really were a thing of beauty. There was no time to appreciate it, though. Zakhar snapped Lev's neck with such violent rancor that it partially tore it off his shoulders. Blood stained the snow with a stabbing, brilliant crimson. His own head abruptly turned away with a sharp flinch.
A lump formed in his throat—subconsciously, he hoped this would somehow free Cifer from whatever it was that had its teeth in him. But when Cifer didn't immediately lose his shit and start killing everyone around them, Matt's perpetual nausea grew a little more grotesque.
"... How unseemly." Alexei said. "Find it."
Find what? Movement entrapped his eyes back to the body that lay in a twisted heap. A man he hadn't noticed before—one wearing the same suit as the security in Nizhny were—rushed to the fat man's side. He dug through the man's back pockets, ripping fabric and even kicking the body over to check the front.
Eventually, he tugged something out of the inside of his shirt, but the angle Matt was in made it impossible to see properly. Frustration mounted in his belly as that stranger strode over to Alexei and probably handed it off to the man.
Faintly, the sound of paper rustling bounced off the dead, frozen trees and snow near the cliffs they were standing under.
"... Perfect. Leave the fat man here to freeze. Let his ghost haunt this place, among the dead children."
Fuck, this guy was morbid.
"And Kohler? Does he need medical attention?"
"Yes," said Cifer as he straightened himself up and cracked his neck, "he's injured. And he needs his meds. And a round of nitranium dialysis."
Why was this guy only asking about Matt? Cifer got hurt, too.
"Hm. Tsk, Lev really did a number on him. We'll discuss his poor decision making about allowing him into festering places later. For now, we get him on board and fly him out to Izhevsk."
"Yes, let's do that."
Why did Cifer speak more monotonously—more like Zakhar—the longer he spoke with this guy? He wanted to scream and kill everyone here. But Matt isn't dumb enough to let himself lose control like that. No, he cooperated with the sharp, metal hands that snatched him to his aching feet and shoved him along.
He had only a few seconds to look around properly before someone tossed a goddamn sack over his head. But what he saw was a tall, impressive, extremely attractive alpha in a fur coat of quality equal to the ones Cifer was always wearing.
And in his gloved hand, he held an ancient, yellowing envelope. It was thick in one corner and weighed down with something inside, but Matt caught sight of the old American postage that he would recognize anywhere.
That was the covert postage of the letters they used to send back home to America during the war.
Darkness fell, and someone clamped earmuffs over his head, deafening and blinding him as they tied the sack and compelled him to walk.
… § …
Things were messy. He received another dose of sedatives somewhere along the way. For who knows how long, too—faint images of doctors and oxygen masks hit him. There were familiar sensations of being poked and prodded, of temporary dialysis ports being put in, and then taken out again. All so they could close him up and not risk him leaking his rot all over the place.
It's easier to do that sort of thing in a world where supes with healing powers exist, but it's still painful and extremely uncomfortable every damn time it needs to be done. What was far worse than that; however, was the familiar skylight of a dingy, ugly room greeting him with dull light.
Artificial light. He was back at the inn. The one underground.
Head pounding, Mattias clawed a hand down his face, propping himself up and onto his elbows as he blinked furiously and glanced around his familiar prison walls.
"... Finally awake. Lev was right. You do sleep a lot. How… curious."
Was that—no. It wasn't Zakhar. Sleep-blurred vision cleared itself up with the help of his palm jamming itself against his eyes, but once he could focus enough to see who it was, his body language grew tense.
"You."
"Me," replied the familiar voice in Russian.
Matt couldn't remember his name, but he remembered how he spoke.
"Who are you again?"
"I'd be insulted if you weren't halfway to madness when we found you and Zakhar. My name is Alexei. Alexei Bogdanov, at your service."
"Bog…?"
It was less a spoken word and more a husk of disbelief. The strangely beautiful, sharp-featured man lidded his eyes in Matt's direction. He sat in an old chair that was pulled up to Matt's bedside. Alexei was massive, sure. But not as tall and imposing as Cifer. He crossed brawny arms over his muscled chest; the man looked like he might have come from the same magazine as Cifer.
Only the Russian version, and he had modern, side-shaved, short-styled black hair with brilliant gold eyes. Matt had seen many things in his life, but that unnatural hue captivated him.
"... Look all you like, but I'm not interested. I'm mated. To a woman. I may be your… type, but you are not mine."
His jaw went slack while his sedated brain belatedly unraveled the entire statement.
"Fuck you, I'm straight."
The venom in his voice was enough to make his own hair stand on end. Alexei stiffened up, his brows tilting higher as he shifted his head to the side.
"Are you now? Forgive me. I must have misinterpreted."
"Misinterpreted fucking what?"
"Everything."
His throat suddenly went tight, and Matt realized just how thirsty and pissed off he was.
"What do you want from me?"
"Right now? I need you to sober up. We have to go topside and continue our mission."
"I can do that by myself."
"How are you feeling? Are in any pain? What about your head? You aren't… seeing things, are you?"
Low blow. Rage took root inside his core.
"Fuck you, I'm not crazy."
"Yet. But with how far your disease has progressed in the last month or so since you've been here in Russia, I find it hard to believe you haven't been hallucinating at all."
His teeth hurt from how brutally they scraped against one another.
"... No. Nothing. If I did, I'd tell you."
"Hm."
Matt gingerly sat himself up, biting back the urge to vomit as he swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
"Not particularly. Why, are you hoping your old lover will return to rescue you? He won't, that is. Return, yes. Rescue you? No."
Oxygen fled his lungs. Unable to stop himself, Mattias Sparta kicked the man's chair—or he would have, had the bastard not caught his foot. He wrenched it to the side, and a sickening, violent crack vibrated through his entire being moments before liquid fire burned his ankle.
He choked out a shout as he got pulled to the floor. The smaller man caught himself out of pure muscle memory, twisting and turning to right his jacked-up ankle. But his push-up position ended up failing when Matt collapsed to the floor.
Fuck!
"Ah. Oops. I forget you're not a supe. Men like you are weak and surprisingly fragile. I barely turned my wrist, and look—now you're broken."
Nails clawed the old, rotting wood, leaving their imprint behind in his wake.
"... Who the fuck are you?"
Skrrrch.
Alexei got out of his chair, and as he did, it dug into the old flooring. "I told you already. Are you still high from the medication? No matter. My name. Is. Alexei. Bogdanov. Do not forget it next time, yes?"
The cruel prick brought himself next to Matt, where he lay. He could feel himself break into a vicious sweat—snapped bones always hurt the most, but anything to do with ankles was the worst. For him, at least.
An expensive leather boot snuck itself under Matt's cheek. His face had turned to the side already, but the man merely lifted his cheek higher to see Matt's face better. He cracked his neck in a way it rightly shouldn't have, and Matt hissed between his teeth.
"... I'll take that as a yes. Don't worry. I'll send the healer by to fix you up. Good as new. Yes? Yes. Now, be a smart boy and stay here. Think for a while. See the sights. Smell the flowers. Jerk off. I don't care. Just don't fucking cause trouble again, do you understand me?"
If he tried to speak, it would be nothing but a cry of pain. Instead, he sent the bastard a look that he wished could kill.
"Great. Oh, one more thing. Stop asking questions. For your own good. I don't know my strength. I may 'accidentally' hurt you again."
Matt's cheek met the cold, hard floor as the boot vanished from under it.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
His door creaked with a vengeance, closing with an insulting amount of politeness moments later. Alone with his ankle facing a demented angle, Matt forced his eyes shut as a bead of sweat dripped from his nose and onto the floor. The difference between Lev and Alexei was like night and day.
Shit.
… § …
Metal clanked against metal. Thick dumbbells clanged as Matt switched arms to do another ten reps. For a mercy, the workout equipment Zakhar got him was still littered about the otherwise empty room. An unfamiliar healer had arrived two hours ago, and phantom pain settled into his newly healed ankle. The old one vanished. Dead, maybe? Or just not strong enough for the job?
Either way, his ankle believed itself to be broken all the same. Knowing this wasn't the case, Mattias carefully put down his equipment, then stood up to stretch. Exposed flesh relished the uncomfortable cold of his unlocked prison cell. He'd been working out for hours, and now his body was red from exertion and body heat.
He wore nothing but sweatpants and some too-small boxers. He was burning up. Matt's brain wanted to believe it's purely because of his workout, but that was nothing more than a beautiful lie.
He may have never properly experienced it before, but back when he first presented as an alpha midway through the war, he had something of a rut. That was the first time he'd ever taken a suppressant. Not as permanent as the meds he started taking after landing in the ruins of old Chicago, he'd had a hot, feverish time of it back then.
The sensation growing inside him was familiar. It wouldn't be long now. A matter of days, even. He couldn't even smell himself right now, and with the fact that none of his keepers had bothered to check on him aside from knocking and leaving food at the door, they could probably tell.
Stay here.
Alexei likely knew this was coming, too. An alpha in rut would just trigger other alphas to get territorial—in fact, Matt wouldn't be surprised if it was his scent that drove Alexei into a silent rage enough to break his ankle. He could have just caught Matt's leg.
He didn't have to grab his foot and fucking break it.
Antsy beyond reason, Mattias' body was drenched with a wetness he couldn't seem to shake as he threw logic to the wayside. He needed to get clean. His rot-tainted sweat had tinted his flesh gray, and he didn't much enjoy looking more dead than alive.
Feet padded carefully across the splintering floor as he headed to the exit, noting the orange and pink glow of the fake sky. It was finally sunset. The Russians were likely drinking and fucking the random women they always brought here around this time, so he checked the handle to see if it's locked.
It wasn't. But that made sense, since there wasn't a bathroom or access to water in here.
Silent as a mouse but ten times less graceful, the man headed down the hall to his destination. However, as he reached the door, he hesitated. Something was nagging at him. It'd been gnawing away at his sanity since he'd woken up here.
Where was Zak?
He needed to talk to him. The image of that envelope was driving Mattias insane. Why would Lev have such an old, useless thing? Overheated fingers splayed across the door as Matt pressed his forehead to it. Jumbled, unpleasant memories flooded his mind, settling on one persistent recollection that had plagued him since the moment Cifer vanished.
The night he disappeared, that fateful evening where Mattias wouldn't see the older boy again until he returned and shoved his sword through Matt's chest. It was his unit's post night.
They assigned Cifer to courier duty. He was the one carrying the letters out to the mail unit. The blond had left and never returned. To this day, Mattias' haunted by the biggest regret of his life—he should have gone out with Cifer that night when the boy asked if he wanted to tag along with him. He should have just fucking said yes. But he didn't, and Cifer wasn't Cifer anymore.
This was all Matt's fault. Every last bit of it.