In the summer of 1991, clearance was given for the serum trials to continue.

This time, the test subject had been chosen carefully. A volunteer who stepped forward willingly, who understood the risks. Someone who wasn't an assassin, barely a fighter, even. Someone who didn't seek power, or strength. Someone who hadn't been conditioned by HYDRA since childhood.

Those were the qualities that the two Agent Ivanov's had highlighted as being vital for this trial. They had drawn them up together, over a shared flask of coffee in Erik Ivanov's office, listing what they deemed to be traits that they hoped to enhance in a person, and those they wished to avoid. Intelligence, perspective, patience, balance. Not the qualities of a solider, simply the qualities of a decent person.

Though, as they had looked at each other over their list of requirements, a grim realisation had settled upon both father and daughter. Those qualities were not easy to come by within HYDRA. In an organisation of militant fanatics, they both seemingly realised that the only candidates they could think of were sat within that office.

It should be me.

No, Kat. I won't let you take that risk. It should be me.

It's a calculated risk. You've given enough to this organisation, let me volunteer.

You're too young to throw your life away.

And you're too old. My reactions would yield results closer to what we'd hope to see in future subjects.

In the end, a coin had been tossed. Literally. It had settled enough petty disputes when she was a teenager, and it settled this one too. Katrina had watched the Soviet ruble turn in the air, a soft utterance of 'sickle' leaving her lips before her father caught the coin on the back of his palm, covering it with his other hand. She had always chosen sickle in the past.

"Agent Ivanov?"

The call of her name jarred her from rerunning that conversation in her head once more, making her glance up from where she had been staring across the echoing laboratory at the glass cabinet of failed serums. She counted sixteen phials.

"I'm ready." She softly assured the doctor, forcing her lips to curve into a smile as the warm hand of her father squeezed her shoulder.

"You're sure, Kat?"

"I am, papa." She nodded, rolling up the sleeve of her fitted sweatshirt to present her right arm to the doctor.

She was sure, that was the surprising thing. Aside from the obvious reasoning that she was protecting her father from taking this risk, she had faith in the precautions they had put in place. The serum was no longer administered in a single dose, but rather broken into nine micro-doses that would be administered over the course of a year, giving her body time to adjust. It wasn't to be rushed, they weren't trying to build a soldier, but rather prove that the serum could remain stable in a body, whilst enhancing what existed. If it worked, then HYDRA would at last have a clear path to follow, in pursuing the next stage of the Winter Soldier program. The next stage of building army that would help them sculpt their vision of a perfect, balanced world.

In addition, it was her father's presence that reassured her. He had sworn that he would ensure that whatever outcome came from these treatments, she would retain her own free will. She would retain her position within the Winter Soldier Program and would act as a consultant when the serum was deemed ready for use on others. She wouldn't be enlisted in any military role within the program, and she would never be placed in cryostasis. She would receive no programming. Those were the conditions of her volunteering as a subject, and her father had staunchly refused to let the trial move forward until Colonel Karpov had also agreed to those terms.

The Colonel had also needed to give clearance for her to volunteer as a subject. Part of her had expected a refusal. She was no fighter, he wouldn't gain a solider from this, he might deem it a waste of resources - but it seemed he was so desperate to show some success to the organisation that he was willing to grasp at this bizarre suggestion.

She was nervous, yes, but she was ready to do this – not for HYDRA, but for her father. Her faith in the organisation had taken a few knocks since she had joined the program, but she had faith in this.

A low hiss escaped through her clenched teeth as the fine needle broke the skin of her forearm, the curious, cold rush of the serum entering her bloodstream was accompanied by the hand on her shoulder tightening. The tremor in her father's fingers always worsened when he was stressed. She could feel it now.

It was over quickly, surprisingly so. Looking back, she didn't remember actually walking to the isolation room, she was simply suddenly present in the white, sterile chamber. A heavy door was locked behind her as she stumbled a little towards the single bed. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears. The lights were too bright, making her squeeze her eyes shut with a soft groan.

"Kat?"

A viewing panel on the steel door slid back, impossibly loud, grating on her senses.

It was alright, she knew what to expect. The first twenty-four hours weren't pleasant for any of the previous subjects, but it was hoped that her symptoms would be lessened by the lower dose.

Cracking one eye open, the tiled floor beneath her feet swam. The grey grout between the white squares wavered into meandering paths, making her stomach churn. The effects were coming on fast – or were they? She couldn't tell how long it had been since she had been sitting in the lab.

"How do you feel, myshka?"

"You remember that morning after my graduation?" She slurred weakly, bracing her elbows on her knees as she sat on the bed, wondering if she was actually swaying from side to side or if the room was – were those scratch marks on the leg of the bed? "Worse."

A soft, relieved laugh echoed through her head, pulsing with the rapid beats of her heart. Evidently the retention of her sense of humour reassured him.

"I'll be out here all night, little Kat."

She didn't hear him; she was too busy trying to flex away the burning in her fingertips, focusing on keeping her breathing steady as fire flooded through her veins, her mind desperately grasping for the logic behind what was happening.

The doctors had explained it several times, her body would react to the serum as it would a virus. It would try to fight it as it flooded her system. Fever, sweating, aches, nausea, deliria. Either the serum would overcome those symptoms, or her body would continue to fight it until she burnt out.

That thought was the last coherent one she had that night.

The shivers came.

She was huddled on the wooden bench in a train carriage, crammed between her friends as she let the boy across from her copy her notes on the way to university.

Nausea rolled through her and she managed to crawl her way to the porcelain bowl in one corner of the room.

She was back at a party in a dingy student house, a girl holding her hair back as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the kitchen sink. Too many shots of vodka.

She choked on the acid burning her throat.

Her memory grasped at the day a girl had offered her a cigarette as they waited for the train home. She had choked then, but the smoke was warm and the air was cold. She could taste it on her tongue for hours after. She didn't choke the next day.

Her face pressed to the cool tile floor as she caught her breath, her hair sticky with sweat. It clung to the back of her neck.

Her back pressed to the frozen shelter at the back of the train station - the boy that smiled at her in class clumsily ran his hands over the front of her thick coat as he kissed her. He tasted like smoke too.

Fire seeped through her veins, burning. Consuming.

She was a child again, fevered, tossing on her lumpy mattress as a cool hand was pressed to her forehead. The harsh, clean scent of carbolic soap flooding her senses - the residing memory of her mother.
Raised voices downstairs, a heavy wool blanket pulled over her head to muffle the sounds of a door slamming and a car engine starting out in the snow.
The lumpy mattress dipped - a different scent now, lightly spiced shaving soap. Calloused fingers with a slight tremor soothed over her hair. A gentle voice urged her to sleep.

Her father urged her to be careful, as she proudly showed off the motorbike she had built from salvaged scraps, no longer content to tinker with bicycles. She had tried to ride it out on the street and skidded on a patch of ice. She didn't think she'd ever felt pain like her two cracked ribs that day.

Snow. She must be out in the snow again - she was too cold, shivering violently - she needed to get out of the snow.

Hail HYDRA. A voice hissed in the darkness.

She swore her allegiance to an organisation that promised opportunity. That spoke of a vision of a world beyond conflict, a world formed perfectly and carefully controlled. A world where her father might not be tormented by his memories of war, a world where he'd never have to face the horrors that left his mind scarred and his hands shaking.

Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.

An engine fell apart under her hands, familiar parts realigning before her eyes. A machine she didn't want to think about.

This wasn't right, she didn't belong amongst these people with cold eyes and fanatic minds. She didn't belong here.

The foot of the bed became the bars of a cage, the stripes of a tiger, pacing back and forth in the cold.

The sound of the viewing panel on the door being slid back was a gunshot. Target practice in her first week at the KGB.

The tiles on the ceiling merged into the interlocking plates of a metal arm, the fingers of which reached to close around her throat.

Sleep didn't come, and by the way her throat felt when she came to her senses the next morning, she had screamed the entire time. 

[A/N: Oh dear Kat, what are you doing? Thank you so much to everyone who left such wonderful comments over the weekend - it's been a massive boost and I'm genuinely so excited for you all to see where the story is headed! X]