Identity Crisis

𝗡𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗚𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡   𝗚𝗨𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗦  𝗕𝗜𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬  𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗔𝗖𝗧

Overview 

Kostya ‘Bell’ Novikov is a specialist in the acquisition of clandestine human intelligence and the provision of wet work services. In plain English, he trades in information and will put a bullet in anyone for the right price. 

Novikov received his training with the KGB in a ghost department - Spetsbureau 13. Under the thumb of the Soviet Union, Novikov amassed 72 confirmed kills. He was also member of Perseus - a terrorist network dedicated to restoring the USSR to its full glory. 

For a brief period, Novikov was captured by the CIA. He underwent psychological torture using hypnosis and neuroactive drugs which left him in a fugue state, unable to remember his own personal history. He spent several months working for the CIA, unknowingly helping to decrypt his own work and bring down the Perseus network. 

Currently, Novikov is on the run and working as a freelance operative in the West. He is starting to piece his life back together but his amnesia still poses a problem. Novikov is considered a traitor by both the KGB and what remains of the Perseus Network. He is considered a fugitive by the CIA. 

Verses

Pre-Canon - 1970 - 1981  - Novikov is an assassin with loyalties to the KGB and terrorist network Perseus. He is a talented cryptographer using his skillset to prepare for a nuclear attack that will secure power for Perseus. He is based in Moscow, Russia. 

Canon - 1981 - Novikov has been captured by the CIA. He has undergone psychological torture using hypnosis and neuroactive drugs. He believes his name is Bell - he will not answer to Kostya Novikov and he has been given a set of false memories. He works for the CIA and is helping his team decrypt his own work in order to prevent a nuclear attack. He is based in West Berlin, Germany.

Post Game - 1981 - 1999 - Novikov works as a freelance operative in the West. When he is trying to fly under the radar, he works as an IT consultant, Alexei Orlov. He is a fugitive on the run from the KGB, Perseus and the CIA. He occasionally offers his services to the British Government in exchange for safe haven. 

Sebastian could feel a muscle in his jaw twitching; his lip had curled contemptuously and hostility rolled from hunched shoulders in scorching waves. It was impossible to say with any degree of certainty, but Jim seemed impervious to the suspicious belligerence that was now Sebastian's default. When Sebastian stared - glared - Jim stared right back. It was like looking into a void sometimes. The way children often feel when they look up at the sprawling expanse of night sky for the very first time and feel something staring back. Something unknown and undefined but something that must have eyes - for how else would it be staring back? 

Jim was an unknown. There was a gap in his memory shaped like Jim - and sometimes in the deepest of sleeps, he was there. Jim was different in those dreams. Perhaps he smiled more. Perhaps he didn’t feel like a slippery stranger. Perhaps he didn't watch Sebastian with the same wariness Sebastian wore when watching Jim. They weren't perpetually locked in an uneasy stand off - he knew that Jim. Some mornings, when he swam back to the surface and broke consciousness - before the grains of memory slipped through his fingers and snaked back down into the abyss - Sebastian felt himself again. Some mornings were better. 

BELL. Time was going by so quickly he didn’t even remember how long ago did it all take place. The memory was very much alive, often unwrapping like a film in his uneasy mind but, the date was missing. Many dates were missing. Even the one that was permanently pictured on his face, in the form of those scars wasn’t there. Adler always said the paperwork save the dates. So he didn’t need to memorize them.

The Safe house crew all had their own way of handling the situation. Sims, for instance, was always humorous, being around Bell was no exception. Park was somewhat warm yet cautious. He didn’t think there was a situation. No man that holds the trigger ever does. And he was that man in this case.

Today was what he would call an extremely busy day. Files were coming through his office quicker than the bullets back in Vietnam. He was handling it to say the least. And smoking a cigarette as he checked on another folder was enough of a break, since he didn’t seem able to catch an actual one. After what he presumed was more than two hours, he finally stepped out of the office door, eyes still hidden behind the shades yet instantly locking on Bell. He seemed uneasy. And it was slightly concerning. “It’s a Monday Bell, you know what they say about Mondays.” humor was rarely his weapon but, today was an expection. “Anything I can help you with? ” and now to the real question.

"No. What do they say about Mondays?" 

It rarely paid to be difficult but it brought Bell a strange sense of satisfaction all the same. There was something cathartic in watching people flounder when he failed to crack a smile at the right moment. Adler was rarely an easy candidate - he seemed impervious to the deadpan expression Bell often wore and he didn't seem perturbed by the raised brow or holier than thou tone he often adopted. Adler wasn't one to engage with Bell's power plays - and for that reason Bell very nearly respected him. 

Enough that he wouldn't leave him hanging at least - he wouldn't make him explain the joke in that oddly self-conscious way people tended to when Bell played ignorant. Like he needed handling delicately.

A dead man walks into a bar and says...

Something. Bell didn't have the mental faculties to dredge up a punchline but it would have been a good one. Adler might have even cracked a smile under the right circumstances - but these were the wrong circumstances. The worst circumstances, actually, considering the consequences of their last meeting still smarted - one star shaped burst of scar tissue in Bell's shoulder and undoubtedly a twin in Adler's thigh. It had bought him time. Time to run - to tear through the scrub and lay low in the dirt with the taste of copper under his tongue until the pulse of the last chopper had passed over Solovetsky and he could hear his own blood pumping in his ears again. 

Adler hadn't sent out a search party - no dogs, no soldiers, no bullshit mind games. That - in itself - was a bullshit mind game, if you asked Bell. It had left him with more questions than answers. Had Adler hoped he'd bleed out in the brush? Or had he hoped, privately, that Bell would make it? That he would slink off and lay low and cause no trouble for the rest of his days? He doubted very much that Adler would have anticipated his return here of all places, but where else was he to go? Nameless, directionless, Bell had inevitably drifted back to Berlin - detestable, familiar Berlin. The last place that made sense to him. And here they were - quite by chance - in the same hole in the wall. Were he to believe in fate...

Once  inside  the  kitchen,  instead  of  opening  a  window  or  putting  the  kettle  on  (as  in,  regular  host  priorities),  he  immediately  went  rummaging  through  his  cupboards.  For  a  little  moment  there,  he  could  almost  pretend  to  be  alone:  retrieving  what  he  needed  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  home,  his  frantic  movements  less  to  do  with  being  watched  than  with  running  out  of  fucking  patience.  In  the  face  of  oncoming  withdrawal,  Bell  could  have  spouted  any  number  of  tempting  figures;  Severin’s  response  would  still  have  remained  the  same  non-committal  grunt  while  he  was  hastily  arranging  his  equipment  on  the  kitchen  table  (citric  acid,  cotton  ball,  spoon).  Despite  shivering  in  his  jacket,  there  was  a  sheen  of  cold  sweat  on  his  forehead,  and  he  kept  swiping  his  sleeve  over  his  running  nose.  He  looked  a  right  fucking  mess,  he  knew,  and  perhaps  in  clearer  moments  he’d  have  been  embarrassed,  he’d  certainly  regret  this  unabashed  display  of  greed  the  next  time  Bell  ran  into  him  –  but  right  now  he  was  way  past  caring  about  appearances,  his  mind  dominated  by  one  thing  and  one  thing  only.

                                "So  I  just  gotta  say  yes  and  then  you’ll  fuck  off,  yeah?“  For  a  moment  there,  he  forced  himself  to  glance  back  up  at  Bell,  though  neither  his  gaze  nor  his  feet  would  remain  quite  steady.  It  wasn’t  as  though  he  didn’t  desperately  need  the  fucking  money;  only  that  he  couldn’t  physically  think  past  the  next  half  hour,  at  best.  "Or  are  you  seriously  gonna  stand  there  and  watch  me  read  your  fucking  file?”

There was something almost tangible about vulnerability. It hung thick in the air and tasted like copper. Batted around by Severin's agitation it had unfurled like smoke and landed on Bell's tongue, crawling down his throat to settle in a pool of warm honey somewhere in his stomach, a tranquillising anchor. It wasn't about Severin - not really. It was the presence of abject suffering itself that seemed to placate Bell and render him a vacant observer. Passive, or as close to passive as he ever came, he moved into the room and drew out a chair. 

Technically, Bell was plenty old enough to keep himself occupied for an afternoon. He would have scoffed at the mere suggestion he demanded constant supervision - and yet, with Adler tucked away in the backroom for the better part of an hour, disquiet had rapidly set in. No one had explicitly told Bell that the office was off-limits; it was simply a fact. One of those facts he ought to know without prompting, in the same way one ought to know their own name. 

It still left Bell ill at ease. He had long harboured the sense that something was amiss; that he was something of a guest in the safe house, absent of the ease with which the rest of the team seemed to move. The others were nice enough. Polite, even. Often to a fault. There was no sound rationale for the disquiet that settled whenever Bell was left with a moment to think. 

Perhaps it was the way several pairs of eyes seemed to follow him around the room, snapping away the moment they were noticed. Perhaps, it was the way whispering clusters formed and dispersed the moment Bell got within earshot. Or perhaps, it was the tangible sense of unease that hung thick like smog in the air when he strayed too close to the door - or the way someone would inevitably abandon a task to offer unsolicited company should he chance a trip into town. It had quickly become his favourite game; unsettling colleagues with a rash decision was a private amusement to pass the time. 

The  smug  face  of  triumph  –  futile  rebellion  foiled  yet  again  –  made  Severin’s  skin  crawl  with  something  entirely  immature  and  vindictive.  He  would’ve  liked  nothing  more  than  to  smash  Bell’s  face  in,  one  heavy  punch  and  no  more  teeth  to  fucking  grin  with.  Only  he  knew  how  that’d  go:  even  past  his  base  urges,  his  fog-stricken  mind,  he  knew  Bell  would  have  him  in  a  headlock  before  Severin’s  fist  could  even  connect  with  his  jaw,  and  then  he’d  be  pushed  to  the  ground  and  he’d  have  a  knee  on  his  chest,  and  it’d  all  be  one  unfortunate  fucking  mess.  He  could  very  vividly  remember  the  last  time  this  has  happened,  and  then  he’d  been  at  the  top  of  his  game  compared  to  now.  He  absolutely  didn’t  need  to  challenge  a  repeat  when  he  was  already  fucking  wobbly  on  his  feet  as  it  was.

                                "Fuck  off",  came  out  his  snarled  denial,  not  frightened  at  all,  though  he  still  hadn’t  made  any  moves  to  push  Bell  off.  From  this  close,  barely  a  few  breaths  between  them,  Bell’s  jeering  looked  all  the  more  hideous,  his  arrogance  demanding  submission.  Severin  had  to  actively  keep  reminding  himself:  the  less  trouble,  the  better.  He  just  needed  to  get  this  over  with,  and  fast,  and  then  he’d  allow  himself  a  chance  to  fucking  forget  all  about  it.

                              Muttering  under  his  breath,  mostly  expletives  aimed  at  nothing  in  particular,  he  ducked  away  the  second  Bell  let  go  of  him.  Better  not  to  push  his  luck.  His  wounded  pride,  oddly  misplaced,  led  to  him  patting  himself  down  as  though  Bell  had  somehow  dirtied  him  –  as  though  it  wasn’t  Severin  who  looked  like  he’d  slept  under  a  bridge.  Without  any  more  words  directed  at  his  financier,  he  hurried  down  the  street  and  fumbled  with  the  keys  before  begrudgingly  leading  him  inside.  The  place  smelled  stale,  like  he  hadn’t  opened  a  window  in  weeks.  Unable  to  keep  still,  he  went  straight  for  the  kitchen.  "Don’t  expect  to  be  offered  drinks  or  snacks",  yelled  over  his  shoulder  when  he’d  already  disappeared  down  the  hall,  "just  spit  it  out  and  then  fuck  off,  alright?“