Perhaps it was impulsive, and it would almost certainly end with him suspended, but Julius no longer cared. He refused to let the opportunity slip through his fingers. Once the trail went cold, there would be no getting it back until the decisive moment.
Through his internal connections, he secured a fabricated identity using the Revenant Knights’ channels instead of the Directorate’s. It was the only route that allowed immediate deployment without passing through Sabine’s blockade.
"Mister Schneider, with all due respect... We’ll have to file reports once this goes through. These channels eventually synchronize with the Directorate’s system. Hiding the fact that you are entering the USSR will be impossible. They will find out."
"It doesn’t matter. Proceed."
"Sir... the moment the Directorate sees this, they may initiate a recall."
"That’ll save me the effort of explaining once I return."
The system began encoding the false identity, "Dimitri Ilya Mikhailov," and uploading it into the Knight Corps’ border network. He knew the Directorate would catch the anomaly within hours.
But by then, Julius would already be across the border.
"Thank you."
According to Emil, the identity Joachim had paid him to forge was that of a researcher assigned to one of the USSR’s most tightly sealed scientific sectors. Not a simple laboratory or civilian complex, but one of the deep-core facilities in the Russian tundra regions.
The Sverdlovsk Anomalous Research Division. Locally referred to as Division Zima-12.
A site rumored to handle classified biological anomalies, weaponized psychological research, and projects that were never meant to see the light of day.
Its existence was neither confirmed nor denied by the USSR, but analysts across Europe treated it the same way Americans once spoke of Area 51.
"Joachim requested forged credentials that would grant him access to Zima-12," Emil had said. "He didn’t tell me why. Only that he needed a researcher’s profile..."
Julius clicked his tongue. "You’re skilled. How does a bastard like you end up as a bomber?"
"P-Pardon?"
"Never mind."
Emil Henry Bauer was remarkably skilled that even organized syndicates relied on him. It was no surprise he’d risen in the black market, nor was it surprising that someone like Joachim would seek him out.
Of course, another agreement was made.
"I’m sure you have connections within the USSR, hook me up with them."
"...."
Just like that, Julius found himself across the border.
* * *
It took Julius a total of three months to acclimate to his new life inside the USSR.
The place, governed by rigid socialist doctrine and suffocating bureaucracy, grated on every nerve he possessed. Everything moved slowly, everything required approval, and everything was under surveillance.
For a man raised in the efficiency-obsessed German Republic, this system was nothing short of insufferable.
Yet he endured it.
To ensure that no suspicion ever touched his fabricated identity, Julius forced himself to start at the bottom.
His cover name, Dimitri Ilya Mikhailov, became more familiar to him than his real one. He repeated it until the cadence became natural, until the accent settled into his tongue, until even his own thoughts instinctively adjusted to Russian when someone called for him.
His integration into the Soviet system had to be even more covert than the operation with Lukas Meinhardt. Germany and the USSR were rival giants. If Julius’s existence were exposed, it would trigger questions, investigations, and eventually an international scandal.
So Julius swallowed his pride and got to work. He filed mundane reports. He attended required ideology briefings. He drank the weak, bitter coffee that the facility rationed in exact milliliters.
By the second month, his coworkers began to greet him without suspicion.
By the third, he was slowly becoming the ideal cog in a machine built to erase individuality.
"Ah, Dimitri, have you submitted the new data analysis for the thermal project?"
Julius looked up from his workstation, maintaining the mildly overworked expression expected of a Soviet research assistant. Several of his coworkers had gathered in the narrow hallway outside the lab.
"Yes. I placed the full report on Supervisor Petrov’s desk this morning," Julius replied. "He asked for revisions, but they were minor."
One of the senior researchers, Sergei, gave him a nod. "Good, good. Petrov’s been on edge ever since the Ministry announced new funding reallocations. They want to divert manpower to the Northern Research Belt. Rumor is they need more specialists to handle the prototype reactors coming from Arkhangelsk."
Another chimed in. "Not reactors. Weapons. You heard the briefing last week. Half of it sounds like it was pulled out of a science fiction novel."
Julius kept his face blank, listening closely, though he already understood the significance.
The USSR funneled its talent into several key facilities, and the more classified ones always needed "testing personnel." If Zima-12 was at the center of it, this shift in allocation might open a door for him.
"What do you think, Dimitri?" Sergei asked. "You’ve been quiet."
Julius adjusted his glasses and answered with the analytical tone that fit his persona.
"Whether it’s weaponry or energy research, the Ministry does not make impulsive redeployments," Julius said. "They prepare for long-term goals. If they’re concentrating resources in the Northern Belt, it means the prototype is reaching stability. What we’re seeing is the transition from theoretical stage to controlled trials."
"You sound like someone who wants to volunteer yourself."
"Hardly." Julius shook his head. "But if the project is as significant as they imply, anyone assigned there will see technology a decade ahead of what the rest of the Union has access to. The Ministry guards its breakthroughs carefully."
Sergei shrugged. "Well, whatever the case, they’ll be selecting names soon. The University’s been cooperating with central facilities more aggressively these days. If they ask for research personnel, some of us might get sent north."
Julius nodded slowly. "If that happens, then it happens."
He kept his arms relaxed, his expression neutral, but deep inside, a piece clicked neatly into place. If the Ministry was pulling researchers from universities into the Northern Belt, then access to Zima-12 was becoming attainable.
Sergei clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. If we’re late to assembly again, we’ll be stuck calibrating equipment for the next two days."
"You don’t have to tell me twice."