cacophany

PROLOGUE

When he'd been approached with the project, Dr. Korosov didn't know how to react; it was ludicrous. He was ordered to mix DNA, to create a killer in a damn test tube.

How does someone—even HYDRA's most esteemed scientist—respond to that?

Pushing himself up from his desk, the doctor shook Baron Strucker's hand and tossed the file into the fireplace by his desk.

No-one would ever know.

—

Nine months later, Dr. Korosov observed the creature he had manufactured, while it slept, with his clipboard in hand. One set of notes surely wouldn't hurt: he had to remember everything somehow—he needed a way to track his progress, and also a way to make sure he didn't lose his mind.

He looked over the paper a few hours later before leaving it on the desk, locking the door, and heading home.

What he didn't know was that a wraith laid in wait that night in his ventilation shaft.

—

FOUR YEARS LATER:

Cassandra Korosova was, to put it simply, fucked.

At four years old, the girl stood in the office of her creator. She was opposite him and, well, a rather round man.

The two had been discussing her for the last thirteen minutes as if she wasn't there—they looked over at her a few times, but that was about as much as they acknowledged her.

Looking back, she wished it had stayed that way.

After another eleven minutes, some sort of agreement was settled and Cassandra was led out of the dimly-lit room by the round man, her hand in his.

She didn't like it.

The older man's thumb rubbed circles on the back of Cassandra's hand. It was weird. Was he trying to soothe her? Why would he be soothing her? The only person who was nice to her was Dr. Korosov, her father. Why wasn't he with them?

Cassandra looked over her shoulder to see the scientist standing in the doorway of his office, watching her walk away with the strange man with an odd look on his face. She had seen it a few times. Was it pity? No, it was different to that. Why wasn't he following them?

"Papa?" The infant called over her shoulder, trying to tug her hand out of the large man's grip. It didn't budge. "Papa, пойдем с нами! (come with us)."

Desperate, childish pleas for her father continued until the other man presumably had enough of them; he had no room for childishness, Cassandra supposed. That made sense; children were annoying, meant to be seen and not heard. Cassandra was making herself heard; she was being annoying.

The stranger crouched down and got in her face, speaking in English as if she were an imbecile, "Stop talking. He is not your father anymore; I am. Da?" His tone left no room for disagreement. He was harsh. Papa was not harsh.

Still, Cassandra sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her free hand. "Da." There was a moment of silence. "Papa."

–

Cassandra Dreykova couldn't remember the next few years of her life after that.

It was as if she had been in a haze; under some kind of spell. She remembered ballet shoes, the gruel she was forced to eat, her ballet master: Madame Popova, a woman with red hair.

She was paired with the red-haired woman a lot.

Her memories of the Red Room were like the flashes of cameras she was often subjected to: fleeting and painful. She remembered dingy dorms shared with fifty other girls; she remembered luxurious private plane rides with old men who couldn't keep their hands to themselves; she remembered the feeling of steel between her fingers, and the sickening squelch of pierced flesh.

Cassandra didn't often like camera flashes–she didn't often like her memories, either.

Around five years after her induction, Cassandra was brought into General Dreykov's office on her lonesome.

The general's office was much nicer than the scientist's whom she had known—Dr. Morokov? Romanov? She couldn't quite remember.

Dreykov was leaning against his desk when she stepped inside, looking down upon her like he always did, his daughter.

Daughters don't do what she had to do.

"Cassandra," Dreykov smiled, opening his arms in welcome, "how have you been?" English.
Cassandra had eaten a spoonful of gruel, been en pointe for five hours, and had restrained her peer for not nodding along with Madame's words.

"Fine," she nodded; little girls should be seen and not heard.

Dreykov nodded with that same sickening smirk and set his hands behind him on the desk. "There has been an opening in a project at your old base. How does that sound?"

Cassandra's stomach dropped to her feet, and her eyes glassed over. The girl nodded. "Very good, General."

The man smiled again and Cassandra wished she could just close her eyes and never see it again. "You leave in twenty minutes. Say privyet to Dr. Sorokov for me."

The girl nodded again. "Yes, General," she awaited her dismissal.

She prayed for it.

Dreykov beckoned her closer with that same smile on his face and bile rose in her throat. "Come say goodbye."

Cassandra had to stop her hands from trembling.

The marionette nodded as her puppeteer pulled the string. "Yes, General."