Zhanna spent more time at the bar with Buck and Skip's good company than she did at her billet. While she had once been a homebody, she now embraced the louder atmosphere and thrived in the smoky interior of the pub. The men had taken to spending more and more time there, a familiar feeling in the air now. The changing of winds, as they had felt before D-Day, was now hanging over them like a fog. But Easy Company didn't let the feeling hold them back from thoroughly enjoying their stint in Aldbourne.

Drinks were plentiful, smokes were passed around, and there were several overzealous men who didn't recognize Zhanna and assumed she was a local girl. Now the men who were not in Easy company gave her a wide berth, all very much aware of the blonde female lieutenant with the mean right hook. There were a few among Easy who were still learning the ropes. Easy didn't gawk and stare at Zhanna and Sveta anymore but now, wandering around camp, there were newcomers who didn't know the drill.

Her injury, now healing nicely, hadn't inhibited her throwing arm either. She was quite happy to take part in Buck's dart campaign. As an observer only, upon her insistence. Her aim, like with a rifle, wasn't fair to the men. She had beaten Buck once and he still lived in shame. Zhanna didn't want to destroy another's ego.

"Alright now Lieutenant, nice and easy," Luz, who had learned to curb his harsh sense of humor around Zhanna, was taking her place as Buck's second. "We've still got a shot."

Buck knew what he was doing. And while it didn't look like he did, his aim veering off to the side at the last moment, Zhanna had to hide her smile in the glass of vodka.

"You having a tough night?" Luz asked, taking a long drag off his cigarette, one from the pack Zhanna had received from Speirs. She hadn't told the enlisted it was the same pack, as they were too spooked at the Dog company officer, but they were willing to take a cigarette when offered. "It's alright, people have tough nights."

"I'm sorry, George," Buck said.

"It's all right," Luz reassured as their opponents, Toye and a new man, Heffron, readied for their shot.

Zhanna admired Buck's way of easing himself among the men. They were so relaxed around him, like he wasn't an officer. They joked and laughed. After nearly a year of being treated with rigid offensive, the men were relaxing around Zhanna too. They joked and laughed and treated her like Buck. Liked but still respected. It warmed her more than the vodka ever could.

"You're embarrassing the lieutenant, here." Guarnere clapped Heffron, a fellow Philedelphian, on the back when his well aimed shot landed on its mark.

Zhanna clapped encouragingly, from her place beside Martin and Randleman. They were good NCOs, good men, and Zhanna didn't mind their presence. So she stood, drink in hand, watching the dart game before her. Sveta hadn't joined them tonight, or she would have had a fellow Russian, a familiar face beside her. The pub was so full of new men, new faces that Zhanna still felt on edge.

Maybe it was the sudden respect she had earned? Maybe it was the way the men looked at her, not with disgust now, but with an awe and fear that isolated her more?

Her mind was too full of thoughts like that to enjoy her vodka. Zhanna scolded herself and took a strengthening sip. It relaxed the tension in her shoulders and allowed her eyes to rest on the dart game that was still playing out before her, the stakes had risen considerably.

"Lieutenant?" Luz said. "Are you gonna shoot lefty all night?"

Zhanna smirked. Buck was right-handed. Anyone should know that but Heffron and Toye hadn't, leaving them bamboozled by the trick Buck had pulled.

Smiling at the good joke, Buck switched hands. "Luz, what would I do without George Luz?"

Amid protests from Toye and chuckles from Luz, the dart sailed straight onto target, with the aim that Buck had always had in him.

"Two packs, gentleman, hand them to the fine lady over there," Buck said, pointing to where Zhanna stood.

She rolled her eyes, her pockets already full of Buck's earnings but set her drink down, holding her hands out for more bounty. Her attention was drawn not to the packs of cigarettes being laid in her palms, but the dispute that had broken out between Cobb and a handful of replacements. Cobb was argumentative at best and had picked at the newcomers, this time for wearing a unit citation on their uniforms. One that Zhanna wore too, pinned to her jacket.

"Ease up Cobb," McClung reached over and tapped the aggressor on the arm. "Everyone has one. They even gave them to the Russians."

Zhanna's hands closed tightly around the cigarette packs, the words stinging. She looked down at her brown shoes that were not military regulation, Russian-made leather. It shouldn't have hurt. She wasn't a real member of the unit but the promotion and the connections had made her feel good. Buck's alliance had made her feel a part of something.

Thanking the gallant losers, she wandered over to where Malarkey and Muck sat, settling down with her drink and the new prizes. They didn't say anything to her and she didn't speak to them, but the subtle nod that Skip gave her was enough. Zhanna wasn't a real member of the unit but he would treat her like one.

She picked at the callouses on her palms, suddenly not having as much fun as she would have any other night. Something felt off tonight. It wasn't Sveta's absence, she rarely accompanied Zhanna and Zhanna had stopped asking. She had started avoiding the Conner's home all together.

"Hey y'all, listen up!" Smokey Gordon, her old hospital buddy, now healed and beaming, wrestled Lipton front and center. "I've got an announcement to make.This here is Carwood Lipton. "

"He's already married, Smokey," Malarkey called, just to get a laugh.

"This is Carwood Lipton, the new Easy Company first sergeant!"

Zhanna liked Lipton, so she managed a smile, clapping quietly among the loud cheers and whoops. He was a popular choice. Promotions were being handed out to fill the gaps left by D-Day, but this was a deserved move.

"As befitting this position," Smokey continued, still teetering on a barstool, "he says he has to make an announcement,"

Lipton stepped forward, the grave look on his face lowering the temperature of the pub and the noise fell to silence, breathlessly waiting for him to speak. ""Well, hate to break the mood here, boys, but we're moving out."

The changing in the wind. The feeling they had all been aware of. They had been right. Zhanna drained the last of her drink, trying to steel her nerves. Lipton left, quietly and quickly, leaving a hush over the bar. She broke it with the clatter of her glass on the wood of the table. Startled, the men were forced to come to grips with the idea. The news had left them all, not shaken, but sombered. D-Day, all it's losses and pain, was still fresh in their minds.

The glass was empty and Zhanna's mind wasn't. Zhanna had avoided the Conners home long enough. She should be heading back. Back to her shared room with Sveta, with the quilt over her bed and the pressed flowers she had arranged on the window sill. To share the news to her friend, who might have already known.

Buck, catching a glimpse of her ashen face from across the pub, raised his eyebrows. Zhanna nodded. He pushed his way to her through the crowd.

"See you boys later," he said, to Malarkey and Muck.

"Good night, Casmirovna," Muck said, lifting his glass to her as they departed, Buck clearing the path and Zhanna following in his shadow.

The men of Easy had said that they were inseparable, calling Zhanna "Compton's shadow" behind her back. They never said it to her face, and while Buck bristled at the mention, Zhanna didn't mind. She had been called worse and she wasn't sure that this was an insult. It was a fact.

Buck had become her new shadow, now that Sveta had begun to walk a different path. She still loved her friend, and trusted her spotter but Zhanna had to think strategically. Like a piece on the chessboard that she was. Compton was well-liked, well-respected. Nixon didn't like Buck. It was the safest ally she had and they got along well.

Zhanna's shoes scuffed against the cobblestones as they followed the familiar streets of Aldbourne to her billet. Compton was housed not far away, and they would always end their night of drinking in the pub with a quiet walk to their respective homes. But tonight felt different.

"As much as I like being back in Aldbourne," Zhanna said, softly, breaking the companionable silence.

"You want to be back out on the field," Buck finished. "I get it."

He didn't, really. He was something without that uniform. He still had a family, had friends. Zhanna had to keep serving, keep being better, so that she wasn't left behind in the dust, in the care of another's kindness.

"Do you know where we are dropping next?" She asked. He was better acquainted to the officers than she was.

"Nixon is brewing something," Buck admitted. "But Dick won't tell us or doesn't know."

"Another jump?" Zhanna asked.

"Most likely," He said. "Wouldn't be until September,"

They were firmly planted in August, the 21st day having just set its sun. September seemed like a lifetime away and Zhanna didn't know if she could wait that long. This was the first August she had spent in good company, Zhanna realized. Prior experiences with Augusts hadn't been enjoyable. She had drunk to the point of numbness, dulling her sense more than ice ever could. Her mind though of sore legs and gasping breaths, running up and away. Pretending that she hadn't seen what she did.

Buck waved goodnight as Zhanna unlatched the garden gate, her shoes clicking against the slate pavers. These shoes, far more feminine than the American made boots were Russian crafted, hand me downs from Sveta. Their heels had made delightful noises against the wood floors of the Samsonov home and Zhanna could remember stepping more deliberately, when she was alone. To make a sound or a mark that would have gotten her unwanted attention anywhere else. But she had been Veronika's quiet rebellion so she could tap as loudly as she wanted to.

Zhanna opened the front door to a quiet house, a deep inhale of breath caught in her chest. There were no lights on upstairs, in the landing or in the window of Zhanna and Sveta's bedroom. Sveta would always wait up for her. Sveta always kept a light on for her.

She entered the house, tentatively. She didn't make a sound, her heels never touching the wood floors. Slowly, she ascended the stairs. Something was wrong. The Conners were asleep, soft murmurs of quiet slumber coming from their closed bedroom door. But Zhanna didn't hear anything from the closed door of her bedroom. Something was wrong. Sveta always kept a light on for her. Sveta always waited up for her. Why was today any different?

Zhanna's heels clunked on the floor, shattering the peaceful silence. August 21st. She froze outside the door of their room, like she was fifteen years old again.

There had been a gunshot as Zhanna passed the doorway. Wrong place at the wrong time. Zhanna had studied the door for a heartbeat, after silence consumed the hole left by the gunshot. She knew something was wrong. She watched her hand reach for the doorknob. And she had run away. She always ran away. Zhanna had waited. She had found Sveta after her friend had been the first one in the room when it should have been Zhanna. Zhanna should have gone in.

"You should go inside," she muttered, her gaze drilling through the door. Willing Sveta to open the door so she wouldn't have to.

She could run. That's what she did. Zhanna ran away so well. The burning in her legs as her muscles stretched was a familiar sensation. Zhanna was made to run, taught to run. She should run. The door knob was cold under her fingertips but she wrenched it open. No blood on the sheets. No abandoned handgun. Just the wood floor.

Zhanna could have sighed in relief but the air caught in her throat. It refused to escape. A quick scan of the bedroom found it to be empty. No blood on the sheets, no bullet casing, no slump form of quiet rebellion or shameful kindness. Nothing.

If Sveta wasn't here, where was she?

She had mentioned a field, just outside of Aldbourne. Quiet, secluded. Where she could be alone and at peace.

Zhanna thundered down the stairs, not giving a care to the noise her shoes made or the crash of the door behind her. Her feet pounded against the cobblestones, praying that her friend wouldn't have done the unthinkable. The town was dying down, officers hobbling back to their billets after the night in the pub. Her own consumption of vodka sloshed in her stomach, her head already feeling light.

She ran, between drunk soldiers and the shadows of the streets, ignoring any shouts of confusion or catcallers. Zhanna didn't care what the men thought, she just didn't want her own mind to be right. Blood, on grass not snow-white sheets. Another terrible kindness left unpaid because Zhanna couldn't open a damn door.

The grass was already cleared, a path wandering out to the center of the field that Zhanna followed carefully, looking everywhere in that dark corner of the night, for a figure, a sign of movement. Anything.

Gówno. Gówno. The only words of her secret code, her mother tongue that were coming to mind were the choicest swear words that her father had reserved for under the breath utterance. But Zhanna didn't bother to be quiet. With a full chest of desperate air, she spat. "Gówno!" As she stumbled into a little nest, where curled an immobile figure. Braids askew, bottle abandoned, it's contents drunk or spilled over the grass.

Rolling Sveta over, Zhanna checked for a heartbeat, for breathing. Anything. Everything. Her own fingers were trembling around Sveta's cold wrists. A thin, shallow pulse, beat against her fingertips.

She needed to be looked after, medical attention, more than what Zhanna could hope to provide. If Sveta stayed in this field, that shallow pulse lapping against the shore, would grow stagnant and Zhanna would be to blame for another death. Another door closed forever. Damn it.

She couldn't lift her. Sveta was too tall and her dead weight too much for Zhanna's own trembling legs. She couldn't lift her but she couldn't leave her.

Who would help her? Who could she trust to not slander the Samsonov name?

Buck Compton. The name finally released the air she had held in her lungs, straining against her throat. Buck would help her.

She didn't want to leave her, the waves of her pulse dull. So very dull. She was pale, like a porcelain doll. But she would be dead if Zhanna didn't go, and there would be nothing that she could do then. No one she could repay.

"We have to get you home," Zhanna murmured, squeezing Sveta's hand in her own trembling one. "I'll be back."

Zhanna had never run so hard in her life, a panicked dash back through the streets of Aldbourne, all the while her mind racing. If Sveta died, Zhanna would be sent back to Russia. If Sveta died and Zhanna was sent back to Russia, she would have no protection. If Sveta died and Zhanna was left without protection of the Samsonov name, she would be dead. She couldn't repay debts if she was dead. Zhanna had played life's gamble for a long time, she had won and she had lost. If life was a river, it was coming to collect it's dues, taking them away in the current.

Buck was sitting on the front step of his billet, smoking a cigarette when Zhanna threw open the gate and grabbed his arm.

"Jesus, Zhanna," Buck said, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. "What's wrong?"

"Sveta," She gasped for air. Russian, Polish, English, the words came out in a jumble. "Pijana...Ne mogu nesti....Please, I can't..."

Buck's cigarette fell to the ground and he stomped it out with his heel. "Where?" He asked and Zhanna grabbed his hand.

They ran, Buck pulling Zhanna along in the stretches where her previous sprints were catching up with her. Their feet hammered on the ground, the sound echoing off the houses and the few men who still wandered Aldbourne barely gave them a second glance.

"There!" Zhanna gasped, pulling him to the field.

"Shit," Buck breathed, only a little winded. Zhanna, who had run this route thrice, was doubled over, breathing heavily. Buck picked up the bottle and overturned it, the contents completely gone. "How much did she drink?"

Zhanna shrugged. Sveta had always been a heavy drinker but then again, so had Zhanna. They could keep pace with the other but even Zhanna knew her limits. Sveta hadn't been drinking for fun or with limitations in mind.

"You asshole," Zhanna hissed, in Russian this time. Her own vodka taking control of her tongue. She rolled Sveta over, and her eyes blinked open, the insult bringing her to. Sveta always responded to curses.

She looked around, blurrily, her gaze still vacant. The vodka had control still, allowing Zhanna to forgive what happened next.

"What is he doing here?" Sveta spat in Russian, glowering at Buck who watched in apprehension at the exchange that he couldn't understand but most definitely could read. "You traitor, he's American. They can't be trusted."

Traitor. That insult wouldn't have hurt from anyone else. But Sveta thought that Zhanna was a traitor. That she had betrayed Sveta. That Zhanna couldn't be trusted.

"I'm trying to protect us." Sveta shifted, slumping back into the grass. When she moved, Zhanna saw the flash of metal in the moonlight. Her handgun. Zhanna's blood ran cold.

"I'm trying to help you," Zhanna murmured, in English, tucking the handgun in her waistband before Sveta or Buck could see.

"It's no use," Sveta sighed, closing her eyes again as if welcoming the darkness of unconsciousness. "He'll kill us."

She lay still, though her breath was stronger now. Zhanna turned back to Buck, who had watched the exchange with wide eyes. He hadn't stepped in, he didn't say a word now either, just watched Zhanna carefully.

"We need to take her to the medics," Zhanna muttered.

The walk back across Aldbourne to the rows of medic tents was a long one. No sprinting, with Sveta, crumpled in Buck's arms. The air was heavy, with the words said, the lashes of the jabs and insults thrown. Zhanna felt like her back had been bared and whipped, lashed at the weakest points. Sveta was her closest friend, the one who knew her better than any other. And Sveta had used it against her.

It was the vodka. Sveta wouldn't do that. The vodka and Veronika's death, still raw. That's what it was.

It wasn't convincing no matter how Zhanna repeated it. No matter what Zhanna tried to attribute to the outburst. Buck hadn't heard it and that was good. If he knew what was said, Zhanna didn't think his already low opinion of Sveta would improve.

"Are you alright?" Buck asked after their footsteps on the streets had provided background noise for long enough.

"Yes," She nodded, though it had never felt farther from the truth. Her shoulder ached, a dull pain that was only in her head but it allowed her mind to feel some kind of reaction to Sveta's words. Her shoulder ached when her heart couldn't. "She didn't mean it. She's just....hurting,"

"Didn't mean it?" Buck repeated, disbelieving. "I don't speak Russian but it sounded like she meant it."

"Sveta is hurting," Zhanna said, again. Like someone's pain was enough to justify the pain their own words had caused. The ache in her shoulder and the vodka in her stomach had loosened her lips. Buck knew a little. But he didn't know anything. He didn't understand Sveta. Zhanna didn't either but she knew more than anyone else. "Today is the day her mother died. It's been four years."

The words, crossing her lips for the first time, to another. It was like her mind had been unlocked, allowing the hidden words to be spoken. They were still secrets but Zhanna could look at them again, not be ashamed.

"It was my fault she died. My fault." Zhanna's voice cracked with the intensity of her emotions, the tightening of her throat, and the choking hold of her relief. "My fault Veronika is dead and I can't pay Sveta back if she is dead."

"Pay her back?" Buck glanced over at her but Zhanna kept looking ahead, looking straight in front of her. No one would understand the situation that Sveta and Zhanna found themselves in. No one knew why Zhanna was chained. For Buck to understand, he would have to be told everything and even then, he wouldn't understand. Truly comprehend. Even Zhanna didn't know why she was chained to a Samsonov. All she could think was the intoxicating power that this girl held and Zhanna didn't think anyone would feel that pull, the tightness of the chains, quite like she did.

"If she dies, I die," Zhanna said, simply and there was nothing more to be said.

The medic tent, though late, was still occupied. Zhanna, wiping the tears from her eyes, entered the flaps of the tent, to be greeted by a vaguely familiar face. It has swum above her, the hair on her neck sticky and the pain in her shoulder greater than tonight. Doc Roe, a calming presence wherever he went, who was almost unflappable but not at the sight of Sveta's limp form in Buck's arm. Without missing a beat, he instructed the lieutenant to lay her on one of the cots.

Buck was dismissed, his work finished and promised Zhanna he would be waiting outside. Once Sveta was nestled under a blanket and her pulse checked, Doc turned to Zhanna, a question already formed in his eyes.

"She's been drinking," Zhanna said.

"That much is obvious, Lieutenant," Doc said. "How much?"

"We found her with an empty bottle but I haven't seen her for several hours."

"So you don't know how much she drank?"

"No," came Zhanna's reply.

"Lord have mercy," Roe looked upwards to the canvas ceiling of the tent as if there would be some divine compassion given.

"She's had a bad day," Zhanna murmured.

"I'll keep an eye on her," Roe promised. "She'll be okay, Lieutenant."

The way he spoke her rank was soothing, like honey in the tea Agata used to make before bed. The cup warm in her hands, the tea lulling her off into a deep comfort that Zhanna hadn't known in a long time.

"You don't look well yourself," Roe said, taking a step closer. "How is your shoulder?"

"It's been better," Zhanna admitted. She didn't want him to come any closer. If he did, he would see the redness in her eyes. "I should go. Thank you, Doc."

Buck was waiting outside like he had promised. He gave her a reassuring nod, to what purpose, Zhanna wasn't sure, but it made her feel better all the same.

They were silent, as he walked her back down the familiar streets, a now all together vivid route of silent houses and peaceful storefronts. She felt like she was a ghost, haunting these streets with her aching pain and numb body. The street, lit only by the waning moon, was awash with shadows. Zhanna studied them as she passed, focusing on anything but the events of the night. The promised move of the company, the image of Sveta slumped in the grass, and the word "traitor" branded across her forehead and her heart forever.

Focusing on the shadows and recognizing what made each one was a lighter thing, something that eased the storm in her mind that already promised no sleep tonight. A tree's black form rustled silently on the pavement. The long spindle of the street lamp provided an ineffective bar in their path, on that Zhanna's shoe passed through with ease. Then there was an indistinguishable figure, an image of sloping shoulders, long arms, holding some kind of bottle in its hand. Zhanna looked up and, startled, grabbing Buck's jacket sleeve.

"Jesus, Nixon," Buck cursed. "Did you have to sneak up on us like that?"

"I didn't sneak," Nixon said, his dark eyes even darker in the night's darkness, now nearing midnight. "I was here the whole time."

He stood in the doorway of his billet, a middle-class home with brick walls and ivy climbing to the roof. He was some sort of ghoul, with the bottle of whiskey in one hand and the vacant stare in his eyes. How long had Nixon been out there? Had he been waiting for them?

"What are you two up to? And at this hour?" Nixon asked. "Surely nothing untoward."

He stepped closer, passing the threshold of the house to the street. THough they were still a meter away from each other, Zhanna could almost feel his breath on her neck. As if he could be in front of and behind her at the same time. As if he was watching her all the time.

"We were just taking a walk, Nixon," Buck said, easily. He lied easily. "What are you doing up?"

"Enjoying the fresh air with my favorite company," Nixon gestured at the bottle of Vat 69 whiskey. "My god, Casmirovna, is that a handgun?"

Zhanna's hand flew to her waist, where the handgun she had stolen away from the grass was still tucked, unnoticed by Roe, Buck, and even Zhanna herself. But Nixon never missed anything.

"It's mine," Buck said smoothly before Zhanna could even open her mouth or take a breath. "Zhanna was holding onto it for me."

"Why would you or Zhanna need a handgun on a walk?" Nixon let the question hang in the air, not expecting a reply and both Zhanna and Buck knew an answer would only ruin their story. If they even had one. Zhanna couldn't try and put one together, not after she had suffered through hearing Nixon say her name. It felt like poison from his lips.

"We should be going," Zhanna finally managed. "A pleasure as always, Captain Nixon,"

Tugging on Buck's sleeve, she brushed past Nixon, who reeked of whiskey.

"I'll tell Dick I saw you," Nixon said, quietly enough for only Zhanna to hear. "He's been worried about you, Zhanna,"

"Tell him thank you, from me," She said, louder now.

"I will," he promised. His eyes followed them, down the street and into the night. Though they couldn't see his figure, in the middle of that street, Zhanna could feel the weight of his eyes on her neck, the shivers down her spine of her name on his lips. Up the slate pavers, into the front door, and buried deep in her covers it still followed her. His eyes and Sveta's mouth forming the word "Traitor". It was all she could see.