So, this is set in the time period of WWII. The characters are obviously not nations, they are simply people living in the time period. They can die as normal humans can and have lived normal lives. If you have any questions, feel free to ask. Although, they probably will be answered in chapters still to come. Prelude : music that precedes a fugue or introduces an act in an opera.
Warnings - Language, Dark Content and Gore. Rating will change with further chapters.
It was a cold night on January, 1933. Natalya could remember it well, only because she sat in a poorly made room with walls as thin as paper and the seat was made of metal. The walls were blank, white, emotionless. And as her brother walked into the room, she thought she might feel a swell of hope. A moment of happiness. But he looked the same. His violet hues were emotionless and cold – just like the temperature surrounding her.
"Pryvet," he greeted her, not bothering to indicate that he knew her at all. She knew it was because his superior had walked in directly after him, standing behind him a scorpion in the shadows, ready to strike at the first moment of weakness. "Your training commences today. As an official member, you must sign this..." he paused to take out a paper, filled with the necessities of her contract and the repercussions were she to fail, and set it down in front of her on the table. "And know that under no circumstances will you be spared if you fail your duties."
The Belorussian felt her breath catch in her throat as her facade of ease threatened to fall. When did he stop caring about family? She missed the days that Ivan was still Ivan. That he would treat both her and Yekaterina with love. But she pushed these thoughts aside and nodded, picking up the pen beside her and slowly signing her name on the bottom.
Once this was done, her brother smiled. It wasn't comforting, as she desperately wished it to be. It was malicious. Silently, as she stood and nodded as she took her leave, she prayed it wasn't an omen for the years to come.
Drawing her knees to her chest, Natalya shivered. Despite the fact that she was no longer in the freezing room she had been in three weeks ago, the chill had not left her. It seemed strange, considering that she was safely sitting on her bed, surrounded by numerous amounts of... things. Just things. From the ornate wardrobe to her meaningless Faberge eggs. They all seemed so pointless now that she would be leaving them. For how long? She wouldn't know. She barely knew if she would come back.
Slipping off her bed, she smoothed down her skirt, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. As she left, she caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked composed on the outside – a perfect 'German.' One more month to rid herself of her 'Soviet' accent. One more month to learn fluent German. She had no worries that she could do it. No worries that she would worm her way into the Reich and settle in nicely. What she worried for... was if she could keep it up for as long as she needed.
Not only had she been appointed to be an assassin but a spy as well. Gather information, play the role and when the time came – kill. But the time wouldn't come overnight. It would take months, possibly years. She would have to wait for the Soviet army to invade.
Her brother, Ivan, was a high ranking officer in the Soviet army. But he also led the secret service – an elite team of spies and assassins that all shared the same purpose. To infiltrate the Reich from the inside and watch it crumble as they killed those who had wronged them. The only way they gained loyalty was through fear. Mess up and you will be killed. Simple, easy, with no hidden lines.
As she wandered down the hall, she found herself outside of her brothers' room, eyebrows furrowed in a frown. Ivan... He was silent now, stony and distant. But every now and then, when they had rare moments alone, he would be the Ivan she knew. The Ivan she grew up with as her older brother.
Raising a hand, she knocked tentatively on the door, her heartbeat racing in her chest. Why was she terrified? It was only her brother. It was only Ivan. But yet, at the same time, it was exactly that reason that set her heart into frenzied palpitations. It was exactly that reason that as she opened the door, her hands were shaking.
Ivan was seated at his desk, bent over a stack of papers. His expression was blank, emotionless. "Bhrat..." She greeted him quietly, voice barely above a whisper. She took a few steps into the room, hands clasped in front of her as she stared at the floor. "I came to visit you." It seemed obvious, to be telling him that she was visiting, but in reality, she wasn't sure if he knew. He might simply think she was coming to give him news.
The Russian male lifted his gaze, violet eyes blank. "Very good." He replied, tone as distant as she felt from him. Unable to take it any longer, she rushed forward, around the side of his desk and flung her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. "Please... Give me one sign that you are still my brother!" She demanded, tears brimming in her eyes. Fingers clutched around the fabric of his military jacket, attempting to shake sense into him. "I cannot leave if you act like this!"
She chanced a glance upwards, now on her knees, staring up at the man with pleading eyes. She did not care who he was to every member of the Soviet army. She only cared that he was her older brother and she needed him to act like one.
For a moment, she thought he was going to push her away. Or perhaps, strike her for being so immature. But instead, he gave her a tired smile and gently pulled her hands away, iron grip breaking her hold easily. "You should go practice your German," he whispered, gently laying her hands in her lap and straightening up to resume staring at his work. In a way, she wished he would have hit her. At least then, she would have known she was alive.
A long way from Moscow, in a well furnished office, sat Gilbert Beilschmidt. As he reclined in his seat, barely listening to the other SS officers talking amongst themselves, he lit up a smoke, impartial to the large sign that forbade him from doing so. Besides, how could one stop him from doing it? He was invincible, right? With a cocky smirk, he took a long drag of the cigarette, letting his eyes close in satisfaction. Nothing could stop the Reich. Not the United Kingdom, not France... Even Russia would cower at the might of the Fatherland.
At least, that was what der Fuhrer said. And what he said, went. Gilbert admired that man. It wasn't for his looks or even his mastered skill of architecture. It was his stage presence. That guy could rile up a crowd in ten seconds flat, no questions asked.