The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

It was forty-seven past the hour when Johann Krauss finally appeared in the East Wing, gray wolf skin coat all pulled up around him, adding an undue air of royalty to his presence with a high fur collar and oversized cuffs.

He was starting to feel like himself again though more bitter and ruthless; a knife sharpened against an unyielding stone of grief.

Krauss had immediately known the reason for the meeting, with nauseating dread that turned his stomach over and over and made his heart skip a beat. It wasn’t what Adamska said on the intercom, it was what he didn’t say. The old German was adept at picking up the small things, the little waivers of voice, the silences where there should have been something else. Reading between the lines was his specialty.

There was no reason to hurry, and he wasn’t even sure that he would report at all. Only Volgin would question his absence, and the Colonel had been too busy to notice much of anything. It would have been easy to make up a million lies for his absence, but something willed him to move from his comfortable bed, chase Motte from his neatly folded pile of clothes, and join the rest of the world in the main hall.

So he sauntered through the crowd languidly, in his characteristic limp, taking his own sweet time. The Major nodded to greetings from GRU soldiers, not because he felt social, but it was required and expected.

Johann raised his head and smiled to Raikov, though he felt a twinge of resentment nagging at him. Second best, again, and Volgin’s precious Vanya was left in charge, pacing back and forth and pretty even though he scowled.

“Smile, liebste Brüderlein.” He encouraged, interlacing his fingers behind his back, straightening his posture. Molokov always said the gesture made him look just like Erwin Rommel in the text books, and he wasn’t sure why he thought of it. “It will make people wonder what you’re thinking of.”

From:

Their little search party re-entered the East Wing less like a funeral possession than a blatnoy mob, eyes that wandered and shifted with thought, arms crossed or settled over weapons.

Mouths drawn in resignation or pursed in grim contemplation.

Liadov was obliquely watching the mannerisms of the others, partly out of genuine inspectorial curiosity- partly because it kept him from ruminating about the poor mechanic's fate away from the murder site and before all the evidence was established.

He needed to keep fresh, to think.

Round and round
and round and round
and round and round we go

Round and round the table, the table in the nursery.

Liadov wondered if he still knew the whole poem.

His eyes drifted upward, passing over Major Krauss and Major Raikov, watching the German's odd mannerisms and ramrod posture, watching the young Major's petulant expression and shifting stance.

Impatient...

Or interrupted, thought Nika, mildly amused.

Even though they were inside now, Liadov kept his greatcoat buttoned up, and his arms crossed over it. He noticed the others were doing the same, and assumed it was because the situation seemed to call for the gravitas of full dress.

It was not a shirtsleeve occasion.

Rakitin had sent the limbs to the lab in a cooler on pack. He assured Liadov that they would be fine, what, was he worried they might....walk away?

Nika smiled vaguely, rubbing his temple absently with one gloved hand.

A debriefing of the key figures was about to begin in the war room. He hoped it would shed some sense of urgency on this irrational wasteland in the East.

With luck.

From:

Rakitin walked beside Liadov, brushing sand out of the clicking gears in his mind.

They were missing too many pieces.

Well, not literally. Anymore. Not since the Ocelots had found the severed limbs making a miniature pyramid in the natural tomb.

As if waiting.

Rakitin didn't like the feeling of being led around by the nose. It made the backs of his eyes itch.

For now, there was nothing to be done but to attend to the basics. The logic of any structure; form the foundation, and the shape of the next stage will naturally follow.

It was necessary to believe that. At least for now.

They were missing too much crucial data for conjecture to be of any use.

Ippolit spotted somehow who might be able to assist with that.

"Major Raikov," he said as they approached. The thinning of the Major's mouth and anger glittering in his cold eyes revealed that he had already heard of the second corpse. He was in charge of the interior guards; he should be able to set them in the right direction. "The corpse has been tentatively identified as belonging to a mechanic. Can you provide confirmation, or a name?"

From:

Nika hastily put his arm around Rakitin's shoulders in a comradely way and steered him off his path, circling them widely back toward the fold.

"Lieutenant, you can poke Major Raikov later...provided someone's not already poking him. Right now I need you....over here."

Rakitin shot him a look, incredulous and questioning, and the man had a drive in his eyes Liadov had missed somehow before.

He lowered his voice, intimately, companionably, as he strolled them a slight distance away.

"Good instincts. I knew you had them the first time I saw you interrogate." Nika laughed quietly. "I think Raikov might have been slipping the kid his legacy too. But let's wait a moment, comrade, until the Major recovers from his...golubaya balls. He'll be more forthcoming and less likely to strike out in compensation."

He smiled and faced the pathologist, patting him on the shoulders, brushing imaginary dust from his barred rank insignia.

"You'd like to keep your yarbles," he sad solemnly. "Wouldn't you."

From:

Rakitin let Liadov lead him away, frowning in confusion for a moment before he understood.

"Right," he said, smiling sheepishly, relieved and grateful that he had been spared the fallout of his faux pas. "Not the best time to bring up that the victim was under his command's protection."

He glanced up at the assemblage. Now that he took a step back from singleminded pursuit of information, he realized that everyone was giving the Major a wide berth - everyone, that was, except for the German, and his was hardly an example to follow.

And that Nika had his hands on his shoulders.

Ippolit scanned the ranks. "Can you think of anyone else here who would have known him?"

From:

Liadov frowned, squeezing the Lieutenant's shoulders absently a few times as he scanned the room.

"Well," he said. "Volgin said he would call all the mechanics in. And he wanted to speak with us, remember?"

His voice dipped, became almost soothing, his fingers reassuring in a near-massage.

Since he'd learned about the pathologist's murdered sister, he'd gained a new empathy for Rakitin's position in this investigation.

"Why don't we see what the Colonel has to say?"

From:

With great effort and concentration, Ippolit did not swallow his tongue.

They had to go speak with the Colonel.

And Nika was still touching him.

He was just being friendly. Reassuring. He wasn't intentionally throwing every switch in Polya's head to Panic.

Ippolit was adept at operating beneath notice, like a blue-bellied lizard perched comfortably on the bottom side of a tree branch. Simple human gestures sent him scuttling for the shelter of a rock somewhre.

Right now, there were more important things.

"Right," Rakitin said, nodding. "We...we should do that."

From:

"Yes," said Liadov, studying him carefully, "Yes, we should do that."

He frowned.

"Are you feeling all right, Lieutenant?"

He laid the back of his hand over Rakitin's brow, as if checking for fever.

"You seem...a little out of sorts."

From:

"Da," Ippolit said, holding himself very still and suppressing the instinct to back away until he left a MENT-shaped hole in the wall. "I mean, nyet. Nothing's wrong."

Except that a casual, innocent contact that felt far nicer than it had any right to had him staring like a deer in a searchlight.

And that the only change of subject that presented itself was the neccessity of reporting to the Colonel, and that didn't help at all.

Scylla and fucking Charybdis.

From:

"All right," said Nika, nodding, stepping back. "Let me know if you need to lie down for a while. You seem fatigued. Sometimes the best way to rejuvenate is just to get horizontal for a while."

He left off his scrutiny of the Lieutenant with a light false punch to his chin and a smile.

"Where the hell is Volgin, anyway?"

He watched Ocelot, pacing, looking grave. The Major reached for a passing GRU soldier and hissed something in his ear.

The soldier nodded and saluted.

Not one of his own.

But one that was available immediately, as his own men had been dismissed to their barracks, with the exception of Imanov and the sniper.

They lingered unobtrusively, but kept a tetrarchical bead trained on both he and Rakitin.

If they split company, he had no doubt they would each gain a second shadow.

From:

Rakitin let his breath out silently. Liadov had been teasing him. That was all. That made sense.

"Just a long night," he said, smiling crookedly.

He glanced over the heads of the others.

"That's odd," he said, catching no glimpse of the familiar looming form. "You'd think the Colonel would be the first here, and he doesn't exactly blend into a crowd."

From:

heartofthunder.livejournal.com

Volgin arrived in the East Wing, scowling, sparks crackling in his wake.

The nearby GRU recoiled, stepping away quickly. One even raised his palms, as if in surrender.

Gritting his teeth, Volgin paused, and took in a deep breath. Electricity crackled once more as if in protest, then dissipated.

"I'm here," he announced.

Automatically, his gaze searched out Ivan, spotting him after a moment. There, talking to Krauss, still looking somewhat petulant. Ivan hadn't been pleased when they had to disengage so suddenly.

Volgin hadn't been particularly pleased, himself.

He frowned, but turned to Liadov and Rakitin, and nodded briskly.

"In the war room," he said. "I want a briefing on what you've found out."

And then afterward, they would need to be debriefed on what they'd found out, specifically, about the Shagohod. Liadov, Volgin didn't worry about much. He'd demonstrated a certain willingness to overlook non-relevant issues. Volgin appreciated that in an officer.

It was the other one, the squirrely one, that concerned Volgin. Lieutenant Rakitin was too quiet for his liking. You never knew what was going on in the mind of a man like that.

Volgin caught Ocelot's eye as well. He would need to talk to Adamska about the Boss' protege. Yet another concern.

Well. It was best to get started as soon as possible, then. Maybe somehow the night could be salvaged, but he doubted it.

Volgin led the way into the war room.

From:

raidenovitch.livejournal.com

Fucking Krauss, was waffling at him about something, and if Ivan had punched, he'd have just hit that ugly fur coat of his.

God, where was The Fury to set things on fire when you actually needed him?

He saw Volgin come behind the returning group, but his path was blocked by one of the investigators - whose life was barely saved by his companion, who had apparantly noticed the glow in his eyes - and then found himself cut off by mulling Ocelots.

And Adamska wouldn't forgive him for damaging any of them without good cause.

He watched, aching in other places as Volgin disappeared from view.

His eyes very automatically switched onto Ocelot. Krauss may as well have ceased to exist.

With a stride that suggested trouble if no one moved out of his way, Raikov closed in on him with intent.

From:

Kassian rubbed his face. The night was getting a bit long.

He kept an eye on Liadov and Rakitin, but his mind was on Isaev.

They'd had to part company all too soon after the Kamov ride back to Groznyj Grad with the corpse and Molokov's limbs in tow.

Partnering up with Isaev for the cave search had been a pleasant break, but unfortunately brief. Isaev made for better company than Imanov did, though of course it ran deeper than that. He and Isaev had come to know each other well. It eased the horror of their discovery, to have Isaev at his side.

But now the rest of Ocelot squad had been dismissed back to their barracks, or duties, save for Kassian and Imanov.

Isaev had departed with the others, with one last glance and grimly wry twitch on his lips.

Kassian remembered the words Isaev had whispered into his ear.

It would be good when they were finally dismissed for the evening, he thought, but didn't let his thoughts linger in that direction.

Kassian decided he should talk to Ocelot. Though he and Imanov might be best suited to guard the MENTs, if their assignment became long-term, it was unrealistic to have only two men covering the investigators. After all, Kassian and Imanov couldn't watch them twenty-four hours a day, and there was always the possibility that the MENTs could be attacked while in their quarters.

He glanced at Imanov, who met his gaze immediately.

Imanov's expression could have been carved from ice, eyes narrow above sharp cheekbones, mouth a hard slash, jaw taut. He looked particularly displeased, and lethal.

Kassian didn't know what he was going to do about that. Have it out with him one way or another, he supposed.

He wasn't looking forward to it, but something needed to be done.

Imanov's attention shifted then, turning back to the MENTs. They were on the move.

Kassian shouldered his rifle, and together he and Imanov followed their charges.

From:

The war room was a long, high ceilinged space with a long map table that had the capacity to be illuminated from beneath. It was modernist, utilitarian and a testament to new plastics technology.

Liadov ran his hand over it as he slid into one of the wide-winged black vinyl swiveling roller chairs and drew it up to the table.

Clearly the Colonel had spared no expense in outfitting his powwow forum.

Interesting that a man who seemed so opposed to any dialogues but the singular kind would invest so much in a conference facility.

It made Nika wonder if perhaps Krauss or Raikov had chosen the interior. Both of them seemed prone to sporadic attacks of aesthetic taste.

He raised an eyebrow as he waited for the others to settle in, watching Rakitin fight the urge to spin the giant globe that was suspended temptingly in front of him like a crib mobil.

It was a battle the pathologist seemed to be losing.

His fingers twitched and he removed them to his lap, only to put them flat on the table once more.

Next to the globe was a scale sized moon, also suspended.

This must have been torture for him.

Liadov smiled obscurely, amused.

He was developing a certain fondness for the quirky scientist, despite a generally yawning contempt for that stereotype.

One thing was clear, watching him- Polya wasn't faking.

He really wanted to spin that globe.

Liadov's eye followed Rakitin's gaze. They saw them at the same time.

A tiny resevoir of flagged pins, like tiny standards of conquest.

For the globe, no doubt.

Rakitin looked like the Hindenburg, restraining himself.

Nika laughed softly into his fist, shaking his head.

From:

heartofthunder.livejournal.com

Volgin took his seat at the head of the table.

He did not usually have meetings in here. It always seemed too formal to bother with - like making one's way to the bedroom when the kitchen floor was just as convenient for sex.

Well, kitchen floor first, he mused.

But he needed a place that was secure. The war room was soundproofed, and Volgin had it regularly swept for bugs. He watched two of Ocelot's men stop at the threshold and take up positions outside the room, closing the door behind them and sealing everyone inside.

Ivan sat down next to him, but Ocelot folded his arms and leaned back against the wall until Volgin glared pointedly at him. Scowling, Ocelot pursed his lips and took the seat across from Ivan.

When everyone had settled, Volgin looked from face to face, finally settling on Liadov, then Rakitin.

"I don't want this to be long, but let's hear what you have so far," he said. "We all need to briefed on the progress of the investigation, especially in light of...recent events."

From:

It was considered bad form, Rakitin had been told, to play with things during a war council.

That didn't mean it was easy.

Still, Nika didn't have to laugh at him. He was doing his best, damn it.

Fortunately, he was soon distracted.

Unfortunately, it was by the Colonel looking straight at him.

Not for the first time, Ippolit wondered how anyone could be expected not to melt under that powerful gaze. His fingertips were tingling. He wondered if this was what it took to unlock some unknown racial memory from the depths of the cerebral cortex and engage a camouflage reflex. He hoped something would tip him off if he was turning the color of the walls.

"We have tentative identification of the second corpse as a mechanic," Rakitin said, throttling his voice steady. "Limbs were found further back in the cave, likely Molokov's. I'll do a blood test to be sure. The corpse bears superficial signs of drowning. I'll know more after autopsy."

From:

Krauss kept to the back of the crowd, trailing along behind the group like a bad omen. He took his seat near the end of the table, the opposite end from Volgin, and very delicately removed his ushanka, setting it aside.

No one dared to say anything. They knew, it was all over the base. Molokov.

Deliberately averting his attention from the Colonel, his gloves came next, then unbuttoned his coat and sank back into the chair, snuggling down into the warm fur that surrounded him.

As the meeting began, he watched Liadov closely, interested in every word the Operativnik had to say. The investigators’ presence confirmed what he had felt earlier.

Somewhere, there was another mutilated corpse.

He didn’t care about another pretty boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All he cared about was learning more about the man who did it, so that a proper revenge would be possible.

The German paled when Rakitin mentioned the missing limbs, felt the bile rising up in his throat, but suppressed the urge to retch into the small metal trashcan beside the table.

The sick son of a bitch would pay for what he did to Stefan, and Krauss closed his eyes.

From:

Liadov looked at him expectantly, and nodded his head as if urging him to continue.

When it became obvious that Rakitin wasn't planning to say more, he sighed, steepling his fingers.

"Which leaves this corpse's limbs unaccounted for. Hopefully they won't be found with the next victim."

Now that his worst suspicions had been confirmed, and they were looking at a pattern killer, there was no use pretending he wouldn't strike again.

He raised his eyes to the Colonel, locking onto his gaze and speaking slowly and deliberately, leaning forward and laying his hand flat on the table.

"It is my strong opinion that no one be allowed to roam the Grad without going in pairs. And also..." he paused. "When they're not on shift- I propose a curfew for non-dutied personnel. Confine them to their barracks from sunset to dawn."

Ocelot snorted.

"That's a little extreme. At least as far as my men are concerned."

Nika paused.

"I don't agree. I've seen how things progress."

"But these aren't soldiers, these victims," Ocelot protested, scowling. He averted his gaze disdainfully. "At least, not real soldiers."

Liadov shrugged, raising his hands.

"I can only speak from experience. Do what you will."

From:

Rakitin frowned. Somewhere in the tangle of barbed wire and severed limbs, something had gotten confused.

"I wouldn't assume that these limbs aren't his just yet," Rakitin said. "It's a reasonable suspicion, but let me run the tests first."

Or he could just take them all to the lab and play mix and match.

From:

Liadov blinked.

"Ah, christ, I'm sorry Polya."

He rubbed his eyes.

"Of course...I forgot...we had....more."

Yes, they had two sets of men, by all accounts, if they could just get them put together again.

Well...within reason.

And he was back to nursery rhymes again.

He offered Rakitin a wan, lilting smile.

"I get insomnia on some cases. Hard to turn the wheels off."

It was easier to take his mind off it in Moscow.

A quiet laugh.

"Amusing really."

From:

heartofthunder.livejournal.com

Volgin frowned.

"Well...if they aren't - "

He broke off, glancing at Krauss.

"...ah, already accounted for, then wouldn't it be obvious, that someone else was missing?"

Or had missing limbs, but that would be obvious too.

Volgin shook his head. "There must be a way to put new protocols in place, so we'll know sooner if that happens."

He paused, looking to Ocelot, then Ivan. "A system where all personnel will be required to check in on a regular basis with a superior officer, who will report to his superior if someone is unaccounted for. I want the two of you to make sure all departments are notified, and will be expected to conform."

Volgin's brow furrowed. "And I'm inclined to agree with Major Liadov regarding the curfew. See to it, Ocelot. If anyone wants to protest, they can take it up with me personally."

Briefly, his lip curled.

Volgin turned his gaze turned to Liadov. "Is there anything else we should be doing, in order to minimize the killer's opportunities to strike?"

It was like war, Volgin thought. He could see that now. The side that was better prepared and more focused would prevail.

From:

"Fine," said Ocelot, succinctly. "I'll confine my men. But I don't think this base is safer with the Ocelots on lockdown."

He scowled.

Just then the door broke open, and a GRU Lieutenant came running in.

The fact that he didn't even break to salute filled Adam with heavy and instant unease.

"Major," he cried.

Irinarhov and Imanov were right behind him, protesting his entry.

Ocelot held up a hand.

The man's eyes were wide, and his chest heaved.

"The showers," he rasped, bending over to brace himself against his knees. "There's an Ocelot. He's dead."

The officer looked up, cringing.

"Strangled," he said.

From:

Rakitin looked at Liadov in concern. For a moment, the cool, mirror-smooth competence had wavered, revealing a disconcertingly human weariness.

"Are you all right?" he said quietly after the Colonel had spoken, unthinkingly laying a hand on Nika's shoulder. "You can take a break, you know--"

The door burst open.

"...or not."

Another body. Already. Shit. How far behind the killer were they?

Rakitin approached the blanching officer and said, "Show me."

From:

The shock of the officer's words hit Kassian like a blow to the throat and he flinched, visibly.

His first thought was Isaev.

Isaev was usually his first thought regardless of the circumstances, but his second thought told him, no.

No, he highly doubted anyone could get the drop on Isaev in hand-to-hand range, regardless of the arena.

In the time it took to strangle a man, Isaev could kill his aggressor with a single blow.

Still, his chest went tight.

"Who?" he demanded.

"Who?" Imanov echoed, at the same moment.

They glared at each other, but the panting soldier just shook his head. "I don't know! You all look alike."

Under his balaclava, Kassian gritted his teeth.

From:

Ocelot's lips flared into a grimace and he turned eyes that held a studied cold on his two remaining men.

"Go take care of your brother," he said, through gritted teeth. "And take the fucking MENTs."

Adam already knew who it was.

If he was honest, he'd known long before now.

The transparent man's voice was easy to ignore, but the fucking sign he waved...

Less so.

From:

Patiently, Krauss withdrew an engraved silver flask from the interior pocket of his coat. One side bore the initials A.H., etched in fancy Germanic script, and the reverse bore the Reich war eagle, marred and deliberately scratched to disfigure.

Unscrewing the cap, he took a long drink, then looked up to the soldier who had swooped in unannounced to bear bad news. Arching an eyebrow, he offered the flask to the bewildered soldier.

“Und noch einer…” he mumbled to himself, shrugging a bit. “Asche zu Asche, Staub zu Staub. Such a shame.”

From:

Liadov pushed himself to his feet, running a hand back through his hair.

He felt...unsteady. A little out of sorts.

In his peripheral vision Rakitin was charging the soldier to lead the way, the Ocelots were demanding answers of him.

Nika turned.

"Take the flask," he interrupted, loudly. "Nip up and get straight."

The Lieutenant looked at Krauss, then took a swig. Then another. And another.

When he was done, he blinked and wiped his mouth, taking a deep breath.

"I'm ready," he croaked. "But you don't need me to find him. Second floor- the regular showers. He's lying on the tile. He had no pulse."

Nika closed his eyes briefly, to regather his strength.

He was starting to feel a little dazed, not able to connect his thoughts.

Walk it off, he thought, vaguely.

He punched his fist into his palm.

"Are we ready?" he demanded, with effort, clenching his teeth slightly to keep himself grounded and conscious. "Let's not wait until Spring."

From:

Kassian nodded, wordlessly. His jaw tipped up, and sharpened to stoicism.

He caught Imanov's eye.

Antagonism seemed to pale now, in the face of the death of a brother.

It wasn't Isaev, he told himself, and he believed it, too, though the urge to call Andrei on CODEC was strong.

The GRU lieutenant avoided their gazes, showing no signs of coming along.

They left him behind.

The group walked quickly, but with economy of motion. Every step bringing them inexorably closer. Rakitin surged ahead. Liadov dropped behind. Kassian and Imanov took the stairs two at a time.

The shower room was quiet, and still.

Half-lit, though only by moonlight through the open window. Kassian didn't touch the light switches.

Vaguely humid, but any warmth in the air from steamy water had since fled.

And there, in the center of the open shower area sat a body, lying on the tile just as the lieutenant had said: male and blond and naked from the waist up, towel around his hips, turned away from them and on his side, as if curled up to sleep.

The signature Ocelot scarf wrapped around his neck several times, the ends pooling onto the floor like spilled blood.

It wasn't Isaev.

Kassian knew the broadness of Isaev's shoulders, the defined muscle of his back. This man was leaner, not as tall.

He tightened his hands anyway, so they wouldn't shake.

Carefully, Kassian circled the body. The dead Ocelot lay in a obscenely peaceful position, head tucked atop his arms, like a child.

He squatted to look at the face.

Kassian hadn't been far off the mark about the dead man's childlike repose, he thought. He knew the boyishly young face immediately, but the expression gave him pause: serene, eyes closed, mouth curved into a gentle smile.

Frost numbed his lungs, but he forced the words out anyway.

"It's Gurlukovich," Kassian said, quietly.

From:

ilya-imanov.livejournal.com

Ilya's mouth opened, but no sound came forth.

This... wasn't possible.

Sergei. Sasha. Ocelot's favourite, practically his kid brother, Matvei's friend, the object of his and Andrei's friendly teasing, slightly shy, intelligent and quiet...

Not any more. He was none of those things. He was dead.

Ilya wanted to throw up. He wanted to run.

He'd killed men before, of course he had. He was a soldier. But this... his Sergei, lifeless, not killed by chance, not by his lack of skill, but some sadistic bastard, someone they knew, and Sasha hadn't suspected a thing...

"Oh god," he whispered, quietly, lost in the murmurs of voices around him, that he could barely hear.

Had it not been a brother Ocelot, he would not have reacted nearly as badly. Had it not been a friend...

He direly needed a smoke. Several. Fuck, a whole motherfucking packet, followed by a shitload of slivo to blind himself to the scene before his eyes.

His hands shook slightly, as he tried to calm himself.

I need Andrei, he thought.

He will make this bad dream go away, his subconscious soothed him, uselessly.

From:

Rakitin moved past Kassian, kneeling down next to the body. Kassian straightened, and stepped away.

He'd liked Gurlukovich. The kid had always been friendly, in spite of Kassian's reticence, never taking it personally the way others apparently did, nor had he pushed too hard.

After a moment, he looked over at Imanov.

Imanov's face was pale, mouth slack, eyes glassy, and right then, he looked young too.

Kassian walked back to Imanov, stopping at his side.

Imanov didn't look at him.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached out, and put a hand on Imanov's arm. Somehow, given the circumstances, he couldn't hate himself for doing it, either.

From:

Liadov sank down onto one of the wooden benches, resting his hand on the wall. He hadn't known this Ocelot, and honestly he couldn't see him all that well. His vision was blurred, but even compromised as he was, he knew the familiar shape of one prone object better than almost anything.

"Gun," he managed, with an unsteady wave of his hand. "Over by the locker bay."

He breathed a few times, closed and opened his eyes. He could feel the cold sweat on his brow but he forced himself to hold his head up.

"He had his sidearm out. He saw the killer."

From:

ilya-imanov.livejournal.com

Ilya felt the press, vaguely. He felt very numb at that point in time.

He silently reached out for the back of Kassian's hand, and gently pushed it away from him. A polite, grief-stricken, "thanks, but no thanks."

He wanted Andrei, dammit. He would understand. How could the sniper, the stranger in their midst, possibly understand, how many times they and Sergei had laughed and argued and fought and joked...

He couldn't do anything. He couldn't move. He felt like if he sat, did anything, he would break. It was just... too much.

Andrei, Andrei, Andrei, he willed, hoping his friend would somehow sense his distress, and seek him out.

From:

Kassian withdrew.

Fine.

He supposed he couldn't exactly blame Imanov - after all, he wouldn't want Imanov's comfort in a time of distress, but even so, Kassian had been moved to offer his.

Because Imanov was a brother Ocelot, because he was a soldier.

Because he was a human being.

Kassian had embraced men before, near-strangers even, united by moments of grief and suffering.

There were times when it was just important not to be alone. But Imanov's disdain obviously ran deeper.

He would remember that.

Kassian turned, instead, to Liadov.

"Do you think - " he started, then stopped as he saw Liadov's face.

The MENT was paler than Imanov, and sweating. He looked unsteady on his feet.

There were no reason for Liadov to react in such a way, unless -

Kassian frowned, and stepped forward. "Major? Are you all right?"

From:

He wasn't sure. Talking. Who was. To him?

Or not. But tired.

So tired.

"I think..." Nika said slowly. "Maybe..."

He sank down against the wall, slowly, with the give of undry glue.

"I got it," he slurred, pawing awkwardly at the tile, as if he would push himself up. "Never mind me."

From:

Kassian surged forward, and dropped to a knee at the MENT's side.

"Liadov!" He grabbed Liadov's arm, and slapped his face, hard enough to sting. "Stay with me."

He turned his gaze quickly over his shoulder.

"Rakitin! He needs - he's diabetic. I think he's going into shock."

Death could be rapid, Kassian remembered.

Liadov had told him that, when he'd inquired after the MENT's health in a pause during Kassian's interview. The MENT had smiled wryly at the mention of death, like it had somehow amused him.

He turned back to Liadov.

Hopefully, Rakitin would know what to do.

From:

Nika felt the impact of the strike and gritted his teeth, absorbing it, feeling it.

And he was aware of Irinarhov, staring into his face, his near-black eyes and piercing raptor-like gaze.

Good, that was good. Hurt. The sniper's shouldering arm was strong, the slap stinging, jolting him momentarily.

He knew he was slipping into incoherence, so while he had a scattered spell of lucidity, he reached forward, graspng clumsily at the sniper's forearms, raising pale green eyes, hedonic and fevered with fatigue.

Locking them onto Irinarhov's and speaking with slow, measured words.

"Breast pocket," he intoned. "Glucogen."

He jerked his hands to clutch the sniper's face, steadying their gazes, pulling him close enough to hear his faltering voice.

"Syringe. Not in the muscle. Adipose. Shallow."

His lips shuddered.

From:

As soon as they entered, Rakitin knew that there would be no need for an identification, this time.

Blond like nearly all of the Ocelots,fair and pretty when he wasn't hidden beneath a balaclava.

He'd promised to show Ippolit the crocodiles.

Rakitin knew better than to let personal sentiment interfere with what needed to be done. How fortunate he'd had practice. His gloves were already on.

Immediately it was obvious this was different. No elaborately macabre pose. No works of grotesque art. This was a rush job.

Rakitin knelt by the corpse.

"The killer could still be nearby," Rakitin said. "He's still fucking warm."

Liadov was right. A sidearm lay by the lockers, as though knocked away. The amalgam of data didn't fit the modus operandi.

Rakitin's own gun at his hip was a weight of reassurance, for as little good as Gurlukovich's had done him. Whoever this was, he was fast.

"It doesn't fit," Ippolit muttered. Looking down at the still face of the boy who had laughed, and said, You're too hard on him. Looking for information. That's all a body was. Remnants. A message. After the rest had fled. Namu Amida butsu. "Our killer likes everything completely under his control. This must have been a mistake. Maybe he came back here to wash off blood-"

It didn't sink in that something in Liadov's voice had been off until Irinarhov called his name. The sniper's voice was taut with urgency.

Liadov was collapsed against the wall.

For a vertiginous instant, Ippolit thought that the murderer had phased through the gaps in time to slip a knife into Nika's gut.

Then reality snapped back, and Ippolit was peeling his gloves off and joining Kassian at Liadov's side.

Diabetic. He had said something about that. Hadn't he? He'd said it as if it were of no great importance.

"Nika!" Rakitin said sharply. He was pale, and his eyes were unfocused. He was always controlled, composed. Seeing him like this was frightening in ways a strangled corpse was not. "Stay with us."

Ippolit looked to Kasya.

"What did he say?"

From:

"He said he needs a shot."

Kassian was already digging in Liadov's breast pocket.

He pulled out a pair of ID badges and a small leather case that had been worn smooth and soft by time and use.

He opened the case. Inside were two syringes and two small vials.

Kassian pulled the vials out, frowning as he examined them. They had rubber tops, he realized, and labels. One was marked “glucogen.”

"I don't know how - " he started, offering the vial and syringe to Rakitin.

"I'll talk you through it," Rakitin said, immediately.

Kassian frowned.

“I’ve only ever injected rats, actually. And, er, dead people don’t need a lot of shots.”

The MENT flashed a brief, apologetic smile. “But I understand the theory perfectly well,” he added.

Liadov's hands slipped, falling from Kassian's face to clutch onto his uniform with waning strength. There was no time to argue anymore.

“All right,” Kassian said.

"Put the needle through the top of the bottle, then press down on the plunger." The MENT mimed the action. "Then turn the bottle upside down, and pull the plunger back to fill it up."

Kassian complied, watching the syringe fill up with colorless liquid.

"Make sure there aren't any air bubbles. Good. Now inject him below the stomach," Rakitin said.

Kassin tugged Liadov's shirt up and his waistband down to expose a strip of pale flesh. Liadov's belly was trim and sleek, but not as thick with muscle as Isaev's. Still, Kassian had to work a little to find a bit of loose skin. He pinched it between his fingers, and angled the needle.

"Just like that. Go ahead," Rakitin told him.

Kassian took in a deep breath, and pushed the plunger.

From:

ilya-imanov.livejournal.com

Ilya saw what was happening, but he felt frozen.

He and Liadov were in two different kinds of shock.

He might've not had much love for the man and all his associations, but he would never have just let someone...

Rakitin and Irinarhov seemed to have the situation under control. Neither of them had been so deeply affected as Ilya.

Sergei was still on the floor, ignored. Just another corpse, now.

Ilya's hazy mind wished he could just be administered a shot, like Liadov, to take away all of the shock.

From:

A pin-prick. A pinch.

Nika identified that slight pain sensation with relief and renaissance by now, and he made a low noise of raw gratification at the injection.

It was a sound that might have marked him as a masochist to an objective observer, someone who had never experienced the release of righting endorphins.

And maybe, he thought vaguely, it felt not unlike orgasm- or at least like the eleventh hour reviving kiss of a passing prince.

The recovery from a hypoglycemic episode always astonished him- even as he was regaining his equilibrium and his sense of well-being, he was thinking it shouldn't be so easy.

Just a little sugar, and he was right as rain- provided of course that it didn't go too long, and as of yet it never had.

He was careful; very careful. Always.

Sometimes there were things he couldn't foresee- factors he hadn't considered. Lack of sleep, stress, having a cold- these were all things that were capable of upsetting the perfect balance he'd carved out for himself.

Nika felt the familiar sense of flooding radiation, the swelling wave that reoriented his world, and he nodded slowly, encouraging it, flexing his fingers and feeling his coordination return.

He opened his eyes, very slowly, and looked at Irinarhov with a wanly gratified smile.

"...you did that very well," he said. "I appreciate the assistance."

His attention veered toward the corpse once more, businessminded again, even though he knew better than to push his physical recovery.

"I'm sorry. The timing was terrible. I should have realized..." he paused.

His eye fell on Imanov, who looked stricken, like a pillar of ash that could be blown away at any moment, standing over the other Ocelot's body in quiet disbelief.

"Poor kid," he said, softly. "Get him out of here. Get him drunk."

From:

Kassian let out a slow breath.

"Thank Lieutenant Rakitin."

Kassian tilted his head toward the man at his side. The pathologist was leaning over Liadov, gaze hooded with concern.

Kassian guessed that Rakitin would be able to tell if something was still seriously wrong. To Kassian, Liadov seemed much more coherent now, at least, but still looked pale and weak.

"He told me what to do," Kassian said.

Like a good spotter, he thought.

He gave Rakitin an approving nod.

Liadov's eyes could focus now, Kassian could tell. He watched the MENT look around the room.

Kassian glanced over his shoulder, following Liadov's gaze.

Imanov stood behind them, still looking sick and pale. Kassian didn't have lot of sympathy left for the squad's second, but he supposed, for Isaev's sake, he should find some.

"He doesn't want anything from me," he muttered, but then looked back at Liadov. "I'm going to call Lieutenant Isaev. Just rest for a moment, and then we'll get you to your quarters."

He paused, frowning, searching Liadov's face again for any lingering sign of weakness.

"I'll be right back," he said, both to Liadov, and Rakitin.

Kassian left Liadov under Rakitin's watchful gaze then stepped out into the hall, raising a hand to his ear as he tuned his CODEC back to Isaev's frequency.

From:

andrei-isaev.livejournal.com

Andrei roused slowly, fainting aware of the chirp of his CODEC chime. He'd been facedown in his bunk, limbs sprawled across the finite real estate, but unconstrained by it. His fingertips dusted the floor.

Drowsily, he pushed himself up on his arms and tamped his finger against his ear.

"Isaev," he mumbled incoherently, through the hair that veiled his face.

From:

Kassian could tell from the blur in Isaev's voice that he'd woken him.

He winced, regretting it now, even though he knew it was the right thing.

"It's me," he said into the CODEC, and then paused.

"I have to tell you something, Dasha, but it's not good."

Kassian took a breath, pausing again.

He hesitated, uncertain, unsure of how he was possibly supposed to break this news.

"... are you there?"

From:

andrei-isaev.livejournal.com

"...Kasya," he drawled, smiling awkwardly through his groggy slept-in voice. "Don't tell me you're backing out on your promise. Lightweight."

Then he frowned, rubbing his face. Pausing, for a beat.

Even half-asleep, Andrei sensed Irinarhov's inarticulate hesitation.

"...Why do you sound so grim?" he asked suspiciously, with drawn-out reluctance.

From:

raidenovitch.livejournal.com

Raikov watched the other two Ocelots leave with the MENTs. That left him, Volgin, Krauss, and Ocelot.

Volgin was not going to be in any sort of mood other than electrical and angry, he foresaw.

But he looked at Adamska, and felt a twinge of pity. The man that had been killed was one of his. That had to hurt his comrade Major.

He rested a hand, cautiously, on Ocelot's shoulder, not very good at expressing such things as apologies or gentle well-wishing, but he tried, anyway.

From:

Ocelot snorted softly.

He was quiet for a moment, then he raised his gaze and met Ivan's, his eyes like hard little stones of unreflective blue.

"A true Ocelot wouldn't have gotten caught unaware. He would have had been more proactive. Sergei was never with the agenda. He only knew how to react, and it killed him."

He scowled, and shook his head bitterly.

"He could have been a real asset, but the heart wasn't there." Ocelot paused, looking away. "And I couldn't keep spoonfeeding him his motivation forever."

Raikov's expression was unreadable.

"It's better this way," Ocelot said, grimly. "He wasn't cut from our cloth."

If he grieved for anything, he would grieve alone. And he wouldn't grieve for any irreplaceable void left by Gurlukovich's premature exit.

No. He would grieve for the lost potential of the boy he had known, had nurtured.

Ocelot sorely hated being disappointed.

Raikov was still looking at him, and he turned, eyes narrowing.

"What?" he demanded. "Do you think I'm some kind of monster? Should I crank out a few tears?"

From:

Krauss frowned as he tucked his flask back into the pocket of his coat. He pursed his lips, thoughtful, drumming his fingers on the table with a distinct pause where the first beat should have been, a hesitation before the second, and trying to act disinterested in the young Majors’ conversation.

Denial, that was it, he decided at last.

He hadn’t believed his Stefan was dead either, genuinely hadn’t believed it at first, until the grim reality sank in. The silence, and the world all around him seemed dimmer, as if a marvelous golden light had been snuffed out.

And it would do no good to call him out on it, but further his bitter resolve.

Two in one night, he mused bitterly to himself.

Raidenovitch’s gesture, while genuine in intention, had only made things worse. Krauss, however, knew when diversion was the best course of action.

“What do you think, Colonel?” He asked softly. “An immediate roll call to be sure everyone is present and accounted for. I’ll get to it, with your word. It should go quickly with help from comrade Raikov.”

His tone was even, but his warm smile suggested the orders were for the best for numerous reasons.

He started to get up, before Volgin even replied. “Come now, Ivanko. I’ll even take the flame patrol this time.”

From: