A Brief Interlude...

[krasnogorje.livejournal.com]

The hallways of the East Wing were delightfully warm after spending all morning out in the cold and snow and ice on the summit of the Krasnogorje mountain.

In all honesty, Io was thankful for a fluff assignment, even if it was designated to him for the cosmonaut’s own personal amusement. Anything to be out of the cold and away from the new recruits for a few hours. They were entirely exhausting.

And it had been the vaguest, most useless assignment his commander had ever given him: “go do something counterproductive to military efficiency.” It was a clear enough message though: controlled sabotage, in doses just large enough to be annoying, potentially even infuriating, but leaving no real damage in their wake.

Like painting caricatures of naked ladies on the posters of Lenin and Stalin tacked up in Red Square. That was the sort of humorous anarchy the Fury would have enjoyed. Io himself had laughed all the way to the gulag about taking vulgar artistic license with the pictures, among other supposed acts of treason against the state.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, but it had only been three short years.

He chose the hallway right outside of Volgin’s office for his experiment for the particular acoustic properties of that particular corridor. Where the concrete floor turned to marble, and the ceilings arched, everything echoed down the hall and into the main cluster of offices.

He would have preferred somewhere far, far way from the Colonel and his sudden electrical outbursts, but the Fury had assured him he would be relatively safe, so long has he kept his fuel tanks strapped securely to his back. Even Volgin, the cosmonaut claimed, was not stupid enough electrocute a walking bomb.

The officers that he passed in the narrow hallway scowled their typical disproval, and it thinly veiled their distrust for the flame soldier. He caught some of them actually staring, as though they had never seen a man in a respirator and flame suit, equipped with a flamethrower, and carrying a simple wooden violin and bow.

At least the vultures on the mountainside had been an appreciative audience. They even sort of resembled the Fury, he mused, taking off his gloves. Narrow, dark eyes, mostly bald heads with a few wispy strands of black hair here and there, constantly walking around with wings outstretched and waiting for something to die. Yes, that sounded exactly like his commander, a comparison he would most definitely have to share with the others at mess.

The offices, however, were filled with beautiful secretaries, and it made no difference to Io if the filthy whores had already been bedded by Volgin, Krauss, and half of the military base.

Without so much as an introduction to the GRU officers watching him with apprehension, the Krasnogorje Lieutenant touched the bow to the stings, and began his mournful, eerie song. It echoed through the halls, filled the offices, whispered tragic words of unrequited love, painted imagery of a cold white moon rising against a black night sky. It was something he wrote long ago, and Io smiled as the tragic melody returned to him in its entirety.

It flowed from the violin in ashen notes, drifting to the floor; a story written with arpeggios and broken chords. By the time he got to the part about the pilot whom killed his wife in a fit of rage, people were peering out of their offices to see where the mournful melody was coming from.

Io shut his eyes and continued playing as they congregated around him in the narrow hallway. Volgin would be along soon enough to ruin it all, and he wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.