The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

Vladislav? Snake was quiet for a moment as he continued to eat as if Krauss hadn't just stepped over to join him. His backpack was next to him on his right side, so he was at least somewhat grateful that Krauss had seated himself to his left. He picked at his food for a second or two longer before vocalizing his curiosity. "The Fury. His real name is Vladislav?" He had never heard Boss refer to any of her Cobras by anything other than their emotions--he'd gotten to a point where he was unsure if they even had true names.

She called him Jack. If he ever "earned" an emotion, would she call him that instead? He wasn't sure if he liked the notion very much. A battlefield was no place for a name, true, but...

He wouldn't mind if she called him Snake. But if he became simply an emotion to her, another part of her unit...

Then again, wouldn't he be rising in the ranks? Or was he merely becoming another part of the crowd? Irritated by his conflicting emotions, Snake left the entire topic alone. Perhaps it was actually a good thing that he had Krauss to distract him.

"I'll be fine," he assured the German. Being a stranger didn't bother him. He enjoyed being on his own--one couldn't specialize in infiltration and not be a solitary creature.

Neither the haircut nor the uniform sounded good. He didn't want anyone getting near his hair. And having to wear a Russian uniform was entering the realm of surreal. He might be considered one of the pack after that--and he'd rather be distinguished as an outsider, someone not to be bothered. He didn't want anything to feel permanent, especially since he wasn't sure what the status of his mission was at this point.

Still, he couldn't refuse everything. He'd have to take the uniform, but the haircut was not happening. He continued with his meal, hardly seeing what the fuss was over the quality of the food. This wasn't even approaching inedible.

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“It is quite amazing what you will learn about someone with a brief glance at their personnel file…the Cobras, now they’re an interesting bunch.” He let it drop at that, bored with the subject, entirely exhausted with the unit itself. Life had been an interesting slice of hell ever since they arrived with their hornets and flame throwers, and elaborate traps that often found the defector dangling helpless upside down from a tree. “Just… don’t cross them, that’s all, and you will be fine indeed. As a matter of fact, the same could be said for Colonel Volgin.”

Krauss studied the American carefully, and hoped that Snake wasn’t quite as crazy as his mentor and her unit of freaks. Groznyj was well overdue for ordinary soldiers of sane and rational mind.

“You’re quiet.” He observed, sliding his tray away without really touching any of the food. “Too quiet. How am I ever to know what sort of things I could bribe you with if you refuse to speak?” He laughed softly, it was his version of a joke. “Let me guess: baseball and apple pie?”

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This man had power, then. That was obvious enough. Snake didn't want him poking around in any of his files, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to stop such a thing. Krauss wasn't important to him. He wasn't part of the mission. Having to deal with him was bad enough, but there wasn't any simple way to get rid of the man. While the German warned him not to cross the Cobras or Volgin (which he figured was sound advice), Snake imagined Krauss was not to be crossed, either.

He tended to listen to his gut feelings.

Bribes? Snake suppressed a snort. As if he was susceptible to that sort of thing. He wouldn't have his job if he was. The stereotypical joking (and Snake couldn't exactly determine if the man was serious or not) did result in a small snort as he ate another forkful of food.

"Hardly," he mumbled. There was nothing the man could buy him off with. Hopefully he'd realize that soon.

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“Nonsense,” Krauss diagnosed immediately, at Snake’s disinterest. “The most important thing I have learned in my travels far and wide is that everyone, whether he is German, French, Russian, or even American… has a price. Even Colonel Volgin, even that fucking lunatic cosmonaut. Even your darling Voyevoda…and even you.”

He smiled at the annoyed glare he received. “Oh, don’t take it so personally. It’s human nature, my dear.”

The Major searched the pockets of his garish fur coat, hoping for a stray cigarette, and finding none, sighed. “You should give in to your temptations now and then. No good ever came from depriving yourself.”

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It was strange that Snake took the most offense at Krauss' mention of The Boss. Perhaps it was stupid, but seeing that she was his mentor, he had a childish adoration for her. He didn't mind if people said things about him, but Boss?

Things only got worse when the man was bold enough to call him 'dear.' Snake had no idea what about him would make anyone think it was appropriate to call him something like that, even if it was most likely being done in a sarcastic manner.

Giving into temptations... As he watched the man search through his pockets, Snake was struck by an idea. Finishing up the last of his food, he rifled through his backpack until he found a stray cigar. Lighting up, he stretched back and sighed. Granted, cigars couldn't be used to bribe him--hopefully Krauss wouldn't try.

"Don't call me 'dear,'" he said, speaking around the cigar.

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“Once again,” Krauss shrugged, “don’t take it personally. You’re not my type.” He grinned, as an idea crept over him. “I prefer blondes, really, but Major Raikov does not discriminate.” No, the American was not his type. Far too hairy.

Then, as quickly as he had leaned in with his typical depraved smile, the German recoiled, slipping his coat off and folding it into a neat pile, to be used as a makeshift pillow. No sense in getting in a hurry to go anywhere, he observed, the rest of Snake’s surrogate unit was still quite involved in their meals, and the defector himself seemed quite content to let his meal settle.

And then, he had a thought.

“You didn’t sit with them.” He gestured to the Cobras, at their own table across the room, clearly avoided by Groznyj personnel. That was interesting, the thought, very interesting. Snake chose to sit alone, even despite being grudgingly accepted by the Boss, and therefore, vicariously accepted by her unit, whether they liked it or not.

The Major straightened up, and thoughtfully spoke. “You know… I could arrange a plane to leave tomorrow, bound for Washington. All you have to do is ask, and none of this ever happened. Russia, Groznyj Grad, Cobra Unit -- it was all a bad dream.”

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"Your type." Snake tried hard not to deadpan, but it was fairly obvious what the German meant when he said that. It was the military, which meant the American had been exposed to a certain amount of such antics before, but he was quite happy with females. Then again, he hadn't been stuck in the middle of Russia for years.

As Krauss motioned, Snake turned his head and noticed the infamous unit. He frowned, shrugged, and puffed at his cigar. After a moment longer, he took it out of his mouth. "They're not my family," he said sternly, before placing it between his lips again.

The proposition, while interesting if only because he was curious as to how the man planned to pull off something like that, was not what Snake wanted. He had a mission and he wasn't going to crawl back home until he'd done what he came such a fucking long way to do. He did his best to seem neutral. "I'll pass," he muttered.

He was getting a bit antsy, sitting around in the mess hall when he'd already finished his meal.

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“Family,” Krauss scowled, watching the Fear devour his food like some rabid animal, “I don’t think you’re missing out on much, really.” He wasn’t prepared to go into the details of three daughters left behind in Germany, not with a complete stranger. “Gott im Himmel.” He shook his head, shutting his eyes.

“Well, I suppose if you are truly interested in Mother Russia and making new friends with Cobras, I shouldn’t try to dissuade you with offers to return to your homelands. The Soviet Union has been nothing but kind to me, and I hope you will enjoy such benefits as well.”

The German opened his eyes and stretched his limbs, joints popping in protest of having sat still for so long. Slowly he stood, wavering briefly as his bad hip threatened to give out, then he caught himself and took a deep breath. When he caught Snake eyeing him in question, he smiled. “A spy in the Wehrmacht was given very special treatment.” He raised his right hand, the missing fingers obvious now without his gloves on, grinning widely -- The Major always enjoyed telling the story. “They wanted to be sure that… before they killed me, I would never have the pleasure of shooting a gun again. I fooled them on three occasions, you see.”

He pulled on his coat and started for the door. “First, and most obviously, I’m too stubborn to die. Second, I’m stubborn enough that I did not rest until I learned to shoot left handed.” Absent mindedly, he stroked the pistol on his hip, the Luger far removed from standard issue, and waited for Snake to remind him about the third reason.

“Oh yes… they may have cut off my fingers, but when the Red Army finally captured their unit, I cut out their hearts, and devoured them with Spargelkohl and Nudeln.” Smiling, he opened the door for Snake, as though cannibalism and proper social etiquette went well together. “So how about that uniform and haircut, hmm?”

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Luckily, The Fury was the only one that had approached him thus far - and he was busy with The Boss. If he'd been present, the cosmonaut might have tried to drag him over to their table--and that would have been disastrous. "Neither do I," he replied offhandedly with a tiny smirk. And he'd be resisting anyone's urges that he become assimilated into Cobra Life.

It wasn't that he was eager to stay in the Soviet Union, but it was a matter of his mission. He had to remain until he accomplished what he'd set out to do, but trying to explain that to Krauss wouldn't work, so he left it at that.

The long, drawn-out story wasn't exactly something Snake wanted to hear. It wasn't that it stirred his stomach - he could tolerate just about any grotesque story. The truth was that he honestly didn't care why the man didn't have some of his fingers, didn't care if he could shoot with his left hand, didn't care if he'd eaten people's hearts.

It did make him a bit better to feel that he hadn't gotten to the point of cannibalism yet. Unless those pythons counted. Para-medic had seemed to think so.

"Forget the haircut," he said with a huff, starting after the man. He ran a hand over his hair as if to assure himself that it was staying right where it was, no matter what the German thought.

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Krauss was obviously displeased with Snake’s disinterest in his story, no questions, no commenting on how brave he was or how that must have hurt, or anything. Sulking, he opened the door and stepped out into the brisk winter dusk.

“It may be acceptable in degenerate America, for a soldier to go about with hair just so… but not here. We have high standards to keep.” That was an outright lie, with Raikov in mind, but it bothered him deeply that the American was so set in his ways, too quiet, and lacking any sort of respect for him or interest in his words, which he considered of utmost importance.

Feigning interest in the night sky, Krauss decided it was his personal mission to see that Snake was soon looking like a proper Soviet soldier, shorn hair and clean shaven, simply because the American resisted it so, with his quiet mumbling.

“It really isn’t my call, comrade. Colonel Volgin… well… he prefers his men a certain way.” Johann grinned at the irony of his words, snuggling deeper into his fur coat for warmth. That certain way just happened to be prone and well lubed, but Kraus was never one to kiss and tell, so he only smiled.

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High standards. Right. What did it matter how one wore one's hair? A uniform he could understand, but...

Well, he could see the reasons. Uniforms were meant to express unity - keeping everyone's hair in more or less the same style was simply taking that idea to a new level. Also, it was somewhat impractical for a soldier to have his hair long, considering he was going to be engaged in combat--having all that hair for the enemy to grab at wasn't helpful to the cause.

Snake liked his hair as it was, though. He wasn't the type that would get himself into a situation where someone would be tugging at his hair, anyway. The point was not to be seen, after all.

"Colonel Volgin. I'll just have to take it up with him, then," Snake responded easily. He'd been planning to meet the man, anyway, and when he did, he would make it clear that he was not Russian - therefore, his hair would stay the way he wanted it. He wasn't afraid of the colonel (though quite a few people could attest to the stupidity of that).

It was enough to ask him to wear the damn uniform.

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The Major sighed, and made a mental note to take it up with Volgin himself, wondering why life had to be so difficult. If it wasn’t a cosmonaut hiding from a required government physical and all the paperwork that followed, it was a defector refusing to follow simple orders from a commanding officer.

But he would have his way, even if he had to sedate the American with crocodile tranquilizers and shave him while he was out.

And there was the matter of who outranked whom.

“Say, comrade… what is your rank and title? Or was? We’ve got to figure out where to put you now.” Krauss suppressed a smile, and toyed with the thought of assigning Snake to the Krasnogorje patrol, and the hell, fire, and brimstone that would follow, literally and figuratively.

“Of course you can inquire to Volgin about the simple matter of a trim, but I already know what he will tell you.” He nodded as they walked on, “so why not make your life easier, and take my word for it?”

Silently, Krauss was thankful that the storage facility he had in mind for procuring a uniform was not far, the American was so… dull, and unkempt.

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While Snake wasn't entirely aware of it yet, he got the inkling that this might result in a faceoff between two very stubborn people. But it was his hair, and he got to decide what was or wasn't done to it. Hopefully he could find Volgin sooner rather than later to get everything sorted out.

The man's inquiry about rank wasn't as easy as it should have been to answer. He sighed and shrugged. "In my field, things are a little more informal, so you're probably going to have to figure out some way to assign me a rank." It wasn't as if he cared that much. He wasn't looking to climb any ladders or order any people around. Getting assigned to lead a unit would be a chore. He wanted to be left alone as much as possible, in fact.

"I think I'll take my chances and talk to me," he pressed, not willing to give in on the matter. Part of him realized it was ridiculous to get up in arms about something like hair, but he was allowed to be anal about some physical aspect, wasn't he?

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Krauss tilted his head, thinking hard on the subject of rank. “No matter.” He shrugged, “I had to invent ranks for most of the Cobra Unit. You’ll probably be placed with them for the sake of convenience. Your mentor is their leader, after all.”

He didn’t like to think about all that implied and the hell that might result from throwing someone as relatively inexperienced as Snake in with soldiers --no, creatures-- like the Fear and the Pain. “You may stand to learn something from them, after all.” He nodded, for good measure, and continued on to the small warehouse with a brisk pace, searching his pockets for the right key.

The sooner the American had a proper uniform and physical, the sooner he could be rid of him. And the sooner he was rid of him, the sooner he was free to take up more pleasurable activities. A long, hot shower was right at the top of his list.

Cursing under his breath as he pushed open the stubborn wooden door, he sighed in frustration. “All the buildings around here are settling.” He hissed, finally opening the door enough to slip through into the dark, dusty building. It was a grim realization: Groznyj was aging, and so was he. Krauss remembered for a brief moment, that he had ordered the construction of this particular storage facility himself, and oversaw the project until its completion. Volgin always signed off on his special projects with a cautionary scowl and flicker of electricity, for he had no reason to doubt his most efficient Major.

Unfortunately, efficient didn’t always mean favorite.

The light flickered for a moment before coming on, illuminating crate after crate of supplies and ammunition. Stepping over a box scrawled with “field rations” in hurried Cyrillic, he motioned for Snake to follow him deeper into the warehouse.

“Somewhere here,” Johann announced, “we have uniforms in storage. Generally, recruitment is a more formal process.” Rummaging through a half-opened box, he found something favorable, and swiftly pocketed it. “But normally, our recruits are not so well equipped either.” He gestured to the backpack Snake had not relinquished since his arrival. “What do you have there, then? What sort of things do the American armies equip their spies with?"

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Being thrown in with the Cobras - as far as rank, anyway - wasn't that big of a deal. It was simply a rank, after all, and Snake had never been too concerned with that sort of thing. It did make a certain amount of sense, so he felt no need to argue the point.

Learn something? That he wasn't so sure of. "How not to act, maybe," he replied, trying not to sound too displeased. He did understand that the Boss respected them and had them working under her for a reason. While Snake couldn't see the reasoning behind it himself, it had to be there. Somewhere. Deep down inside their manic hearts. He hadn't really seen them fight, so perhaps it was truly something to be seen.

A warehouse, hmm? It was obvious it had lived a long life; Snake didn't need Krauss to tell him that. Not that it mattered much to Snake. This was only a temporary home, and he didn't need to concern himself with the fact that it was losing its newness. The colonel would probably want to do something about that, though. He idly wondered if the man was someone that wouldn't pay much attention to the fact that part of his base was starting to deteriorate or if he was the type that would obsessively work to keep everything in the best shape.

Something like that said a lot about a person.

Following after the German, he listened to him, though not with much enthusiasm. He was glad they weren't being formal about any of this initiation onto the base--that would have been an unnecessary chore. Looking slightly taken aback at the question, he recovered quickly in order to respond, glancing down at his pack as he spoke. "...Camouflage." That was what was filling up most of it, after all.

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He smirked at Snake’s answer, but said nothing. Camouflage. Not weapons, not guns or knives or even something so glamorous as rations. No, camouflage. Either the man was lying, or America was even more pathetic than the German had thought, sending their best soldier into enemy territory with only a few changes of camo.

“Well, no wonder you surrendered and defected then.” He mumbled to himself. “Surely they packed you a gun? A knife? A sack lunch? Something?”

He turned and started rummaging through a box filled with jackboots, tossing out several before he found a suitable pair, and tossed them unceremoniously at Snake. Without another word, he pulled open an unmarked box and began pulling out green-gray tunics familiar of GRU officers. When he found one that looked about right, he held it up, studying the American for a moment, then tossed it at him. “It should fit, comrade. Maybe a little loose. Better loose than tight, it gets cold here, you’ll want to wear something under that jacket.”

“Jodphurs.” He mumbled to himself, seeing that Snake was not the least bit amused, and proceeded on to a different box, leaving the contents of the first strewn about the floor.

Chuckling, he called out from the box of pants, “we’ll have you looking like a good Russian in no time. Will it break your heart if I mention you won’t receive any sort of insignia until we figure out what rank to make you?”

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There was definitely more in his backpack than camouflage, but Snake didn't exactly feel comfortable telling the man about every single gun or knife or other weapon that he'd brought along with him. They were hidden for a reason.

"I'll be able to take care of myself," he said ambiguously. There wasn't much more he wished to say on the subject.

Snake stood and waited as the German searched through boxes, catching what was thrown at him as Krauss continued to pick out what he must have thought made up a suitable uniform. Perhaps some people would have been offended by the fact that their uniform was being pulled out of boxes, but Snake wasn't of that particular group. He probably wouldn't be wearing it most of the time, anyway.

He did prefer loose over tight, though.

"I think I'll live," he called out in response to the man's final inquiry. Pfft. Insignia.

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“Now where did they leave the box of…” he trailed off, sternly scrutinizing the jodhpurs he pulled from the box, then glancing up at Snake. “Never mind. You don’t seem like a tie wearer, even if it is standard issue for dress uniforms.”

Krauss smiled slightly, handing the pants over. “They don’t match the tunic exactly, but let me guess, Herr Snake: I’ll probably never see you wearing them anyway. You don’t seem the type to sit around the East Wing and look pretty in a parade uniform.” He shrugged slightly. “Besides, that’s a difficult job reserved for Major Raikov. You haven‘t met him yet; you will soon.”

He stepped over the mess he made, leaving pants and boots where they lay, and surveyed the scene. “A real shame too, after a shower and a shave, you probably won’t look half bad. Maybe even like something I’d want to socialize with. It’s difficult to tell so soon, really.”

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While Snake wouldn't have loathed wearing a tie, he hardly mourned the lack of one, either. He understood that sometimes people had to dress up and he'd done so in the past, but that was usually for a special occasion. Uniforms were meant to be worn every day.

Not matching was hardly a big deal, either. Placing the two pieces of fabric next to each other, it was difficult to even notice. Besides, the German had already hit the nail on the head. He nodded to him. Looking pretty wasn't his specialty, anyway, though he had heard quite the scandalous rumors about the mentioned Major Raikov.

Hopefully their meeting could be postponed.

"I'll shower," Snake corrected the man. He might be scruffy, but that didn't mean he had horrible hygiene. "I just won't shave." Well, he obviously shaved to a certain extent, but he wasn't going to be clean-shaven or anything like that. He could have mentioned that he didn't particularly want to socialize with the man, but he refrained. It wasn't necessary and would just give him more trouble.

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“Hmm.” Krauss shrugged, and started for the door. “Whatever pleases you. I’ve done my part, it’s all out of my hands now. When Colonel Volgin asks, you will reply that Major Johann Krauss instructed you to have a haircut, shave, and issued you a uniform, and you disobeyed of your own free will.”

It was more intimidation tactics than anything; typically Volgin avoided the Cobra Unit, and anything related.

He turned off the light, shut the door, and glanced at his pocket watch. That took longer than he had hoped, and for no purpose at all.

“Und was wünschen Sie noch? Shall I show you to the barracks you will share with your new comrades, or would you rather go for a shower now?”

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"I'll tell him just that," Snake responded, heading out over the German. There was no point in lying, and he doubted he would be believed if he did in fact lie. There was no need to be ashamed of his desire to have his hair - facial included - at the length he liked.

Shower or barracks. Considering he'd been trekking through the jungle, a shower sounded a lot more appealing than having to meet even more people he didn't want to socialize with. He provided a small nod. "Shower."

As for the spoken German, Snake had to ignore it. While he knew Russian, his German wasn't spectacular.

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“Very well then.” The Major nodded briskly, turned, and motioned for Snake to follow. “There are showers available to you not far from the barracks that will house you. I trust you will be able to find your way from there. The last building in the row.” Krauss hesitated, before continuing. “You can’t miss it. I will depart once I show you around. I sincerely hope you will not require my assistance in the showers, but if so, you can find me in my office in the East Wing of the main building.”

As they walked on, he mused on how it was all like that for a reason housing arrangements and such -- to keep the Cobra Unit as far away as possible from the other soldiers.

Particularly the Ocelot Unit, a favorite target. In the last month alone, two men had died by fire, one by poisoned arrow, and three by livid hornets.

Poor bastards, anyway.

And on that note cast an amused glance to Snake, as they walked on in silence.

The night patrol was just starting to emerge for the evening as the stars came out, and he waved away their salutes and greetings as they slowly, grudgingly made their way to their posts.

If it was one thing Krauss hated, it was silence, punctuated only by their boot clicks on the concrete.

“So… the lady. Is she available?”

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As Krauss gave him an idea of what was where, Snake made sure to pay attention. He didn't want to have to ask anyone where something was; it was much better if he figured it out on his own. He was the type that would wander around until he found what he was looking for before stopping someone to ask them.

He was an infiltrator. He was supposed to be able to locate things.

Snake had to smirk at Krauss' hypocritical attitude. Earlier he'd mentioned how he wasn't his type, and now he was saying that he could ask him if he needed help in the shower. Still, it was all better off ignored; reacting would just invite the man to continue such behavior--possibly in public.

Making sure not to make eye contact with any of the men they passed, Snake was jerked out of a general calm at the German's question.

He couldn't bristle too much--he didn't want the other to know how touchy he was when it came to the Boss--but he certainly didn't look happy. "Leave her alone." However, his tone was more of a child being protective of his mother than a man being protective of his lover.

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“Ach!” The German barely suppressed a laugh at the venomous reaction he got from Snake. “You could of simply said she was taken, no need to be cross about it.”

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, even though he was not willing to give up near so easily. Krauss was accustomed to always getting whatever his heart desired, and he had made up his mind that today, it desired The Joy.

Tomorrow, more than likely someone else.

Maybe the pretty little blonde creature Volgin brought home from Tselinoyarsk. Maybe other pretty little blondes often seen in the presence of the Colonel.

“It is not much farther from here,” Krauss promised, “just ahead, through the gate.” He nodded to the stone wall that loomed in the naked white of the yard lamps. “If you follow the main path from here, it should dead end at Cobra barracks. A few hundred meters before that, you’ll find suitable facilities for showering and banya.” The Major stopped, it was obvious he was unwilling to follow Snake into the realm of common soldiers. “Good night, and pleasant dreams.”

He smiled widely, knowing his own dreams would be rather pleasant, despite Snake’s warning to leave the Boss alone.

“Oh, and beware of the hornets. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

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Snake could have tried to explain. It wasn't that she was taken - not by him, anyway. Her heart belonged to someone else. He didn't know much about The Sorrow, but he'd heard enough. She wasn't going to fall into someone else's arms so easily.

No, she wasn't taken. Snake merely didn't want a man like Krauss trying anything on her. The Boss could take care of herself, of course, and would soon put the German in his place, but he didn't want her to have to deal with the annoyance in the first place.

He didn't bother explaining all of it to Krauss, though. He doubted it would do much good.

Listening to his instructions (and noting his reluctance to head into Cobra territory), he smirked slightly at the hornet comment before barely raising his hand in a small wave as he continued on his way toward the showers.

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The curious wave caught him off guard, and he tiled his head in question.

“Amerikaner.” He muttered to himself, crossing his arms over his chest before turning to walk away. “Ich werde nimmer verstehen.”

Krauss ignored the guards of the evening shift who stopped and saluted, dismissing them with an annoyed glare and a wave.

Too cold. It would snow again soon, tonight or the next morning, he could feel it in his bad hip, a dull ache of forewarning. Snuggling deeper into the soft fur of his coat, he made up his mind to find someone worthy to keep him warm through the night.

Ilya, the soft-spoken young Ocelot from the infirmary sprang to mind, but the boy seemed impossible to track down, so Krauss only sighed.

The Major stopped in the white haze of a yard light and pulled a stop watch from his pocket, shaking his head at it. It was always dark so early in winter -- not even six in the evening and the stars were out. How very depressing. The nights were long and cold and lonely, but there was always some entertainment to be found. Smirking, he turned back toward the East Wing.

Granin would be along in the morning to plead for funding, like clockwork -- once a month. The old man’s visits always turned out to be profitable, he always seemed to need comforts of some sort, alcohol or expensive imported cigars, or the finest silk suits smuggled in from the far east.

How typical.

For a brief moment, Krauss hoped that Volgin was still brooding around the Shagohod hangar. Uncouth, uncultured company was better than no company at all.

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The walk back to the mess hall was quiet. The Joy was too busy thinking about too many things to talk more with The Fury. She wanted to talk to him further, but for now, good was calling... and she was rather concerned about Jack, based on both her observations of Krauss and what The Fury had said, she had good reason to be concerned.

Needless to say, she was quite dismayed to notice that neither Snake nor the german Major were to be located. "If he's done anything to Snake, he won't be able to shoot left-handed either," She threatened quietly, almost too quietly too be heard.

Trusting Jack to take care of himself, she went to grab food and eat quickly before going to track down her youngest son. When she had too, Voyevoda could eat almost as quickly as The Fear, but she took a bit more time, even if the food wasn't all that good. It wouldn't make a good impression if she were to rush in and out of the mess hall, after all.

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The cosmonaut did the only logical thing he could think to do -- he followed her. He had no other pressing matters to attend to, and even if he would have, he didn’t like the notion of leaving the Boss all alone in Groznyj Grad, even if she was the Boss. Women were a rare commodity around the base, and most of them were for sale.

And there was the matter of dinner.

The Fury chose not to answer her worrying, it was all too amusing she would worry about how Snake was managing against one depraved German when he single-handedly took out the entire Ocelot Unit and their pompous Major.

The worst think Johann Krauss might do is grope the kid to death. Drawing simple conclusions from the kid’s reaction to being poked with a flame thrower, he smiled slightly at the resulting compound fractures that Krauss would incur if he tried anything funny.

The Fury collected his food with as little of fuss as possible -- something about the whole process always felt mildly degrading, but he didn’t know why, or care to think about it too much -- and sat down across from Voyevoda as soldiers scurried to get out of his way.

With some effort, he pulled off his heavy helmet, and the oxygen mask was the next to go, a complicated mess of tubes and wires. He smiled slightly when he caught the Boss giving him a curious, if not concerned glance. “We have not seen each other in person since my space flight. My failed space flight.” The cosmonaut made a small gesture, as if to dismiss the horrible burn scars that left a once-handsome pilot disfigured, and crept up into his hairline in large bald patches, descended his neck and disappeared into his suit. “But a man can learn more from his failures than his successes.”

The Fury smirked at words left unspoken; now was not the time or the place, and only if she inquired.

“Just a few little scorch marks, that’s all. No need to worry yourself.” He mused, skewering a piece of potato with his fork. “It seems you have plenty to worry about these days. No thoughts to spare for us.”

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The Boss mostly observed her food while The Fury spoke, inspecting it. But when he mentioned space flight she looked up at him when he mentioned failures and successes. For some unexplainable reason she felt slightly guilty that her own trip into space had gone off perfectly.

"I've thought about you all every day since we parted." It was true, she was constantly seeing things to remind them of her. She wasn't sure how she was going to tell The Fury about her own space flight.

Perhaps it was best not to state it outright. "The Earth is such a beautiful little planet, a tiny gem of blue and white and green in an endless field of stars." It was a vague statement, it could very easily describe an imagined image, or perhaps an actual view of the Earth from space.

The mess hall, however, was not a place for such discussions. "Krauss called you captain earlier... have you been demoted?"

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“Go on,” he motioned to her tray, “it has yet to kill us, despite the questionable presentation.”

He shook his head; no reason to go all sentimental now, even if he had thought of his comrades nearly as often as she did, wondering where they drifted over the year, or even if they were still alive. A stray letter now and then, smuggled through from the west, and nothing more for over a decade.

“Demoted? In a manner of speaking.” The Fury smirked, ever so slightly at the change of subject. “Stripped of all rank and title after torching a few important government research facilities and tossed unceremoniously into a loony bin. Captain is what they saw fit to make me when I was recruited to this very special Soviet military base.”

The cosmonaut realized he was glaring at her, and turned his attention back to dinner. “You know I was never inclined to let a little thing like rank bother me.” Very true, considering his pointless confrontation with Volgin earlier in the day.

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"Ah, Krauss will likely try to assign me Rank as well then, I assume." It made sense to her that the German was probably behind this. She had a feeling that Volgin didn't care much about rank, other than the fact that he should be able to order everyone else around.

It might've surprised some that she didn't seem at all bothered by knowledge of what The Fury had done, but it was almost expected that he would've done something like that without enemies to pursue. Voyevoda was also unbothered by his glaring.

The food, while it didn't look appealing, was in fact edible. Though, in her opinion, she probably could have found tastier food out in the jungle. "So, what have you observed about the soldiers here, Fury?"

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“There are a few good men here. I recruited most of them for my special projects, but a Lieutenant Isaev of the Ocelot Unit does stand out in memory. The rest…” he shrugged, “Mindless drones, incapable of independent thought. We’ve been using them for target practice. At least we make some use of them.”

The Fury looked down at the last scraps of his food, thoughtful, picking and poking. “It was not so bad tonight. Not like usual.” Or, he thought, maybe it was more tolerable in good company.

“As for the famous Ocelot Unit… I have yet to see what makes them so spectacular. Pretty blonde boys with guns playing soldier in the forest.” Sighing, he pushed his tray away. A cigarette would have been nice to settle the meal, but like all things, they seemed in short supply. “They don’t even have fucking emotions to carry with them.”

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The Fury had always had the highest of standards. The cosmonaut was incredible, peerless in his field, almost beyond reproach when it came to his skills in combat, and he expected others to be the same way, or to be nothing at all.

Of course, the fact that Jack had so soundly beaten the Ocelots probably wouldn't improve her sons opinion of them. "Yes, the Ocelot Major... he's rather arrogant... it sounded like you two have a difference of opinions." That was putting it very lightly, but sometimes understatements were best.

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The cosmonaut chose to remain silent on the matter of Major Ocelot. There was plenty left to be said on the matter of the pompous boy and his usefulness at becoming a human torch, but it was late, and there were more productive things to attend to.

“It was nice.” He offered, not elaborating. The dinner, of course. Sitting down to dinner with an old comrade, just talking about things. It was too comfortable.

The Fury stood and took inventory of the mess hall, nothing more to see here. “If you will excuse me, I do have a few things still left to do in the laboratory before it gets too late. If my predictions are correct, Krauss will have delivered the kid to Cobra barracks -- as far south as you can go, and still be in Groznyj proper.”

He nodded, and turned to leave. “I supposed I’ll see you around, Boss.”

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