A Cold Bargain

Moscow, 1983.

The snow fell in soft, silent waves, blanketing the city’s chaos. Beneath the haze of streetlamps, two men leaned against the cold iron rail of a bridge overlooking the Moskva River. One wore an impeccably tailored trench coat; the other, a thick wool overcoat frayed at the cuffs. They smoked in silence, their breaths mingling with the frost in the air.

"You Americans," began the man in the wool coat, his Russian accent thick but confident, "you talk about freedom. You call it a virtue. But freedom costs too much in your country."

The American, unshaken, let a stream of smoke drift from his lips. "And what does loyalty cost in yours, Volkov?" he asked with a wry smile.

Volkov turned, his face weathered yet sharp. "Nothing. My loyalty is priceless." He smirked. "Because I work without pay."

"Without pay?" The American raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

"Da," Volkov nodded, letting the word linger. "No salary, no pensions. Just the satisfaction of serving the Motherland. And because of that, I can afford everything."

The American chuckled softly, a deliberate, slow sound. "Oh? And what does everything buy you these days?"

Volkov’s eyes gleamed, his pride unmistakable. "Respect. Comradeship. Purpose. Things your capitalist dollars can’t buy." He flicked the ash of his cigarette into the river. "In the newest Soviet Union, we don’t need paychecks to define our worth. Unlike you, we work for something larger."

The American shifted, his trench coat rustling. "Larger, huh? Like the privilege of waiting in line for bread? Or maybe those designer suits your Party leaders wear while you freeze your ass off in that coat?"

Volkov laughed, deep and genuine. "Ah, but you misunderstand. When you work for money, you are a slave to it. When you work for ideology, you own it. Our system has made sacrifices, yes, but it has also made men out of us."

The American leaned closer, his tone dropping. "Men who get paid nothing to risk their lives. Men who work without knowing if the Party will remember their names when they’re gone. You call that freedom, Volkov? Or are you just fooling yourself like the rest of them?"

Volkov’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he straightened, his voice resolute. "I don’t need my name remembered. I know my place in history, even if no one else does. Can you say the same, Agent Cooper?"

The American said nothing, his cigarette burning low.

For a while, they stood in silence again, watching the river flow beneath them. One man certain of his ideals, the other uncertain if they were worth defending.

Finally, the American flicked his cigarette into the snow. "Tell me, Volkov, if you’re so happy without pay... why are you here trading secrets with me?"

Volkov’s grin returned, cold and sly. "Because even in the newest Soviet Union, some truths are worth more than loyalty."

And with that, he walked away, leaving Cooper alone on the bridge, his breath visible in the frozen air.