Apocalypse, now [February 19, 1964, 8:54 pm]

[heartofthunder.livejournal.com]

Volgin popped the last chocolate in his mouth and closed the box.

He felt better.

It had been a long, stressful day. Every time he'd walked unthinkingly past a window, realizing only as he'd passed that he shouldn't have done that, Volgin had nearly flinched, and Colonel Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin did not flinch.

Ocelot had been scowling, even more than usual, as he saw to various security precautions: extra patrols, guards posted on rooftops, a stuffed effigy wearing one of Volgin's uniforms left to sit behind his desk. Ocelot was looking even for another decoy, but there were few men who even approached Volgin's size.

That made Volgin think of Alexei, who actually did approach his size. Alexei, who'd appeared out of the ether and back from the dead to warn him, who cautioned him to move from his regular quarters in the Main Wing to his secondary quarters bunkered below, and just in time, too.

Like he'd known there would be an attempt on Volgin's life. He must have.

Volgin wanted to talk to Alexei now. He wanted answers, but more than that, he wanted to feel Alexei's ruthless mouth and unyielding arms, to have Alexei take him, possess him the way only Alexei ever had.

He sighed.

But there was no Alexei. Not last night, not all day.

His monthly shipment of imported Belgian chocolates had arrived earlier in the day, and it had been like a godsend. Exactly what he needed. He'd even put off eating them until he was alone in his quarters, and could really enjoy them.

He'd eaten every delectable piece in the span of mere minutes.

Carefully, Volgin hid the empty box in the trash, making sure to get every wrapper. It wouldn't do for Ivan to find out. Ivan disapproved of the chocolates, especially when Volgin ate too much in one sitting. "You'll ruin your teeth, Zhenya, or you'll get fat," he would chide, and then take them away, just like Volgin's mother had done, all those years ago.

Volgin loved Ivan, but he also loved chocolates.

Ivan didn't have to know about this.

Volgin got up, restless. Too early to go to bed, too late to be stalking around the base, especially with a sniper on the loose.

Maybe he should go find Ivan. Maybe he should find Ocelot, so they could have that talk. Maybe he should find someone hapless to terrorize, one of Ivan's men, perhaps, someone dispensable, whose smoking corpse wouldn't be particularly missed the next day. There had to be some sort of discipline problem that could use his assistance.

Hmm. Yes. That sounded like a good idea, actually.

Volgin turned to the door, then frowned. His stomach hurt. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten all those chocolates at once, after all.

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[snow-death.livejournal.com]

The catacombs beneath Groznyj Grad were surprisingly unsentried.

Lynx had little problem getting through to the fortified underground wing, which he remembered from his own days at the Grad.

At one point he had seen a spray of fire and heard the insane cackle of someone laughing to himself, but he had been in a neighboring corridor, out of the line of sight. Just to be safe, he had pressed his formidable bulk into an alcove and let the lunatic guard dog pass before continuing on.

Zhenya's underground quarters were deliberately unassuming from the outside, and not located near the center of the complex, where one might expect them to be. The heavy metal wheel-opened door was marked like a utility closet, and there was no way of knowing that it was teflon, or hermetically sealed like a safe.

It was in en route to the core of the bunker, in what was an otherwise transient and empty hallway. Anyone infiltrating the center of the complex would be chagrined to find broom closets and storage behind the tantalizingly classified looking doors further on.

Had he not known this, had he not spent many nights in Volgin's comfortable "dungeon", Alexei might have wasted precious time locating Yevgeny's quarters.

But here they were, unguarded, and utterly impregnable, even to Lynx of Chernaya Spetsnaz.

So Alexei rang the bell.

The button and intercom were inset in the wall panel, and he pressed the red button, hearing its faint, gritty tone resound inside, dampened by the massive security insulation of the door.

Glancing left and right, as he did, to make sure no passing patrols marked him and shot on site because of his sensitive location.

He thought he heard the intercom pick up, so he pressed the talk-back button.

"Colonel Volgin," he said calmly, closing his eyes, trying to control his fear, which he'd managed to repress during the necessarily concerted task of infiltrating the bunker. Now he found it returning, apprehension spiking coldly like time-lapsed icicles.

"It's Alexei...Ryshkin. Let me in before I'm spotted."

[snow-death.livejournal.com]

Lynx glanced at the closed door, as if he could will himself to gaze through it.

"He's a hard man to kill. I'm not sure it could be done with anything less than an act of god."

They were encouraging words, but he also believed them, somehow. He felt a sense of relief that he had caught Volgin before he collapsed, so that the poison hadn't had a chance to absorb. According to the nurse that seemed to make all the difference.

Now that the urgency was over, Alexei was beginning to come to a conclusion of exactly where he was. He was standing in the midst of virtual strangers, as an unknown commodity, and one of an unsettlingly size and reputation.

The pathologist and Semeyonev seemed not to think much of it, but he could feel the other soldier's eyes like steel wool, abraiding his back, and then, there was Ocelot.

Alexei looked at the young major.

"Well," he said quietly, "what now?"

[hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com]

Ippolit watched the large man with the pretty eyes depart, the set of his back quietly dignified even as he was being led to a cell, and wondered if he would ever see him again. They came and went. You never knew.

It was a precaution, obviously, as Ocelot had said. If Lynx had meant any harm, malice would have been pouring off of him in waves. Instead there was only concern, palpable and invisible as thin, clean glass.

The Colonel would be all right. He was the Colonel. Nothing could hurt him. Nothing could kill him. Hadn't the last night proven that?

Rakitin pressed his back against the wall and waited to know if he was wrong.