groznyj_grad | (no subject)

With a weary, exhausted sigh, Johann Krauss set his pen down for the millionth time that morning. It was difficult to concentrate with the cognac swimming through his veins and the thoughts swimming through his head. Every footnote, every box ticked and every line requesting his signature reminded him of Stefan, in some way.

He consciously allowed his attention to drift to the life size gilded statue by the window, delivered just three days ago. Tut-ankh-amun, the boy-king, immortalized forever in yellow gold and lapis, poised with a spear and ready to strike at the Persian cat, sleeping at its feet in the sunbeam that spilled across the carpet.

The ancient statue obtained through questionable means did bring some hint of comfort to the Major: gone, but never forgotten.

“Motte,” he called, chuckling to the unconscious feline dozing in the sun, “you’re getting fat.” His pet was as good of distraction as any, and certainly better than the vase of white lilies on the corner of his desk.

It wasn’t an insult or a threat, as he first speculated, but a offering sympathy and compassion, brought down from the Krasnogorje mountainside every morning before the dew had evaporated and left near his door. He could only wonder who left them, the cosmonaut or one of his men, but Krauss was thankful for the anonymity of his admirer. It made the gift easier to accept, and he would not ask.

The knock at the door roused him from his thoughts, and startled him so badly he nearly spilled his glass of cognac in his lap.

“Wer ist da? Come on in, it’s unlocked.”

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The German’s smirk quickly spread into uproarious laughter, morbidly inappropriate to the somber occasion. “Re--rewarded?” He gasped, barely holding back his giggles. “You have -- you really have no idea what sort of unit he’s been assigned to, do you?”

Seeing that Liadov was not amused, Krauss quickly regained his composure. “Your boy has been assigned to a flamethrower-wielding suicide squad. I wouldn’t call that a reward, by any stretch of the imagination…though he seems to have flourished.”

He shrugged a bit, dismissive. “So you see my friend, you should be swooning a bit this time. I would like to assume, so that I may sleep easier in the dark of night, that the men you send away aren’t typically trained in scorched-earth battle tactics and issued flamethrowers powerful enough to melt bullets in mid flight.”

There was something in the back of his mind that hoped Grigorev and Obruchnikov killed Liadov before the agent found the murderer. With the operative out of the way, Krauss would be free to deal with his lover’s killer in any way he saw fit, so long as no one ever found the remains.

Still, Nikanor Liadov was nice enough. It would almost be a shame to see him perish in such a terrible manner, even if it guaranteed he would never be identified even by dental records.

Krauss played with the edge of the file folders, pondering Liadov’s question. “A true lunatic never questions his lunacy. No, he believes his irrational actions and impulses are completely natural and right. It is largely a question or morality, as with Kassian Irinarhov.” He smiled slightly, glancing at the ivory box the operativnik sat upon the desk. “Ask Grigoriev, and he’ll tell you he was only cleaning the streets of human filth. That doesn’t account for the necrophilia though.”

The Major sat back and sighed. The cat had curled up on the corner of his desk, exhausted by all the excitement, and the envelopes left to him by Stefan lay unopened in a neat stack.

“You have a lot of work to do… and it would seem as though I should start making arrangements for the widow Molokova, pity the poor soul, and her darling son.” It was a hint that the guest had overstayed his welcome, and a not-so-subtle one.

Nika was almost amused at the pompous German's hubris. Like a character from a novel, this one. And utterly unaware of it.

Funny little stump-fingered man.

"Seeing as you only just told me of his presence here- no, of course I have no idea what manner of unit he's in."

And mercurial, too, Liadov noted, carefully. He had thought he could write off Krauss as a suspect from his initial impression of the man. He'd since been forced to reconsider. Someone able to turn on a ruble like that- from grateful and gracious to sinister and supercilious- was not anyone he would put above murdering an unfaithful lover. Although he doubted Krauss would have had the courage to do it himself. No, he'd have hired someone to do the dirty work, and cried when it was done.

As it was, he was hard-pressed to imagine kind, humorous Misha getting within five miles of this venomous posy- much less into his bed.

For a moment, Liadov wondered if Natasha wouldn't be better off taking her chances with Roman Olavyenko.

"You seem dissatisfied with my reaction. What would you have me say, comrade? That Grigoriev is the worst man the gulag has ever seen? That nothing and no one could ever eclipse his psychopathy, and that because someone has handed him a glorified blowtorch, he is evil incarnate and invincible?"

That was ultimate hubris.

Liadov had seen sadists who performed live surgery on children. A man who had locked a young girl in a cage in his barn, that dwarfed and distorted her body as she outgrew its confines. She'd never learned any language, and hissed and scratched whenever anyone came near her. He'd recommended her for the asylum, but he wondered privately if a bullet to the head wouldn't have been more humane.

His petty concerns with the vengeance of the guilty paled in comparison to the suffering masses.

Chest-thumping was something Nika found tiresome, especially by proxy. Krauss seemed anxious to insist that the Flame Patrol was an unchecked force, blazing a swath of destruction across Groznyj Grad as they saw fit, and that nothing anyone did could counteract that. But Volgin was no shrinking violet. How ludicrous would it be to assume that this cosmonaut and his wingnut brigade could simply trot around imposing their plans and will on every man in Groznyj Grad, while the mammoth and supercharged Colonel shrugged helplessly?

Nika was not impressed. Every sociopath was firmly convinced of his superiority. It didn't make them special. It just made them egotists without boundaries.

I should be more horrified by you, wouldn't you say, Major? Surely some of the things you got up to in the Schutzstaffel would make even Grigorev go pale with nausea.

Suddenly, all Krauss' beautiful things did little to hide the ugly underneath, and Liadov felt a repulsion unlike any he'd ever felt before.

He rose, setting his MVD cap on his head and giving a brusque nod.

"Major. Enjoy the remains of your day."

If anyone tried to interfere with his investigation, they would find themselves answering to several parties beyond himself.

“I don’t want you to say anything. There is nothing to be said.” He frowned, looking up at Liadov. “You scowl as though you think I get some sadistic pleasure from telling you these things. It was only a friendly warning.”

Krauss would have never dreamed that such a gross misuse of power as destroying his greenhouse, his life’s work, and endangering the lives of countless soldiers would go unpunished. No, rewarded, with Volgin’s stoic indifference, and the hint somewhere behind his mangled smirk that Krauss somehow, on some level, deserved everything he got, from having his beloved greenhouse blown to bits, to being humiliated in front of the whole base, to being beaten into a stupor by that nasty little bitch with the rocket launcher.

Sure, maybe he’d done a few not-so-nice things to the flame patrol, and manipulated their commander to a certain extent, but it was all a part of his job, except for the part about turning the Fury against Major Ocelot for his own personal amusement. But that was nothing personal. And even if he had said things that were unbecoming of a gentleman to the woman flame soldier, they were all true, very very true, and the dumb cunt should have taken them as a compliment, in his humble opinion.

When it got right down to it, he thought they really had no valid reason to be upset with him.

The truth was obvious though, as obvious as the hint of a smirk pulling up the corners of his lips: it did give him a sadistic enjoyment telling Liadov in the bluntest of possible ways that there was a good chance he would become human barbecue in the near future.

For some reason, the more the MDV officer spoke about Stefan, the less Krauss liked him. It was jealousy, green and vile as a festering abscess.

The German gave Liadov a little wave as he reached the door. “Viel Glück.”