Where the Styx Runs Cold, Ch 4: The Iron Curtain's Super Soldiers Pt. 4

In the quiet spaces between SHEPARD's directives, Arthur Hawke began to weave a mission of his own, its threads spun from suspicion and a nascent, unwelcome conscience.

Weeks passed since Medved became frozen rubble. Downtime, debriefs skirting truth, and Cromwell's hollow commendations filled the time. Shroud was recovering, a distant concern. The rest of Styx Squad were restless, awaiting the next crisis.

But Hawke's mind was on Volkov's digital ashes—the three anomalous files he'd hidden from SHEPARD: Epsilon, Sigma, and Rho. Ghosts in Volkov's machine.

He started with Rho. The file was vague: "Subject Rho: Advanced Cellular Regeneration. Escaped – Presumed Deceased. Last telemetry near Black Sea coast during anomalous weather." Presumed deceased. Convenient. But Volkov's early notes on Rho's near-instant regeneration from catastrophic injuries were almost worshipful. Such a subject wouldn't die easily.

Using his downtime and untraceable channels—old contacts, discreet inquiries, obscure maritime reports—Hawke pulled at the thread. The Black Sea was a dead end, likely Volkov's misdirection. But the "anomalous weather event" was a time marker. He searched for unusual survival stories around that period, anywhere a desperate man with Volkov's resources might flee.

Days of painstaking work, checking stolen boat manifests, port logs, and old news archives, yielded a flicker: a censored report from a tiny Portuguese fishing village on the Algarve coast. A lone fisherman, found alive after his trawler sank in a sudden, violent squall. He'd been in the frigid Atlantic for nearly twelve hours. The local doctor was baffled by his swift recovery from severe hypothermia. The story was hushed, called a "local legend of resilience."

Too neat. Too quiet.

He'd hit another dead end in the data. She listened, her gaze distant, then her fingers traced the Portuguese coastline on the datapad's map with unshakeable certainty.

"This one," she said after a long silence, her voice soft, eyes focused south of Sagres. "The life force here… strong, Arthur. Fiercely guarded. Layered with old fear, like a deep scar. But underneath, a stubborn will, tasting of salt and survival. He's there. Or was. The echo is still vibrant."

"Portugal, then," Hawke said, already calculating logistics, forming a cover story. Another lie to SHEPARD. Another layer of risk. He saw the faces from the Menagerie, heard the order for the "clean-up" in his own voice. The memory was sharp enough to cut. "We'll need to be discreet. This is completely off the books."

Rita met his gaze, understanding and perhaps a hint of that same dangerous hope in her eyes. "Some ghosts deserve to remain undisturbed, Arthur. Perhaps we can ensure this one does."

***

The Portuguese fishing village clung to cliffs, its whitewashed houses sun-baked, air thick with salt, diesel, and grilled sardines. A world away from SHEPARD and Medved. Somewhere within, Rita sensed Subject Rho, a stubborn life ember.

After two days of discreet observation, they found him working on the docks. "Mateus," sculpted by wind and sea, skin like old leather, hands gnarled from nets and fish. Quiet, distant gaze on the horizon. He kept to himself, a solitary figure.

Rita watched from a quayside cafe. She saw his power: a deep gash on his arm healed to a faint pink line overnight. Bruises vanished unnaturally fast. He moved with resilience, drawing strength from the ocean.

Beneath his weathered exterior, Rita felt his past: Medved's trauma, a cold, jagged shard in his aura, a thrum of old fear. Yet, a fierce, primal connection to the sea offered belonging and healing. He clung to this harsh, simple anonymity.

Arthur, cautious, wanted more observation. Rita felt otherwise; prolonged scrutiny might trigger his deep suspicion. "I'll approach first," she told Arthur that evening. "Alone. Keep your distance, but be ready." He nodded, trusting her instincts, the muscle along his jaw twitching once.

Next morning, she found Mateus mending nets. She approached slowly, feigning interest in fishing floats, speaking softly of the sunrise, the calm sea. His initial reaction: wary, feral suspicion. His answers were short, posture defensive. He didn't stop work, but his entire being focused on her.

She sat nearby, sketching, letting silence stretch. After a while, she said softly, "The sea can be cruel. But sometimes… it offers a second chance. A place to wash away the past." His hands stilled. He looked up, stormy eyes narrowed. "What do you want?" he rasped.

Arthur appeared then, emerging from shadow, escalating tension. Mateus tensed, ready to bolt or fight. "We know who you are, Rho," Arthur said, voice low but firm. "We know about Project Medved." The name landed and his work-roughened hands went still, the net slackening in his grip. Fear, then desperate anger, flashed in his eyes. He stood, hands clenched. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"We're here to understand," Rita said gently. "We just want to talk." Slowly, they talked. Or listened, as Rho—Mateus—recounted a brutal escape, a desperate flight to the sea, nearly drowning before washing ashore. He spoke of his power's terror, fear of discovery, the fragile peace found here. He just wanted to be left alone, to forget.

His raw story resonated with the Menagerie's silent screams. A victim who'd clawed back to a semblance of life. When he fell silent, exhausted, Arthur met Rita's gaze. The unspoken decision was there. This survivor posed no threat. Dragging him back, handing him to SHEPARD, was a cruelty they wouldn't commit.

Arthur nodded slowly at Rho. "Live your life, Mateus," he said gently. "Be careful. The world has long memories. People hunt what they don't understand." A veiled warning, all they could offer. Rho stared, suspicion warring with fragile hope. He nodded once, uncertainly.

They left him, walking from the quay, Subject Rho becoming Mateus the fisherman again. One ghost, Rita thought, had earned its peace.

***

The Portuguese coast faded. Next target: Subject Epsilon. Volkov's file was dismissive: "Terminated – Unstable. Last known activity: Humboldt University environs, West Berlin." Terminated. Convenient. But Epsilon's empathic mimicry wasn't easily "terminated" unless Volkov was exceptionally brutal. More likely, Hawke thought, Epsilon was too hard to control, absorbing Project Medved's emotional chaos.

West Berlin: a city of ghosts and spies, reflecting Cold War tensions. The university district, a hub of intellect and idealism, was perfect for disappearing or understanding a power feeding on others' emotions.

Hawke bypassed SHEPARD, his inquiries masked by encrypted connections and untraceable digital footprints. He searched archived university records from Epsilon's supposed "termination" for late admissions, students with sparse backgrounds, or sudden dropouts. He looked for someone struggling, overwhelmed, out of place.

The data was a haystack. But Volkov noted Epsilon's German proficiency and interest in art history—small details logged before the "instability." Hawke narrowed his search.

"A resonance here," Rita murmured days later in Kreuzberg, a neighborhood of artists and students near the university. She'd been quiet during Hawke's digital hunt, sensing the city's psychic undercurrents. "An echo chamber. So many voices, feelings, layered. And in the middle…" She paused, concentrating. "A fragile one. Almost overwhelmed. Trying to find its own note."

Epsilon. It had to be.

Their trail, guided by Rita's empathy and Hawke's research, led to a small, independent art gallery on a quiet side street. It specialized in raw, unsettling works by unknown local artists.

"Emotional signature strongest here," Rita confirmed, hand on Hawke's arm. "Much pain, but also a desperate need for expression. And fear of being… truly seen."

Hawke scanned the small, intimate gallery. A young woman with haunted eyes and paint-smeared hands arranged canvases of distorted, anguish-filled faces, each a raw nerve of emotion. Her movements were hesitant; she flinched when the door opened.

Artist's placard: "Eliza Weber." Unremarkable. But her first exhibition date aligned roughly with Epsilon's supposed "termination." The raw emotion in her work was almost a direct broadcast.

He looked at Rita. Her expression was one of profound, sorrowful recognition.

So this was Epsilon. Terminated. She was bleeding the noise out onto canvas. Volkov's report called her "unstable." Hawke saw a woman building a barricade of paint and fear against a screaming world.

***

Eliza—or Epsilon—moved through the small gallery like a startled fawn, her gestures betraying raw sensitivity. Rita watched her, feeling a deep recognition. The air around Eliza thrummed with borrowed emotions: a tourist's boredom, a student's anxiety, the gallery owner's cynicism. Eliza absorbed it all, her own aura flickering. Her dark, expressive eyes, her only true feature, looked perpetually on the verge of tears or a scream.

Her art was raw and visceral. Canvases held distorted faces, mouths open in silent screams. Colors clashed in chords of anguish and panic.

Arthur remained by the entrance, a silent, grounding shadow, distant enough to alarm Eliza. Rita knew this approach was hers.

She waited until Eliza was alone, nervously adjusting a bleak painting. Rita moved closer, projecting calmness against the gallery's emotional static. Her current appearance—sleek, dark hair, minimalist attire, reflecting an early eighties Japanese aesthetic—was another temporary vessel for the ancient Narrative she embodied. It changed with the eras. Right now, it suggested precision and quiet intensity. The core of her, the Witness, remained.

Eliza looked up, eyes widening slightly in dazed recognition. She likely sensed Rita's unusual empathic signature.

"Your work… it speaks very loudly," Rita said softly, her German fluent, accent hard to place.

Eliza flinched. "Too loudly, sometimes." Her voice was a whisper. "They… don't always understand."

"Perhaps," Rita agreed. "But some of us do. Some are… attuned to the echoes." She paused. "Echoes from places like Medved, for instance."

The name struck her like ice water. Color drained from her face. Terror flared in her eyes, reflecting the understanding Rita projected. She backed away, knocking into sketches.

"I don't… know what you mean," she stammered, eyeing the door.

"Eliza," Rita said gently, "or Epsilon. We're here to listen. We just want to understand." She focused her intent, pushing out calmness and a deeper truth. "I understand being a conduit, feeling the world too keenly. Having others' stories, joys, pains, pour through you until you fear shattering."

Eliza stared, confusion warring with terror. "You… feel it too?"

"In a way," Rita said, a faint, sad smile. "My burden is different, vaster, but shares a root. I am… a vessel for the human story. It flows through me, shapes me. I've learned, over a very long time, to filter, observe, find patterns without being consumed. But when younger in my… awareness… the volume was overwhelming." She touched her temple. "The noise, as you called it in your file, can be deafening."

The file mention made Eliza shrink, but Rita's shared vulnerability created a fragile bridge. "Volkov… wanted to make it louder," Eliza whispered, tears welling. "He thought if I felt what the enemy felt, I could predict, control them. But it was just… agony. I couldn't separate their fear from mine. I was drowning. So I… pretended to break. Made the 'instability' worse. They were almost relieved to sign my 'termination' papers."

"You were resourceful," Rita affirmed. "And brave."

"I just wanted it to stop," Eliza said, voice cracking. "To be… quiet inside. The art helps. A little. Like… lancing a wound. But it always fills up."

Rita nodded, heart aching. "There are ways, Eliza," she said softly. "Techniques. Disciplines. To build shields, filter, find your quiet center. A long path, especially alone."

Arthur shifted by the door, a silent signal. Their time was limited.

"We won't report you," Rita assured her. "Your secret is safe. Volkov is gone. Medved is a memory." She smiled genuinely. "Your art is powerful. Born of pain, but speaks of survival. Don't let the echoes silence your own voice."

She didn't offer direct help—too dangerous. But she hoped she'd planted hope, validated Eliza's struggle, perhaps nudged her towards seeking others who might understand.

Eliza stared, tears streaming, terror replaced by fragile, bewildered gratitude.

Rita nodded, then rejoined Arthur. One more ghost, she thought, given a chance.

***

Two down, one to go. Rho was a ghost by the sea, Epsilon a whisper in Berlin's artistic chaos. Both safe, for now. Both testaments to a resilience Hawke was only just beginning to appreciate. But Subject Sigma, the final name on his redacted list, was proving to be an entirely different kind of challenge.

Volkov's file was a masterpiece of deliberate obfuscation: "Subject Sigma: Latent Chronal Distortion. Transferred – Decommissioned." Details, dates—wiped clean. If Rho was a survivor and Epsilon an escapee, Sigma felt like a professional disappearance.

Hawke dug deeper, abandoning conventional searches and delving into the shadowy undercurrents of Volkov's less official dealings. He found it eventually, buried in encrypted financial ledgers: a significant, untraceable payment made around the time of Sigma's "decommissioning" to a known black-market "facilitator" based in Marseille, a specialist in making problematic individuals vanish, permanently or otherwise.

Marseille. A city of ancient ports and tangled loyalties, a place where secrets could drown easily in the Mediterranean sun.

"This one is… slippery," Rita said, her eyes closed in concentration as Hawke laid out the fragmented trail. They were in a cramped hotel room overlooking the bustling Vieux Port, the air thick with the scent of brine and exhaust fumes. "He doesn't move through time like we do, Arthur. It's more like… he dances around its edges. Always just out of sync. I feel a profound weariness about him, a sense of having seen too much, too quickly. And a deep, deep desire to simply disappear."

Her words painted a picture of someone actively using their abilities to evade, hiding and manipulating the very fabric of their detectability. This wouldn't be a gentle conversation over coffee or a quiet observation. Finding Sigma would be like trying to catch smoke.

The trail in Marseille was cold, littered with dead ends and whispered rumors of a "ghost" who sometimes frequented the more shadowy establishments, a man who was never quite where you expected him to be, who seemed to age and de-age erratically depending on who you asked. Local underworld figures knew of him, or rather, knew of the whispers, but he owed allegiance to no one, trusted no one.

Hawke knew then that this final thread wouldn't be unraveled by stealth alone. Sigma was too adept at avoiding notice. This would require a different kind of trap, one that played to the man's elusive nature.

Catching Sigma was less an investigation and more an exercise in applied temporal mechanics, however rudimentary Hawke's understanding. He couldn't predict where Sigma would be, but by analyzing patterns of rumored sightings and the faint chronal distortions Rita could sense when they were close, he began to map where Sigma had been, or where he might momentarily align with their own timeline. He set up a series of discreet observation points in areas Sigma frequented, waiting for Sigma's elusive dance to inevitably bring him through.

It took three days. Hawke was in a grimy back-alley cafe, nursing a bitter espresso, when he felt it – a subtle shimmer in the air, a momentary disorientation, as if the world had skipped a beat. And then, a man was sitting at the table opposite him, seemingly materialized from the humid afternoon air.

He looked older than the thirty-odd years Volkov's initial file had suggested, his face etched with lines of weariness that spoke of decades, of years. Yet, there was an ageless quality to his eyes, a depth that seemed to hold the weight of too many witnessed moments. This was Sigma.

"You've been persistent," Sigma said, his voice raspy, devoid of surprise. He didn't seem alarmed, merely resigned. "Most give up."

"We're different people," Hawke replied, keeping his tone even. Rita was nearby, a silent observer from a market stall across the narrow street, her presence a subtle anchor.

"So I gather," Sigma said, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Volkov's lapdogs, then? Come to finish the job his 'decommissioning' failed to do?"

"Volkov is gone," Hawke stated. "Medved is ashes."

Sigma's expression didn't change. "Good. The man was an artist of torment. But his masters are still out there, aren't they? The ones who pull the strings from even deeper shadows." He looked directly at Hawke. "Like yours."

Hawke didn't confirm or deny. "We know about your… abilities, Sigma. How you orchestrated your escape."

A mirthless smile touched Sigma's lips. "Escape? Or a pre-emptive retirement? Volkov wanted to turn me into a walking temporal weapon – stasis fields to freeze armies, decay zones to crumble cities. I merely… adjusted the schedule of my departure. Made myself an inconvenient variable." He used his powers, he explained, to subtly distort time around his own records, around the perception of those meant to dispose of him, making it appear he had died or simply vanished into thin air. He'd been living on the fringes ever since, using his abilities minimally, just enough to stay ahead, to stay unseen, to ensure the cracks he'd slipped through didn't close behind him.

"We're here to listen," Hawke said, the words feeling truer now than they ever had before. "We just needed to know."

Sigma studied him for a long moment. "Know what? That some of Volkov's lab rats survived his personal apocalypse? That we're out here, trying to stay invisible?" He leaned forward slightly. "There was a girl there. Anya. Small, dark hair. She could… make plants grow. Just by talking to them. A gentle soul. Did she…?"

The question, so unexpected, so specific, struck Hawke like a physical blow. Anya. He didn't remember a name, specifically. He remembered the Menagerie, the blur of terrified faces, the cacophony of uncontrolled powers. He remembered the cold, systematic efficiency of the "clean-up." He remembered giving the order.

The silence stretched, heavy and damning. Hawke saw the dawning realization in Sigma's eyes, the flicker of hope dimming, replaced by a familiar, weary cynicism.

"Ah," Sigma said softly, leaning back. "I see. Of course. The gentle ones never make it out of those places. You know how it is."

The silent, sterile aftermath of the Menagerie filled his thoughts—a cold vacuum where the screams had been. Sparing three lives felt like placing three clean stones on a mountain of bloody ones. The weight was no lighter.

"She wouldn't have been a threat," Hawke found himself saying, his voice hoarse, the words scraping his throat on the way out.

Sigma just looked at him, his ancient eyes holding judgment, only a profound, shared understanding of the world's cruelties. "The gentle ones never make it out of those places," he said quietly. "But that rarely matters to the men who build the cages, does it?" He rose, a flicker in the air, a subtle distortion. "Leave me to my shadows, Architect. It's where I belong. And try to add fewer ghosts to your collection. They get heavy."

And then, he was gone, vanished in a flash, but simply… no longer there, as if the moment he had occupied had frayed at the edges and let him slip away.

Hawke sat alone at the table, the bitter espresso cold in his cup. He had found his three ghosts. He had let them remain free. But Sigma's question, and the crushing weight of his own complicity, remained. This wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough.

***

The Marseille hotel room was anonymous. Outside, the city hummed. Inside, a quiet, heavier than usual, settled between Rita and Arthur. Their clandestine tour was complete. Three Medved ghosts—Rho, Epsilon, Sigma—were free, their secrets safe for now.

Arthur stood by the window, staring at the port, but seeing other faces, hearing other voices. Sigma's parting words, the ghost of Anya, had struck a deep, painful chord. The Menagerie's weight, the orders given and carried out, pressed down, heavier because of the three lives spared.

"They were just people, Arthur," Rita said softly from the bed, her journal in her lap. "Flawed, frightened, gifted, scarred… but people. Assets. Monsters."

He turned slowly, his face etched with a weariness beyond physical exhaustion. "Rho, fighting for peace by the ocean. Epsilon, bleeding pain onto canvas. Sigma, dancing on time's edge to be left alone." He ran a hand over his face. "Volkov made them something else. We… almost helped ensure they stayed that way, if we'd followed protocol."

"But we chose differently," Rita said gently but firmly. "We saw their humanity. Their resilience. Each one, a testament to the spirit's refusal to be extinguished by profound cruelty." She thought of Rho's stubbornness, Epsilon's fragile art, Sigma's weary endurance. Survivors, just subjects.

"Tactically, a risk," Arthur admitted. "Three undocumented, powerful individuals… SHEPARD, if they knew…"

"If they knew, they would do what they always do," Rita finished. "Contain, control, exploit. Or eliminate. The same cold calculus that condemned everyone in the Menagerie." She met his gaze. "What Sigma said about Anya… he was mourning all of them, Arthur. All the gentle souls crushed by men like Volkov."

His usually guarded eyes held raw pain. "Sparing three… when so many others…"

"Perhaps nothing will be," she agreed softly. "To undo what was done. But it was something. Our choice."

His brow furrowed. "Our choice." A whisper, a question.

Rita felt the moment shift. She put aside her journal and rose, standing before him, her hand on his arm. He stilled, his gaze distant, yet somehow focused entirely on her.

"Yes," she said, her voice quiet, yet unshakable. "Our choice, Arthur. Ours, SHEPARD's. Yours, Volkov's. You could have reported our actions. I could have refused. But we chose together. Because it was right."

The silence returned, but it was different now. Less heavy, more… resonant. Charged with a shared purpose, a shared risk.

Rita looked at Arthur, truly looked at him, seeing just the formidable SHEPARD operative, the Architect of deadly missions, but the man beneath, wrestling with a conscience he had tried for so long to suppress. The man who had, despite everything, chosen mercy.

"This changes things, Arthur," she said, her voice barely a whisper, but carrying the weight of all they had seen and done. "For us."

He met her gaze, and the deep weariness was still there, a permanent shadow. But within it, she saw a spark. A low, dangerous fire had been lit, forging a new conviction in his gaze.

"Yes, Rita," he said, his voice quiet but firm, a vow in itself. "It does."

***