Fic: chose wrong
Dec. 2nd, 2023 06:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosanicusTa da! A fic in under the FIAB wire (posted two days ago but I've been BUSY).
I am indebted to my beloved future wife for providing the prompts for this - I asked her for three numbers between 1 and 200 and got prompts from the H/C Bingo list of tropes. And as a result I finally wrote some Winter Soldier!EvS, which I've been wanting to write for ages. As I said on Ao3 this is intended as a prequel to a longer fic which will be about deprogramming and reintegrating into reality, but that'll take Time and Research. Much like the Frau Lowenhardt fic, which I hope to return to after 1) Yuletide is done and 2) my job interview on Tuesday is over.
As a treat for the Dreamwidth circle, here is a piece salvaged from the cutting room floor (thanks Sholio for the metaphor!) which I started writing after the first ~900 words of the posted fic ended up at an awkward point.
With Soviet assistance, entering the country was trivially easy. After several days of travel, Erich found himself weaving his way through the crowd at Heathrow with no significant barriers to his entry into the city of London. His newly-forged papers listed his identity as Arnold Kerr, a recent immigrant from West Germany who worked in the textile industry.
He had been sent to complete a mission. It was difficult at that moment to recall the details; his trip across the Iron Curtain had involved several long train journeys before he finally boarded the plane which took him across the English Channel. Each time he stopped he took the medicine which he had been prescribed for his leg. It didn’t seem to help much but he had been assured the effects would eventually impress him.
Hailing a taxi, Erich settled back against the seat and drew from his coat pocket the sheaf of papers he had been instructed to consult on his arrival. Reading them made his head pound but he continued, skimming over the text on each page. There were further instructions within them.
The taxi let him out at the corner of an unfamiliar street. After paying the driver, Erich checked his papers once more. An address was listed which matched the area of London he was in, although Erich had not been provided with a map.
Rain was steadily pounding against the pavement. Erich had not been provided with an umbrella, so he walked to the address with no protection from the elements.
The buildings which rose up around him were beautiful in their own way. Red and white brick facades fronted onto a street lined with shops, although the weather meant that not many other pedestrians had braved the pavement. Erich’s shoes were very wet; the sole had come away from the heel. He had not been provided with new shoes, and so he kept walking.
The address on the papers was tucked between a leather goods shop and a private residence, the door unobtrusive and with no names on the panel of doorbells. Erich rang the bell for the number he had memorised, then waited patiently until the door was opened.
The sound of the rain pounding on the pavement seemed almost synchronous with the pounding in Erich’s head. He closed his eyes for a moment, then snapped them open as his thoughts began to swim.
He found it difficult to tell how long it was before the door opened. His watch was – he didn’t know where his watch was. He hadn’t worn it since before he was given this mission.
The door opened and a man stood there. It was not a man Erich knew – he was blond and had a slight build, with small hands and sharp eyes. He looked at Erich in surprise, then seemed almost pleased.
“I don’t think you’ve made a house call before, von Stalhein,” said the man Erich did not know. “Have you returned to your life as a wine merchant?”
Erich drew the silenced pistol from his coat pocket and shot him. It went through-and-through the upper part of his arm. Erich looked down at his hand. It was shaking, which surprised him. He looked back up. Another man had appeared behind his target.
Did he have to shoot him as well? This hadn’t been in his orders. He reached for them, pulled them from his pocket and tried to leaf through them even as the rain saturated the paper. He needed to take his medicine but it was in another pocket and he couldn’t remember which.
A sharp pain in his head distracted him. Dark spots enveloped his vision. He dropped the pages.
I am indebted to my beloved future wife for providing the prompts for this - I asked her for three numbers between 1 and 200 and got prompts from the H/C Bingo list of tropes. And as a result I finally wrote some Winter Soldier!EvS, which I've been wanting to write for ages. As I said on Ao3 this is intended as a prequel to a longer fic which will be about deprogramming and reintegrating into reality, but that'll take Time and Research. Much like the Frau Lowenhardt fic, which I hope to return to after 1) Yuletide is done and 2) my job interview on Tuesday is over.
As a treat for the Dreamwidth circle, here is a piece salvaged from the cutting room floor (thanks Sholio for the metaphor!) which I started writing after the first ~900 words of the posted fic ended up at an awkward point.
With Soviet assistance, entering the country was trivially easy. After several days of travel, Erich found himself weaving his way through the crowd at Heathrow with no significant barriers to his entry into the city of London. His newly-forged papers listed his identity as Arnold Kerr, a recent immigrant from West Germany who worked in the textile industry.
He had been sent to complete a mission. It was difficult at that moment to recall the details; his trip across the Iron Curtain had involved several long train journeys before he finally boarded the plane which took him across the English Channel. Each time he stopped he took the medicine which he had been prescribed for his leg. It didn’t seem to help much but he had been assured the effects would eventually impress him.
Hailing a taxi, Erich settled back against the seat and drew from his coat pocket the sheaf of papers he had been instructed to consult on his arrival. Reading them made his head pound but he continued, skimming over the text on each page. There were further instructions within them.
The taxi let him out at the corner of an unfamiliar street. After paying the driver, Erich checked his papers once more. An address was listed which matched the area of London he was in, although Erich had not been provided with a map.
Rain was steadily pounding against the pavement. Erich had not been provided with an umbrella, so he walked to the address with no protection from the elements.
The buildings which rose up around him were beautiful in their own way. Red and white brick facades fronted onto a street lined with shops, although the weather meant that not many other pedestrians had braved the pavement. Erich’s shoes were very wet; the sole had come away from the heel. He had not been provided with new shoes, and so he kept walking.
The address on the papers was tucked between a leather goods shop and a private residence, the door unobtrusive and with no names on the panel of doorbells. Erich rang the bell for the number he had memorised, then waited patiently until the door was opened.
The sound of the rain pounding on the pavement seemed almost synchronous with the pounding in Erich’s head. He closed his eyes for a moment, then snapped them open as his thoughts began to swim.
He found it difficult to tell how long it was before the door opened. His watch was – he didn’t know where his watch was. He hadn’t worn it since before he was given this mission.
The door opened and a man stood there. It was not a man Erich knew – he was blond and had a slight build, with small hands and sharp eyes. He looked at Erich in surprise, then seemed almost pleased.
“I don’t think you’ve made a house call before, von Stalhein,” said the man Erich did not know. “Have you returned to your life as a wine merchant?”
Erich drew the silenced pistol from his coat pocket and shot him. It went through-and-through the upper part of his arm. Erich looked down at his hand. It was shaking, which surprised him. He looked back up. Another man had appeared behind his target.
Did he have to shoot him as well? This hadn’t been in his orders. He reached for them, pulled them from his pocket and tried to leaf through them even as the rain saturated the paper. He needed to take his medicine but it was in another pocket and he couldn’t remember which.
A sharp pain in his head distracted him. Dark spots enveloped his vision. He dropped the pages.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-03 09:52 am (UTC)I will probably use bits of this POV in the longer fic, although obviously the incident itself ended up a bit different. I just quite like writing altered state POVs and never get to do it! Mostly through my own inaction, though...