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groznyj_grad2007-07-13 08:06 pm
charushkin.livejournal.com) wrote in groznyj_grad2007-07-13 08:06 pm
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[February 19, 1964, 6:15 am]
Matvei was late for breakfast.
The mess hall buzzed with whispered conversation. Another corpse. Another body.
The one that had been his friend, and explained the quiet of the bunk below his from last night.
He hadn't taken the news well, although he had acted to perfection. Didn't cry, didn't avert his eyes when Ilya delivered the news somberly, Andrei's hand on his shoulder. Didn't say much when a few well-meaning rankmates asked him if he wanted to crash with them to not have to be alone.
Matvei had grieved too much in his lifetime, and he no longer wanted to. He felt sick and tired of it, and had hardly slept, his mind ticking. Options, plans.
He'd avoided facing his friends again, and he could tell they understood: he didn't want to hear it again, didn't want their looks of pity. He needed some time alone, as much as they worried for his health.
Ha.
Matvei found himself with a tray and nowhere to sit. The hall was almost full, and he didn't want to sit with the Ocelots. He wanted to be alone.
The table at the north-east of the kitchens had several spare seat, and several dark uniforms.
Sergei's death had driven away Matvei's usual sense of propriety and he sat himself down unapologetically at the MENT table, and glared at his food, as though it was all its fault that he didn't feel the slightest bit hungry, ignoring how obviously he clashed with the ranks sitting down nearby.
The mess hall buzzed with whispered conversation. Another corpse. Another body.
The one that had been his friend, and explained the quiet of the bunk below his from last night.
He hadn't taken the news well, although he had acted to perfection. Didn't cry, didn't avert his eyes when Ilya delivered the news somberly, Andrei's hand on his shoulder. Didn't say much when a few well-meaning rankmates asked him if he wanted to crash with them to not have to be alone.
Matvei had grieved too much in his lifetime, and he no longer wanted to. He felt sick and tired of it, and had hardly slept, his mind ticking. Options, plans.
He'd avoided facing his friends again, and he could tell they understood: he didn't want to hear it again, didn't want their looks of pity. He needed some time alone, as much as they worried for his health.
Ha.
Matvei found himself with a tray and nowhere to sit. The hall was almost full, and he didn't want to sit with the Ocelots. He wanted to be alone.
The table at the north-east of the kitchens had several spare seat, and several dark uniforms.
Sergei's death had driven away Matvei's usual sense of propriety and he sat himself down unapologetically at the MENT table, and glared at his food, as though it was all its fault that he didn't feel the slightest bit hungry, ignoring how obviously he clashed with the ranks sitting down nearby.
no subject
Apparently there'd been something he was expected to do, and he hadn't done it. Ah well. It wasn't unusual. All you could was stand back and let them do whatever it was they wanted. There was no reason for it to sting.
"If you've got something to say," Rakitin said to the Ocelot boy, his voice cool and dry, "now's the time to say it."
Human company had abruptly lost its dubious charms altogether. In any case, the pair of crickets he'd found just outside the mess hall were wriggling around in his pocket, and he wanted to deposit them in the drawer in his quarters before returning to the lab.
no subject
"If I'd any idea who did it to him, I'd give him to you personally, in a cardboard box."
Matvei was feeling exceptionally reckless that morning.
He leaned across the table towards Rakitin, his eyes deadly serious. "If you find out anything - anything at all - let me know. I want to help. I don't want to have to see any more people who matter to me die."
He paused. "My specialty is silence. And I'm easily concealed. I can get anywhere on Groznyj Grad for you."
no subject
Looked like Liadov's instincts were right.
Useless, useless, useless.
"Your heart's in the right place," Rakitin said, and he would know, "but a vigilante isn't going to do anyone any good."
He shoved his tray away. He had no appetite, and the crickets were restless. Maybe the little crunchy brown things were relatives.
"You've lost someone. Cherish the people you have. Mourn. You've got a lot of life ahead of you, if you don't waste it doing something stupid like hunting him on your own. Get on with it."
no subject
The pair of them didn't give a crap who lived or died. Probably looked better on their records if they solved a mass homicide as opposed to a singular murder. More promotions and badges and stupid baubles.
Charushkin got up and left the mess hall, fuming, returning to the barracks. His room was now lonely and quiet; he could think there.
And maybe no one would hear him cry, just a little, whilst he worked out what to do next.
I'm not going to mourn, he told himself furiously.
It was amazing how the the subconscious could dissent, and it took a few hours for Matvei to realise that.
no subject
"Doesn't anyone say 'goodbye' anymore?" he asked no one in particular.
Right when he was being particularly reasonable, too. Not that the boy showed any sign of listening.
He left the building accompanied by the premonition that it was going to be a very long day.
no subject