Archive of Our Own

->TARGET ACQUIRED<-

Perspiration, tart and tangy, gathered upon a woman's brow. Her blonde locks, once curled to perfection, were matted and in dual plaits down her back. How her hoarse throat pleaded for water. Oh, how she had to quell the painfully growing desire to quit the mission she was on and just give in to her survival instincts, but Anna Van Dijk (an alias, naturally) would always deny herself the pleasure of succumbing to her body's needs.

Anna Van Dijk: Dutch journalist age 22 with big ambitions and waiting for a big break. Easy enough to pull off. Or, at least, easy enough for one of the most elusive, deceitful women on the fourth rock from the lsun, maybe intermediate for a somebody who merely dabbles in the arts of eluding simple minds. The cover was perfect for explaining why she- an alabaster-skinned blonde- was in war torn Italy. But, of course, it wasn't just war torn Italy, it was war torn Italy in gotverdammten April!!

An uncomfortable bead of perspiration dripped down her long, craned neck. Discomfort clouded her senses as she felt the tiny droplet's track down her clothed spine. Luckily, the blonde was keeping her face approximately three centimetres away from the scope of the 7.62mm SVT-40 automatic sniper rifle clasped within her soft, slender hands. The mission was simple. Assassinate Benito Mussolini.

Many people will tell you that the events described next are inaccurate, but then you must think to yourself: how much of my thinking am I going to allow high up officials to regulate? How much can I believe in the history books? Who says what happened and what didn't? The last one is easy. Hydra. Hydra is everywhere, changing things to what they consider to be correct. Oh, how they get things wrong! Those Nazi scientists have always been reluctant to give the Soviets their share of conspiratorial events, that was until they became apart of the glorious communist union; but that is a tale for another time.

Seemingly without a care in the world, five sleek 1939 Alfa Romeos, the colour of obsidian, trundled down a deserted backstreet. Well, that didn't scream suspicious, did it? People in 1945. War doesn't mean idiocy is permitted to seep into society. A sigh escaped the lips of the alleged journalist, her icy blue eyes fixated upon the vehicles. Her target was within on of those five. Eventually, the transports rolled to a stop in front of what looked like a dilapidated jewellers, obviously shut down when the war started.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. The blonde upon the roof opposite the jewellers lowered her face to the scope of the sniper rifle. They were unloading the dictator from the car. She had the shot. She had the shot. She took it. Her index finger tightened around the trigger; the woman was grateful for the invention of silencers, else her position would have been given away immediately. Satisfied that Mussolini would not be giving speeches anymore, Ms Van Dijk stood and slunk away from the crime scene.

'Anna Van Dijk' was back in Russia in the space of days.

"Underwood." A clipped, authoritarian tone called. Female. Mid-30's. "Mission report." she demanded. So, Dottie Underwood, Russian assassin, repeated the tale of her success.