The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

Visitors again? How unusual. Rakitin was used to being told what to do, then left alone until someone showed up to see if he'd done it yet.

"Come in," he called, after checking that he wasn't doing anything too ostentatiously gruesome. Just bloodwork.

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Matvei hadn't entirely known what to expect from the laboratory, but after opening the door, he was glad he had a semi-decent constitution.

A horrid part of his brain dared him to ask if that was a part of Sergei on the desk.

He shook his head, pulling himself together. Thank fuck for the balaclava.

The quieter scientist was here, but not the officer, who was his primary objective.

"Good morning," Matvei greeted him, mentally wincing as he gave his age and inexperience away almost instantaneously. "Is... "

He quickly recalled the name, having scraped together the necessary information from various sources as to who he managed to piss off that breakfast.

"... Major Liadov available?"

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Nika heard his name vaguely, and rose from the desk in his office, opening the door to the adjoining room.

"Polyasha?" he said, lightly, eyebrows tilting pleasantly. "Did you need something?"

He had been perusing his notes and listening to Chopin. It helped him think and pushed away distractions.

He had a report due to General Olayenko, as well, that he had started and put aside to pore over details.

The rumors he'd heard from contact with MVD colleagues were that Molokov's widow and child had vanished, seemingly into ether. Nika hoped against hope that it was Krauss's doing, and not the General's.

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"We have company," Rakitin said mildly.

He studied what little was visible of the Ocelot. The voice sounded young, and familiar. Ippolit had a difficult enough time keeping track of faces when they weren't hidden.

"Have we met?" Rakitin asked. His eyes rolled up in thought. "I'd think I would remember someone that shade of green."

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Matvei blinked at his unusual reception. Ilya or Andrei or Kolyin would handle this far better than him.

He saluted, cautiously, and nodded to Liadov.

"Yes," he admitted to Ippolit, and belatedly realised he still wore his mask.

He didn't make a habit of formal apologies, but recognised the necessity of them.

"Motya," his mother's admonishment rang in his ears. "Get those hands out of your pockets and look at me."

A young Matvei did so, with great reluctance, looking like a sulky cherub, at seven years old.

"I want you to go and apologise to Grisha, immediately."

"He hit me too!" Matvei protested.

"But you started it," his mother explained patiently, shaking her head. "And it means you have to go finish it. Go say sorry. None of your favourite vatrushka 'til you do."

Matvei had done so, but he hadn't really cared about his treat - he did it because the disappointment in his mother's eyes and voice frightened him, when she told him off so calmly.

He still felt the burning shame inside when he knew he was wrong, and it was certainly a relief to pull off his balaclava, just for some air.

"I... haven't been ordered here," he explained, quickly, in case the pair were waiting for him with bated breath to give some vital report.

He drew a deep breath.

"My name is Matvei Antonovich Charushkin. I let my unit down with my behaviour at mess the other day. I want to apologise."

That was how his mother would have told him to apologise, he thought. Offer a name first, to express sincerity, and to separate his identity from his uniform. Explain what the apology is for so it had meaning, and then make it.

He held his gaze at the pair, and mentally crossed fingers. He realised he was risking being reported to Ocelot, or indeed, being written up on a more... permanent basis, it being the MVD. But it was either this, or skulking around for months during the investigations with a guilty conscience.

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Nika blinked. He was still unused to the military, and their interesting protocols of hierarchy.

The young soldier had paused with halting good-behavior steps, holding his balaclava in his hands, reminding Liadov of a schoolboy.

After a moment's regathering, he smiled, pleasantly.

"I appreciate that, Lieutenant Charushkin. But it's nothing. I was in an unpleasant mood myself. Normally I'd have had more compassion for your state of mind. I'm sorry for your loss."

He had almost forgotten the sullen, accusatory boy, in the blizzard off papers and results that he and Rakitin had been compiling and conducting.

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Even uncovered, it took a moment to match this face to the one that had twisted under the weight of sullen anger the other day. It was difficult enough to keep people straight when they didn't keep changing all the time. Oh, well. Ippolit supposed that was what kept things interesting.

"Right. That," Rakitin said, acquiring a vague, worn smile. "No harm done."

The look of contrition on the boy's face would have well suited a puppy or a young child. Ippolit had to surpress an impulse to give him either a sweet or a scratch behind the ears.

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The uncertainty on Matvei's face was probably not what either of the MENTs had been expecting. On the other hand, Matvei had half-expected to be reported.

"Um, thank you," he replied, gratefully, still finding this whole situation to be incredibly awkward, although the other men seemed perfectly at ease.

"I would still offer help, if I could. I mean..."

Matvei sought for the most diplomatic wording.

"... some of the administration on-base can be a bit caught up in day-to-day business. I can be dogsbody whenever I'm not on duty."

He was regaining his strength and certainty in his voice.

"It eats at me to know he - they - are still out there, and Sergei was just one on the list."

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Nika smiled.

"That's a generous offer, and we'll accept any help we're offered, of course."

He glanced at Rakitin.

"He could cozy up to Yudenich's lover easier than the two of us." He paused, laughing. "Well, easier than I could, anyway. You can pretty much scent MENT on me like leather. But you, you might pass for a sympathetic character," he thought, aloud, studying Polya critically.

Although Liadov was certainly beginning to think that of all the military bases he had seen, Groznyj Grad was possibly the least afflicted by individual physical boundaries.

He shrugged. It was a thought. He'd pursue it later.

Nika shifted his gaze back to the young soldier, easily, steepling his fingers.

"Charushkin, you say, is that your name." He lifted an eyebrow. "I knew a Charushkin once."

He paused, considering.

"Well...knew...," he said, amused, "I suppose that's not the most germane word. I guess, 'arrested' would be more accurate."

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Ippolit shifted, disliking the way Liadov was looking at him. "I'm not sure I see where you're-- wait."

As squirrelly as his attention could be when it came to people, something Nika had said caught it.

Polya glanced at the young Ocelot and back. He thought of what Nika had told him about Irinarhov. Another...remnant from the past.

"Again?" he said. "That's quite a coincidence. Almost more like a curse."

He studied Nika intently.

"Have you offended any leshiy lately?"

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Nika laughed.

"Well, having arrested many people, it seems I've seen a lot of names. But I much doubt this particular individual was a relative of this young man...He was a notorious homosexual prostitute, arrested for solicitation and public oral sodomy."

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Matvei's hands tensed, nervously.

He didn't fancy overmuch sharing surnames with someone who... who...

His face flushed, and he scowled.

"I'd hope not," he muttered.

It wasn't that common a family name, either. Maybe that was why Liadov had regarded him with such suspicion at first.

"... Certainly not me," he added, rather firmly.

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Ippolit had to laugh. There wasn't much farther you could get from a simpering rent boy than the young Ocelot standing on the other side of the lab table. Someone's belligerant, but well-intetioned little brother, more like.

"I don't think anyone would suggest it was," Polya said, amiably.

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Nika shook his head slowly.

"That was quite a night," he said, touching his temple, laughing. "In the end, we had to let him go."

He shrugged.

"Not that I much fancy keeping prostitutes locked up. It's a pointless arrest. Who cares what they do with their time? They can sell it if they want, I'm not going to waste my time protesting."

He raised an idle eyebrow.

"In any case, it wasn't even my assignment. I work violent crimes. As did Isaev. But we somehow drew the lot."

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The silence was long. Apparently the apology and subsequent commentary had blown the kid's wad.

Nika shrugged and turned to Polya.

"So...about Lizard Men."

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The boy Ocelot had fallen silent. Ippolit was tempted to wave a hand in front of his eyes.

Instead, he said, "Cold- or warm-blooded, do you think?"

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Nika paused, solemnly.

"It's a good question. I suppose it depends on how far along in the evolutionary process they are. Are they an even chromosomal cocktail of herpetoculture and hominid? That would make it harder to hypothesize. Or are they, say, 45 percent lizard, and 55 percent human- which would make the likelyhood of their inclusion in the chordata mammalia slightly higher?"

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Ippolit drummed his fingers on the lab table in thought.

"Which species is being modified? A strain of Homo Sapiens with even ten percent Sauria content would be considered remarkable. That would make passing as human more likely, as long as most traits follow the dominant mammalian trends. Did you hatch from an egg? I can't remember if I did."

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Nika shrugged.

"Sperm and an egg," he said. "Not a leathery purse. But we must remember that some boidae give live birth, however, and as they retain the vestigial spurs betraying the quadropedal nature of their former lizardry, are a relevant reminder that not all reptiles hatch from eggs."

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"Ah," Ippolit said, nodding sagely, "Good point."

Something occurred to him.

"People have a vestigial tail, for part of their development. It's too bad. A tail would be useful, especially if it was prehensile. You could hold things with it."

He cocked his head to the side.

"Maybe everyone's part lizard, and just hasn't realized it yet."

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"... Who was he?" Matvei asked abruptly.

He hadn't taken anything in that had been said after Nika's casual recollections.

The question had insistently nagged him in the back of his mind, and he had silently debated asking it. He wasn't sure if eeally he wanted to know if this man was somehow distantly related to him.

His curiosity had won out, though.

The pair looked puzzled at his sudden interruption, and he amended his speech.

"... The man you arrested."

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"Ah," Polya said sagely. "You speak up to change the subject, just as we're making important scientific progress. There's only one logical conclusion."

He fixed the boy with a keen look.

"You must be one of them."

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Nika nodded, stroking his jaw.

"It's true, it's true. They walk among us. Show us your tongue. We need to see if it forks."

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Obviously, the innate madness of Groznyj Grad was contagious. They'd caught it, too.

Apparantly, so had he, as he promptly stuck out his tongue for inspection.

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Liadov raised his eyebrows, assessing.

"Not bad," he said with a slight smile. "I think we can safely say you're a lizard man."

He frowned, after a moment.

"What was it you wanted to know, Lieutenant?"

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Matvei's tongue vanished, and his expression faltered slightly.

He was rapidly losing the courage he had mustered up in the first place.

I am such a pathetic specimen of manhood, he thought, irritated that he had been caught in a deer-in-headlights moment.

He cleared his throat. "About that... other Charushkin."

He was faintly uncomfortable by seeming at all interested in knowing anything about... that kind of person, but his name was attached to it. He was... intrigued. Morbidly curious.

It had always only been him and his Ma, and a small part of him wondered if he had any more family further afield, even if it was an unpleasant connection.

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"Oh," said Liadov, slowly. "Him."

He paused.

That had been an interesting night, to say the least. To say more would incriminate his own memory of witnessing liberties taken under the badge.

"I don't know much about him, and it wasn't a memorable arrest, really. I do remember that his name was Anton....Antony. Something."

He shrugged.

"It was a long time ago. He was just a night butterfly. There's a million of them flitting around Moscow, turning tricks."

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"Ant-"

Matvei was struggling to process this information.

He was being ridiculous, of course. His shock was unnecessary. Of course it was likely someone shared his father's name in the whole wide world.

And yet...

Matvei's brain clunked into brain, drawing together dates. His father left when he was... five? Six? And his mother hadn't talked about it much, and Matvei hadn't really cared, except when he'd found himself alone.

"... Could you tell me more?" he asked, imploringly. "Whatever you remember."

He shifted, uncomfortably, realising this must have seemed an odd inquiry to make; none of his business.

"... My- I knew an Antony Charushkin."

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Liadov frowned. The boy looked almost desperate all of a sudden, but trying to conceal it.

It occurred to him that this boy might have known the man, after all. Perhaps he was a relative.

"I don't remember anything else," he said, evasively. "He wasn't charged. He was exonerated."

He gave Charushkin a meaningful glance.

"You don't need to know any more than that."

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Matvei bit the inside of his lip.

He didn't really want to say anything, but he was certain that Liadov knew more than he was saying, hoping to dissuade him. How else would he remember a name, the crime, and nothing inbetween?

He weighed the situation up, and found he could live with them knowing. They seemed like the kind who understood secrets.

"... It was my father's name," Matvei explained quietly.

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"Oh, I see," said Liadov, quietly.

He frowned, drumming his fingers dully on the black lab composite.

"Well, there are probably a lot of Antons in Mother Russia, Lieutenant. It's unlikely that-"

He trailed off.

"Trust me," he said, smiling. "It's unlikely."

He tilted his head, angling his gaze down as he toyed with one of Polya's instruments.

"This particular individual...did not have a propensity toward offspring...at least, not toward committing the things in the way from which offsping might occur."

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