A/N: I planned out my next competitive cosplay for MEFCC! I'm gonna do Charlie Cox's Daredevil from the first season finale whoo. I'm gonna crush the competition this year (('cause it's not like I say that every year and then systematically lose every year)). It's kinda funny how at the last con, which was IGN con, the host was looking at all of us on stage and saying that we were "the best cosplayers in the Middle East," and then the guy beside me shouted "we're the only cosplayers in the Middle East!" and that basically made my day because pretty much everyone there were the exact same people I compete against every con, just in different costumes. Yeah, there's not a lot of pop culture that goes on here, and the cosplay community is tiny. We get all the latest pop culture, it's just that no one goes for it. Anyway, enjoy! Chapter song is Rasputin by Boney M. But Turisas did a pretty ballin' metal cover of it if you're more of a metalhead.

/

"What about… that one?"

"Short-stack over there?"

"Yeah."

Napoleon followed his line of sight to where Andriy was pointing, spotting a short, blond worker. He had seen that man in passing glances before, with his unnaturally bleach-blond hair and bright blue eyes. When he spoke, his accent would have been perfect if not for the slight German drawl that laced certain words. "I'd say of Nazi German descent. Father was probably pretty high up in the ranks, if he produced an Aryan son. Most likely fled to Russia after the War, raised his son to be Soviet to avoid suspicion, but that evidently didn't work."

This had become a regular game that the two of them played together, where they hid up in the highest ground that they could find, look over a group working in the fields, and try to figure out individual lives based on the evidence they could pick out of their actions. if they were ever caught, there would be hell to pay, but so far they had done this about four times without anyone noticing their absence. Due to his true origin story, Napoleon was much better at the little details than his Ukrainian friend. Friend? Was that what he considered Andriy now? He supposed it could not hurt, to have someone around to make this place just a little less hellish. Still, it felt wrong to be lying about who he was to this kid, who was so sweet and optimistic and forgiving about everything. But it was better that way. As far as he knew, Solo was not Solo at all, but just a former Kulak by the Arkady name who was caught spreading capitalist propaganda.

"God, I'm not going near him anymore," Andriy shivered, as if recalling a horrid memory. "The Nazis ravaged my country, right after the Union starved millions of us to death. They can deny it all they want, but the fact of the matter is that they sparked a genocide."

It was the first time that Napoleon had ever seen Andriy anything less than happy; needless to say, that concerned him. It was obviously a sensitive topic, and one that he made a mental note to not mention again while in his presence. A heavy silence fell between the pair then, broken only by an icy breeze that whooshed passed them, stirring their hair and irritating Napoleon's worsening frostbite, which had since spread to cover half of his nose. Three weeks ago, he would have been shivering and chattering his teeth, but now he hardly felt the cold at all, as though it had just become another part of him. Neither of them dared to speak, so Napoleon looked out over the working men and women, watched them as they huddled closer together while the gust of wind snaked through them, watched as they worked to their energy limits, watched as a man simply collapsed from the strain, and watched as his limp body was dragged away by a stone-faced Soviet soldier. God, he could not wait to get out of here.

Twenty-one days down, only two-hundred and thirty-two to go.

"Do y'think it's better over there?" The sudden, quiet squeak of Andriy's voice had Napoleon glancing back, seeing the boy drawing random designs in the snow he was sitting cross-legged in.

"In Ukraine?" Solo inquired, "probably not, if it's still part of the Union."

Andriy just shook his head. "No, no… I know it's shitty in Ukraine. I mean in America." He looked up at the American then, the irritated redness that used to occupy only one eye having seeped to the other, intensifying his suddenly very serious, unblinking stare. "It can't be all bad, can it? I mean, yeah, capitalism is a pretty greedy system and a lot of people suffer because of the wealth gap, but at least they don't throw their own citizens in camps for thinking differently."

Napoleon averted his eyes, returning his line of sight to those working in the fields. "Maybe not camps, per say, but they certainly throw them in jail for saying that communism has some good ideas."

"But aren't you a capitalist?"

That was a question that really had him thinking. All his life, he had been taught that communism was evil, and that capitalism was the righteous path. And he believed it, because all they ever taught him in school was the horrors committed in the name of socialist principles, while completely ignoring the most basic concepts of the ideology itself while skimming over anything bad caused by capitalism. But being here, he learned. Oh, he learned so much about communism. How one day, a man named Karl Marx sought to unify the people without discrimination, to bring them together under one class where everyone was equal, and no one got any more or any less than their neighbour, and everyone was entitled to their basic needs as part of the human race. But then there were the concepts of capitalism, of the free market and the freedom to do as you please, no matter what the circumstance. And there was equality in that, too. No one was above the law, no one can use their power to directly harm anyone else… Solo let out a long, heavy sigh, at odds with his own viewpoints. "Honestly, kid… I don't know anymore."

Another breeze blew passed the two of them, breaking the resulting silence with a low swish. Napoleon covered his nose in a protective palm, and blew his warm breath into his skin. It made his nose burn, his cheeks flush in response to the gifted heat in this frozen wasteland. As he pulled his hands away, he brushed the overgrown, messy fringe out of his eyes. The longer he spent in this god-forsaken camp, the more he was beginning to look like one of them, and the more Russian he spoke, the less confident he was becoming in his mother tongue of English. Funny, how that worked, for he never grew any less confident in his Russian abilities throughout long periods without use of them.

"It's your turn to pick someone." Andriy spoke up, which snapped his companion out of his trance.

"...Yeah, I guess it is." Were they still playing this game of theirs? Maybe so, if they were hiding out up here. He examined the larger group once more, the members of it like ants scattered about an anthill, ever-working so very busily at the desire of the higher powers. Who should he pick? The teenage girl with the makeshift scarf shielding her head from the elements? The man who kept glancing nervously over his shoulder, one hand in his pocket? There were so many interesting lives one could work out from all these people, it was difficult to limit it to just one. But then one man caught Napoleon's attention: brown hat, strong build, hands wrapped in tight fabric bandages. "What can you make of him?" Solo gestured towards him with a point of his index finger.

"With the hat?"

"Yeah."

Andriy suddenly grew hesitant in his answer, his voice quieting by a significant amount. "R-really, him?"

"Do you know something about him?" Solo's attention was now focused entirely on the Ukrainian boy, who quite clearly had some knowledge that would pique his interest.

The only reply that the American got, however, was a scratch behind the ear and a small shake of the head.

"Never play poker, Andriy." Napoleon shook his head.

"Why not?"

"You scratch at your ear when you lie."

With a little huff that sent a cloud of mist into the cold air, Andriy grew a bit defensive, and decided to point out a certain impulse that he had noticed on his new friend. "Yeah, well, you always tug at your sleeve when you're nervous." His efforts to divert the topic of conversation away from a particular individual proved to be useless, however.

"And I admit, I need to stop doing that, but stop trying to change the subject, Andriy. You know something, I know you do. Just give it to me straight, bud: who is he?" In his own desire to know this mystery man, Napoleon had neglected to filter out the burning curiousity that laced his every word.

"You're really desperate, aren't you?" Andriy narrowed his reddened eyes, and if it were only dark out, that piercing gaze could have scared off any approaching wanderer.

The extent to which he did not belong here suddenly became quite apparent to the spy. Everything was so aggressive here, survival depending on how far one was willing to go for the sake of their lives. Though rather talkative before, Napoleon found that he could only turn his head back to look through the snowy expanse towards that man that had been consuming his thoughts so.

The sound of rustling movement came from Andriy's area, but Solo did not turn to watch as the younger man stood, trudged through the short gap between them, and sat back down beside Napoleon. He let out a long, sighed exhale, but before he truly spoke he brought his pale, blue-fingered hands up to his face, rubbed them together and blew into his palms. "Well, if you wanna know that badly, I guess I can tell you, Vlad."

He could see them up on the hill. Not immediately visible; one had to be looking for them. Distinguishable features could not be made out from this location, but he had a fairly good idea of who the pair atop the hill was. The man who he could not place, who cleaned up his hands and went by Vladislav, and the young Ukrainian whom he seemed so fond of hanging around. What was his name? Andrew? Something with an 'A'. It was rather unusual to ship someone all the way to Siberia when there were plenty of adequate camps between Ukraine and this lifeless landmass, unless they were handpicked for a very specific reason.

"Kuryakin!" The sound made him jump, suck in a sharp breath. There was only one man who knew his name, and only due to his job. He was a large, burly man, and the others enjoyed calling him the 'Russian Bear' behind his back.

Despite how much it hurt to do so, Kuryakin clenched his fists at his side, steeling himself before he turned to face the Bear. No encounter with the Bear ever ended well, for the Bear was aggressive, loved to bare its fangs and curve its razor-like claws at anything it may deem a provocation. The Bear had been commissioned the same year that Kuryakin had arrived, and he was its first plaything, and its favourite toy. Fifteen endless, loathsome years had passed since that first day, and today, like every other day before, he had to meet that sociopathic stare with the knowledge that he would be its next meal if he did not comply to its desires.

When he did not answer, just simply met that stare at equal height, the claws came out. Kuryakin barely registered the movement before a hard, painful slap was issues across his face, the sheer force of it stunning the worker for a solid few moments. When he came back to reality, there was a strong, metallic taste in his mouth, coupled with the sensation of a mouth full of molasses. That feeling was rushing back to him again, the crushing wave of rage and revenge, but he had learned long ago not to lash out at the Bear. Though his injured hands were shaking, fingers slightly hooked, all he did was spit out a red glob of blood into the snow by his feet. It stained the fluffy whiteness into a harsh, bright crimson. He did not straighten up this time, but merely hunched his shoulders, ducked his head in forced submission, the shadow of his visor casting over his eyes. "Yes, Sir?" He asked, forcing his voice to remain level, in the tone he would have used in respect.

The Bear's claws retracted again, and a sick grin stretched across its face, revealing a row of rotting teeth. "When you first came here, you were just a little boy. Scared, separated from his family, totally alone in the world. I watched you grow, Illya, and I kept you in line. I practically raised you, kid." It spoke in a smooth voice, though it could chill one to the very bone. It was a hiss, mixed with a low growl. The kind of voice that made every instinct scream to run, to run and never look back. But Kuryakin knew this game, and this game was all about the chase, not the kill. He refused to give him a chase.

"Hmm."

The Bear did not seem to want a chase after all, for no kick or punch or slap was administered for his disdainful tone. Instead, the grizzly went on: "Now, I've not come here to chat. I have a certain interest in a certain new prisoner, and it would be a great help if you could help me in, uh… Gathering information, let's say." The rancid stench of its breath burned Kuryakin's nostrils, and it took all of his self-control not to cover his nose.

"Who is it?"

"Oh, no one unusual. Looks about your age, I'd say. Dark hair, not very apt in the physical strength department, though he seems rather resourceful at mending certain ailments." Harsh eyes flicked down to injured hands wrapped in torn fabric. Kuryakin followed, and a poisonous feeling seeped into the pit of his stomach. Throwing up seemed like a very real possibility all of a sudden, for all of his instincts were on high alert now, screaming at him to run, to run and never look back. But he could not run, for where would he go? He would be shot dead before he reached the barbed-wire fence that lined the outskirts of the camp; he be torn apart by a pack of timberwolves if he escaped, provided that the sheer cold would not pick him off like the ant he was. Flight was out of the equation, which left only one more option: fight.

"With all due respect Sir, go fuck yourself."

He felt outside the realm of control when he said those words, smoothly and slowly, every syllable rolling off his tongue with unmistakeable enunciation. But he did not regret it, he did not fear. In fact, he felt nothing. Even as the Bear's expression dropped to a sinister blank, and it gestured for two nearby guards to come over, all he felt was an empty cold, much like the icy breezes that blew passed now and then. Then his senses dulled to a monotonous void as they roughly grabbed him by either shoulder, forced him along to a building, a terrible building constantly filled with screams of terror and pain, pushed him on through the door. The Bear lagged behind at the doorway, and watched for any observers. When he was satisfied that no one was watching, a dark shadow fell over his face, and he turned to head inside.