Disembarkment

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Senior Lieutenant Ippolit Zosimovitch Rakitin waited in the helicopter and tried not to think about wolves.

There was an old story they used to tell, about a wolf in the sky. The gods thought they could control it, but it grew too big and it grew too fast, and ferocious things turn on their handlers. They told it the binding was only a game, but no wolf is that stupid. For collateral, a god's right hand, bold interloper rappeling into the cavern of blood-scented breath beneath stalactite incisors. And when the deal was broken and the trap revealed, there lay the forfeit, sheared off at the wrist.

The first reason Ippolit had this job was that he remembered stories.

Outside of the thin steel shell, a man's voice called to another. Distant forms were outlined against the tarmac, as though it had come down with something that made it break out in uneven splotches of humanity. Life went on, motion and action, removed by an intangible membrane from the here and now of thought and stasis.

None of the figures seemed to be moving toward where the Kamov dozed, but the rising ripples of heat made it difficult to tell.

The second reason was that he never jumped to conclusions.

"Find the murderer," General Olavyenko had said, barely looking at him as he threw down a file whose emptiness spoke volumes. He had added, with a sort of gruff magnanimity, as though he should show gratitude for being handed a valuable secret, "And keep your nose out of what doesn't concern you."

Ippolit had spent most of the time from then until he was to report here - hardly any time at all, which he tried very hard to believe was due simply to the urgency of the mission - asking questions about this Groznyj Grad.

The closest thing he had gotten to an answer was a Captain who had done nothing but laugh.

And the third, maybe the only one that mattered, was that he stuck his hand where no one else would.

Restless, Ippolit's eyes ran a thousanth lap of the Kamov's interior. The other one should have been here by now.

There was that, at least. No matter what sort of place this was, he wouldn't be going into it alone.

Or, as far as he knew, he could be walking into a den of wolves with a tiger at his back.

Ippolit waited, and tried not to think.

Comments

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Nikanor Grigoriivich Liadov was late by GRU standards, but perfectly on time by the MVD clock, which he verified with a glance at his wrist. Fifteen minutes past. That was enough, a subtle reminder at the outset that he was not working for them, but with them. Punctuality would have been subordinate.

Fifteen minutes was perfect, as truancy went.

It was a minor distinction, but he knew it was expected, and more so, his commanding Colonel had insisted upon the display.

He nodded to himself, letting the sleeve of his graphite grey wool greatcoat fall back into place and settling back into the deep black leather of the seat, glove-tipped finger absently stroking his lip as he raised his eyes to study the scene he approached.

The driver glanced over his shoulder and gave a sharp nod, as if to say 'this is your flight'. A nice formality, but not really necessary. There was only one Kamov on the helipad, and even before the driver's affirmative, Liadov was fairly sure the Kamov tolled for him.

The long, jet-black car made a long, slow circle, closing in on the helicopter, and Nika watched the sun shine off the rotors like flashing knives.

He knew it was a clandestinely conspicuous arrival, and a clichéd first impression. All post-MVD interior service officers and agents rode in sleek, anonymous coupe sedans like this one- "Black Ravens", they were called. It was an ominous symbol, associated with many things the average citizen did not want to be privy to.

They had regular drivers, lower-ranking servicemen, who were employed solely for this purpose. Informed minimally and only on a need-to-know basis. Required only to transport agents, and keep eyes adrift.

Nice work if you could get it.

Nika had always pulled heavier duty, but then, that was the price of ambition.

He steepled his fingers and mused on the nature of his career as an official passenger.

In his early twenties, he'd worked in the Militsiya as a detective- an operativnik, titularly identical to what he was now, but different, oh no question, a very different game that was-

-and he never drove himself then, either. That was because detectives weren't allowed to drive the police vehicles at all- they were either assigned patrolmen or civilian drivers to chauffer them everywhere they had to go.

He wondered how long it had been since he'd actually driven a car.

He wondered idly if it really mattered, in the final analysis, or if he was missing something fundamental to man.

(...)

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

The car drew up silently alongside, and he grasped the handle of his black portfolio case at once, tightening the belt of his long coat and snugging his gloves into place.

The uniformed kapral crossed around to open the door with a practiced efficiency, and Liadov ducked out onto the tarmac. The wind generated by the Kamov's blades was intense, buffeting his hair and shoving at the expanse of his coat.

He remained overtly unaffected, glancing at the open hatch on the helicopter. Inside, he could see the telltale olive-sage dress of a GRU administrative traveling uniform. His counterpart had arrived, then, on GRU time, as was only befitting.

Liadov was anxious to leave Moscow, now that he stood here and felt the rush of the air. Corruption was endemic, but the political vultures were circling Khruschev and it trickled down enough to make everyone's life a little more cynical. Political assassinations were the rule of the day, and largely uninspired in commission. In most cases, a good sick murder would be a refreshingly decent experience for a military detective.

In this case, it was less so- though he had conditioned himself to remain neutral and dispassionate regarding the investigation itself.

It was no secret that he'd known the victim. Truth be told, Nika suspected that was half the reason Olavyenko had insisted on a joint venture, and demanded his presence.

On a personal level, it bothered Liadov deeply that the Captain was dead. Misha Molokov had been a good friend, in the most stalwart and amenable way. Though he knew anecdotally that Molokov indulged in some interesting practices on his own time, it never entered the amicable boundaries of their camaraderie.

Styopa was, above all else, a good man.

And good men were at a premium in Russia, Nika thought, with a moment of transient bitterness.

Molokov deserved better. Lacking god-like powers of reanimation, Liadov unfortunately couldn't give him what he really deserved, but he would do as much as he could under the circumstances.

There was a small assembly of men on the tarmac that he encountered on his way to the helicopter.

He shook a few hands and clapped a few uniformed shoulders- those of GRU men he knew- contemporaries and rankmates, and then made for the Kamov, hair whipping around his face as he climbed aboard.

After a nod to the pilot, someone else he didn't know from Adam's housecat, Liadov turned his attention to the officer occupying the rear jump seat.

Nika regarded him obliquely from boots to cap, eyes slatting as they adjusted to the cavernous semidark of the Kamov's hollow cabin.

He extended a gloved hand to the man.

"I'm Nikanor Liadov, major of internal services and MVD operativnik," he said, gradually and without preamble. "You must be GRU Lieutenant Rakitin."

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Ippolit examined the man in front of him with cautious interest. Tall, handsome in an almost exaggeratedly Slavic way, hair long and well-groomed as a Persian cat's. He had the eyes of one, too.

Standing, Ippolit took his hand, shook it gravely. "Ippolit Raikitin," he said. "Science Officer."

He'd heard the car outside, the genial departure. This was, he suspected, someone who knew how to work the system.

Ippolit didn't trust initial judgements any more than he trusted anything without a basis in empirical evidence.

He'd known his name. Maybe he'd gotten answers about what they were headed into.

Better ones than muffled laughter and the occasional, "You poor bastard."

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Nika wasn't expecting the man to actually rise from his seat, but he took it in game stride, nodding once and glasping the Lieutenant's gloved hand in his own.

Raikitin was pre-possessing, if reticent. Well-groomed and well-made, but not ruthlessly bulky like a GRU mercenary or a soldier. His was an attractive face, though his expression was hard to read.

Liadov was mildly surprised at the formality of the greeting, but then he remembered that GRU was a military force in function as well as ranking. The MVD observed rank titles, but only inasmuch as a Fire Department might.

"Sorry to be late," Liadov said, with a raise of his eyebrows. "But you know how it is."

He took a seat across from the officer, but left his long grey coat on. Kamov rides could be cold, and he had no intention of arriving at Groznyj Grad in any less than an optimal state of mind.

Raikitin's expression did more to suggest he had no idea how it was, and moreover, was not particularly affronted by Liadov's lack of punctuality.

That boded well. The lieutenant did not seem like a militant personality, despite his solemn handshake.

Now that he was settled and ensconced, Nika could take an inventory of the man, and did so, setting down the black portfolio case and leaning back, chin raised in offhand assessment.

The first thing he noted was keen intelligence, a trait that was always present in the eyes, if one took the time to look.

Secondly, they were almost of a height, and his face held no intimidation, only ambivalence about the situation, which was understandable.

And third...unusual.

"Brown eyes," he said, tilting his head curiously. Not unheard of, but uncommon to find with blond hair. "What's your heritage, Lieutenant?"

Raikitin looked surprised, and he gained an almost transcendant winsomeness in that expression.

"Merely out of curiosity, comrade," added Nika quickly. "I would guess you have exotic blood, despite your ideal Soviet facade."

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

They said you could tell a lot about a person by his handshake. Ippolit did his best, but all he found out for sure was that Liadov didn't have six fingers.

As for conjecture, well....The overall impression he gave was one of unostentatious competence. Smart, and smart enough to take precautions against letting it be too obvious.

"Timing doesn't matter much to me," he said, shrugging affably as he sat down. "To tell the truth, I'm not all that eager to get where we're going. This Colonel Volgin seems to have a reputation."

Ippolit would have advised himself to use caution, if he had been the sort to ever put it away. You never knew what kind of claws people might have, hidden.

More than once, when he had first shown a predilection for this specialization, Ippolit had been warned away from it by the veterans of the field. Youth and a certain focused earnestness of expression seemed to invite dire, low-voiced asides about the sorts of things he might have to see, examine, obsess over, and how the job might finish but the memories never did. He had accepted the advice politely and continued as he was. In reality, he found it was something of a relief. Having a solid example of the worst humanity could inflict upon itself in front of him gave his imagination less to work with.

He was suprised to be asked about his heritage, and it nearly made him laugh to be decreed in possession of an "ideal Soviet facade." It might be true. Ippolit couldn't say. He would have to think about it, the next time he saw a mirror. Sometimes he nearly forgot that he had a physical appearance at all.

"Not exotic so much as strange. A great-grandfather spent some time on the Kuriles and brought back a native Ainu woman." His mouth quirked up ruefully. "A hide-wearing shaman, for all I know."

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Liadov smiled.

"Ah, that explains it," he said. "Sorry to be so forward. Little things make me curious." Nika paused, shrugged. "But if I weren't solicitous, I wouldn't be a very good operativnik. Double-edged samovars, you know, Lieutenant."

He smiled apologetically, and reached for the portfolio beside him.

"I was going to let this wait, but it occurs to me that perhaps we should exchange what relevant information we do have." Opening the case, he drew out a black file and let it rest on his lap.

"As far as Colonel Volgin goes," Nika continued mildly, pulling out a manila envelope, "I can't believe it's all true."

He looked up, smiling wryly.

"So, what do you know so far about the murder? Maybe we can fill in each other's gaps."

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Liadov's smile was surprising, in how it changed his countenance. Made him look more like a boy and less like a sulky Persian cat. Ippolit found himself wanting tentatively to like the man.

A bad sign.

"Practically nothing," Ippolit said. "Only that someone found a charred and mutilated corpse. A full background briefing isn't neccessary to take blood samples."

He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Liadov glanced at him, incredulous.

"That's not true, comrade. The pathologist needs to know as much, if not more. The whole investigation rests on your results. I'm relying on you."

He handed Raikitin the folder. It was marked with a "classified" seal.

"This is what I have. Familiarize yourself with it, at your leisure."

He shook his head, sighing ruefully, running his hand through his hair, lifting it and letting it feather slowly down through his fingers.

"God knows I won't need it. I've got it practically memorized."

Liadov leaned back, as the Lieutenant took the proffered file. He crossed his ankle over his knee and dug into his breast pocket, pulling out a small flask. He took a sip, then tossed it to Raikitin.

"Here," he said. "Helps the facts go down more smoothly."

Nika still held the envelope with the photos. One thing at a time, he thought. The pathologist would have to play catch up, but it wouldn't take him long.

He was a quick study. Liadov could tell that much.

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

"Thanks," Ippolit said, with genuine gratitude. He grabbed the flask, took a drag, and tossed it back. "I needed that."

The vodka burned through his throat as the file burned through his mind. He couldn't say which was the more numbing.

"This doesn't make sense," he muttered, thumbing through the pages. "Why would a fortress have a greenhouse?"

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Nika shrugged.

"Apparently one of the majors is a bit of an amateur botanist. As well as a bit of an amateur genetic engineer," he added cryptically. "This Krauss was a former high-ranking Nazi officer, apparently. Defected and accepted by Volgin."

Liadov paused.

"That should be in the file as well."

He didn't add how he felt about that personally. There was no need to discuss his quarter-Jewish heritage, and it was irrelevent to the investigation.

He'd always left it unmentioned- not out of any particular shame, but out of habit, as there was still a fair amount of enmity toward Russian jews, and once his half-Jewish mother had taken the name Liadova, she'd effectively deliberately whitewashed herself, adapting all remaining Russification.

In any case, as his towering father's strapping, fair Russian genetics had run rough-shod over his mother's black hair and dark amber eyes- enough so that their twin offspring looked like patrician figures from a Tsarist painting.

"FYI, that same Major, the ex-SS man..." he added, "was the regular lover of Captain Molokov."

Nika smiled grimly.

"That wasn't noted in the official documents, chuvak, but it does qualify as NTK. Obviously we need to be prepared for such dynamic contingencies."

He waited for a moment before meeting Raikitin's gaze, to see what his reaction would be to this revelation.

"...Did you know Styopa, Lieutenant?"

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Ippolit's mouth tightened with distaste. Like anyone, he'd had a few relatives lost in the Great Patriotic War. And a few that had brought back stories. He disapproved, on general priciple, of unneccesary murder, between people who had no quarrel with one another, acting as parts of a deliberate system. Barbaric.

Traitors, however, were often useful. Often interesting, as well.

Liadov's next words confirmed that theory.

Ippolit wondered if he was obliged to feign shock or disgust. He decided not to bother. He found disingeniousness as tiresome as hypocrisy, and was habitually lax about practicing both.

"That gives us a possible motive, considering the method," he said. "Your classic jilted lover scenario."

And a suspect. Not bad, for not having gotten there yet. Maybe this wouldn't go so terribly after all.

Ippolit paused.

"No, I never met him. Did you?"

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

"I knew him quite well," he said, nodding. "We attended officers' school together."

Nika paused, sighing.

"I know his wife and child."

That was another issue entirely. The widow was in isolation. Olavyenko had sent them on a vacation, to his private summer house in Krimea.

Considering what had gone on between the General and Molokov for at least five years, it was a gesture that needed to be made, and the least Olavyenko could do under the circumstances.

Even if she never knew, she deserved that much for her grief.

Liadov shook his head, as if to clear it.

"Anyhow, in my opinion, it's possible that Krauss did this, but not probable. More likely someone was trying to send him a message, or get to him through Mikhail."

Nika paused.

"Unless Krauss was the jealous type, and unaware of Olavyenko."

It couldn't be ruled out, not until he and Raikitin had a chance to collect and examine the evidence- and brace the man himself.

"I'm eager to see what kind of men we find at this frontier outpost," he mused. "If the stories are any indication..."

Nika was extremely skeptical of the anecdotes he'd heard. Unsubstantiated conjecture, and furthermore, if they were true, this would be less military base than self-run lunatic asylum.

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

"Oh," Ippolit said, eyes dropping. "I'm sorry."

A family. Damn it. Nothing ever happened to only one person.

He let it drop back to the back of his head, to join the ranks of things he tried not to think about.

At least it would have company.

"What did you hear?" Ippolit asked, to change the subject to unpleasant things that hadn't happened yet. "No one I found had much to say, and I misheard what little I did get. It sounded like something about flamethrowers."

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Liadov laughed wearily, letting his head fall back.

"Oh, let's see," he mused. "I heard things about genetically mutated experimental soldiers. I heard things about marathon and public depravity among top brass. I heard that the Colonel is a former prizefighter with a horribly scarred body who wears some kind of insulating unitard."

He shook his head, sighing. Taking another modest sip from his flask.

"As for flame-throwers, that's also included in the report. Further on. The body was discovered after the Flame Patrol Unit incinerated the greenhouse due to a ...personal grudge against the aforementioned Major Krauss."

Liadov glanced down, out the side door as he spoke.

They crested the ridge, and now they hovered above a new tarmac, high on a stony plateau.

Below it, he could see the shape of a massive stronghold in the mist of morning.

Groznyj Grad.

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Ippolit couldn't help laughing out loud.

"This world is a strange place," he explained. "Every time I think I have it outmatched, reality is always one step ahead."

He hadn't been paying much attention to the outside - sky was the same everywhere - until the other soldier's glance drew his curiosity to follow.

There it was. As though some monumental concrete troll had fallen to its knees and been sick in the jungle.

A tendril of unexpected excitement crawled up through his mind.

It was safe to assume that this wouldn't be boring.

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

The Kamov circled and hovered, touching down lightly and settling on the tarmac.

"Well," said Liadov, lightly. "We're here."

He saw balaclavaed field soldiers that had paused ther patrols, congregating in the periphery, waiting for them to disembark.

They hadn't been expected, realized Nika. Interesting.

He saw a uniformed officer marching hastily up the incline from the compound in ushanka and greatcoat, with a sergeant running along behind him, as if he'd been fetched at the helicopter's approach.

"Looks like we get a kiss at the gangplank after all," Liadov said whimsically. "Are you ready, Lieutenant? This is it."

He held out an arm as he gathered his effects, tucking the black leather portfolio under his arm and sweeping his hair back into place.

"After you, Raikitin."

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

"As ready as I'm going to get," Ippolit said, mouth twitching crookedly. "Are you?"

His eyes roved the tarmac. Hmm. So they were a surprise. Could be either a handicap or an advantage.

"To be honest," he said as he headed out the door, "if none of them are mutants with flamethrowers, I'll be a little disappointed."

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Liadov nodded solemnly, but his eyes shone.

"I know what you mean," he said.

A parody of good Sovietsky. Subtle enough not to be caught by those who took everything with the proper verbal delivery as verismo.

He didn't think Ippolit Raikitin was one of those people.

Nika swung down from the deck of the Kamov after his colleague, absently shielding his fashionably overlong hair from the windy vortex of the blades, but finding the the opposing wind here on this plateau at the top of the Urals was almost equally strong.

"Nice scenery!" he yelled conversationally to Raikitin, over the machete-like thwacking of the rotor blades. "Pastoral!"

While he was being somewhat wry, like most good rhetoric, there was truth in what he said.

The mountain crags that surrounded them on this leveled-off peak were amber and topaz in the mid-morning sun, with caps of pristine ice blue at the highest elevations. The mist was dissipating, like a fine lady's gauzy scarf inevitably and slowly unwinds from her neck after an evening at the Bolshoi and a few stiff cocktails.

Liadov watched the figure's approach, as his hand shifted duty slightly from shielding his eyes from his wayward hair to shielding them from the facing sun.

"Hey," he said suddenly, aware that what passed for a whisper under the whirring blades of a Kamov was more of a carefully directed shout. "Looks like our welcoming committee consists of the afore-aforementioned Major Krauss," he said, nudging Raikitin covertly with the elbow of his coat as he turned his body.

He opened his photofile and ran his thumb down the page as if he were checking their itinerary, or something equally banal. The progress of his thumb stopped casually at a black and white goverment press reel, cropped from a larger shot of some newsworthy occasion, and he inclined his head obliquely toward the Lieutenant.

"...What do you think?"

(http://photobucket.com)

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

It was an oddly beautiful place. Outer beauty ws often proportional to the ugliness within, but that was no reason not to give it due appreciation.

Ippolit squinted at the figure in the distance. He looked perhaps more drawn than in the photograph, and, minus the coat, slightly less like a bear someone had given an ushanka and poked with a stick.

Ippolit watched the jabbing of the German's finger and was puzzled.

"He seems...angry at me."

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Liadov closed the photofile with a small, languid click.

"Yes, he certainly does," he agreed, mildly.

He wondered what that was all about.

It vaguely occurred to Liadov that perhaps he was actually the responsible for the recognition, that the man was someone he'd helped send to GULAG. Maybe the officer had simply fixated on Raikitin erroneously.

Liadov had to admit, other than the photos he'd seen, Krauss rung no bells with him. However, that was hardly conclusive. There had been a lot of them, many reinstalled in their former positions after their tenure.

It was unlikely, he concluded.

Nika was fairly confident he would have remembered a scowling ex-Nazi with a missing finger.

Which left them still gazing at a random German, irked and gesticulating.

"I wonder if this is setting the tone for the rest of our stay."

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Ippolit listened carefully. The throb of helicopter blades was pervasive enough to make understanding anything difficult, even if it hadn't been half in German, but with the increasing volume of Krauss' shouts as an aid, he was able to pick up a few words.

"I think," Rakitin said, "he's angry that I'm not a Porsche."

He hoped the German was prepared for disappointment. Morphologically speaking, there wasn't a lot he could do about that.

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Liadov frowned.

"Do you think it's a metaphor?"

If so, he thought Raikitin had every right to be insulted.

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

“Well don’t stand around just as useless as the tits on a Berlin nun! Answer me!” Krauss glanced at Nikanor, then back to Ippolit. “Where is my Porsche? It was supposed to be delivered two days ago, and I swear to God, if you’ve scratched the paint…”

He stopped mid sentence, crossing his arms over his chest and sighing. “The owners manual, then?” The German gestured to the photo file, as if to snatch it from Liadov’s hands. “You two better have a damn good excuse as to where my car is.”

A GRU lieutenant and a MVD Major. It struck him as odd, but he dismissed the suspicion. Probably something do with importing an automobile from a foreign country, some sort of rhetorical red tape.

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

His car.

Who would have a German sports car heli-ported to the top of a mountain?

He wasn't going to argue, even though he spoke passable Swiss-German. He could have produced Olavyenko's notarized orders and letter of ultimate clearance from his breast pocket, but he never missed a chance to witness a reaction. Krauss was making moves to snatch the photofile, and if he did, that would tell Nika plenty about his unguarded mind, and his probable innocence or guilt.

Major Krauss, although clearly not a nice man, and an eccentric, did not ruffle Liadov's feathers. He'd dealt with worse officials in his time, and worked around men every bit as ruthless as the SS.

They always hung themselves, given enough rope.

Liadov smiled pleasantly, and silently offered him the file.

It might have been unethical by human standards, but it was justifiable by investigative ones.

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Obviously there was some sort of code in play here. Just as obviously, Liadov wasn't in on it either, and had his own way of playing along.

Rakitin was not above admiration for a nasty trick well-played.

He hadn't had time to do more than flip through the photographs, noting the pecurliarly gruesome state of their subject, and that they were quite large. Well-lit. Excellent visibility of detail.

It looked like this Krauss was about to run afoul of a brother to that oldest of rules:

Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to.

Rakitin kept a straight face.

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

There was something about the lieutenant’s smile that Krauss did not like. It was the smile of self-satisfaction, and Johann knew it well. Raising an eyebrow, he took the file, slowly and deliberately.

Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to stroke the bastard’s ego.

Returning the smile, he stroked the edge of the manila envelope with the remaining stump of his missing middle finger, a gesture that typically made people squirm.

“Splendid.” He grinned widely, nodding. “I shall have a glance over the paperwork and owners manual in the comforts of my office.”

Krauss tipped his ushanka to the soldiers, keeping the file folder close, and turned to leave. His instincts told him something was wrong, very wrong with the situation.
Volgin needed to know, immediately. The threat went far beyond a simple security breech, even if the men wore standard issue uniforms. Those were the most dangerous sorts.

“I guess the car should be along in a few days then. You know how disorganized they are in West Germany, since the Americans took over. A few days, that is wonderful too.” Krauss gave a brief salute and began backing away. “Auf Weidersehn, mein kameraden.”

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

So the German wasn't so easy to trick. Good to know.

Inevitably, Ippolit felt a pang of guilt, and an unexpected touch of sympathy for the man. Confronting someone with the brutalized corpse of his ex-lover, not as a moment of shock, but to be long perused in quiet and isolation, felt less funny with each passing second.

When he tapped the file, something drew Ippolit's eye. His finger. It ended prematurely, extending only in the sense of a blank space that expectation conspired to fill. Ippolit watched with interest. Now that he thought of it, the entire balance of Krauss' hand was affected by it. His movements were arabesques of compensation, likely long delegated to the subconscious. Ippolit wondered how long it took to regain dexterity, after an injury like that. Guns, of course, would present a perhaps irreconcilable difficulty, but otherwise... the brain was an amazingly adaptive device. It was an old injury, and an unusual one.

Ippolit kept his fascination discreet. It wouldn't do to already further offend their ertswhile host.

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

"Tchuss," replied Nika, with a wry smile.

The old sybarite was cagey, just like one might expect from a Nazi and a turncoat.

"...Oh, one thing, Major Krauss, if you would. We have no escort, apparently, if you are not our contact."

He glanced at his watch briefly.

"I can only suspect the General took a late mistress and a late morning, and neglected to presage our arrival in any way. Is there anyone who can take us around the Grad?"

Liadov nodded sharply.

"I would like to start as soon as possible. And I'm sure the Lieutenant feels the same."

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

It was too much to hope for that the strangers would be on their way peacefully. He had been prepared to leave them to the soldiers field unit, uselessly congregated in a semicircle and gawking, some scratching their heads.

Being called by name sent chills up and down his spine. He heard the rumors well enough, about German defectors being dragged away from their posts and tried for fictitious war crimes. They were never heard from again.

“What? How did you know my name? What are you talking about?” Instinctively, a hand went to the pistol on his left hip, but he did not pull the old Luger from its leather holster, not just yet. “Identify yourselves this instant! That is a direct order!”

Without paperwork with the right signatures stating otherwise, it would be easy to assume the men were spies in officers’ clothing. Any unauthorized intruders were to be shot on sight, by direct order of Colonel Volgin, and their very presence on the dark gray tarmac was reason enough.

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Krauss had no authority to order an MVD officer of Major class, or a GRU Lieutenant under Olavyenko's charge, even though he technically outranked Raikitin.

But that didn't matter to Nika. Rank meant nothing to the consul, or the ministry of internal affairs. There was no point of pride to hold to or argue.

Liadov turned his palms up, slightly, placatingly, meeting the Major's eyes with a mild, steady expression.

"Johann Krauss, I am Nikanor Grigoriivich Liadov, MVD operativnik and Major of the Internal Service, and this," he tilted his head lightly to the right, "is Lieutenant Ippolit Raikitin, forensic science expert, of the GRU in Moscva."

He paused to see the German nod, as realization lit behind his eyes, and urge him on with a tight-jawed flick of his head.

He angled his chest, pushing his shoulder forward slightly.

"Inside the left breast pocket of my coat, Major, you will find notarized orders direct from General Olavyenko, signed in cooperation by my MVD supervisor."

He glanced at Raikitin, offering a reassuring smile.

Then he turned back to Krauss.

"You may retrieve them yourself, Major, if you wish, and satisfy your concerns."

The wind blew waves through the soft grey fur of Nika's greatcoat, which had a generous shawl collar to combat the cold. He would have reached for the papers himself, but he didn't yet trust Krauss' paranoia.

"We're here on assignment, to investigate the rape and murder of GRU Major Mikhail Molokov."

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

A knot of chill scratched like an irresolute weasel at the pit of Ippolit's stomach. In a normal situation, strangers in uniform would be regarded with curiosity, or at worst irritation. Not the clear desire to hold them at gunpoint.

At least this satisfied his curiosity about which hand the German shot with.

The worst thing about paranoia, Rakitin had found, was how often it turned out to be justified.

If this Major was any indication, and not merely an anomaly, there was something going on beneath the surface of Groznyj Grad.

Of course, there could be a perfectly obvious explanation. It could be merely that finding a mutilated corpse on the grounds had set them all on edge.

Rakitin didn't think so.

Ippolit wasn't the sort to open his mouth if he could help it, in any sort of official capacity. There was an intricacy to this kind of interaction that his eyes could never quite follow. Whenever he tried to devote his attention to the concept of pecking order, his mind took it at a literalist slant and became a Gogolian henhouse for the next half hour. Fortunately, his area of expertise bought him some degree of leeway. Scientists were all strange.

It didn't help that people smiling at him like that made Ippolit very, very nervous.

"We need to see the Colonel as soon as possible," he broke in. "Can you tell us where he is right now?"

It came out somewhat more smoothly than "I'm anxious to start poking around and find out which one of you is a sadistic, murderous psychopath" might have.

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

The Major’s expression softened, and he slowly withdrew his hand from the handle of his pistol. Without a word, he opened the file just enough to see the burned out remains of his greenhouse, the place where the similarly charred remains of one of his dearest lovers were found. He forced his eyes shut, and similarly closed the file again, literally throwing it back at Liadov.

“Whoever did this to Stefan should pray to whatever God he believes in that you gentlemen find him first.” He opened his eyes, and there was a definite bitter lust for revenge that dwelt there behind the pale firmament blue. Krauss would not elaborate, not in front of strangers, on what he planned to do, but it involved liberal use of the torture chamber, a tasty mushroom sauce with celery, cutting off and flambéing the murderer’s weichteile.

“Do forgive me, for my harsh greeting. A man such as myself… I cannot be too cautious. I have plenty of enemies in this glorious country, who hate me for no other reason beyond by origins. But if you are here to investigate the murder of my dear comrade Molokov, then you are a comrade of mine.”

Krauss smiled, tucking his hands into his pockets. The wool greatcoat was a good deal warmer than the mink fur that he had become accustomed to, he noted, but it won no awards for style.

“I still believe the flame patrol or their commander had something to do with this… to hurt me… but then again, a man such as myself cannot be too paranoid, either. Trust me, and read their files.”

The German fidgeted with his pocket watch; he had stared at the file for hours, Dmitry Grigoriev, code named Deimos, left dead whores all over Moscow. Pieces of dead whores, more accurately, with white lilies tucked between their cold, ashen lips.

“The Colonel will see you right away, if you will come with me.” Krauss nodded, and motioned for the officers to follow. Volgin may have had other plans, and he would not be pleased at all with the interference, but Johann didn’t especially care.

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Ippolit filed the man's advice into his mind. Likely either delusion, a grudge, or a deliberate false trail, but a lie was only another kind of information.

"Yes," Rakitin said, nodding, to the Major's offer of guidance. "We would appreciate that."

He was anxious to begin, to bury his fear and unease at the strange place and stranger people in the known quantity of bloodwork and stable chemicals. Still he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering to the horizon of the vast tarmac, where several tanks stood, along with what appeared at this distance to be a large crowd of people.

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Liadov understood Krauss's sudden change of heart, being aware of the additional apocryphal HUMINT the file did not contain.

He was suffering over Molokov, it was clear enough. Nika struck the folder under his arm and drew himself up once more, addressing Krauss with the lateral respect of a co-ranked officer.

"We appreciate your hospitality, Major. We hope we can resolve this situation quickly, with no more useless pain for anyone involved."

As the descended the sloped and winding path down to the fortress, Liadov studied the German obliquely.

He was well-kempt, precise.

His fingernails had been manicured; buffed to a high shine.

"I knew the Captain," Nika said, quietly. "We were comrades in officer training. He was an upstanding man and a fantastic soldier."

Liadov remembered how Mikhail had been- a romantic, and an artist, apart from a soldier. A good friend, and he assumed, glancing covertly at Krauss, an equally good lover.

"He had just been awarded a second Hero of the Soviet Union medal, which I assume his wife will receive now."

Nika frowned, shaking his head.

"Whoever did this, I will make them pay in physical currency before they are executed."

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

Typically, Johann Krauss waited for all helicopters and supply planes in a small aircraft hangar situated a few hundred meters from the end of the runway. He waited patiently most days, to receive his contraband packages before the common soldiers found them. He also waited for Stefan, but knew there would be no Captain Molokov, stepping down from the helicopter, all smiles and greetings. The would never be a Captain Molokov, ever again.

He wasn’t even allowed leave to attend the funeral in Moscow.

It was easier to think about what things the Kamov carried; a supply helicopter that was not on any schedule, he could not find any official paperwork detailing its delivery or arrival.


He hurried along across the tarmac, pulling his ushanka down to keep the wind from the helicopter blades from blowing it away.

Krauss nodded to the men stepping out onto the runway, but said nothing. There was nothing to say to absolute strangers, and he as in no mood to make friends. Instead, he peered into the open door of the Kamov. His heart sank when he scanned the interior, and found it entirely empty.

No bright red 9-11 with a full leather interior delivered straight from the Stuttgart factory to his doorstep, as he had been promised.

Frowning, he glared at one of the men standing idly by. Useless pretty soldiers, faces marked by obvious confusion. “Wo ist meinen Porsche?” He demanded, pointing at Ratikin with an accusing scowl.

[raidenovitch.livejournal.com]

Not too far away, every man on current shift in Groznyj Grad stood assembled in the courtyard, holding dutiful and reluctant salute for a clearly pleased Major Raikov.

He wasn't smiling, but it was still obvious: he was perched loftily on the roof of a tank. It meant he had some sort of plan for them. Most of them guessed someone's crotch was going to be sacrificed in lieu of group punishment for some misdeed that had hit a nerve with the Major.

Matvei, in particular, was incredibly nervous, having a bad feeling he was going to have a tape thievery attributed to him. And he didn't even do it.

... he just happened to find out its existence from a casual chat with one of the investigational squad. He would've been hung out to dry by his fellows if he hadn't then managed to snag it - but it also meant he was able to say, I told you so. He was mentally re-evaluating whether it was worth it or not if his balls were about to be reshaped.

Raikov had other plans, however. Ocelot had been... a great source of inspiration, and he had been deprived of his terrorising duties recently, mostly confined to his office for paperwork. Paperwork on their resident lunatic killer.

Besides, he thought, this serves a practical purpose. Scare the fucker out of hiding.

When the yard had become suitably silent - somewhere, much to Raikov's annoyance, helicopter noise was preventing him from beginning - he stood, and looked down upon a little sea of green, with a small discolouration of Ocelotdom.

"At ease," Raikov drawled, relieving their arms. He kept his smile well-hidden, and raised his notes. "Straight to the point, gentlemen: regarding the recent murder on base. There are currently any number of suspects, and I intend to narrow our fields of inquiry. A spot-check, based on our current information of our killer's profile. After all, no-one here should have anything to hide."

The tiniest little bit of smile crept through. Could he be blamed for getting a little bit of a sadistic kick out of this, even if there was a sketchily genuine ulterior motive?

"... underneath your uniform," he said with finality. "Jodphurs down, all. That's an order."

[krasnogorje.livejournal.com]

“This is what he called us out to the yard after mess for?” Deimos hissed, glaring daggers at Io. “To have a look at our equipment under a telescope? Fuck him and his mother, and fuck his sister on his grandmother’s grave. I have a perfectly good hangover to go sleep off.”

The flame patrol lieutenant only shrugged a bit under the weight of his flamethrower. It was a gesture of apathy that could have easily been mistaken for simply readjusting the heavy fuel canisters. “I sincerely believe that our endearment to a certain cosmonaut may exempt all of us from this pointless exercise… however…” Io paused, smiling thoughtfully as Raikov’s icy glare settled on the pair of soldiers from the ever-insubordinate Krasnogorje patrol. “However, this situation does have potential…”

The two flame soldiers exchanged glances; Io, with a feral smile that barely hid his intentions, and Deimos, apprehensive and distant as always.

“Be a darling, Dmitry, and hold my gasmask.”

“What are you going to do?” The ebony haired soldier asked, a dark eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

Io’s smile widened. “It is a classic case, as the Captain described, of dominance through humiliation. Take away the shame, and there is no control.”

Deimos considered the lesson in psychology for a moment, before taking the lieutenant’s mask and gloves, and helping him out of his flamethrower harness. “That didn’t answer my question.”

“Well… I intend to…oh, just watch.” He replied, breaking rank and starting towards the slumbering olive drab T-10 tank that Ivan stood atop, surveying the commoners like some arrogant prince in a fairytale. The lieutenant picked his way through the crowd, pushing past soldiers who exchanged bewildered and mortified glances at the idea of dropping their jodphurs in front of Major Raikov.

Io climbed up onto the treads of the massive tank and briefly saluted the scowling Raidenovitch. Obediently, the flame soldier unzipped his jumpsuit, the deep pink scars across his chest and stomach obvious in the bright morning light. He stared to laugh hysterically as he pulled his cock free, waggling it in Raikov’s general direction, shrieking, making sounds like a police siren and flailing around in some ridiculous impromptu dance on the treads of the tank.

Briefly, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd of onlookers, some smirking, some snickering, trying not to laugh, others entirely horrified at the scene.

Then, the Krasnogorje lieutenant looked back at Raikov, and shook his prick at the Major one last time, for good measure. “On with it, Ivanko! It’s not going to suck itself!”

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

That had been a very poor move on the flame soldier's part.

From his seat on the adjacent tank, Ocelot smirked and crossed his arms.

"I had no idea you collected miniatures, Raikov."

Many a brazen idiot had made the same mistake, taking Ivan for some kind of functionless doll in soldier drag.

Ocelot had no intention of interfering unless Raikov required it. The Major was entirely capable of dealing with unsavory advances from undesirables.

Adam realized he was going to enjoy seeing the seedy little loony get a dose of pretty-boy humility. He leaned back against the turret, watching with cynical amusement, ready to come to his comrade major's aid, if needed.

"As you know, I've got a very itchy trigger," he called, wryly, clicking back the hammer. "He's already a few inches shy of a flute. Say the word and he'll be packing a whistle."

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

In his time, The Sorrow had encountered a great variety of souls. Some afraid, some serene; some raging, some resigned. Some few had expressed only the concern that the afterlife seemed terribly boring.

The Sorrow sometimes wondered what it would be like to be one of those.

If someone with very special, specific sensitivities had carefully surveyed the courtyard that morning, he might have wondered at the man standing at the sidelines, clad in monochrome camoflague, putting a hand over his eyes and slowly shaking his head.

But really, there was no reason to despair. In a moment, he might have a new friend.

[raidenovitch.livejournal.com]

Raikov had watched, eyebrow raised, as someone fought their way to the front, recognisably from the flame patrol. They didn't come that ugly in regular GRU.

He decided, despite all the threats and resentment they held for him, that the approaching soldier was not about to assassinate him. The Fury, from what he could tell, handpicked his squad for their battle-rage and insanity, but not for wastefully suicidal idiocy.

He frowned as the man clambered up onto the tank. Idiocy, nonetheless, he thought.

He remained as he was. Perhaps some years ago he might've shown a flicker of fear, but he was hardly scared of a match flame when he frequently saw the eye of a supernatural storm.

He somehow managed to maintain his sense of propriety and not outright laugh at the man, dancing around as though half-feral with his dick hanging out. Like some shaman in a faraway tribe as in some ritual.

Raikov could have made him sorely regret thrusting his vulnerable areas at him, but he didn't fancy giving an attention-seeking nutjob any chance of a dramatic performance.

Instead, he watched, silently, as were the rest of the soldiers, expressionless.

But all he was seeking was the right moment - and it came. One hard, swift kick, and Io had lost his balance, disappearing off the front of the tank. Raikov's eyes did not follow the progress, but he heard the soft thud as the man hit the dirt below.

He gazed at the soldiers waiting below, various expressions amongst them. "I'd hope in a real battle situation, your reflexes would be better," he remarked. "Major Ocelot could have probably have shot the lot of you in the time your mouths were open."

He smiled pleasantly, and resumed his previous position as though nothing had happened, although not before tossing Ocelot a look of his appreciation.

"As reassurance, I'm only after one thing, and fortunately for the lot of you, it's just your briefs. If you chose not to wear them, then you should obey uniform regulations, or you should already be shameless enough not to complain."

He quirked an eyebrow to Ocelot, a little surprised to see him here at all - underwear having been thorougly examined under another context, he was definitely exempt. Still, it made sense Adamska might turn up; he seemed to suffer the occasional stab paternal instinct to look after his little flock.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

The reprieve had been momentary, and Raikov was now standing exactly as before, arms crossed over his uniform jacket, legs apace like Hannibal conquering Carthage.

It ruffled few soldiers to see a cock yanked out and brandished, and yet less to see Major Raikov kick a man off a tank. And the Flame Patrol was predictably unpredictable.

The Major gave the order again, as if nothing had happened. Strip for inspection. Breeches down- no- better yet, everything off. Let's be sure you're not hiding anything.

Andrei glanced at Ocelot, who was looking vastly amused, casually sprawled on the gun turret of another tank in the periphery. He was toying idly with his gun and smirking. He had no intentions of raining on the Major's parade.

Isaev laughed silently to himself.

Nothing to do now but shed their crisp uniforms in the midday chill.

He kept his eyes straight ahead as he began to dismantle his red and black field patrol ensemble, beginning with the beret and holster.

Andrei was actually glad to be occupied, no matter the activity.

Compared to the fact that right beside him Kassian Irinarhov was standing at attention between himself and Ilya Imanov, getting naked in the artillery yard seemed like a minor point.

Below the tank, the Flame Soldier lay giggling in the dust.

[charushkin.livejournal.com]

"I think Raikov has been corrupting our commander too much," Matvei grumbled under his breath, from a row behind.

Just because it wasn't him singled out, it didn't mean he felt relieved. There was something unsettling about being at the pick-and-mix mercy of Major Raikov's unpredictable and verocious appetite.

It didn't help that he had to stand next to Borishnakov, whom Raikov had a special interest in, and that might bring his eyes too close to Matvei for his liking.

All-in-all, this was not going to be something he would put in his next letter.

[krasnogorje.livejournal.com]

Io could only lay there and laugh as the stars danced around before his pale blue eyes -- flashes of pink, orange, yellow in rapid secession. As the fireworks subsided, he realized that he was still lying on his back in the main plaza, with his jumpsuit unzipped far into the realm of indecency.

With a groan, he sat up and began fumbling with the zipper. Several GRU soldiers had paused in their ordered striptease to stare, and he only smiled at them, as though exposing oneself to a superior officer and getting kicked off a tank were routine occurrences.

The Fury had done far worse. Raikov's attack wouldn't even leave a bragging scar.

Io stood, and felt overwhelmingly, entirely lost in the sea of black and red Ocelot soldiers, and their camouflaged GRU counterparts. The flame soldier looked around, dusting off the front of his khaki uniform until he saw Deimos, standing at the edge of the crowd, shaking his head and trying to hide a smirk.

“Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow!” The lieutenant called out to Raikov, waving and taking a bow, “that I shall say good night ‘till it be morrow.” As a final taunting insult, he blew a kiss to the Major, turned, and retreated through the crowd just as quickly as he had appeared.

“You plan…” Deimos intoned, “was to get kicked in the chest by a fucking fruit who’s too pretty for his own good?”

Io only laughed at the other flame soldier. “It’s art for art’s sake. You wouldn’t understand, comrade.”

“No,” the dark haired soldier answered as they walked, “and I don’t want to.”

[heartofthunder.livejournal.com]

Volgin strolled into the courtyard.

He actually enjoyed attending roll call from time to time. Volgin liked seeing all the men in their uniforms standing at attention in straight rows. It reminded him of the greatness of Russia, of order and proper military might.

He also liked watching Ivan with his men. He liked the coolly detached confidence Ivan displayed, the unshakable aplomb.

Ivan gave orders extraordinarily well, Volgin thought. Volgin could picture Ivan in perhaps twenty of thirty years wearing the stars and golden shoulderboards of a general, and still just as handsome as he was now.

And if all Volgin had worked for came to pass, Vanya would be a general; Volgin would make sure of it.

He spotted Ivan on top of a tank. His first instinct was to chide Ivan for parading about on the undoubtedly ice-slickened metal where it was dangerous, but he held back his concern. It wouldn't do to fuss over Ivan while he -

Volgin suddenly blinked, and came to a halt.

He stared at the gathered group of soldiers, all of whom were taking their uniforms off, apparently stripping to the buff at Ivan's command.

Volgin felt so nonplussed he didn't even have the presence of mind to leer.

"Er...Major Raikov," he said, formally, surveying the disrobing GRU and Ocelots. "What's going on?"

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

When Liadov's tone dropped to the level of a clearly private discussion, Rakitin politely averted his attention. It wasn't hard to find something to focus on. Something in the deportment of the crowd in the distance suggested they were up to something.

The breeze shifted, carrying a voice with, though the words were unclear, the unmistakable inflection of command.

Indeed, the rank and file moved, though oddly reluctantly. Perhaps discipline was not so strictly enforced as---

Or not.

Ippolit's eyes widened.

"Um," he said urgently, not moving his gaze, for fear that it was an illusion that would disappate as soon as he looked away and people who hallucinate this sort of thing probably get sent to one of those places you never hear about because nobody comes back and even if they did it wouldn't matter because their brains were kept pickled in a jar somewhere, "Major?"

Without waiting for an answer, Ippolit took one step forward. Then another.

Then he abandoned himself and was drawn to it, a hapless iron filing to the lodestone of Weird.

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

"Did you say something, Raikitin?"

Liadov looked up, blase.

And the look stuck, and changed, very slowly.

The yard was full of soldiers- at least 600 strong. And to a man, they were standing erect and at attention, which was what Nika would have expected of a morning roster call for Spetsnaz GRU...

Except that they were not exactly dressed for the occasion.

Or...any occasion, really, short of an calisthenic orgy.

"I stand corrected, Lieutenant, on the rumors," Liadov said eventually, unable to look away. "I'll buy you a drink."

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

There are some natural truths that filter through the collective unconscious, accepted verbatim amongst mankind while never put into words.

One of these is that, in the land of the half-naked, the man wearing pants is probably in charge.

Men, rather. Ippolit could see two from here, both standing on top of tanks. The nearer was a silver-haired man, who, judging by the inordinately pleased look on his somehow alarmingly pretty face, was most likely responsible. His attention seemed to be occupied by someone on the other side of the tank.

"Should we ask?" Ippolit said to Liadov, without looking away. "I don't know if I want to ask."

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Nika frowned.

He was conflicted.

As an MVD interrogator, he was inured to terror, and had learned to ask every question possible.

On the other hand, those scenarios rarely involved group homocentric nudity.

Sometimes asking questions was a good way to learn things you could have happily lived out your days without knowing.

"My mind says yes," he murmured, hesitantly. "But my karma tells me no."

[raidenovitch.livejournal.com]

Raikov turned around at a familiar voice, and his smile, for a moment, seemed lighter, genuine.

"Colonel," he acknowledged, with a salute.

He didn't seem remarkably bothered to be caught with half-a-thousand of soldiers with their pants down.

"Tracking down our killer. It seemed like a good way to get... a good view of our suspects. As we know the... preferences of the murderer."

Best not to give it all away, although he was certain most of them already had a good idea about what this was for. Which probably rendered the whole exercise useless, but Raikov was not about to let facts get in the way of a little good-spirited power abuse.

"You must admit, this could eliminate a large spectrum at once," Raikov continued, "And you know I've been working on a lot of paperwork." He smiled, hammering the nail home, measuring his voice carefully: "And this would... free up a lot of my time that's been lost in this whole, uncomfortable mess."

Raikov suddenly noticed something, and frowned. People in the distance, and definitely clothed. "Did someone fail to attend?" he asked, gesturing with a nod, looking at Volgin.