Archive of Our Own ^beta

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It's as if the world has turned away from the sun, dark forever. A black abyss.

I can't remember anything. Where am I? Why is it so dark? How did I get here? Who brought me here?... Who am I?

My throat closes up as if it were given orders that not a particle of oxygen should pass throughout my airways. I can hear a muffled noise beeping as if it were submerged under water. Small colored dots float around in my field of vision when I open my eyes. I blink a few times to clear my vision. I can taste the dirty grime and the dryness sitting on my tongue, I can feel the rough ribbed cotton beneath my fingers, I can smell the strong scent of cleanliness and flowers, and although it's muffled, I can hear the sound of a heart monitor... my heart monitor. Mine.

I know this because every time I attempt to figure out who and how I got here, the sound speeds up. It is vociferous. I can feel its presence despite it being only an object of technology. How did I end up here? And where exactly is this "here"?

There's an IV in my arm connected to a bag of fluids. I go through the things I know. Number one: it's been a while since my teeth have been brushed, noting the grime that resides on the inside of my mouth. Number two: I know I am in a hospital bed for whatever reason is unknown. Number three: this is not your average hospital; clear plastic surrounds me. Men armed with assault rifles are stationed outside my room. Everything about this scene screams illegal, and with that, my heart rate increases. Why am I being guarded? Where am I? How did I get here? I hear men speaking outside of my makeshift plastic room. I can't make out their accents. I don't know how long I've been out. Hell, I don't even know who I am. Their footsteps get closer and their voices grow louder. I take one more quick glance around the room and close my eyes. I'm frozen with fear.

"I gave her the reversal agent; she should be awake by now." That must be the doctor speaking. He sounds scared, coerced to do something he doesn't believe in "Are you telling me you don't know how to do the job I pay you to do?" This man speaks with authority. He is the embodiment of dominance. There is control in his voice. He must be the boss and the reason I'm here. "Dembe, prepare her to move." A name; Dembe. I start to panic. The monitor I'm connected to begins to speed up. Where are they taking me? Who are these men? And what do they want with me? The doctor speaks up"I think she can hear us".

My eyes shoot open, and I scramble off the bed, falling onto the floor and ripping out the IV connected to my arm. My legs feel like jello. I am like an animal running scared with no where to go but a corner. Still I persist. "Anna," the boss shouts after me. My breath hitches, my name is Anna. I do what I can to avoid the guards but its not much. I try to speak, but my throat is scratchy and raw. One of the men guarding the room, or me for that matter, catches me in their arms before I fall. I am defeated "Help.. Me" and that's when everything goes black.

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The low hum of an engine blends with the soft clinking of a glass being set down. I think back to the last thing I remember before I lost consciousness. I remember waking up in a hospital room of sorts that wasn't an actual hospital. I was also being guarded by two men suited in militia gear. Does that mean I'm important? Maybe I'm a politician, or maybe I'm supposed to be the first female president. Dim yellow light floods my vision. I'm no longer in a hospital bed, yet I am still hooked to a bag of fluids. I take note of the pressure in my ears and realize that I'm on a plane — a private jet, if I had to guess.

There's a man with a weathered face and a crisp, wide-brimmed hat sitting comfortably across from me. His tailored suit suggests money, and he fingers a heavy silver ring as he speaks on the phone, his tone measured and amused. This must be the boss who was giving orders to the doctor. The man whose words dripped with authority and intelligence.

"Yes, I'm well aware you don't trust my definition of fine. But I assure you, everything is precisely as it should be."

The man pauses.

"No, not this time. This one's... personal. I'll be in touch." Who was that?

He ends the call and exhales, pocketing his phone. That's when he sees me staring at him. I look away nervously. I can't help but be curious about everything. Who knows what could turn out to be a clue. He smiles faintly before speaking.

"Well, there you are. For a moment, I thought you might prefer to sleep through our entire flight. Most people find the constant drone of engines rather soothing, but I can't imagine it much comfort when one wakes up in... unfamiliar circumstances." He says with a wave of his hand gesturing to me.

I try to clear my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse.

"Where..." I swallow. "Am I?" I'm cautious, yet questioning.

Pouring me a glass of water, he says, "Somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow, my dear. Drink up. You'll feel better."

Hands trembling, I reach for the glass. Yesterday and tomorrow? As in different time zones?

"Who are you?" I persist.

He smiles. "That's a rather complicated question. For now, let's settle for a friend. A friend with terrible timing and a fondness for expensive aircraft." He takes a sip of what I can only assume is whiskey.

"Why am I here?" No reply. All he does is stare at me. I feel trapped — physically and mentally.

"Someone tried very hard to make sure you wouldn't wake up at all. I wasn't particularly fond of that arrangement." My breath hitches.

All his answers so far are complex codes that need deciphering. He cares about me in some manner; I can see that at least. But in what way do I matter to him? Am I an asset? A pawn in his game of chess?

"So... you saved me?"

If I'm going to survive, I need to remember who I am, and to do that, I need to ask as many questions as I can.

"'Saved' is such a loaded word. Let's just say I intervened. You were in a precarious situation. I'm quite good at resolving precarious situations."
His response is smug, however I get the feeling that he's covering up his true feelings. I nod, taking note of his statement but not truly understanding what it is that he means. His confidence unnerves me.

"I don't remember anything. Not where I was... not who I am. I only know my name is Anna because you called me it."

His expression softens, slightly, though his eyes betray something much deeper — loss, longing.

"Memory is a curious thing. It slips through our fingers like sand — impossible to hold, yet somehow it defines us. Perhaps, in time, yours will return. Until then... consider this a fresh start."

He studies me, almost as if he were trying to memorize my face.

"You talk to me like you know me."

He chuckles. "Perhaps I do. Perhaps I merely wish I did. Either way, Anna... you're safe now."

For all I know, he could be my kidnapper, and I just can't remember.

"How can I trust you? You could've kidnapped me and you're using my lack of memory to your advantage."

"You can't. But then again, trust is such a tedious thing to build." He pauses, "Rest. We have much to discuss when we land. And far less time that I'd like."

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The contact of wheels hitting the ground jolts me awake, intensifying my feelings of confusion. At least I remember one thing. I remember how landing feels. The plane glides to a stop, and the hum of the plane's engines fades into silence. Through the small window of the jet, I see nothing but dark gray clouds and wet tarmac stretching towards a long line of trees. One thing I do know is that this is definitely not a normal airport. Located in a remote area, it is small, isolated, and secluded. Excluded from the public, and we probably flew under the radar of any and all aviation records. My anxiety rises. Can I trust whoever this man in the hat truly is? And even if I do find out his name, it could be an alias of sorts. The sound of the cabin door opening grabs my attention. Cold air rushes in sharp and clean. Before I can steady myself, a tall man in a black coat appears. He's at least 6 feet tall, his skin is dark, and his eyes are calm and steady.​

He extends his arms out, "Ma'am, you can trust me." I try to think logically. If they were going to hurt me, they would've already done so. But that's assuming that I'm not an important person. "How do I know you're not lying?" The expression on his face does not waver. He is serious. "Mr. Reddington would not allow anyone on this jet if he thought you'd be hurt." So his name is Reddington. Or at least that's what this man calls him. "Please, let me," I nod, and within seconds I'm in his arms. He moves with quick efficiency, carrying me as though I weigh nothing down the narrow stairs of the plane. Once his feet are on the tarmac and I'm not scared of falling, I gather the courage to ask him his name. "Dembe, means peace."

Ah, one of the men from the hospital. "You were there," he raises his brow, questioning me silently, "back at that hospital. Do you know what happened to me?" His silence is deliberate. What are these men not telling me? It's my life, shouldn't I know who the hell I am and what's happened to me?

The chill of the outside bites at my skin. I'm in a gray loose-fitting pajama-like set, which isn't awesome but better than a hospital gown with my ass out. A sleek black Mercedes-Benz S-class waits on the edge of the runway, the engine purring quietly. German cars are luxurious. Renowned for their advanced technology, strong engineering, and iconic models. Although the gas tank is on the passenger's so that part is not all that convenient. I feel connected to this car somehow. I just can't put my finger on it. Dembe assists me gently in the back seat, and the door shuts with a heavy click. The faint aroma of leather mixes with the smell of tobacco and vanilla, the scent feeling distantly familiar. He knows something. This man, Reddington, he knew me, and what happened to me. Is it like 50 First Dates, where the next day will start all over again, is that it? Or is it that they know me well enough to know that whatever happened to me, they know I can't handle it.

The man in the hat slides in beside me. He doesn't speak. Neither do I. The world beyond the tinted dark windows blurs into forests, narrow roads, and scattered villages. Forty-five entire minutes of silence stretch on like an eternity... in hell that is. I try to remember anything. Simply a face, a name, a reason why I am here, but all I find are flashes of pain buried in my memories. The sound of my own heartbeat. The smell of antiseptic.

Back at the hospital, when that Reddington guy called out for me, it felt so familiar. Like a distant memory. I swear I got deja vu.

I don't dare look at him. I am too fragile, too weak to handle the weight of his heavy gaze on me. So I turn and watch the raindrops sliding down the window and hope my memories will find me soon.​

When the car finally stops, I look up. We've arrived at an old brick house, its walls draped in ivy and history. The man next to me clears his throat, "It is rumored that this house was once owned by a blacksmith. Isn't that neat?" I nod, looking at the green door that stands out against the red brick. Behind the house is a vast lake with a dock that appears to be caving in and rotting. "Where are we?" I ask as Reddington steps out first, his movements unhurried, almost rehearsed. He looks at the house the way one looks at a memory. Full of both affection and longing. His eyes find mine. "No need to concern yourself with the where. You'll stay here. It's safe. No one knows about this place," Safe. I don't know whether I should believe what he says or not. But something in his tone lures me. Or maybe I'm just desperate for stability. Dembe opens my car door, offering a hand that I thank but politely decline. I step out, my legs unsteady beneath me. The cold air freezes my lungs as I face the men who've kept me alive, or rather caged me.​

He watches me carefully, his expression unreadable. I don't understand why I am here. I don't know who I was. How I'm supposed to feel, react, and move. It is unnerving. "Why here?" I ask finally, my voice breaking the silence. "Why bring me to Poland of all places?"

He smiles faintly as if he were expecting me to ask. The three of us step into the house, and there is a wooden table with four chairs placed around it, all on a dark maroon rug. I have to admit it is very beautiful and warm.

"Because, Anna, sometimes the only way to remember who we are... is by returning to the places we forgot," I'm so tired of the metaphors that I don't understand. I'm tired of the weight that sits on my chest when I hear my name and feel no connection to those four letters. I'm terrified of the mere thought of not being able to remember anything about myself. And I'm terrified of these strange men who claim they want to keep me safe. What if they hurt me? Or sell me?

"Stop talking to me like that. Like you know, something I don't, or like I've ever been to Poland."

My voice is weak, but my words are strong. Whoever I once was, whoever I am, I am strong. I refuse to be quiet.​

"Perhaps I do. Perhaps I merely remember the kind of person who deserves to be known." Unsatisfied with his reply, I speak up, "That's not an answer. None of this is. You take me to the middle of nowhere and tell me I'll be safe here. Safe from what?!" I'm raising my voice now. I want-no, I need answers. I won't stop until I get them. What if I have a family?

"It wasn't meant to be an answer. You are not ready."

"Then what is it supposed to be? I woke up surrounded by armed men, hooked up to machines, and now I'm here—wait, let's back up. You put me on a private jet. I might not remember who I am, but I know the average person doesn't have private jet money. And now I'm sitting in this strange, old house in the middle of nowhere—with you. I don't even know your name, and I've been way too calm about that." My heart pounds as anxiety sets in. Did I make a mistake? What if they kill me? My legs start to tremble.​

He hangs up his jacket and begins to unbutton his vest, "My name has opened too many doors and closed many more. But if it brings you comfort, my name is Raymond. Raymond Reddington." In an attempt to hold strong, I cross my arms, "Raymond Reddington. And what exactly do you do, Raymond?" I step forward towards him, feigning bravery. Unlike me, he is calm. And it is not an act.

"That depends entirely on who's asking," he reaches around me to set his fedora down, and heads in towards the kitchen.

"I'm the one who's asking!" This man is clearly insane. I ask him a question, he avoids it, makes it into a riddle, or blatantly ignores me.

Upon finding himself a bottle of what looks to be Belvedere- some kind of vodka- he begins making himself a drink, "To some, I'm a businessman. To others, a criminal. To a few, perhaps even a friend." He takes a sip, "Ahh, just how I like it."

I roll my eyes and uncross my arms, "And which one am I?"

"At this moment? Someone in need of answers I'm not yet ready to give." He speaks so matter-of-factly like a smug bastard who isn't ever questioned or pushed by those around him. I, however, am not gonna put up with that.

"That's not good enough! You're hiding something. You both are." I turn towards the man called Dembe. "You. Why are you just standing there? You helped take me, didn't you?" I can feel my face getting hot with anger.

"I only helped keep you alive," Dembe says, defending himself.

"Then tell me why! Why was I in that clearly illegal hospital? Who were those men? I can handle the truth."

​"No. You think you can. But the truth has an easy way of unraveling everything you believe about yourself. And once that happens, there is no going back." This man speaks from experience. The tone of his voice is no longer witty but despairing.

​Despite knowing he is saddened, I don't let up. I keep pushing, "Maybe I don't want to go back. Maybe I just want to stop feeling like I'm losing my damn mind."

​He takes another sip of his drink and sets it down. "In time, you'll understand."

"Don't- don't you dare give me that nonsense. 'In time. Perhaps. Maybe. ' It's all bullshit. I need answers, real answers, not riddles!" I am so frustrated that I might cry.

"Answers without understanding are just noise." His response only leads to my disappointment.

"You sound like a fortune cookie," I say through clenched teeth.

Dembe exhales softly, looking at Reddington, "She's scared, Raymond," almost as if trying to convince Reddington to tell me the truth. This proves my point exactly. These men are hiding something from me.

"I know she is."

"Please. I just want the truth." I'm not exactly proud of begging, but it's a tactic. And I'm desperate for something to work.

​"Then rest. Let your mind find its footing before it drowns in what it's chasing," he begins walking away from the kitchen and up the stairs to, I assume, the bedrooms. Although being desperate for answers is a strong motivator, it doesn't guarantee success.

"Raymond. Don't walk away from me!" My voice is weak, clinging to anything that will hold on to me. He stops halfway up the stairs, "Please."​

"Yes, Anna?" Reddington turns and looks at me with an unfamiliar tenderness. If only he cared enough to tell me who I am.

Aiming to get at least some explanation, I shout to ensure he's able to hear me from the stairs, "You say I'm safe here. But you still haven't told me -from who?"

"From everyone. Including yourself." And with that, he disappears from my vision.

I stare after him, stunned.

"Myself? Why would I hurt myself?!" I yell. I might not remember who I was, but I have a sneaking suspicion I was a hothead.

"He means you're safe here."

"Safe? Being in the middle of nowhere does make me safe."

"Somewhere quiet, somewhere you can rest."

I mumble under my breath, "Do either of you actually say anything straight?"

"Come, I'll show you your room."

I don't say anything and follow him up the stairs to a narrow hallway. The floorboards creak under each step. "How long am I staying here?"

"As long as it takes," his words are concise.

"As long as what takes?"

"For you to remember. Or for Mr. Reddington to decide it's safe for you to try"

"he really doesn't trust me, does he?"

"He trusts you more than anyone. That's why he's afraid." His words are deliberate. He's serious, dead serious.

We stop at an old brown door that unlocks with a skeleton key. "Here." He says, swinging the door open and gesturing me inside the room. The walls are painted a dark brown with molding making beautiful square designs. Positioned to the right is a queen-sized bed with a wooden bed frame and headboard.

"Mine?" I ask in disbelief.

"For now. There are clothes in the wardrobe, water by the bed. The window overlooks the lake. You'll find it quiet."

"Quiet isn't always comforting," but the room definitely is.

"It will be, once you stop listening for the wrong things."

I turn to face the man towering over me, "You talk like him."

"I've known him a long time. Some things stay with you."

"And you? Why stay with someone like him?"

"You'll understand with time." He leaves the room, but not before locking the door behind him.

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Chapter Text

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I am left alone with my thoughts; deep breaths do nothing to help. I'm scared. I need to run. I look around the room for a mirror. Maybe they'll come running and unlock the door, worried in a haze. Nothing. Maybe something else. But to my surprise, there's nothing in here besides books and trinkets. I lie down on my back and try to focus. I start counting the crow's foot patterns on the wall. Within a few minutes, I'm able to calm down a bit. I look around in the cabinets for anything I can use, a spare key, heavier clothes, or perhaps a weapon. I need protection. Once again, I find nothing. Not even a pair of tweezers. Although I did find a big winter coat in the closet. I put it on and get under the covers. If I need to run, I'll be ready. I turn off the light and my eyes adjust to the dark. For what feels like hours, I stare only to succumb to sleep. Deep, terrorizing sleep.

My eyes are covered in sheer red fabric. And my hands and feet are tied to a chair. A man stands in front of me. I can't make out his face much, but I can see the outline of his body. "Do you have any idea what pain you've caused me?" I laugh, "Me? I would never. You always treated me with such kind hands." I begin to cough, spitting up blood. "Siopí, YOU stole my men from me. YOU DID!" I try to look around the room, but I can't make out any of my other surroundings with this cloth over my eyes. "You did that to yourself. Not me. I was loyal and loving. You did this to yourself, no one else, Pantos."

I jolt awake, screaming, my face is wet, I'm burning up. The next thing I know is that my door is hanging by its hinges, and both Dembe and Reddington are clearing the room with weapons drawn. My hands have marks on them from how hard I was clenching my fists together. And all I can do is stare and cry. Was that a memory? Or just a really fucked up vivid dream?

"Dembe, the door."

My bed dips to the side. "Anna?" he reaches under my chin for me to look at him. "I- I was going to run," He nods, probably a given due to the giant winter coat I slept in. "There was a man. He had me tied up. I was alone." I pause, "He said I stole from him." This catches his attention. His lips are tightly shut. He reaches for my shaking hands, his fingers cold and steady on my skin. "It felt so real," my voice cracks, "it was real. I could feel the ropes, the soft fabric on my face, everything. And the man- I knew his name, Pantos."

Reddington's eyes flick up just for a second, but I see it. Recognition.

"You know him," I whisper, tilting my head to see his face more clearly.

He lets out a slow breath, one that feels organized, too careful. "I know many men."

"Don't do that," I snap, my nose burning, "Don't turn this into one of your clever little speeches."

He studies me in silence, the only sound being Dembe running up and down the stairs.

"He said I stole his men, that I caused him pain. What does that mean? What could I have possibly done?"

Reddington's jaw tightens. He looks away for a moment, then back at me. "You've always had a way of finding trouble."

"That's not good enough if Pantos is real, if he's still out there, I'm not safe."

"No, Anna, you're not, but you're safer here than out there."

"You've done this before," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," he says quietly, his tone heavy with unspoken memories, "too many times"

Dembe enters the now fixed doorway, silent as ever.

Reddington stands up, "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

I grab his sleeve, "You're not telling me everything." I implore, searching his eyes for answers.

He looks down at my hand and then back up at my face. "No, I'm not." He admits.

"Why?"

"Because some truths," He says, his voice softening, "don't just wake you up, they destroy you."

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"Anna, I'd like for you to meet Maria."

A woman about 5 feet tall, 3 inches, appears from behind Redington. She's wearing a grey dress with a small poppy brooch attached to the front of it on her right side. Her hair is blonde, but her roots are gray, and her eyes are kind with bags underneath them. Her lips are thin with a light pink gloss over them and nothing else.

With his jacket folded neatly over his left arm, he says, "She will cook for you. She will help you bathe and clean. Marina is a dear old friend of mine. I trust you guys will get along." And with that, he tips his hat and leaves. I don't reach for him. I don't ask him where he's going.

I simply turn to Maria and hold out my hand to her. She, however, looks terrified and does not take my hand. "Okay, well," I say, folding my hand behind my back, embarrassed, "I'm Anna. Where are you from?"

The older woman replies, her accent thick, "Poland."

"Oh, well, what do you like to do?" I ask, genuinely interested in her answer. This is the first person I've talked to who isn't a man.

"Work." Not I like to bake, or crochet. Just work.

"Nice," It appears I will not be bonding with her. Maria might seem like a warm name, but it's not.

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"It's time for your bath." One minute I'm alone in my room reading "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," and the next thing I know, Maria is appearing out of nowhere next to my bed.

"I don't know if I want to-" She cuts me off.

"No choice. Up, Up."

I follow her down the hallway to the bathroom, the floors are checkered hexagons, and there's a claw-foot tub, with a wooden stool positioned next to it.

"Why stand there? Get undressed."

I shimmy my sweatpants down my legs and into a pile on the floor. My legs are covered in scars and bandages I didn't even know were there. Have they been changing my bandages out for me these past few days?

I'm wearing the ugliest pair of underwear that hangs down in the front like a diaper. When I raise my arms to take my shirt off, I feel a great pain in my shoulder blades. It's sharp like a knife. That's when I finally look down at my entire body. I am unsightly skinny. My arms are riddled with scars just like my legs, but the most damaging thing of all is the man's name carved into my skin.

'P A N T O S'

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Chapter Text

Reddington, Raymond

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Dembe stands near the window, blinds closed, but just enough light sneaks through that his frame is outlined by it.

Luli sorts through hundreds of legal documents neatly stacked, falsified contracts, trusts, and transfer papers, each one crafted to make a lie look perfect. Undisputable.

"Everything is in place," she says, not looking up.

I nod "good"

Dembe looks at me with a silent question behind his eyes. He doesn't have to say it. Are you sure?

"Turning myself in to the FBI?" I smirk mischievously, "Oh, Dembe, I've done far worse things before breakfast."
He smiles weakly, not impressed with my response.
Still, I can feel the weight of what's coming pressing down on my chest.

The Bureau thinks they know what's about to happen- but they never do. The truth is, this isn't about them. Not really.

I reach for the fountain pen and sign my name, neatly and deliberately, R. Reddington.
Dembe watches in silence as I move to the next page. Legal jargon dances all over as I read. A long declaration of holdings, transfer of assets, and A memorandum of intent. Buried among them, a document written in my own hand. One that neither the bureau nor the cabal will ever see.

"In the event of detainment or incapacitation, control of all secured assets will be transferred to Dembe Zuma, Luli Zeng, and Elizabeth Keen."

Luli's inclusion is beyond necessary. She's pragmatic, precise, and good at laundering what shouldn't exist.

And below the words, "Priorities Alpha: relocation and protection of subject A"

Anna.

No last name. No identifiers, no description. No traceable data.

The people closest to me will take care of her. Priority alpha.

Luli's Brow furrows, but she knows better than to ask. No one really asks about Anna. They all know the look I get when her name is mentioned. That small flicker of something too human for a man as dangerous as me to entertain.

I think of her asleep far away from here, thin and pale under the covers. I’m sure by now Maria tucked her under. It’s late in Poland and she's six hours ahead. She doesn't remember everything, perhaps a mercy.

I suppose that's what gives me hope; her not being able to remember the terrors she was once burdened with.

"Dembe," I say, sliding the page across the table, "This goes to the Paris vault. No one touches it unless I vanish or the bureau puts me in chains. Make sure they're taken care of. Whatever she needs. Money, protection, anything, it doesn't matter. I need her taken care of."

He nods once, "And if she asks where you are?"

"Tell her the truth," I reply, fixing my tie, "Tell her I'm where I always end up in: the lion's den."
If Anna were the Anna I knew a year ago, she'd understand. Maybe laugh, help me plan, share a few drinks with me before now.

But everything's different now without her here. I might've waited another year or so before inserting myself into Agent Keen's life.

The FBI will believe that they're the ones catching me. But in reality, I'll be the one setting the table.

One fleeting second, I consider turning back, getting on my private jet for one more look at her, one more moment to reassure her everything will be okay. But that would be selfish.

She deserves distance. Protection. Silence. A sin-eater.

If the Basilisk resurfaces, Anna becomes the first target.

And if Berlin resurfaces, Elizabeth Keen becomes the proof I still care.

Either way, she dies if I miscalculate.

There is no room for error.

I put my hat on and step out into the cold morning air. And so it begins.

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There's a particular stillness in the air that comes before a storm. In my line of work, silence is never peace. It's just a deep breath, preparing for something impending. And I am the thing that is to come. I sit on a bench in wait for Mr. Philips. He sets the briefcase beside me, "Must be good to be home again, sir."

Without facing him, I reply, "Yeah," I let out a deep breath, "Well, we'll see about that". I grab the briefcase containing a list of all my aliases and walk through the doors of the the washington d.c fbi headquarters.

I march right up to the woman behind the booth, "Good afternoon. I'm here to see assistant director Harold Cooper."

“Do you have an appointment?" the officer asks in a stern voice.

"I do not," But I'm confident they're gonna want to speak to me, after all I'm fourth on the FBI’s most wanted list, "Tell him it's Raymond Reddington". And I turn away preparing for the storm.

Within seconds, agents flood the lobby and panic unspool. I can't help but smile.

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I'm confined to a box. My hands and feet are bound.

They think I've surrendered.

They don't realize I'm simply repositioning.

The FBI is a mere tool to me and I've handed them the illusion of control.

They'll search my name, my history, the ruins I've caused in my wake.

They'll find everything, but only what I want them to find.

What they won't find is the real reason I am here.

Berlin.

The basilisk.

If they reappear, it changes everything.

If they find the only 2 things still worth meaning to me before I can control the board…

I can't afford that.

"I think I smell the stench of your cologne, Agent Cooper- smells like hubris” My words acidic. “Remember the series of attacks on the US embassy in Damascus in 86, The six foreign nationals from the French consulate in Algiers in 1979, or maybe the breach of the Krung Thai Bank in Bangkok? These events may seem unrelated to the eyes of a fool, but I can tell you one man is responsible for all three. His name is Ranko Zamani. You want him. I want him."

"That man has been dead for six whole years. hes a non-existent threat." Typical lackluster agents are always falling short of creativity. If you want to catch a criminal you have to think like a criminal .

"Then a dead man just stepped off United 283 from Munich to Dulles." I can't help but have a smug look on my face. I'm fully confident I have their attention now. I continue, "I gave you Zamani, but from this point forward, there's one very important rule: I speak only with Elizabeth Keen." I have no doubt this will be an unforgettable first day.

ᯓ ✈︎

Chapter Text

ᯓ ✈︎

I can’t seem to stop shaking. Despite pretending to be strong I crumbled, into a million different pieces. Pantos the man from my dream - no flash back. He hurt me. All of a sudden the emotions inside me begin to take over like wine spilling over a flute. What happened to me? What did I do to deserve this? I feel faint. I try to take deep breaths but nothing seems to help. I was tortured but why. What am I?! I cross my arms over my chest feeling vulnerable and sick with myself. Why me…?

“Ms. Anna?” Maria says, turning around to look at me seemingly worried. I can’t speak, I can't breathe, I can’t move. Hell, I can't remember who I am. One look at my face and she's rushing to my side.

“Sit down please. I'll be right back.” Maria says, leading me to the wooden stool. The wood is cold on my behind. I simply sit there with my arms covering my breasts. I am bare, my body covered in scars. I begin to feel thankful for the lack of mirrors in this place. Disgusting. Ruined. Mutilated.

Maria returns with a jar of dried herbs and a balled up cloth.

“What is that?” I ask, full of worry.

"Owsianka; It should help with all of the scarring. Less inflammation.”

“Owsianka?”

“Polish for Oatmeal” Her response makes me think. Her accent, the villages, and the brooch she’s wearing. It's a corn poppy flower. Poland’s flower.

“Are we in Poland?” I ask. My voice is stern, masking my fear.

How far from home am I?

Where exactly is home?

Maria looks away scared. But not of me. Him.

“He told you not to say anything,” I should've known he’d create a barrier between the women I spend my days with.

“I can not say,” she looks away from me. Despite me sitting, were at the same height.

I nod. I try to understand her loyalty towards the man in the hat. That criminal. I try to let it go but I simply can't wrap my head around it.

Maria takes my hands and helps me into the bath. I should feel embarrassed and ashamed of my bare body but I am not focused on those feelings. I'm focused on how disgusted I am with myself. All I want is to be clean. I want to be clean. I want answers.

Maria looks at me with tenderness. Was it an act? The stern and grumpy demeanor. And that’s when it all makes sense. That’s when I know. Maria knew me. Maybe she knows what happened to me.

“What happened to me?” I cry, tears streaming down my face and into the warm water. I bite my lip trying to keep myself composed.

Maria turns away grabbing soap from the shelf behind her, “Something bad” she says creating bubbles to give me a bit more privacy I suspect.

“Maria.” my voice is filled with the rage of my sadness. It’s everywhere in my blood, pumping through my heart to my brain. Controlling me.

“I can’t.” she says almost as if she’s begging me not to press. I know it’s bad. I can see that just by the look in her eyes and the scars riddling my torso. ‘P A N T O S’ written in jagged letters.

I stare her dead in the eyes, “You can. But you won’t. Because of that man.”

Silence fills the air around us.

“If I tell you,” her voice cracks, “There is no chance for you to live a semi-normal life. Please you don't know what you’re asking me to do.”

Whoever this woman is, she loved me. But I am not who she loved. I am a mere shell of the women who existed before me. I am riddled with scars, damaged forever. I am overwhelmed with indescribable feelings. I am a battered woman searching for answers.

The atmosphere thickens. I wipe my tears and stare into her eyes, “Get out.”

Maria protests, “But-” I cut her off.

“You can’t help me.” My voice turns cold.

“Anna, please” If she really cared about the old me, she wouldn’t be hiding the truth from me. After all it is my life no matter if I remember it or not.

“I am a grown woman. I can take a damn bath by myself.”

Maria stands beside me pulling on her fingers anxiously before finally leaving me alone. No longer holding back I begin to sob. All the tension being released like a rubber band. I didn't want to do that. I didn't want to choose being alone over having someone by my side, especially someone who knew me. The old me.

I trace my scars with my fingers. ‘semi-normal life’. The words echo like a sort of curse. There’s nothing about this entire ordeal that is deemed normal. I woke up in a not hospital, hospital bed. Then I woke up on a private jet. Where I arrive at no other than Poland of all places. And the men that practically kidnapped me have left and put me in the hands of a woman who I believed hated me and now apparently wants the best for me…

Regardless of whether I’m sad I still have to be strong. Feelings make you weak. Both emotionally and physically. My hand drifts down to my abdomen. It’s tender, probably the most painful part of my body. I often find myself comparing it to waking up with a tattoo after a night of drinking. Unfortunately I don’t know how many nights have passed. More than enough for my body to heal a significant amount.

I run water up my shoulders, rinsing the soap suds off my skin. It hurts to raise my arms and it's quite difficult. I have to admit it'd be a lot easier with Maria’s help. But not today. I need to make a point.

ᯓ ✈︎

I dry myself off and head back to my room. On the nightstand sits a note and a steaming mug.
​
“I made you your favorite. Lemon tea. I can at least do this. M”
​
I try to remind myself that she’s good. She’s not a criminal. She wants the best for me. However, it's not enough for me to go and say thank you. I search around the room looking for just the book, having already completed ‘The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde.’ I suppose in some ways I can relate to the logical thinking of Dr Jekyll. Every minute I stay here, I rack my brain over what I can and can’t do. I can stay here and try and get as much information rather than running off like I want to. But I also sense something far worse than the man Reddington is waiting for me out there. Pantos.
​
Within a few minutes, I gave up searching. I’m not sure how good the tea would be after it loses its warmth. I turn the overhead light out and turn on the lamp on my nightstand instead.
​
When I go through everything that’s happened to me so far, I fixate on my feelings of loneliness. I’m alone in the sense that no one else has forgotten their memory. Only I am suffering. There is no one who relates to my pain.
​
I stare out my window into the darkness. From the small and I mean small amount of Poland I've seen, I have to say it's pretty neat. I raise the mug to my lips and blow before taking a sip. And when do I feel here?

 

ᯓ ✈︎

Chapter Text

Reddington, Raymond

ᯓ ✈︎ 
They leave me alone again.

Outside the glass, the murmur of agents rumbles through the corridor. I can only assume that they transferred me to a black site: whispers, clicks of radios, the steady hum drones on and on in my ears. 

I close my eyes. 

For a moment, I see her. Anna. Sitting at the edge of her bed, tracing the scars on her arm. A reminder. A warning. For me. 

I once told her that some truths destroy you. I wasn’t lying. 

Pantos’s organization was never a simple network of criminals. It was a serpent. Patient, ancient. Cut it anywhere other than the head, and it will simply regrow. Anna understood that better than anyone. She and I were supposed to dismantle it together. 

He got to her before I could free her from his belly. Ripped her out of my life piece by piece without knowing it. Anna was one of the smartest women I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. So when it came to plotting behind his back, she was pretty damn good at it until-

I open my eyes, hearing the sound of heels hitting metal stairs.

clank, clank, clank

Agent Elizabeth Keen. 

The resemblance isn’t totally physical; it’s something deeper. The energy. The curiosity. That unfilled drive. The way she straightens her shoulders and twists the ring on her fingers tells me she's only pretending not to be afraid. Just like my sister. 

My breath hitches seeing her “Agent keen,” I say, offering a faint smile. “What a pleasure.”
 
“Well, I’m here.” She says dryly. 

“You got rid of your highlights, I must say you look less Baltimore.” I've been watching her. Or rather, I had Tom Keen watching her. But that was before things went south.

“Do you get back home much?” I inquire. Lizzy is far from Nebraska now. I wonder if she even saw herself being here ten years ago. 

She blinks, taken aback, and avoids my question. “Tell me about Zamani.” 

I do the same, ignoring her. “I haven’t been home in years,” A result of my own actions and because of Anna. She was my home. Wherever she was, I was.
                                                  
“Why me?” she asks, tone clipped. “I’m nobody. It's my first day. Nothing special about me.” 

She's far off. She’s the only family I have left. I smirk, “Oh, I think you're very special.” I don’t expect her to reply. I threw her off. I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth softly,

“Within the next hour, Ranko Zamani will abduct the U.S. General Daniel Ryker’s daughter. This will be well planned, and he will grab the girl. That’s all I know.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?” 

Two minutes with her and she's already cracking me up. I’m proud of her. “No, of course not. I’m a criminal. Criminals are notorious liars. Everything about me is a lie.” I pause, “But if anyone can give me a second chance, it's you.” One day, she will understand my connection to her, just not today. Not anytime soon. “The two of us have overcome so much. I mean, look at you. Abandoned by a father who was a career criminal… A mother who died of weakness and shame.” I don’t like speaking of my sister this way, but it's the truth. The man she married only endangered her and Masha. And because of me, there will always be a target on her back. If only I had killed him sooner. Instead, I had to cover up his death. It was the only way after that night of the fire. Masha had shot him. And Katarina… She begged me to save her little girl. Because of me, Lizzy has no one. It’s my duty to ensure her happiness. 

“I’m gonna make you famous, Lizzy.”

And with that, she storms back up the stairs into what I can only assume is a control room. 

The bureau thinks I’m here to trade names, to buy my immunity with the betrayal of the most powerful and ruthless criminals. But this is me preparing. 

Pantos is still out there. The serpent's head never died. His network has evolved, coiled itself tighter around the underground organization of sex trafficking. And this time, I won’t let anyone suffer like Anna did. 

Elizabeth Keen doesn’t realize it yet, but she’s already part of this. Part of everything. A variable in a very delicate equation. 

If I’m right, she’ll be able to continue putting criminals away. 
If I’m wrong… She’ll be another casualty. 

And I can't bear another. 

Anna might physically be alive. But she is merely a shell of the woman I once knew and adored. 

Anna was taken from me before I could save her. 

I won’t let it happen again. 

ᯓ ✈︎ 

Lizzy returns, “Where's the girl? Your people haven't made any demands, and the clock is ticking.” 

I tilt my head, “My people? All I told you was that Zamani would take the girl. I told you that’s all I knew. No need to point fingers, after all, we're on the same team.”

“I need your help with Zamani.” Her forehead is scabbed; I assume Zamani’s men ambushed the team. Typical Zamani, always having others do his dirty work. 

“How about a trade? Tell me about the scar on your palm.” 

“There was a fire. I was 14.” Lie. She’s trying to hide her vulnerability. 
I push to see what she’ll tell me and what she will lie about. “Someone tried to hurt you?” 

She sits down next to me. “Not exactly, no.” She’s referring to Katarina. The poor girl killed her own father trying to save her mother.  

“May I see it?” I ask, knowing she will do what she can to find that little girl. I look down, noticing the burn on her hand, but also the colorful bracelet that decorates her wrist, no doubt from the General's daughter. It makes me think about Tom. Or rather, Jacob. The hire who turned and fell in love with his assignment. “Is a child really what you want?” 

“How on earth–?" I cut her off. I know everything about the ins and outs and workings of her life. I know her favorite food, I know her birthday traditions, and I know which high school she went to. And I know that after she finds out the truth, it will ruin her.

“A baby won’t fix what happened in the past." I know this better than anyone else. It's the reason my first wife and I split up. 

“You lost the right to speak about parenthood when you abandoned your wife and daughter on Christmas Eve.” Ah yes. How could I forget that awful day? The day I abandoned my family and decided it was time to step up, to intervene. One of the men whom I had turned reached out to me, saying that there was a situation and to come quickly. And so I did just that. I had no doubt it was serious. And I don’t regret leaving them; they were better off without me. 

“You need to approach this case differently, and start thinking more like a criminal, less like a bureaucrat. Shall I show you?” 

I'm led to a large room with around twenty computers, two large screens, and several glass boards. Here, Elizabeth walks me through the FBI’s very predictable thought process. “You're thinking like a cop. Again. Cops are so objective. They're obligated to protocols. Make it personal.” 

“Zamni’s sick. The CIA says he carries the Nipah virus.” Of course, it's a zoonotic virus. Watching Elizabeth think and put all the pieces together reminds me of Katarina. The way she always knew I was the one stealing her stuff. Eating the rest of her favorite snacks.

“Dying makes him dangerous.” Her words are intense.

She’s so close. “So, what does he desperately want before he dies? And how does that relate to the little girl?”

She looks around the board searching for clues, answers, anything. Elizabeth looks up and pauses. This gets my attention. When I see what she's looking at, it all comes together. 

“Her father, the general, spent time in Bosnia.”

“Zamani’s home”

“He bombed a chemical weapons facility…” she pauses, impacted by the realisation of this criminal's plans, “poisoning the village. It's about his family. He wants revenge.” Me and Zamani have two things in common now. “He’s gonna use Beth to settle the score and deliver the bomb,” Elizabeth says, defeated. 

“Okay, let’s move, we're on a clock,” shouts Harold Cooper

I step forward, closer to Lizzy, “I have an acquaintance. They call him the Innkeeper, who runs a series of safe houses. Lean on him. He’ll know where to find The Chemist. You find The Chemist… You’ll find Zamani.” Hook. 

“Where is this Innkeeper?” 

“If I tell you, you have to give me something in return. No more restraints, no more cages. If you wanna capture Zamani, he has to believe I’m moving freely. In touch with old friends, staying in one of my favorite hotels.” 

I turn to find no one other than Assistant Director Harold Cooper encroaching in on me. “If you think for a second we're gonna put you up at the Sheraton…”
I laugh at his foolishness, “Save your Starwood points, Harold. The Sheraton’s not my scene.”

ᯓ ✈︎ 

The hotel is quaint and unnecessarily expensive. An easy choice for the bureau to make, my short freedom for the lives of many. Donald shadows me from a not-so-polite distance. Posture too straight, hand never far from his weapon, stick up his rear end. A man who confused discipline for control.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Reddington, the housekeeper says with a stiff smile as he rolls in the champagne on a silver cart. Complimentary, of course. 

I pat Donald on the shoulder, “Don’t be rude, give the man his tip.” 

ᯓ ✈︎  

I sit down at the large dark wooden dinner table, at the very end, knife in hand, slicing into a New York strip cooked medium rare paired with a bottle of red wine. Bordeaux, 2011, to be specific. Not quite as rich as the ones Anna always preferred, but close enough. 

Near the window sits a lamp, and on top of the finial sits a small surveillance camera. I raise my glass toward it with a half smile. I almost laugh. So predictable. “Ain’t that a kick in the head?” Dean Martin croons from the record player. My own special vinyl is kept here just for me. The Bureau thinks I'm under lock and key; perhaps I am. But even cages can be redesigned with taste as great as mine. 

ᯓ ✈︎  

I settle into my crossword puzzle, pen scratching the paper as I hum “We’ll Meet Again” by Vera Lynn. Anna always said she loved listening to this song. I would play it for her if I weren’t scared of her memories destroying her. 

Seven down: Deception 

The door to the room slams open. And in comes no other than Elizabeth Keen. 

“Are you the one who did this?!”

“Did what?” My voice is calm. 

“He was in my house. My husband is on a vent because of Zamani. The man you–” 

I cut her off; I have no care for what I did. He betrayed me. He must suffer the consequences. “Calm down and tell me what happened.” This anger she is filled with, it's familiar. It’s me. It courses through our blood.

“Don’t play stupid, you're the only thing connecting us. You're the one who handed Zamani over, you're the one who told him about me. He said you're obsessed with me.”

I can only stare. He'll be dead soon anyway.

“Did he mention the girl or the bomb?” We need to focus on the little girl. I happen to know a thing or two about saving them. 

“We are not a team? Do you hear me!?” Her mind is moving too fast, too angrily to save this girl. The only thing I can do is try to redirect her. 

“Zamani.”

My attempt fails, “I’m not your partner.”

I hardly care about what she has to say to me, “What did he say?”

She's out of breath on the verge of tears, “I don’t know; something about the life of one vs the life of many, chemical agents, casualties… and he talked about you. He even thanked me for getting rid of The Chemist.”

This is not Agent Keen anymore. This is Katarina Rostova's four-year-old daughter, Masha Rostova. Filled with rage and fear. A dangerous concoction. 

“So he has the bomb.”

The lamp closest to her is her victim of choice, “Why the hell was he in my house? Tell me!” Her voice begins to break, “Why is my husband dying in a hospital bed right now?”

“The truth is, despite your feelings, despite what you think you know about love. Your husband, Tom Keen. Does not matter.” My words drip with malice. “Zamani did you a favor, Lizzy”. 

I quickly regret my words, because the next thing I know. There's a pen in my neck, and Elizabeth Keen is crouched beside me. 

“Now, you know I just punched a hole in your carotid. Best chance is one minute before you pass out. So here's how it's gonna work," she says through gritted teeth, voice low. "You're gonna tell me about Zamani and make this right, or I'll let you die. Right here. Do you understand me?"
My mouth tastes of iron. I smile, slowly. "Yes. But if I die, you'll never find out the truth about your husband."

Her jaw tightens. It's not just a bluff. If she doesn't trust what I know. She'll just have to discover it for herself. She presses the pen a fraction harder. Stars fill my vision. I remain quiet. Frustrated, she rips the pen from my neck, storming out of the room. Agents file in, chaos spilling, hands orders, and an awful bright light.

ᯓ ✈︎  

They patch me up fast. I spend the night at the Walter Reed; not the glamorous rehabilitation I would've arranged for myself, but competent hands and a room with disinfectant sure does the job. All I have to do is wait on Mr. Philips. My right-hand man, to help me escape and reconvene with an old friend. Zamani. He did me a favor. I'm doing him one. At least that's what he thinks is happening.

A man dressed in scrubs enters the room, "Ahh, just in time". Being on the third floor sure has its perks. I link the ropes together, securing the prusik knots, and rappel down.

I walk for some time before reaching my destination. I'm well aware I'm being tracked, but I'm not worried. I'm going to lead them right to Zamani. Zamani. The ghost they all thought was buried under a pile of rubble in Belgrade. I knew better. Men like him don't die quietly. They resurface, scared, bitter and seeking revenge. I respect the man. When I reached out to him, he didn't as why. He never does. Ranko always needed someone to tell him what to hate, here to point his rage. We meet near the water, his gait heavy with the weight of vengeance. He smelled of smoke and metal. A man long past redemption. We walk together, side by side, as if old comrades.

"It's a shame you'll miss the cherry blossoms."

"I fear many will miss the cherry blossoms," he plans.

We walk in silence for a good bit before Zamani confides in me. "I am giving their plague back to them. In 60 years, they will be talking about this day. My legacy".

Whatever this man has accomplished crime-wise will not hold a candle to what today holds. And if Lizzy is near it. I can't let it happen. Sirens blare in the distant air. But I'm long gone.

I call Elizabeth and inform her of my findings, "Zamani wants more than just the general's daughter. He's after children." And in my line of business, it is unacceptable.

"Where are you?"

"I need you to tell me what he said in the house. What did he say? What did you see?"

"Blood there was blood everywhere."

"Take a deep breath, Lizzy."

She pauses, "There was a tattoo."

I shake my head even though I know she can't see me. "He's Serbian Orthodox. He wouldn't have a tattoo."

"This mark, I've seen it before." The silence is deafening. "It wasn't a tattoo. It was a stamp. Zamani's gonna bomb the D.C. Zoo."

I hang up the phone and call my Ukrainian man. He will know what to do.

I call Elizabeth back, "Whatever you do, don't touch it." I will not let anything happen to her this time.

"There's less than three minutes on that bomb. I've got to evacuate, call the bomb squad-"

"Your people will never be there on time. My friend is on his way."

"Your friend, what friend?" I hang up the phone. Now is not the time for questions. I need to get to Lizzy.

Outside, the city of Washington, D.C, is bustling. One of my men pulls up in a black sedan, window half down. I slide in, shutting the door behind me. "You're late," I say simply. He doesn't respond; he knows better. The car surges forward, weaving through traffic. We're racing against the clock.

When he drops me off, I step out before the vehicle even stops fully. The faint squeal of children's laughter carries over the hum of cars. The FBI's bomb squad can't be far, I'm sure. I hand the woman at the ticket gate a thick roll of cash and walk straight through the barrier.

Inside, the scene appears absurdly normal. I scan the zoo. Children with their parents are enjoying a seemingly normal day. Some kids have face paint, balloons, and toys from the nearby gift shops. For a fleeting second, it feels peaceful. Then I see her.

Elizabeth.

She's shouting at the man who just saved the little girl, Beth's life.

I make it to where Lizzy stands, "Just consider the device a payment for his services." I tell her, eyes fixed on the man running away.

Her head snaps toward me. "That is a chemical weapon!"

I shrug faintly, voice calm as if we were discussing the weather. "He's fascinated by those things; he surely has more use for them than we do."

The sounds of sirens, brakes screeching, and radios merge together. The FBI, police, SWAT, and the bomb squad are flooding the zoo. Accompanying them is General Ryker.

A cry cuts through everything, "Daddy!" the little girl, Beth, screams and runs down the hill and into his arms.

I think back to the night of the fire. The smoke, the crackling, the smell of burning flesh. To the night, I carried a child from that burning house and left her with Sam. The only man I could trust. The only one who could give her a life untouched by mine.

I wanted to stay. I did. But I knew better. My world would've consumed her just as it did to everyone else I've ever cared for.

"Red vest, grey sweatshirt, he's got the bomb!" Agent Keen shouts out his description, pulling me back to the present.

They won't catch him. I made sure of it.

I exhale slowly, crossing my hands behind my head and interlinking my fingers. No other than Donald Ressler puts me in cuffs.

I can't help but smile at Lizzy. "We're gonna make a great team," I tell her.

ᯓ ✈︎ 

Assistant Director Harold Cooper and Donald Ressler sit in front of me.

"Who is the Ukrainian?" Harold demands.

I shake my head, swiveling back and forth in my chair, "I'm not gonna tell you."

"You gave him a chemical weapon." Harold barks.

I tilt my head. Gave him, it would be a bit of a stretch. "He took it. That's the price of doing business, Harold... with certain people who can get certain things done. You and I both know that. You, however, never look at the bigger picture." I pause, "The bomb didn't detonate, the girl is safe, Zamani's dead. Frankly, I think this all went down rather swimmingly."

Donald's aggravating words travel through the air. "This was never about Zamani." He says, pointing his finger at me. "You surrendered and infiltrated the FBI to get at our intelligence."

"Your intelligence?" I sure hope he doesn't think I came all the way to D.C on my private jet just to see how smart he is.

"To get that weapon."

I laugh, "I certainly don't want your intelligence, Ressler. I'm quite happy with my own."

"I think we're finished," Harold says, standing up.

"Well, this was fun. Let's do it again." They ignore me. I need something to catch their attention. "Understand that Zamani was only the first."

"The first?" Cooper asks collected

"Name. On the list," I say with my hands clasped together.

"What list?" he says, sitting back down.

"Let's call it the blacklist. That sounds exciting. That's why we're all here, of course." I say with a wave of my hands, "My wish list. A list I've been cultivating for over twenty years." I pause, "Politicians, Mobsters, Hackers... Spies."

"We have our own list." Ressler retorts.

I turn towards the uptight man, "Ressler, please. We know your top ten is a little more than a publicity campaign. It's a popularity contest at best." I pause, looking back at Harold. "I'm talking about the criminals who matter. The ones you can't find because you don't even know they exist." I shake my head, "Zamani was a small fish. I'm Ahab. And if you want the whales on my list, you have to play by my rules. I never sleep in the same location for more than two nights in a row. I want a fully encrypted, 8 millimeter tag embedded in my neck, not that garbage..." I say, referencing the alpha chip I planted in Zamani's pill bottle. " I want my own security. Whatever I tell you falls under an immunity agreement that I negotiate myself. And finally, most importantly... I speak only to Elizabeth Keen.

ᯓ ✈︎ 

Chapter Text

ᯓ ✈︎

Morning arrives, and the light shining in from the window blinds me. Outside, the lake water glimmers under a thick veil of fog. It is beautiful. I sit up in bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. I'm disoriented by how well I slept. The first night was rough, and so was the morning. But I don't remember the last time I slept that well. For a moment, I almost convinced myself that everything that happened was a dream- that is, until the ache in my abdomen reminded me it wasn't. It was real.

Part of me wants to go back to sleep, to forget what I'm trying to remember. It's just easier that way. But another part of me wants answers and to find out who I am. Or rather, who I am. Or rather, who I was, And what I did to deserve these ghastly markings.

I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. Maria appears to be gone, but I'm sure she is somewhere nearby. I mean, it is her job after all to watch me. I make myself some toast and smear some jam on it, then run back up to my room. I dress slowly, the discomfort in my shoulder blades limiting my movements. The sweater I found folded at the end of the bed hangs loosely on me, sleeves swallowing my hands. It smells faintly of vanilla, and if I had to guess, tobacco. His scent. It unsettles me more than I'd like to admit.

I step outside, and the cold air hits me square in the face. The mist curls around the surface of the lake. For a while, I just stand there, watching the water move slowly with the wind's guidance. A narrow stone path leads me toward the dock, rotting, uneven, and forgotten.

I follow the path down to the dock. I take it slow, my legs aching, grounding me. For a while, I just sit on the edge, my legs pulled to my chest.

My mind drifts to Maria- to her loyalty to the man in the hat. Is he threatening her? Her eyes present feelings of great sadness. And even if I can't remember who I am at the moment, I'm still hopeful for the day that it all comes flooding back to me.

I dip my fingers into the lake. "Cold" would be an understatement; the water is freezing. Chills travel up my arm, a reminder that I'm still here. I'm still trying.

The property stretches wide around the lake, ringed with all kinds of different trees from the pine family. I'm assuming this is one of the most private places I could be. But from whom, I can only imagine - Pantos. The man from my flashback. The name carved into my abdomen.

When I finally head back, the fog has started to lift. I head up the slope, following the gravel path back to the house. My shoes drag against the stones, echoing louder than they should. The door creaks when I open it, and I am met with the same silence of before. Either Maria is giving me space or avoiding me entirely.

The air inside is warm from the fire and has a touch of cinnamon. I make my way up the stairs and down the hall, my fingers brushing the walls as I go.

Then I notice the open door.

I don't think Reddington, a man as smart as he is, would leave a door open like this. Maybe Maria was cleaning. I look at all the other doors lining the hall.

Every other door is closed. Besides this one. It's barely ajar, just enough for a line of sunlight to creep from the crack and spill into the hallway.

Reddington's room.

My pulse quickens. For a moment, I hesitate. It feels wrong to step inside. Almost as if I'm crossing over an invisible boundary. But my longing for answers outweighs the guilt.

I step inside. The scent hits first. Tobacco, sandalwood, and vanilla. Him. I keep smelling him. I keep relaxing around him. The bed is made perfectly, the pillows fluffed. To the right sits a dark wooden desk. Papers are neatly stacked, and a fountain pen sits beside them. A few classical books are arranged in the corner of the desk. The way he speaks, his level of intelligence already told me of his talent for comprehension. It isn't bold to assume he has a knack for reading as well.

And then I see it.

The painting.

It hangs above the desk, peculiar and intriguing.

A man and a woman at a bar. He's dressed in a dark suit and fedora, posture relaxed but watchful, one hand resting on his drink and holding a cigar between his lips. His attention is fixed on her. The woman wears a black dress, elegant but simple. With a martini raised in one hand. The room behind them is lit by warm shades of red and gold. She's turned just slightly, as if caught between staying and leaving. Intimate, quiet, dangerous.

I step closer. The woman's expression catches my attention as well as her hair. The painting has me pinned in place, as if my feet are tied down by heavy cinderblocks.

The curve of her shoulder, the cut of her hair...

It's me.

Or at least it was once upon a time.

The brush work is beautiful, I have to admit. A memory preserved in oil.

Someone wanted this moment captured forever.

A slip of paper is wedged behind the frame. I pull it out carefully, hands trembling.

"To my favorite criminal. Love R.R"

My heart is pounding. The room feels as if it is shrinking in size. I take a seat in the armchair

near the window.

I am the woman in the painting.

I am the recipient of the gift.

I am Raymond Reddington's favorite criminal.

I'm still frozen in the chair by the time dusk falls.

I tell myself to leave the room.

But I don't.

Instead, I sit there, staring at the frozen people in the photo. Wondering if I am looking at someone else's, past, or rather, my own.

ᯓ ✈︎

Chapter Text

Reddington, Raymond

ᯓ ✈︎

My clothes are delivered to my holding cell. A button-up shirt with white and blue stripes, a three-piece suit, and a pair of brown leather shoes polished to perfection. Thoughtful, I suppose. Presentation, after all, is half the illusion.

When the guards arrive, they waste no time. Shackles bite into my wrists and ankles. The chains rattling with each step I take. Transported from boat to helicopter I arrive at the black site. I am heavily guarded by men with AR-15s, SWAT personnel, I assume. Eye's trained, fingers to the side of the trigger.

They led me into an interrogation room already prepared and occupied by a polygrapher and his equipment. A polygraph machine waits on the steel table, its sensors and wires coiled neatly like a nest of serpents. One strap is placed over the front of my chest, and the other, lower on my abdomen. A blood pressure cuff tightens around my arm, and a small sensor clamps onto my finger. The man doesn't speak much, strictly getting to work. I'm sure they told him I might try to manipulate him. Always. The hum of the fluorescent lights above us seems to grow louder with every second.

I'm sure Elizabeth is sitting in a room just like me. With wires attached to her all over, tracing her pulse. The Bureau prodding her mind like a specimen under glass.

"Shall we begin?" I say, my voice cutting through the silence.

The man blinks, momentarily caught off guard.

"Have you ever been convicted of a crime?" he asks finally. His voice thin but steady.

"Convicted?" I tilt my head, studying him, "No, not yet."

He clears his throat. "Please answer yes or no," He repeats himself, "Have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

"You're wasting valuable time," I reply evenly. Calm. Almost bored.

He shifts in his chair, his jaw tightening. He moves on, "Does Elizabeth Keen know why you surrendered yourself?"

"No."

He watches the line graph twitch across his monitor. He doesn't realize how meaningless it is. Lies, Truth, Fear. The machine measures nerves, not honesty.

He nods, "Before Monday of last week, did you have or have you ever had personal contact with Elizabeth Keen?"

"No."

He scribbles something down, pretending confidence.

"Are you involved with Elizabeth Keen's husband, Tom Keen, in any manner?"

"You're asking the wrong questions." I deadpan.

People are going to die. Many of them.

He looks up, startled.

"I'm trying to help you with a matter of urgency. It's your choice whether you listen or not, but there will be an incident at 11 O'clock this morning at the Decatur Industrial Park."

I glance toward the mirrored glass, my voice dropping almost to a whisper, "I'd send ambulances."

Silence. The polygrapher's hand freezes over the clipboard. Behind the glass, someone is moving. Ressler, no doubt, is already springing into action. How righteous of him. D.C.'s very own superhero. He's an 'underdog' at best. A bureaucrat with a badge and a chip on his shoulder.

My reflection shines faintly into the glass. For the fleeting moment, I see her. Anna. She used to say that secrets rot in silence. She wasn't wrong.

And yet here I sit wrapped in them.

Secrets from Elizabeth. From the Bureau. From Anna herself.

ᯓ ✈︎

They've moved me back to my box. It's been over 2 hours since I informed them of the attack. I can feel the tension building behind the walls.

The intercom crackles. Harold Cooper's voice breaks through. "Sixty people are dead because of you".

"Sixty people are dead because you don't return my calls, Harold. If you wanna save lives and catch the bad guys, pay attention". I say, looking up at the surveillance camera, well aware of my audience.

His voice hardens. "They're not going to make your deal."

"That's unfortunate," I say, trying to adjust my cuffs. "The next name on my list is an absolute treasure."

"The train, how did you know?"

"I know lots of things. But the train I didn't. I knew the time, the place..." I shake my head slowly. "But the train was a big surprise."

Harold Cooper's voice flows through the speaker again. "We've ruled out terrorism."

"Look at the list of casualties, Harold. You'll find some councilwoman from Albany. Apparently, she's been tangling with some rather cunning, powerful people."

"The derailment was an assassination?"

"I'm not saying anything," I reply, leaning forward with a smirk, "unless it's to Elizabeth Keen."

I look directly at the camera, letting the silence stretch. They'll give in. They always do.

ᯓ ✈︎

Alarms blare through the empty corridor. The locks disengage with a metallic hiss, and the door to my enclosure slides open.

And there she is. Elizabeth. Masha. Lizzy.

She walks toward me. Her posture stiff. Jaw set. Her nervous energy masked by protocol. She reminds me so much of Katarina, it's almost disorienting. The same determined eyes, the same need to understand what can not be explained.

"Tell me about the train wreck," she demands.

I laugh softly. "If you had any idea how far I've traveled to see you again, Lizzy..."

Her chin lifts. "My name's Liz, not Lizzy. To you, I'm Agent Keen. Now, I've heard your demands. I don't think you've heard mine, so let me tell you how this is going to work. I ask the questions. You answer them. Screw with me, and I walk."

I study her, savoring the fire in her voice. It's all Katarina. Her drive. Her sixth sense for the unknown.

If only she knew how deep the connections run.

"Understood?"

However, when it came to Katarina me and Katarina's fights. I was always ten steps ahead.

"How is Tom?"

"They're never gonna give you immunity." She fires back. "Not a chance"

"Oh, I think they will. Otherwise, what am I doing here? I'm perfectly happy to go back to the boat."

"Tell me about the train wreck." She presses on.

"What would you like to know?"

"Everything."

I roll my eyes. "The train accident was no accident. You know that. But what you don't know is that the man behind it is quite prolific." I lean forward. "He's responsible for a slew of other premeditated killings. Just like this one... disguised as accidents." I spew information out like a fire hydrant flushing out water. "Shall I go on?" I glance down at my cuffs and back up at Elizabeth. They bring me to their 'collaborative hub' of sorts, "A building collapses in Moscow, Russia. A ferry capsizes on the Brahmaputra River. These are the events we expect to come on the evening news, but in truth, there's always more to the story." Just like my story. Me being here. Working with Liz and the FBI. There's always more to the story. There are always layers. "Hidden between facts and the figures, the victims and heroes..." I trail off. "There's always a murder." I look around the room, glancing at Elizabeth and the entire floor.

Her face tightens, processing.

"The work of a man who disguises killings in the headlines of everyday tragedies."

"What proof do you have?" Cooper asks from across the room, stepping closer.

"His work is difficult to detect, but the victims are there," I say, gesturing with my hands. "An appellate court judge in Ohio. A French diplomat who died in a plane crash. Look closer and the pattern will emerge. Over the last seven years, more than 3000 innocent civilians have died. All of them are collateral victims as a result of this man's unique methods. In the 20-odd years I've been working my sides of the tracks, I have not encountered another contractor who's had a significant impact on the civilian population as he. He's rivaled only by governments and terrorist organizations."

Cooper's eyes narrow.

"And yet," I continue, "you've never heard of him." I pause for effect. "I have it on good authority that his next contract will take him to New York. This is not an opportunity to ponder or deliberate, Harold. Because once he's done, he's gone."

"This guy have a name?" Cooper quips

I clear my throat, "They call him the Freelancer."

Ressler crosses his arms. "And how do we find him?

"You don't find him. I do."

With his hands on his hips and the stick in his rear end, Donald scoffs, "What, you two pen pals? You guys send each other coded e-mails?"

He's been chasing me for seven years and never caught my shadow.

The irony makes me laugh.

"I don't have email address, or phone, or an address." I stare blankly at him. "I prefer to handle my business face to face."

"You've met him," Elizabeth speaks up.

"Once," I admit. "I brokered a few jobs. He works through an intermediary. He might be for sale. Perhaps I should set a meeting."

"Maybe you should," Elizabeth says, glancing around the room.

I smile. "You should come."

She doesn't realize it yet, but this is where our story begins.

I step toward Elizabeth, "Just the two of us. No wires. No clumsy agents in the bushes." I say referencing no other than Agent Ressler. Back when I sent him on a wild goose chase to California. Ahh, those were the times. I had Anna. I had close tabs on Elizabeth.

"You want me to make an introduction, you need to trust me with my source."

Harold purses his lips. Uncertain, torn between yes and no.

"Ahh, what fun. You'll need a dress." I pat Lizzy's arm.

"And where would this meeting be?" Harold inquires with an eyebrow raised.

"Montreal."

ᯓ ✈︎

I dress the way a man dresses for war.

The suit is grey, pressed sharp enough to cut glass. The tie is navy blue, understated. I knot it deliberately. My cuff links glint faintly in the bright light as I adjust them. Small details, but details matter. Presentation is power. The art of perception.

Anna used to say the same thing when she'd steal my tie on mornings I left early. "Every magician needs his costume," she'd tease. She wasn't wrong.

The motorcade is ready by the time I step outside. Black SUVs lined up on the tarmac of the Bureau's private airfield, engines humming in perfect rhythm. The men flanking me wear earpieces and the kind of grim expressions only government paychecks can buy. I understand.

Elizabeth is already there, arms crossed, the wind blowing her hair loose from her ponytail. She looks furious and beautiful.

"Careful, Agent Keen," I say as I approach, "Your eyes are gonna burn a hole through my skull."

She ignores the comment. "Tom's passports," she says sharply, in a hushed voice. "I found them under the floorboards in our house. You put them there."

Ah, that. Believe it or not, I didn't have to plant any evidence; it was there already for her to find.

I study her face. The tremor of disbelief beneath the professional mask. She's still clinging to the illusion of a normal life. Poor thing.

"Passports," I echo as if taste testing the word on my tongue. "That's quite the discovery. Different names, I assume? Different nationalities?"

"Stop deflecting," she snaps. "I want the truth." My mind drifts to Anna for a split second. Is all of this doing either of them any good?

I take a moment, hands folded behind my back. "The truth, Lizzy, is a bit like a loaded gun, rarely safe in untrained hands."

She exhales through her nose, visibly frustrated.

"Those passports mean your husband isn't who he says he is. But you already know that. The question is, what will you do with it?"

"You could at least tell me what it means," she fires back. The problem is, I don't even know the full story yet. It's one of the many reasons that I'm here. I'm here because of Katarina, Elizabeth, Anna, Tom, Berlin, the Cabal... the Basilisk. Everything is connected.

"Oh, I think you understand perfectly. They're contingency plans. Escape routes. And you and I both know each passport is another 25 years each. That's what people like Tom do. They rewrite the truth until you start doubting your own memory."

Her jaw tightens. "You're not very helpful."

"I wasn't aware that was a part of my job description."

She turns away, muttering something under her breath as we board the jet.

Inside, the air is cool, humming with quiet luxury. Leather seats, polished wood, and the faint tang of aviation fuel. A private jet may belong to the Bureau, but it still feels like home to me.

The engines roar to life. The world outside blurs into gray clouds and a fading skyline.

The flight is quiet. Elizabeth sits rigid, papers in her lap, pretending not to watch me. She watches me curiously but says nothing. Good. Silence is more revealing than conversation.

ᯓ ✈︎

Montreal.

The city beams with lights, cobblestone streets glistening from a light drizzle. We sit in the back of the taxi. The FBI stationed in a van not far from us, I'm sure. Elizabeth stops her hand on the door handle. "Let's make one thing clear," she says firmly. "I'm not here to socialize or have dinner with you. I'm here to meet your contact and stop whoever the Freelancer's next target is."

I nod, "I understand. However, going undercover at a restaurant requires conversation and a bite or two. Shall we?" I say, grabbing my hat and looping around the car to open Elizabeth's door. She looks lovely. She may never know just how sorry I am, but always how proud I am of what she has overcome.

We make our way into the entrance. I hand my contact my hat. Inside, I stashed cash in exchange for the next victim. What the FBI doesn't know is I'm the freelancer's buyer.

Following the waiter, I grab her arm, pulling her closer to me, "If anyone asks, you're my girlfriend from Ann Arbor."

Her reaction is calm, but her eyes spit venom. "Absolutely not."

I chuckle, pulling her chair out for her to sit down, "Fine," I say with mock disappointment. "You can be my daughter."

The waiter glides away after taking our orders, her movements smooth and rehearsed. Elizabeth asks for chardonnay, but clearly, she doesn't have much taste. She is predictable, uninspired. Something about her choice almost pains me. It's what people who don't want to be seen order when they want to blend in. Instead, I order us aviation cocktails. 'Lilac in color light as air,' Anna used to say. She had an obsession with all things old. Old music, old stories, old drinks. Anything that carried a memory. How ironic.

When the drinks arrive, Elizabeth frowns. The drink sitting in a martini glass is clearly not Chardonnay.

I explain, "Aviation cocktail. It's from the 20s. Tastes like spring, doesn't it?" I take a slip, the floral bitterness lingering on my tongue. "The season of rebirth."

She hesitates, then takes a tentative sip. Her expression, unwavering, though I can tell she doesn't hate it. She wouldn't admit that, of course. That's just not something that runs in the family.

The restaurant hums with chatter and clinking glassware. A symphony of laughter, clinking glassware, and the soft murmur of French conversations. I let the sound fill the silence before speaking again.

"Tell me about your job." I muse. "The profiling," pressing on, "I'm fascinated."

Elizabeth sets her drink down, not once taking her eyes off of mine. "You're fascinated by the FBI?"

"By you," I correct gently. "By what you do. By how you see the world."

I lean back in my seat, letting the cocktail relax me a bit. She thinks I'm relaxed, but I'm far from it. I'm not worried about my immunity. The Bureau can play their bureaucratic game as long as they like.

What I am worried about is not catching

Berlin.

The Basilisk.

I'm worried about when I'm going to see Anna next. And what version of her will I see? Leaving her wasn't a choice. It was an act of preservation. Hers, not mine. But being here, with Elizabeth, at least gives me the illusion of redemption.

 

"How close to the truth," I ask softly, "do you think you can really get?"

She avoids my question with a question of her own. "Where's your contact?"

My voice barely above a whisper, "Tell me my profile." Profiling is merely a tool, not a magical wand that with one flick will give you all the answers. She'll be able to understand me, but not the whole story. What are those limitations? I'm curious.

"Why would I do that?" She's smiling, but it is anything but sincere. Just for show, just for cover.

"You've heard the debriefs. You've read Ressler's book reports. I so want to know how you see things."

This gets her.

"You're a loner. You keep your distance. You travel freely through foreign lands. You're rootless."

Correction: I was rootless.

She continues, her tone clinical but steady. "You're very comfortable here with your glass of gin, but you're just as comfortable sleeping in a cave with rebels."

I take a sip of my drink, smiling, amused... proud.

"Or sharing dinner in some hole-in-the-wall noodle shop." She adds.

She's not wrong. Those places, the forgotten ones, were always where the real stories lived.

"You're closest friends are strangers. You understand that tight bonds can make you vulnerable... so you're careful not to have any"

 

My smile falters the slightest bit. But I'm sure she says. For a brief moment, my mind drifts to Anna when she says this. If only I were careful enough. Less of a selfish man. But Anna was everything. She was strong, confident, smart, and beautiful.

She continues, "And that's why you're so conflicted about me. You need me. And you hate that about yourself because it makes you vulnerable." Just for a second, her hand shakes, and she takes a sip of her cocktail. A tell. She's not as composed as she wants me to believe.

"Tell me about your husband, does he know you as well as you know him?"

She bites her lip, exhaling, and checks her watch. "Your contact is late." I ignore her

"Does he know about you as a child?" What information does he have about us? About our family.

Elizabeth lets out a long sigh, her voice grows louder, "It's been thirty-five minutes."

I tilt my head, looking at the burn on her wrist that rests against the wine flute, "Does he know about the fire?"

"Why am I so important to you?" I smile, not answering. "Did you know my parents?" I look away. Elizabeth presses, "I asked you a question."

The waiter asks, "Oui, monsieur?"

"S'il vous plaît, apporteznous une bouteille quatre vingt deux chateau latour."

"Tres bon choix," and with that, he slips away.

"Are you going to keep trying to impress me with your knowledge of French wine, or are you going to answer my question?"

"What if I were to tell you... that all the things you've come to believe about yourself are a lie?"

I look around the diner, waiting for my cue. And I take it.

"Please excuse me for a moment," I say, placing the napkin once in my lap on the table.

Sirens blare, but I have little to no care. I grab my hat off the coat rack and place it on my head. A clue for the FBI. A decoy. I make my way down the stairs through the bathroom and into the kitchen. The plan is coming together beautifully. On the wall is the fire alarm. Agent Ressler is not going to be amused. But I will.

With all the agents storming the inside and people filled with panic coming outside, it makes for an easy bust. I sit waiting in what they think is filled with state of a state-of-the-art technology van. But they're way off. I hear arguing outside, presumably Agent Ressler. I've never known a man as touchy and uptight as him. "Now he's gone because of you." The door of the van opens with a click.

"Hey there, guys."

"What the hell?" Ressler mutters under his breath, climbing into the van. He grabs me by the front of my suit, slamming me into the interior of the truck. My demeanor is unwavering. He can't touch me. He knows that. This is merely to scare me. If I'm being honest, they should've sent someone else entirely if they're gonna try and scare me.

"You planned this. You knew he would never show," he speaks through clenched teeth.

"Take a breath, Agent Ressler." I sneered. "You think I'm gonna fly all the way to Montreal for the cheese cart?"

He lets go reluctantly. Fixing my suit, I continue, " My contact was the first person I saw when I walked into the place. I told you he would help, and he did."

Keen and Ressler make eye contact. Elizabeth, connecting the dots first, blurts, "The coat check attendant." Both of them scramble to find a clear image of his face.

Wasting no more time, I speak up, "I left payment in my hat. In exchange, he left a photo of the assassin's next victim." I hand the photo of the newspaper over to Elizabeth.

Her face molds with confusion. "Floriana Campo. The human rights activist?"

"There you have it, a solid lead delivered exactly as promised." Donald snatches the photo out of her hands. "Find Floriana Campo, you find the Freelancer." What I don't say is my motive. I will get vengeance for Dembe. "Not bad for a day's work. Let's celebrate." I turn quickly to the blonde.

"Hey, Donald, how about that cheese cart?"

ᯓ ✈︎