[identity profile] nagaya-zmeika.livejournal.com
The thing you had to do was you always kept the mission objective at the forefront. Let everything else slide away like swampwater off a crocodile's back. If he failed, everything else was moot anyway.

It was getting harder and harder to pretend that was still true.

He'd countermanded orders. Worse. He'd abandoned them. They needed Sokolov out of there, and they needed him out of there now. But it hadn't happened.

The world kept spinning. Nobody dropped dead.

In fact, that was another thing.

Snake had gotten into the habit of keeping his eyes open and his mouth shut. At first he'd tried to play that it was reconnaisance, but that was just a fancy word for watching.

He definitely wasn't keeping an eye out for that kid. The one with the habit of running around half dressed and a whole lot of secrets.

Sometimes Snake caught himself passing some soldier in the hall and thinking about how, if things had gone a little bit differently, he might have been slitting his throat.

People were people anywhere. They had to piss and sneeze and sleep. It was something he'd taken advantage of more than once. Usually, there was so little time, he hardly had to make an effort to keep from thinking about it too much.

That, Snake thought wryly, might be one thing the partner The Boss had assigned him might be uniquely suited to help with.

Sokolov. Right. That was the mission. Find out where he was, make sure he was alive. Worry later about what came next.

Snake eased the laboratory door open, checked for flames or errant projectiles, and carefully stuck his head in.

"Fury? You here?"
[identity profile] nagaya-zmeika.livejournal.com
Snake had been thinking. Not much else to do, when you were the lone American on a Russian base with a murderer on the loose, and every time you showed your face you could hear the tension level ratchet up one more click. He was the obvious choice for scapegoat, but after meeting the investigators from Moscow, Snake didn't think that was what they wanted. Neither of them had approached him since the interview, aside from the time the quiet pale guy asked him if he'd seen any crickets around. As far as he could tell, he'd been dismissed as a suspect. Maybe The Boss had something to do with it, before she left, without ever telling him what she was doing there.

What he was doing there.

If the Shagohod was the main objective, Snake had it covered. It was the most blatantly destructive thing on the base, after Colonel Volgin, and all the information commonly bandied around about him was, while interesting in its own way, probably not of high strategic importance. Snake had been lucky no one spared attention to wonder how he knew about the tank. No use pushing his luck by snooping around it. Besides, at this point, the only way he was going to learn more was by taking a socket wrench to the thing. It wouldn't do much for his cover.

Whatever that was.

Snake kept out of sight and wondered if he was the only one around here who was exactly what he seemed.
[identity profile] ocelottery.livejournal.com
Senior Lieutenant Arkady Sergeyevich Kolyin was having a bad day. Most of the problem stemmed from the fact that his “day” had extended beyond a mere twenty-four hours, and had become two.

He’d had night duty with his usual partner and rankmate, Semeyonev, last night, when Sergei had died, but the next morning, he’d had an additional shift playing at babysitter for the MENTs, partnered with none other than the squad’s sullen sniper, Irinarhov.

When he’d finished the guard detail, he’d barely had time for a meal and shower before it was back on night duty with Semeyonev, who, as usual, had a quick grin and smile. Kolyin didn’t know how Savva could do it given everything that had happened, but at least he was better to patrol with than Irinarhov.

“And I swear, they’re fucking,” Savva was saying, filling him in on the latest gossip.

Arkady sighed. “I don’t care. Good for them.”

“You’re a beam of sunshine tonight.”

“You try spending all day with Irinarhov. I swear, that guy never says anything. No personality.”

Savva shrugged. “Snipers are like that,” he said, as if he had some special knowledge. “He’s just quiet. Anyway, Isaev seems to like him well enough.”

Kolyin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Actually, the relationship between Andrei and the sniper had been fodder for unit gossip lately. No one fucked regularly without everyone else knowing, and the fact that Andrei was rarely in his bunk in the mornings when Kolyin and Semeyonev got off duty hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Semeyonev laughed. “He’s not a bad looking guy. I’d do him.”

“Well, that’s not saying mu – ”

A shout broke the evening’s relative silence, followed by a call for help. Kolyin’s chest started pounding, and his gut twisted in the silent fear that it was another Serhyoza, that another Ocelot had died.

He and Semeyonev met gazes briefly, then ran forward to the sound of the disturbance.

One of the regular GRU stumbled out of the main wing, pointing a shaking hand behind him. “He’s dead!” the soldier barely managed to get out before he bent over and vomited.

“Who’s dead?” Kolyin shouted, but Savva was already running toward the building.

Arkady gripped his AK-47 tightly as he rushed after his rankmate.

There was already a stir inside – more GRU, running around uselessly, bumping into things like headless rabbits.

One had the presence of mind to run up to them and signal them forward frantically. Kolyin and Semeyonev followed the soldier down the hall, to a half-opened door.

“In there,” the soldier said, stopping in his tracks, showing no sign of accompanying them the last few steps forward.

Savva looked at Arkady again, and reached out to touch his shoulder briefly. Kolyin understood what it meant. Whatever it was – whoever it was – they’d face the horrible truth together.

Side by side, they walked down to the open door and peered in.

The room beyond was simple but spacious, and featured little more than a table and desk and wardrobe, and a giant, oversized bed. And there, near the bed, was the body of a tall and muscular man with a near-Herculean build, clad in a forest green greatcoat.

…and rubberized boots, Kolyin realized, after a moment, but his mind balked even then.

Together, he and Semeyonev edged forward, and saw that the body had only a gaping, bloody ruin where the top of his head should have been, and the floor around the body was decorated liberally with pink brain tissue.

It looked like bubblegum, Kolyin thought, vaguely.

“God,” Savva said, “It’s Volgin.”

“Oh God,” Kolyin said. “We have to tell someone. Major Raikov.”

Semeyonev shot him a look. No, not Major Raikov, he though in faint horror. Never mind his patented ball-crushing maneuver; someone would get castrated.

“Ocelot. We have to tell Ocelot. You call him, Savva. He likes you.”

Everyone knew that Savva got called for Special Duty more often than anyone else.

“You call him! No sense in having him pissed at the both of us. This way, if he gets pissed at you, I can calm him down.”

Semeyonev had a point, Kolyin thought, though he felt reluctant to concede it.

Suddenly, Savva grabbed his arm. “Fuck, bratan, do you see that? There’s a hole in the window. A sniper did this. We need to get back.”

They retreated into the hallway, and Kolyin let out a pained sigh. “All right, I’ll call him, but you’d better have my back on this.”

Raising a hand to his ear, Kolyin slotted Major Ocelot’s frequency and prayed for the best.
[identity profile] capt-kasya.livejournal.com
They were still for a moment, in the wake of Major Liadov's query.

Then everyone looked at Imanov.

Isaev had told Kassian that Imanov had gone to a university and studied psychology. That made him the obvious choice in Kassian's book. Kassian hadn't even completed his secondary education before he'd have to leave in order to work at the factory.

Kassian wondered if there was anything in Imanov's psychology books that talked about this, murders committed out of some deep-seated need, fueled by this cycle of escalation that Liadov had talked about.

Probably. It sounded like it happened often enough that experts had coined terms for it, after all, some deeper explanation than merely knowing the difference between having to kill, and wanting to kill.
[identity profile] naked-snake.livejournal.com
It would take too much energy to get worked up over the fact that he had been sent away while Volgin talked to The Boss. He didn't like being treated like a child who was being sent to his room while his parents discussed matters he wouldn't understand.

Or in this case, things he wasn't supposed to know about. While he wanted to hope that The Boss would fill him in one what had been said once she caught up, he was almost certain she would continue as if nothing had happened, without providing the smallest of explanations.

And it wasn't like he could question her. He valued his life a little too much to do that too many times in one day.

He took all the energy he could have been spending being upset and used it to find a suitable place for them to practice. It didn't take long, seeing as the jungle had a number of clearings that would give them enough space to toss each other around. (Or rather, for him to get tossed around, since he knew he still hardly stood a chance against his mentor.) He found a nice, open area with a good amount of trees surrounding it, which would give them some privacy.

With a sigh, he found a log that looked comfortable enough and plopped down on it. He considered doing some hunting, but he would only resort to that if she was delayed longer than he expected her to be.
[identity profile] heartofthunder.livejournal.com
[PJATNICA, 14 FEVRAI, 1964 1100 hours]

Yevgeny Volgin strode out of the investigators' office, his mind turning like the gears of war, slow and grinding, but inexorable.

The Internal Services major had given him a lot to think about.

He was actually more concerned about the murder now than when it had occurred. Liadov's grim words had sent wet, icy fingers into his core, a sensation of numbness that threatened to spread.

It felt something like electrocution, though only without the pain.

The thought of Ivan as the object of some psychopath's fixation...

In the distance, outside the building, he thought he heard thunder rumble.

Another storm, perhaps.

Volgin had learned early on that delegation was a good thing. Surround yourself with the best people, tell them what to do, but leave them to their own discretion as to how they do it. It had worked for him throughout his entire career, and he was highly pleased that now, at the apex, he had the very best people he'd ever had - well, with a few exceptions.

He had a lot of people to talk to this morning. Ocelot. Ivan. The Boss. Krauss, and the Fury. He thought he was missing someone...or something...but he didn't let it bother him.

It would come to him.

It always did.

He had faith in himself.

He hadn't come this far to let something like this stop him.

Soldiers and secretaries scattered in his wake as he returned to the East Wing, equally alarmed by the intensity of his bearing, though probably for different reasons.

"Where's Major Ocelot!" he snarled, and one of Ivan's men blanched.

"Sir! We'll find him for you!"

The solider made to hurry off, but Volgin just shook his head.

"No. That will take too long. But if you see him, tell him I'm looking for him," he said, then cut a swath out of the office area, rumbling like a single tank on a mission to conquer all of Europe.

Faint sparks of electricity trailed in his his wake.

[OOC: Volgin wants to talk to several people in succession, including but not limited to Major Ocelot, Major Raikov, Voyevoda, Major Krauss, and the Fury. I will update this tag to reflect who he's currently looking for/talking to, so you'll know when your turn has come!]

[Currently: off to The Groznyj Grad Tour thread.]
[identity profile] naked-snake.livejournal.com
Of all things to miss out on, a reason to take his pants off. That was just his luck, really. He had always felt that he could sneak with the most ease with the least amount of clothing on. Unfortunately, that didn't make much sense since skin color was fairly horrible camouflage.

It wasn't like he'd been influenced by films, either. He wasn't much of a movie watcher. It was just so uncomfortable to be weighed down by a uniform with countless straps and buckles on it.

He had heard tell that the soldiers had been made to stand out in the cold in their underwear for far too long, however, so it might have been for the best that he wasn't in attendance. Unfortunately, his absence might put him under even more suspicion, but there was no way they could prove he was guilty for a crime he didn't commit unless they wanted to scapegoat him.

Considering there were outside forces on the base to look into the murder, he doubted that was the case. They wanted to find the real guy behind this, and it wasn't him.

While he wasn't fond of cumbersome uniforms, his mentor had actually seen to that problem. A few days ago he'd found a package left in his room. Upon opening it up, he'd found a perfect sneaking suit. It was black, sleek, amazing camouflage...

And definitely better than the Russian uniform Krauss had forced on him - the one that didn't even fit. This was much more suited to him. He wasn't showing off the fact that he was an American, but he wasn't trying to be something he wasn't by bearing Russian colors, either. He would be distinguished, and while on one hand it would make him stand out, it would also make sure he blended in. Hopefully, if he continued to wear it around the base, everyone would stop taking such note of him. They would become used to his presence, which meant if he ever needed to sneak around...

He was getting ahead of himself, though - a side effect of the fact that he was starved for action or at least some sort of mission objective. He needed to find The Boss - first, to thank her for the gift (where had she even gotten it?) and second, to clear up what both her and his purpose was in being here. Had she really defected? And did she expect him to follow her in that defection so easily, to turn his back on his country? Or was there more to it than that?

Upon reaching the door to her room, he knocked and took a step back, standing proudly in the sneaking suit as he waited for her to answer.
[identity profile] major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com
SRIDA, 12 FEVRAI, 1964: 18:00 hours

[OOC: Two weeks after the first body is discovered. Ocelot is in the East Wing, walking toward the Shagohod Hangar. Anyone is free to jump in, or start coexisting threads.]


The day was nearly over, and the shadows hung long in the East Wing halls.

The Grad was industrious, striking in quartz precision like the innards of a clock. Ocelot walked in counterpoint to this timekeeping, his spurs clanking with languid haste.

The victim had just been indentified dentally as GRU Captain Mikhail Stovanovich Molokov. Or Styopa, as he'd been more commonly known around the Grad. Styopa was a handsome blond man of about thirty-two, a sometime fixture, a decent enough officer to Ocerlot's mind. He was in charge of supervising the delivery of supplies and requisitions from Moscow, and came through with the helicoptors every three months, looking staunchly official and polished within an inch of his life. He was General Olavyenko's personal attaché, and though he didn't like being reminded of it, Volgin reported, loosely, to Olavyenko.

This probably went over like a lead balloon, thought Ocelot, glad he hadn't been privy to that phone call.

No, Volgin didn't need the resources of GRU or Mother Russia. But he did need Olavyenko to keep leaving him alone in his outpost at the frontier edge of the Motherland.

Ocelot's lip twisted as he crossed the East Wing Atrium, and passed the library where scientists thumbed through books with downcast eyes.

Some sick murdering fuck. That was fucking great. The one thing Groznyj Grad didn't need another one of.

Oceelot knew Volgin wanted answers yesterday. He hadn't solved their little problem, yet. He intended to.

Lieutenant Imanov had been studying criminal psychology before he got his conscription notice. The obvious thing would be to avail himself of Ilya Piotryvich's expertise and insight by picking his brain, which Ocelot had every intention of doing.

But it was that same expertise that gave him pause. Imanov knew a little too much about the subject. Imanov had been conspicuously indisposed at the time. There was no presumption of innocence. Not here.

The previous week he'd only had a few minutes to speak with his lieutenant before Khostov had wrenched him back into quarantine with a wagging finger and a baleful glare. Ocelot hadn't mentioned the murder, but he assumed Imanov must know by now. ...If he hadn't known before.

Ilya hadn't looked good, but Ocelot knew that didn't necessarily preclude his involvement. A man could be sick in a lot of ways.

If it was Imanov, he would want to find out quick, and hush the inquiry. It would require serious disciplinary restrictions and short leash, but he didn't let his men go down easily. He wasn't going to lose his second in command over some unfortunate piece of ass, General's attache or not.

And the American.

Ocelot's eyes narrowed.

Everyone knew that Capitalist dogs were the sickest fucks of all fucks so afflicted. They'd never had a problem like this before. Never this....animal sickness.

Was it just a coincidence that the Boss showed up with her hairy, grunting lap dog, and a handsome young Russian wound up sexually tortured and violated?
[identity profile] unsurpassedjoy.livejournal.com
(Attention Cobras, Snake, and those brave enough to risk it)

Read more... )
[identity profile] parabellum-p08.livejournal.com

How entirely fucking humiliating, taking orders from a psychopath and subordinate soldier, if the cosmonaut actually qualified as soldat. Scowling, Major Krauss pulled off his ushanka, cold blue eyes following Snake across the mostly empty mess hall, just starting to fill up for dinner.

Boots clicking sharply on the concrete floor, he grabbed a tray and closed the distance between them swiftly, slipping into the seat beside the American with only a friendly smile, that hid resentment. “Comrade Vladislav sent me to keep an eye on you.” He smirked at invoking the Fury by his given name his absence. “You’re pretty obvious around here. I thought you may enjoy conversation over dinner. It is so difficult being a stranger in a strange land…”

Krauss looked the American over, no, not at all the kind of man he would typically want to have dinner with, not soft or blonde or even vaguely feminine, and the filthy spy could certainly do with a shower.

“We shall find you a suitable uniform straight away after dinner,” he offered, picking at his meal, then added thoughtfully, “and maybe a haircut too.”  Thoughtfully, he examined what they were passing off as dinner and smiled grimly.  Was that a potato, or slime mold?

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The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

December 2010

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