[identity profile] utrov.livejournal.com
If anything could be said about Captain Vasily Kirilovich Utrov, it was that he never backed down from playing along with a joke.  When the helicopter had hit a patch of rough air and his travelling companion had gotten agitated he'd wondered only half frivolously if that would be on his epitaph, but things were calmer now.  They'd reached an understanding. 

"That's right," Utrov said with affection.  "I don't bother you, and you don't kick me through the wall.  We get along just fine, eh?"

His companion snorted softly and rolled her eyes. 

She wasn't the kind of individual you expected to run into on your first day of serving as supply officer for a remote outpost.  It just went to show, you never knew.

A shift in the pitch of the cabin signaled that they were descending.  She didn't like it.  Utrov got a glimpse out the window of forest and a structure that must have had 'ominous' written on the blueprints next to the dimensions before he turned back to the primary concern.

"It's all right," he soothed, patting the 'cargo' on the shoulder.  "We'll be on the ground soon, and all you'll have to deal with is whyever the hell somebody sent for you in the first place."

She didn't find this amusing, but didn't try to bite him.  The satisfactory state of relations continued until they touched down. 

Utrov opened the door and jumped down into the sunlight, turning back to coax the other to daintily disembark.

"Somebody order a horse?"  he called.
[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] major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com
Ocelot paced and champed at the bit in the hall of the East Wing, twirling his guns and scowling at nothing.

The hall should be filling up soon.

The ALL PERSONNEL had gone out over the loudspeakers, and every unit was expected to report. He had also personally contacted his counterpart Major, his first Lieutenant, and after hesitating, sent a CODEC to Gurlukovich.

"Imanov seems to be indisposed. If he shows up with the AP bulletin, I'll have him follow me in second point. If he doesn't, Sergei, I need you."

It would be good in two ways, thought Ocelot. First, he could observe Sergei's command ability without the stomachache of putting him out front in direct conflict, and two, Sergei could be relied on.


"If Imanov shows up, I'll have him lead a second party. Either way, Serhyoza," he added, "I'll need you by my side."

As he waited for Raikov and his men to appear, he counted the diamond in the tiles with a furrowed brow.

Inwardly, he scoffed at his own impatience.

What's the hurry? Dead things tend to stay dead. Not like he's going anywhere.

How had they missed it?

Had he been selecting his victims only from non-essential personnel?

Ocelot made a short, audible noise of frustration.

If the killer had gotten ahead of them this much, he could already be selecting his next victim.
[identity profile] nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com

Nikanor Liadov:

Nika raised his head slowly, but didn't stop what he was doing.

He remained holding the cadaver bag open for an industrious Rakitin, who was cradling Molokov's severed calf like a newborn, rustling it carefully into the sack.

"Gorgeous," he replied pithily.

It wasn't unpretty. The ash and smoke had billowed, sculpted and plumed. Transforming the greenhouse into something new, a functionless sculpture.

Once it had been utility. Now it was art and form.

He wondered who he was talking to. The gravelly tone was not one he'd heard before, and he had a pretty good forensic ear and memory for voices.

"Actually, we're just removing some dead meat. Don't mind us."


"Oh, hello," Ippolit said. He waved an arm, realized it was not, strictly speaking, his, and set it in the bag Liadov was holding open while the MENT shot him a look of amused tolerance.

So the shadow shaped like a man in a space suit was, in fact, a man in a space suit. Just went to show that you never could tell.

"Sorry to bother you," he chirped. "We'll be out of here in just a minute."


"Who is it?" Liadov asked Rakitin, mildly quiet, shaking the bag lightly to settle the arm down to the bottom, the way you would when selecting new fingerling potatoes in the Petrograd harbor.

After all, they still had two legs and assorted possibly-significant ash and timbers to gather up.

Rakitin was carefully unearthing the left leg from its sooty repose, letting excess ashes fall where they could compile them, and not lose them to the wind.

The greenhouse was now undeniably open-air, and not exactly breaking the unpredictable, occasional gusts of mountain wind.

"Bruising, or charcoal?" he asked, frowning, tilting his head for a better look.
[identity profile] vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com

The Fury staggered across the roof of the armory, helmet in one hand, a half empty bottle of vodka in the other. They had been celebrating, he and the flame patrol, but he couldn’t exactly recall what the cause for celebration was.

No matter. It probably wasn’t important anyway he told himself, stepping off of the edge of the roof. He fell, until the good sense kicked in to activate his thrusters, and flames lit up the dark, cold night. The bottle of alcohol hit the concrete far below and shattered into a million pieces, but he didn’t notice.

The cosmonaut landed again on the roof of another building, though he wasn’t entirely sure what building it was. That, he laughed, wasn’t important either. He was still generally in a mood for celebration, even if the flame soldiers had drunk themselves into a complacent stupor and passed out long ago.

“Someone’s been fucking around with the gravity again.” He mumbled to himself, fighting to keep his balance on the steep slope of the roof.

The soldiers he passed earlier had not been keen on his drunken ravings about purifying the earth in flames, but that didn’t bother him either. They were simply brainwashed, and needed to be purified right along with the rest of the world. It was delightful when they went screaming into the night, flailing and on fire.

Again, he stepped off the roof, deciding that the fight against gravity was not worth fighting, and he departed for the rooftop of a building he recognized: the main radio transmission building, it was hard to miss with the massive antenna that stood behind it, stretching into the clear night sky.

He was startled to find someone else occupying the rooftop, an Ocelot soldier, he thought, though it was hard to tell in the dark. The Fury shook his head to be sure he was seeing things correctly, then gathered his composure once more, and addressed the young man. “Fucking Ocelots.  Are you the one who’s been fucking around with the gravity around here?”

[identity profile] capt-kasya.livejournal.com
[SRIDA, 29 YANVAR, 0030 hours]

[OOC: Warning, description of dead body to follow.]

Here. )
[identity profile] vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com

The greenhouse was barely visible from the roof of the East Wing -- over the hill and through the dense greenery. The Fury stood balanced precariously on the ledge like some great black vulture ready to take flight, transfixed with the small clearing in the woods.

Beside him, a single flame soldier waited in khaki drab, arms crossed over his chest, gasmask dangling limp in his hands, short platinum hair damp from the rain and clinging to his forehead. The infamous Lieutenant Io, never too far from the cosmonaut-commander.

It always rained at Groznyj Grad, but for once, the cosmonaut could find no reason for complaint. He only wanted to destroy the greenhouse, not burn all of Groznyj to the ground.

Not just yet, anyway. That was something thrilling to consider…

And besides, it was better rain than snow.

So he paced back and forth on the narrow ledge, radio clutched in one gray-gloved hand, detonator in the other. Absentmindedly, he noted that it was a very long way to the ground, nothing to worry about though, not equipped with a jet pack.

“Captain!” A voice crackled finally over the radio, “he’s got a fucking grand piano in here.” Distant sour notes soon followed, as if to illustrate the soldiers’ point.

He laughed, yes that seemed typical of Johann Krauss, sitting in his greenhouse and playing Bach or Wagner to his precious lilies, or whatever the hell it was he played all the time. “Fill it with C-4 as well,” he answered finally, “and tell Phobos to quit screwing off.”

The Fury did not wait for the reply; footsteps on the rusted metal fire escape that hung on the side of the building caught his attention, not the tell-tale heavy bootsteps of the Krasnogorje soldiers, burdened under their heavy gear -- no, someone else entirely.   GRU, perhaps.  Maybe even Ocelot himself, coming to watch the fireworks.

“We have company.” the pale Lieutenant announced, glancing at the Fury for some signal of how to precede.

“Yes.” The cosmonaut observed.

“Shall I kill them?”

“Not yet.  At least wait until they reach the top.”

[identity profile] vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com
ATTN:  Col. Volgin, whoever else wants to join...

[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?

[identity profile] capt-kasya.livejournal.com
[PANIDYELNIK, 27 YANVAR, 1964 0530 hours]

(OOC: After roll call in the courtyard, at mess. All Groznyj Grad personnel, feel free to post!)

Read more... )


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The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

December 2010

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