Room 307

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

It was just starting to mist rain as the cosmonaut reached the side door of the East Wing.

The front door was far too obvious. Volgin lingered there, near the offices, never doing anything more productive than brooding and scowling at the houseplants.

The Fury cursed at the weather as he stepped into the deserted hallway; nature was a spiteful bitch, an entire hour of his day was wasted polishing his helmet, ruined by water spots and streaks.

It was almost enough to ruin his entire day, and even the good mood he found himself in after pointless banter earlier with the Fear.

Raining, again. Miserable.

Maybe the Sorrow finally realized Voyevoda had come home…

In an unexpected gesture of good nature that surprised even himself, The Fury allowed a guard to pass on the other side of the narrow stairway with only a glare. There were more important things to worry about than harassing common soldiers… like the fact that Voyevoda had finally come home, or the troubling lack of orders she left them with.

Voices echoed through the deserted building, and the cosmonaut stopped for a moment, content to listen. Dull murmurs, distorted by the cavernous hallway. Granin and Volgin. Nothing of importance.

Shaking his head, he continued on to the makeshift laboratory he claimed as his own.

Granin. What a fucking lunatic. It was impossible to respect a man who searched for hope in the bottoms of vodka bottles.

In spite of his mood, the Fury smirked as he turned on the light and surveyed the scene -- the damaged hovercraft near the window, parts and tools strewn around haphazardly, papers and books heaping in piles on the floor.

Organization had never been his forte, but the cluttered laboratory was a welcome and familiar sight. No one would bother him here, except for Krasnogorje soldiers coming in for repairs, and those like-minded men were never a bother.

It was the red scarf coiled in a crumpled heap on the heavy metal desk near the far corner of that made him smile as he removed his helmet and slipped the heavy jet pack from his shoulders, easing it to the floor.

The lunatic wasn’t quite sure what to think of its owner, but as he set to work repairing the damaged craft, he almost hoped the Ocelot Senior Lieutenant would be along soon to collect his scarf.

It seemed out of place amidst the scattered papers and blueprints. The scarf was far too cheerful. Too flammable.

The kid was interesting to talk to, at least. He didn’t cower away like the rest of them, and didn’t give in to his temper, even when provoked.

And hell, the cosmonaut mused, pulling scorched wires free of the hover craft’s interior, even Raikov would have made better diversion than agonizing over the possible details of The Joy’s secret mission.

Comments

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

"You've made progress," The Sorrow mentioned, resting folded arms on a corner of a lab table relatively free of clutter.

(Technically speaking, his arms were miles away, and as much at rest as anything human could be. Old habits die hard.)

He smiled at the sight of the cosmonaut. Clad as always in the old, converted spacesuit, prone to fits of wild violence at the least provocation, and paying only perfunctory heed to the basic parameters of sanity.

The sane were so much less interesting.

Yes. It was good to be, once again, among comrades.

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

Ocelot was not as familiar wiith the East Wing as a Major strictly should be, he knew this. But it wasn't a huge part of the complex, so he didn't worry about it overmuch.

The Krasnogornjye soldier flame patrol soldier at the base of the stairs had eyed him warily and given a single upward jerk of his head when he'd asked after the whereabouts of the Fury.

Ocelot found the man with unexpected ease, in the double laboratory that he called his 'office', bent over a counterspace of hard black composite. Even more unexpected was how engrossed he seemed, working on whatever twisted little project had claimed his imagination. He didn't even notice when Ocelot peered through the gridded door glass with narrowed, assessing eyes.

Now that he'd found the Fury, he wondered if it was even worth risking the man's irrational temper just to tell him the good news.

Ah, what the hell. Even lunatic cosmonauts deserved a break now and then.

Ocelot took the plunge, opening the door to the lab with one hand, keeping the other on his gun.

It paid to be careful. He wasn't there to pick a fight with the cosmonaut

The Fury didn't know that Volgin had nixed Krauss' perfectionist mission of Teutonic record-keeping, and sprung him pre-emptively from the clutches of Khostov. And his last encounter with Ocelot had been a confusing and humbling experience for all involved.

Best to play this safe.

He closed the door behind him, loudly enough that the spaceman would hear it, but not be startled.

Ocelot smiled grimly.

He didn't need a knee-jerk flamethrower strike, thank you very much.

"Fury," he announced. "Hope you don't mind the informality of my dropping in like this. Krauss would have everyone make a two weeks' advance appointment with his pretty secretary, but forgive me if I'm wrong- you don't seem the type."

A crisp smile, but not insincere.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Lieutenant Isaev was glad for some off-duty time to take care of pressing matters, such as putting in a little contraband order to Krauss, and writing a letter to his brother. Lasha was adamant about Andrei's need to beg a reassignment, to remove himself from the nether-steppes of Tselinoyarsk, and come closer to the Capital.

Andrei did not agree, and always politely declined. He liked Groznyj Grad, as an assignment. It was never dull, and military life was unfailingly dull, the sole exception being those moments when you were in peril of imminent demise.

And there was something else, too.

He had no wish for his brother's governmental hand to stir his career upward by blat. Lasha would have him ensconced in a position of influence in no time- a commendation here, a promotion there- and then, he would be just like his father and Lasha,

Fine feathered criminals

without any say in the matter at all.

No, Groznyj Grad was where he'd found his armistice. Even Lasha didn't dare to make an end-run around GRU by forcibly demanding the transfer of an Ocelot.


He already had won freedom by coming here and giving his vigor and life to this desolate place.


The personal time he had now was just icing on the cake.


First things were first, however. He needed his- Ilya's- scarf back. The Fury did not strike him as humorless, even if he was sociopathic, nor did he seem disingenuous in any way. What you saw was what you got.

Printed clearly on the label: unstable spaceman, engage at your own risk.

However, the Fury had invited him to come and claim his property- not in a taunting way, but a straightforward way. He trusted a Russian's directness, even if that Russian was a complete and utter nut.

He mounted the steps to the upper level of the East Wing, idly checking the numbers on the lab doors.

Irinarhov had not wanted him to go.

Let the scarf go, he'd said. Requisition a new one from Ocelot, and take whatever meeting with Kuzka's mother it merits you. It's not worth it.

Andrei had insisted, told him it wasn't something he could compromise on, omitting the why of it- after all, Kassian was a no-nonsense kind of man. He wouldn't understand the sentimental value of an item like the red muffler.

Something in his own mind told him he was wrong, but as Andrei considered explaining himself, the Captain had shouldered his Mosin-Nagant and looked him squarely in the eye.

I'll go with you, then, he said.

Andrei declined, quickly, as he resettled his beret. His light beige hair, tousled and rumpled from the fleeting play of fingers, was hidden and presentable once more.

No, comrade. I'll take care of it. I'm not afraid of the Fury. He's got no vendetta for me.

Irinarhov had sat down once more, but his mouth had been wryed and he hadn't looked pleased about it.

"It's Ilya's," Andrei had said, vaguely, by way of explanation.

Ilya's, Irinarhov had repeated, noncomittally.

"Yes, Lieutenant Imanov. The scarf isn't mine- it's his."

It made no sense, put like that, but it didn't matter. Irinarhov would doubtless lose interest in lending his aid to help restore lost vestments to Imanov. They hadn't exactly made a smashing introduction.

Andrei had left with a quick salute and an absent smile, already thinking of his last conversation with the cosmonaut, and the surreality of that experience.

Now, as he rounded the curve at the top of the stairs, his eyes bloomed outward briefly at the sight of an unmistakable gait in a uniform identical to his own.

Ocelot.

The Major, apparently, had opted to pay a social call to the Flame Patrol Commander on the same day as Isaev.

Great, he thought, glancing obliquely around the corner, settling back against the wall to wait his turn. I'm sure he'll be in a great mood when Ocelot leaves. He has such a way with people..

On a whim, Andrei glanced left.

Irinarhov had ostensibly agreed not to accompany him, but it occurred to him that there was no reason to assume the sniper hadn't waited a out reasonable pause and followed him.

Andrei laughed to himself.

You're paranoid, he thought. The comosnaut, he's fucking your brainwaves with moon rocks or something.

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

As he disassembled the damaged craft, the Fury allowed his thoughts to drift; it was all routine by now, hover craft maintenance. At once, he reached a startling conclusion: it was cold. Very very cold, despite the temperature regulated space suit.

"You've made progress."

He turned abruptly, half-expecting to find someone watching. There was no one, no one at all, and he laughed to himself despite the empty room.

“Yes, progress.” He answered, returning to his work. “If you love something… be prepared to destroy it.”

The Fury wouldn’t have given further thought to the voices in his head if the Fear had not confessed several days before of hearing the same voice. Familiar and soft spoken, the unforgettable voice of a comrade, even long since departed.

“What are you?” The cosmonaut asked to the empty room, not expecting an answer. It defied logic and reason. Voices and ghosts. “Why do you linger…here?”

He was fully prepared to wait all afternoon for a reply, but the noisy interruption of Leopardus pardalis immediately set him on edge.

“You.” He hissed, “don’t you know how to fucking knock?” Instinctively, the Fury glanced at the flamethrower and jet pack, sitting only a few feet away, then glared at Ocelot pointedly, like some cornered wild animal.

That would never work. The young Major was far too quick for him, and he knew it.

“I know why you are here.”

The Fury smiled slightly at Ocelot as he picked up the screwdriver he had been working on the hovercraft with. He was only smiling because he was imagining driving the tool deep into the eye socket of the arrogant Major.

Those pale blue eyes, so familiar, and the End had noticed it first.

“You’re a fool to come here looking for me. I have no reservations about killing you and torching your corpse so no one will ever find you.”

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

Ocelot's eyes narrowed.

"Relax," he drawled. "There's no need to get excited."

He pulled out his gun and started twirling it, idly, overcome by force of habit.

"So you already know that you're cleared of medical requirements?" he said conversationally. "Well, in that case, I can get on with my busy day."

Maybe the cosmonaut did know. Or maybe he was still under the impression that Ocelot was here to drag him in for a stab in the ass and a hammer to the knee.

"You should send Volgin a thank you note for getting Krauss off your Cobra ass," added Ocelot, letting the Makarov make pinwheels as he angled his hand. "Not that I think he did it out of any sense of greater philanthropy...but still."

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian paused just before the bottom of the stairs. Isaev's footsteps had stopped.

He waited, head cocked, listening. Though he wasn't as sneaky of a bastard as Isaev himself, Kassian knew how to be quiet, and how not to be seen. He'd trailed Isaev from the barracks to the East Wing, where he'd not had the occasion to explore since he'd arrived.

The way he figured it, he was more in danger of losing the lieutenant in a careless pass between short hallways than he was of being noticed, but he lingered anyway.

Perhaps he had lost him somewhere in the halls.

Kassian frowned.

He wasn't here because he didn't think Isaev could take care of himself, or that he couldn't handle the cosmonaut. Isaev's hand-to-hand skills were impressive, to say the least.

No, he'd come because it was his job. As a sniper, his role was largely that of an unseen guardian, present not to guide the way, but to remove obstacles his comrades' path. With it came a sense of responsibility, and even though most of his fellow soldiers never knew for sure why enemy patrols never stumbled across their infiltration attempts.

He knew.

Silenced bullets. Sprays of blood. Toppling bodies that pitched to the ground.

A number that climbed ever-steadily upward.

Yes, he knew, even if no one else did.

And it was enough.

Even for a mission like this.

Kassian had no doubt the cosmonaut was insane, and that Isaev was risking his life going to pay the man a visit to ask for his - no, he recalled, after a pause - Lieutenant Imanov's scarf back.

Yes, Kassian thought, it was Lieutenant Imanov's scarf.

Imanov, who'd apparently hated Kassian from the moment he'd met him. Imanov, who'd gotten sick the day Kassian transferred to the unit and had been confined to the infirmary ever since.

Imanov, who was Isaev's friend.

It's no secret that we're very close, Isaev had said, once, to Kassian.

He didn't have to ask. Maybe he didn't want to ask. But even if he didn't fully understand why Isaev needed the scarf back, he understood that Isaev the scarf back, and that was enough as well.

Kassian almost risked a glance up the stairs, but held his ground. Stay put, instinct borne of long experience told him. Wait.

He could do that.

For the long term, he could slip into a half-dreaming state of being there but not really there, though at the same time, hyperaware. The right sounds, the right voices, would bring his attention immediately back to the present, but until then, he would drift, half-conscious, not waiting specifically, but rather just existing. Time passed more easily that way.

For a short term wait, well, he simply waited, though did not have the luxury of waiting with a purely clear mind. No, for a brief term, his thoughts wandered - as they were now, he thought wryly - making a dozen different associations, yet still distracting him from cognizance of the actual passing of time.

He wondered, idly, about Lieutenant Imanov. He would be out of the infirmary soon, Isaev said. He would return to duty soon after, Kassian was certain.

And Kassian didn't know what that would mean.

At the same time, he wasn't going to worry about it.

A flash of insight hit him, deep to his gut.

He hadn't lost Isaev.

The lieutenant was still nearby, but just loitering, perhaps, or maybe he'd had the sense of being followed, and had paused to find out for sure.

Kassian clung to the side of the wall, breathing in and out. He would just wait, he thought.

Time began to slow down.

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

The cosmonaut made a move for his flamethrower when Ocelot pulled the Makarov from its holster, but stopped short, realizing he wasn’t about to be shot. Rather, the conceited kid was only playing with his toys.

“You should be careful indulging that habit of yours.” He offered, reclaiming his equipment from where it rested on the floor. “Such gestures are easy to misinterpret.”

Something about standing before the Major unarmed was uncomfortable, especially after the incident at Tselinoyarsk. The Fury honestly had no intentions of killing the kid, but he still laughed as he secured the heavy jetpack once more. Ocelot and his men were simply a very special project. Terrorizing them was the best hobby he’d found since landing on Groznyj soil.

“Cleared of all medical requirements? Who would do such a thing?”

And in the next breath, Adamska had answered his question: Colonel Volgin.

He narrowed his eyes at the Major, scowling. “If you’re trying to trick me, you’ll have to do better than that. Volgin was obstinate that I report to the infirmary for a physical, Krauss said so himself. I…”

The Fury trailed off, malice evaporating from his scarred visage as realization dawned upon him. He stared at Ocelot for a long moment, just watching the Makarov spin.

Volgin. He never actually spoke with Volgin about the alleged medical requirements. As a matter of fact, he never spoke with Volgin about much of anything. He made it a point to avoid the Colonel as much as possible, but the electric behemoth didn’t seem the type to send someone else to do his bidding. Especially if he was as insistent about Cobra physicals as Krauss had claimed.

Yes, Major Krauss, who was responsible for all the paperwork regarding the elite unit.

Seemingly calm, the cosmonaut turned, approached the folding metal chair only a few feet away, and kicked it with enough force to send it sailing across the laboratory.. It knocked a sizeable chunk of plaster from the opposite wall before clattering to the floor. Next was the oblong work table, grabbed and overturned in his fit of rage, papers and blueprints flying every direction. It hit the wooden floor with a loud crash, and the cosmonaut immediately began searching for his next target.

Finding nothing else suitable for destruction, he turned back to Ocelot, trembling with anger.

“That fucking kraut!” He spat, starting forward, “has been lying to me this whole time! I’ll kill him! Get out of my way!”

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

The Sorrow felt a pang of disappointment dissolve through him, quickly fading. He had expected as much, or should have. His comrade burned brightly, but with tight focus. Mad though he might have been called (on numerous occasions; without fail, The Sorrow would see the irony in the small piles of grey ash and mention that the cosmonaut had, in a way, proved his accuser right. Then go to find a broom.) The Fury was quite obstinate in his definition of the restrictions of reality.

Much like The Joy, in that way.

"I am what I've always been," The Sorrow said, perhaps to slip through the his comrade's conscious guards while his attention was focused on the Major. "Though perhaps...slightly less so."

The Sorrow watched the two living souls communicate in their language of threats and taunts, the faces in odd contrast.

"I am here for the same reason you are."

The Sorrow smiled.

"Duty to the family."

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

"Whoa, comrade," Ocelot exclaimed, holstering his gun smoothly and holding up a hand. "Take it easy for a moment. Count to ten, all right? He'll still be flammable."

It dawned on him slowly what the Fury was angry about- Krauss had tried to bluff him by claiming it was Volgin who was demanding compliance.

Which meant he'd essentially screwed Ocelot too, manipulating him into...

Ocelot scowled, abruptly.

"Wait a fucking second," he said, raising a finger. His lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes narrowed. "You mean Krauss had me running after you, knowing you're a fucking psychopath, and risking my fucking ass to drag you in for something Volgin didn't even know about?"

For a moment, it seemed like a pretty tempting idea, letting the Cobra flame soldier go roaring down the hall and rampaging into Krauss' meticulous office.

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

Something changed, with Ocelot’s final statement. It was a grudging realization that Krauss had betrayed and lied to both of them, so much so that The Fury had to laugh, even in his fit of anger.

He could even overlook the fact that the Major called him a fucking psychopath. Sanity was irrelevant, anyway.

“Rage looks good on you, Major.”

The cosmonaut grabbed Ocelot by the front of his black tunic and pulled him forward roughly, close enough that the lunatic’s gray respirator was nearly pressed to the Major’s nose. Close enough that the smell of burned rocket fuel was inescapable. Uncomfortably close, even.

“We’ll kill him together.”

It was obvious he was grinning in lunacy at the idea, and the perceived camaraderie through mutual betrayal. A momentary truce on his part, however fleeting.

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

Ocelot absorbed the shock of the cosmonaut's seizure automatically, and reacted facially, scowling more at being yanked out of his thoughts than being nose to nose with the macabre visage of the Cobra soldier.

He didn't find the man particularly disfigured, or his attire unsettling.

You could get used to a lot in the service of Yevgenii Borosovich.

He was used to rough play in his line of work, and though the cosmonaut was more mercurial than most- ha, thought Ocelot, a pun, and a pretty good one; too bad Raikov or Krauss weren't here, so he could say it out loud- but that brought him back to Krauss and his fucking stupid arrogance and Deutschland Uber Alles, like it was some kind of podvik on his part.

But no, that wasn't a podvik. A podvik had to afford the doer no material profit, only personal gratification or spiritual growth.

A podvik would be kicking his ass.

These thoughts were spinning in his head when the cosmonaut uttered the fatalistic words.

He was jerked back to reality, and the realization that much as it might have irked him, he needed to save Krauss' life, or Volgin would be very annoyed, and they would lose their blat connection.

Ocelot's brows quirked up at the end, forming a sharp chevron over his eyes.

"No, we can't do that," he said, keeping his voice absolutely measured. "Too rash. We'd only be screwing ourselves in the end. Krauss is our tolkach, remember? How would you get any more of those aerodynamic toys and special ammunition, if not through him? Admit it, we need the German."

He shifted a little in the Fury's grip, to avoid the nose piece, and to find the cosmonaut's eyes through the smoked amber of the helmet visor.

Eye contact, either a huge mistake or a good move. There was no way to predict.

Ocelot took the gamble.

The cosmonaut had nice eyes, he observed fleetingly, or would have, if not for the homocidal impulse that tinted them with fever.

"I don't want to explain to the men why they have no cigarettes and no tea, comrade. I don't want to explain why the gypsy whores Krauss trucks in every third Saturday from that village encampment on the other side of the mountain aren't around to take the edge off."

Though that part was mostly for Krauss himself, no matter how many junior officers partook of the R and R. Russian soldiers were matter-of-fact and unabashed about taking the edge off for themselves, whether or not women were around.

But he was making a point, not mounting a treatise on cultural relativism and tacit situational homoeroticism.

"Let's not be rash here. Take it from someone who knows." He scowled. "We'll get him another way. Something far more enduring than death."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

The sound of breaking wood and a subsequent violent crash caused Andrei to lift his head swiftly and turn toward the door.

That could have been Ocelot, hitting the floor, he thought.

Maybe the Fury had assaulted him. That was fine if Ocelot rebounded to retliate, but there was relative quiet after the fact, which made it impossible to tell, in which case Andrei had no choice but to disobey Ocelot's direct orders for non-interference.

His muscles twitched, alert and ready to act- the only staying him from running to his major's aid was the vague realization that he had heard no shots fired.

Highly unlikely, in a skirmish with Ocelot.

Isaev waited, listening, moving toward the door.

Give me a sign, he thought. Or I'm coming in.

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian's gut tightened, sharp and painfully, as he heard the unmistakable sounds of violence. For some reason, no accidental falling object had quite the same impact as something thrown on purpose.

Isaev.

He was moving before he became aware of the impulse, rounding the corner then taking the stairs two at a time up to the landing, moving with spare, quick steps, his Mosin-Nagant cradled close against his shoulder.

Kassian burst into the hall with swift, hushed steps, searching for the sound of the crash.

But there was Isaev, heading in the same direction - unharmed and apparently, intact.

The sniper was steadfastly unreligious, but he nearly felt the need to give thanks as he felt his stomach unclench. His hesitation lasted only a moment before he moved quickly and quietly to catch up, hissing a low warning to alert the lieutenant to his presence: "Isaev."

As Isaev turned to look, he caught his eye, but only briefly before moving to his side. His sharp eyes searched for a point where he could get line of sight, knowing that these close quarters already put him at a tactical disadvantage.

A sniper rifle did little good hand-to-hand.

After a moment, his gaze flicked back to Isaev's in silent question.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Isaev frowned, weighing the Captain's gaze with his own, as they conferred inaudibly.

The language of soliders was shallow and universal, but the language of Spetsnaz men was rarified, and the Ocelots spoke it flawlessly.

He was not surprised to see Irinarhov. He'd been right after all, though he'd never have known the sniper was behind him unless something like this had flushed him out into the open and forced his hand.

Irinarhov had looked rather deadly, vaulting the stairs and coming upon him at a dead and silent run, his eyes honed like steel and black like night, strands of thick, dark hair dishevelled and upthrust like a crown of thorns.

Abject alarm in his eyes, that had faded as soon as Andrei saw it.

Kassian Irinarhov clearly kept himself well in check, and didn't waste his resources on fears after they proved unfounded.

He held up a hand, signaled for a moment.

"Shast," he mouthed slowly, moving his lips in a deliberate form.

There was nothing more from behind the laboratory door.

Kassian's silent question- should he conceal himself.

Isaev nodded, indicating the narrow bridge that joined the upper walkways. It would give him enough distance to get off a shot if he needed to.

"Cover the door," he whispered, putting a hand on the sniper's arm.

And me with it, he thought. He realized he felt no apprehension about the outcome of events. He trusted Irinarhov's skill explicitly.

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian's eyes followed Isaev's to the walkway bridge. Even from this angle, he could see line-of-sight to the doorway that Isaev had indicated was where the trouble had occurred. The cosmonaut's office, most likely, but he did not waste time with questions.

He nodded, and was gone.

Down the hall and to the bridge. He ducked under the barrier and readied his rifle in a matter of seconds, then gave Isaev the clear sign. It occurred to him again in a small, idle part of his mind that Isaev would make a good spotter.

He'd only guessed at it before, but now he knew he'd been right.

Isaev had a good eye for cover, which was expected, but it was his skill at instantly finding a good sniper perch that had impressed him more.

He realized he'd never had any doubt about Isaev's ability to handle himself in the field. Some men had the strength or technical skill in training, but in actual combat, they hesitated. It was the first time he and Isaev had the opportunity to work together like this, in a potential combat situation, but there had been no indecisiveness in the lieutenant's eyes, only a clear, cognizant purpose.

It hadn't surprised him, knowing Isaev as he did, albeit for such a short time. But what they lacked in quantity, they made up for in quality, and Kassian knew the predator's mind that lurked beneath pretty-boy face and long hair.

It was, he thought, a matter of both knowledge and trust.

He and Isaev had both.

Kassian leaned forward, waiting, pointing his rifle just over Isaev's left shoulder, aiming it at the door.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei stood and listened, hearing nothing but the low tones of conversation from the room beyond.

Whether it was threatening or not, he couldn't discern. For that matter, it could just as easily have been the cosmonaut talking to himself while Ocelot bled on the floor.

After a moment he decided he couldn't in good conscience stay outside and play the waiting game.

If Ocelot was fine, no harm done- he never admonished them for watching his back, no matter how proactive their efforts, though occasionally he grumbled like a schoolboy- and if he wasn't all right..well, then he and Irinarhov had a duty to protect their CO at all costs.

Even the Fury would understand that, Andrei thought, suddenly, as it occurred to him that the man may have been psychotic, but seemed to have an inherent respect for loyalty and military honor.

He could hope he was right.

And after all, he'd only come for his fetching red scarf.

...

Ilya's scarf.

Isaev turned and flashed a barely perceptible sign to Irinarhov. He didn't bother making it grandiose; he knew the sniper's eyes had never left him since he'd settled in to roost on the skybridge, and that he would be watching every second unfailingly until they cleared the situation.

There was no reason to assume anything, he reminded himself. The cosmonaut was expecting him, in any case, so best to go with that assumption.

Andrei straightened his beret and knocked on the door.

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian caught Isaev's sign and returned the slightest of nods. He had good line of sight from his position to whoever opened the door, though would not have a clear view of everyone in the room.

If it turned out to be some sort of ambush, he would have to trust Isaev to get out of the way and hopefully draw out his attackers so Kassian could take them down.

He didn't question the potential threat here in such a seemingly innocuous hall. Though Kassian had not been here long, he'd already learned that Groznyj Grad was a strange place.

Expect the unexpected, as they said, but Kassian didn't have that much imagination. Rather, he simply believed in being prepared for anything, and as a consequence, lining up a shot here in the East Wing did not make him hesitate at all.

[imre-nico.livejournal.com]

(continued at the parent thread: see below)

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

There was something eerily familiar about the way the kid looked at him. Those eyes. Unmistakable.

“I have no use for whores.” The Fury spat, finally setting Ocelot down, and smoothing the wrinkles from the front of his uniform jacket as an afterthought.

Krauss had thought to send a woman to his laboratory once, in retrospect, it was probably a depraved joke of some sort. She was barely more than a girl, couldn’t have been older than sixteen, small and fragile with long red hair set in waves. The cosmonaut quickly put her to work painting hovercraft, much to her amusement.

It was just easier that way: she wouldn’t have to cower away from his scarred visage, he wouldn’t have to cringe away from unwanted human contact.

And as it turned out, she made decent conversation as well.

“Nitrogen tetroxide is a whole different matter.” The cosmonaut paced, looking for some outlet for his anger. “What about torture? A few third degree burns to remember me by?”

He paused, looking at the battered hovercraft in the corner. “I’ll let you shoot him in the kneecaps so he can’t run away, then…” The Fury chuckled, “then I’ll do what I do best.”

He was beyond blind rage, and intent on revenge.

“It would be interesting…” he offered in a rare moment of clarity and sanity, “to enquire to the Colonel about all of this. It is safe to assume that he did not know what Krauss was doing in his absence.”

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

Ocelot was still looking down at his nicely fixed tunic.

"Thanks," he said, belatedly, looking up. "I appreciate that."

He gave the cosmonaut the finger-guns briefly, and a small, wry smirk before sighing and perching himself on the edge of the desk.

It was surreal, but he coulld only take it it in stride. There was no rhyme or reason to the Fury's space logic, so there was no point in reacting in a standard way.

"You know," he said, crisply, "Krauss does have some...pet projects. What might be better than physical harm...is psychological warfare, comrade. And," he added, ticking his finger, "you can still use your singular incinerary talents."

Ocelot crossed his arms and leaned back.

"Think of that big, lush greenhouse, comrade. All those imported tulips. From Antwerp, I think. And the Corpse Flower. That, comrade, is a particular favorite of our little Nazi lebkuchen. The flower actually smells like carrion. Do you know, it only blooms once every four years...and only one blossom." Ocelot smirked. "Do you know, he's waiting for it to bloom any day now. Rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Just...imagine the look on his blanched, patrician face if he were to walk in and find that precious, foul blossom reduced to cinders."

Ocelot's eyes narrowed.

"Also...You make an excellent point," he mused. "About Volgin, that is."

Volgin would not be pleased at the thought that the German was treating Groznyj Grad like his own personal domocile. His ego would not allow it. Volgin trully believed that nothing went on without his express permission.

Ocelot snorted softly.

It was that kind of unflappable hubris that allowed him to believe he could rule the world, and took everyone else so much aback that they pretty much let him.

It was kind of endearing, on some level.

"Let's find him, then, comrade. Let him deal with the Kraut...in his own special way. No need to waste my bullets or your accelerants."

He smiled, darkly, and opened his mouth to speak again, when he saw that...anomaly again.

Where the air rippled like heat.

But this was hardly a Saharan clime.

"Do you see that?" he demanded of the Fury. "Is that some kind of heat wave from your experiments? Or..."

Ocelot broke off, as the air shifted again, and moved forward toward the spot, narrowing his eyes.

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

As he had thought. The boy was too aware of the world around him to participate in the normal human practice of self-delusion indefinitely, and the mind behind his comrade's scarred face was far more perceptive than it seemed.

The Sorrow's smile was tinged with pride.

The unusual qualities of his experience gave him a unique advantage; The Sorrow was perhaps the most well-researched ghost ali-- in existence. His thoughts passed fleetingly over remembered passages concerning "resonance levels" and "sympathetic frequencies" before deciding to simply concentrate on existing on as many levels as he could think of.

Pretending to blindness serves you poorly. Open your eyes, and see.

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

"You," accused Ocelot, out loud.

He knew that benign smile- that indulgent, hovering asana. He'd seen them in his dreams, ever since he was a child, though never so clearly as this.

Ever since the first man he'd killed, at the tender age of nine.

It didn't occur to him to wonder where the voice had come from, or whether it had been there all along, right beside he and the Fury, subsonic to the cacophony of their petty altercation.

It was a voice of quiet reasoning and resonance, and it didn't seem outlandish that it might be drowned altogether in the clash of egotism and insanity. Neither he nor the Fury were particularly inclined toward hearing the voice of reason, regardless of its metaphysical affiliation.

This man looked like a self-effacing type. The Glasses of Passivism, the pallid hair of mildly receding blond. The vest, for fuck's sake.

Man. This wasn't a man.

Men didn't float with their legs dangling like crane flies.

Until now, the image of the man had coalesced only slightly, out of focus like a blurred daguerrotype, like an impatient Victorian couldn't sit still long enough for the exposure to take. Enough for him to see, but still amorphous, diaphanous. Overexposed, and doubled down.

Open your eyes, and see.

Suddenly, it was as if someone had indulgently reached across him and adjusted the tracking on a channel full of snow, then kicked up the tint for good measure.

Ocelot's eyes bloomed open, blue like the sky above the taiga, unconsciously mirroring the apparition's, though he was unaware of the fact.

"I see you," he declared.

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

“Yes, I see it.” The Fury replied finally, eyeing the rippling air beside him suspiciously. “Or he, actually. He always had this theory that fallen comrades fight alongside their living counterparts even after they die. Now, he won’t leave us alone. Sort of charming, really.”

It was easier to let himself believe the phenomenon was a by-product of his insanity, just like all the doctors had claimed. When the Fear and the Pain admitted seeing the same apparition, and the End eventually conferred the Cobra Unit was being haunted by their fallen comrade, it was harder to plead lunacy.

Then, it was all taken in stride. The unit had seen far stranger things, in their days.

Of course, the all meant that the Fury had to let go of everything he thought he knew about life and death, and on some levels, even the very nature of the universe.

After that, it was easy enough to accept.

The cosmonaut didn’t even flinch when the ghost materialized beside him.

“Well fuck, I suppose I should introduce you two or something…” He trailed, watching the two watch each other. It would have been amusing, if not for how pale to Major had become. Really, the kid looked as though he was about to pass out, and the Fury smirked “Oh, I see you’ve already met. Wonderful. Saves me the formalities.”

Curiously, he eyed the Sorrow, floating just above the hard wood floor. “Comrade, would you mind if I? I’m curious, that’s all.” The medium wouldn’t have minded in life, the Fury thought, but perhaps death changed things. Cautious, he reached out to touch the apparition, completely perplexed as his gloved hand passed right through the ghost’s torso.

“Interesting.” The cosmonaut muttered, recoiling from the coldness that chilled him to the bone.

He nudged Ocelot with his foot. "Breathe, kid, before you hit the floor. You're white as a...ghost."

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

"This is a comrade of yours?" demanded Ocelot, frowning, turning to the Fury. "A Cobra?"

Then how do I know him?

Ocelot eyed the apparition, studying its shimmering contours and occasional ripples. Sometimes it ringed hollowly outward, as if a kid had tossed a pebble in a black pond.

He thought the Fury misapprehended his reaction. Maybe he was blanched, maybe. But he was intent, now, picking apart the fibers of his memory with relentless attention, trying to isolate where he'd seen this shape, and heard that dulcet, mournful voice of resignation and mild despair.

"Who was he?" he asked, finally, pinning his eyes to the cosmonaut's, irked by the visor that obscured them and made it hard for him to read plainly. "Another spaceman? He doesn't look special enough to have been one of you."

He watched as the Fury played in the ethereal miasma of the man's body for a moment, mouth slowly opening.

"Can you touch him?" he asked. "Does he have form?"

He was aware that he was asking questions hard and fast upon each other, much like a child, but Ocelot had a drive to pull components and form a whole, indigenous to his bones.

The Major frowned, leaning back against the desk. For a moment he looked brooding, then a smirk spread slowly across his face like heated honey.

"...Can we use him to fuck with Krauss?"

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

"Excuse me. I've been rude."

The Sorrow bowed in midair, wondering why he had hoped to be recognized. Sentimentality.

"I am The Sorrow."

It might have been more acceptable to some forms of logic to say "was," as indeed some of the departed did, but The Sorrow had always found use of the past tense by spirits to be something of an affectation.

He ventured, "Perhaps you've heard of me?"

It was possible. The Joy was here, though The Sorrow knew little of what interaction she and...the Major had had. Perhaps he had been mentioned. Perhaps it all had.

If it had been aimed at himself, The Sorrow's smile would have become mocking.

His comrade's acceptance warmed his...the area of incorporeal quasi-matter where his heart would have been. There was something melancholy about being greeted as a figment of mental imbalance by an old friend.

"Please," he said graciously in response to The Fury's request. "Go ahead."

The sensation of having one's substance disturbed was an odd one, though purely psychosomatic. After having been walked through enough times (and it was interesting to see who turned back a moment later and who went on unperturbed), The Sorrow was rather used to it.

He found, however, that he had never gotten used to being spoken about as if he was not there.

The Sorrow's eye twitched, as he felt moisture gather in its corner.

But he felt again the whisper of pride. He would always hold appreciation for an inquisitive mind.

"As you see," The Sorrow said, laying a hand on his chest at the place The Fury's glove had passed through, "I lack form, in the classical sense."

He was engaged in the unnecessary but deeply habitual process of drawing breath to continue - to share the discoveries, the results of his endless solitary experiments, the knowledge gleaned from a new and fascinating scientific frontier - when the boy interrupted.

Krauss?

Ah. Right. The...'natives,' so to speak, had much to say on the subject of the German.

His smile fixed as he stared into the Major's eyes, the spirit allowed a slow nod.

Petty revenge.

The Sorrow found himself, suddenly, in a mood perfectly conducive to the prospect of haunting the hell out of somebody.

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

“I’ve been expecting you.” The Fury offered, nonchalantly. “The End spoke of seeing you when he dozed between sleep and death. You took longer than I thought, but you were always late for everything, even when you were alive.” The cosmonaut did not feel the need to point out that the Sorrow was now, also, late in the sense of pushing up daisies as well as never being punctual.

He couldn’t help smirking at the observation, and hoped his respirator hid it well enough, and that death had not endowed his comrade with the ability to read minds and inappropriate thoughts.

“You look good for being…err…” He tiled his head, “I almost can’t tell that…what I mean is… fuck it. I was never good at this sort of thing. You know that. It’s good to see you again.”

What he had meant to say was that the Sorrow looked good for being dead, except it seemed so insulting to put it that way. He had so many questions for the specter that he had no idea where to begin, so he thought it best to keep quiet until Ocelot was out of hearing distance.

“You remember… how I was always pestering you to tell me my future.” It was more of a statement than a question. “Because I didn’t believe in that sort of thing. Fortune telling and talking to the dead. I kept at it until one day you snapped at me, and said that I would die in some horrible, fiery crash.” The Fury chuckled darkly, looking up toward the ceiling. “I suppose in a sense, you were absolutely right. I saw the light and everything, but until now, I tried to convince myself that I must have awoke on the operating table as they were trying to fix me, after…”

He trailed off, lost in thought.

After the rocket malfunction. After the burning. After that sacred vision of the earth in flames, purified with fire...

When Ocelot mentioned Krauss, the cosmonaut snapped out of his delusion.

“What Adamska is trying to say is, would you like to assist us with a very special mission?”

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

"Major Ocelot," said Adamska belatedly, introducing himself, although the apparition's benevolent nod came almost too quickly, leading him to believe his name was already known.

He crossed the room slightly and turned back, pacing haltingly as the Fury chatted up a storm with the Great Ephemeral, pausing now and again to narrow his eyes.

It was a lot to take in at a glance, but Ocelot didn't waste time being impressed with the inexplicable. There was too much of it around, and it was almost never relevant.

He considered lingering to observe the enigma that was the Sorrow, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be going anywhere from Groznyj Grad just yet. He'd seen him twice now, after all, and ghosts had a way of hanging around.

Hence the concept of haunting.

And this seemed like about as graceful an exit from an audience with the Rocketeer as he could have asked for. The cosmonaut's fascination and attention were childlike and wholly invested in the hovering form.

After a moment he clapped his hands together once and tilted his head, smirking.

"Obviously there's a lot to catch up on here, comrade cosmonaut, comrade...Sorrow. And our business is taken care of. I've got men to command this afternoon, if you'll excuse me."

He sauntered to the door, with the chink of spurs in his wake, and paused his hand on the knob, offering a sly, abrupt smile.

"Oh...but you will let me know about Krauss, won't you, comrade?"

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

“Wait. Are you sure I can’t torture him?” The Fury asked one last time, genuinely hopeful. “Even just a little?” The sizzle of burning flesh promised to be much more rewarding than simply torching the Major’s prized possessions, but Ocelot seemed insistent.

Burning a few plants seemed anticlimactic, and he was certain he could find someone else to sign for tetroxide and hydrazine. Maybe even Volgin, who had seemed so pleased with the first working hovercraft model.

“Fine. I won’t touch him.”

Taking a sudden interest in something just beyond the yellowed window, an idea suddenly struck him.

“Since we have reached a grudging truce, I will advise you to warn your men to keep clear of the greenhouse tonight, around dusk.” The Fury nodded to himself as his plan became clearer. “And since we have reached this momentary ceasefire, I thought I might mention that the Krasnogorje flame patrol will be dining on the roof of the East Wing tonight. An impromptu dinner before the show.”

The Fury turned and began to pace as he worked out the details, every step punctuated by the characteristic clink of his jetpack. “You have an open invitation to join us, Major, and bring a few of your men along.”

The cosmonaut immediately recognized mistrust creeping into the Major’s bright blue eyes.

“No tricks,” he promised quickly, “just us, and you, and vulture harvested fresh from the Krasnogorje mountain, with glow cap mushrooms and glazed golova sauce -- the way Deimos prepares it, you can’t even tell you’re eating carrion-bird.”

And, he thought afterward, Krauss’ precious greenhouse being blown sky high with the new explosives delivered special from Europe…but it was better to let that be a surprise.

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

Ocelot gave a reluctant check of his head.

"All right," he said. "There's no harm in that."

Are you sure? he asked himself. He was not at all sure that glowcaps were edible. Raikov seemed to think they weren't at all good.

He'd confided that he'd read they caused severe hallucinations- often of global persecution- and that he'd tried one, just in the name of science.

Of course, Raikov wasn't a scientist. So he'd spent a whole afternoon in the library talking to the bookshelves, and his data was largely aprocryphal.

'That's what you get for eating shit off the ground,' Ocelot had snorted, unsympathetic.

He wondered if the cosmonaut would be similarly affected- or, hell, maybe they would make him sane.

Ocelot smirked privately at the thought.

He saluted decorously.

"Do svidanya, comradi."

The knock at the door startled him, although he didn't react, except to open it and stare incredulously at the visitor.

A moment, as the two men looked at each other like mirror images in black and crimson.

However, the stray locks of buff-blond hair that escaped the officer's beret discredited the illusion.

"Isaev," he remarked, blinking.

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

"Major," Andrei said, carefully, without looking past Ocelot.

"What is it?" asked the Major, brow knitting. "Do we have a problem?"

"So far, we are not aware of a problem, sir." asked Isaev, evenly. "If there is a problem, please advise."

Ocelot blinked again, then understood, shaking his head.

"No, Lieutenant. No problem. Everything is aces."

He gave him the fingerguns.

"Thanks for asking."

Andrei nodded, knowing he'd been understood.

He felt a wash of tacit relief at the realization that his commander's feud with the Fury must have diffused and resolved, for Ocelot to be leaving in such a convivial manner.

Ocelot beckoned for him to come along, but Andrei hesitated, glancing toward the cosmonaut.

"A moment of your time, sir," he ventured, as Ocelot made a comical face of incredulity.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, under his breath. "That's the Fury."

"I know that, sir. I have something to address with the cosmonaut, sir." He paused. "I was invited."

Ocelot paused for a beat, then shook his head.

"Your funeral, Isaev." He smirked. "I'll make sure Imanov wears something nice."

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

Ocelot shook his head as he pulled out his guns and closed the door behind him.

Isaev was a handsome idiot, but he had steady-eyed charm and a disarming outlook. Despite his vengeful nature toward mankind, the Fury seemed to have a soft spot for artless sincerity, so maybe Isaev wouldn't wind up visting Dr. Khostov.

Ocelot snorted. That would be just fucking perfect. Imanov comes out, Isaev goes in.

No, he thought, flipping his Makarov idly. Isaev had a charmed life. Fucking diplomat's kid, through no fault of his own. He hid it well enough, but he was a non-military pedigree. That being the case, Ocelot wondered why he'd struck up such a fast and tight friendship with...

He looked around, suddenly, eyes narrowing, gun checked midmotion in a spin.

"Irinarhov," he barked. "Show yourself.""

He didn't stop to question whether he was right, or feel self-conscious about snapping orders to a seemingly empty room.

Ocelot had seen men like Kassian Irinarhov. Once they formed a bond to a comrade, you couldn't break it with an anvil. And he'd seen the intent and veiled way he watched Isaev. Like a wolf on point.

He had no doubt that the Captain was shadowing the Lieutenant, whether he knew it or not.

As he waited for the stealthy bastard to disembark his hiding place, he scowled down at his Makarov.

Much as he hated to even consider it, that neanderthal commando might be right...Snake clearly knew his guns.

He might not have been much to look at as an officer, but he was a great soldier.

It made Ocelot feel slightly better about the hairy-faced American as the choice for their blind canary.

After all, Groznyj Grad was the mineshaft to end all mineshafts.

Ocelot frowned and clicked the trigger, dry firing once, twice.

Da, he thought. He definitely needed to hunt up Raikov and cajole him into making a special req under his C-class clearance.

He needed a revolver or two. Maybe more.

The thought of Raikov made him a little unsettled, though they'd sworn everything would be normal after the fact.

It would have to be. They worked in too close of a capacity to ever be antagonistic or uncomfortable.

Of course, in lieu of Raikov he could always ask Krauss...

Ocelot laughed out loud.

He doubted Krauss would be feeling generous after the cosmonaut talked to him.

I should warn him, he thought. Not about everything, but so that he doesn't get killed.

He liked Krauss. He had a certain genuine slickness, a real pure form in his snakeoil peddling way.

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian frowned in surprise.

He'd thought he had concealed himself well. Ocelot hadn't even been looking in his direction before he'd called out. He found himself hesitating, but only for a moment, before he reluctantly stood up.

Ocelot looked preoccupied again, Kassian noticed. Frowns and smirks alternatively flowed across that expressive face as the major seemed to ponder, though it didn't seem urgent.

Perhaps the crash in the room had been just an accident.

He glanced back at the now-shut door, frowning, the lines on his forehead creasing. He didn't like it, this being cut off from line of sight into the room, even though he had no doubt that Isaev could take care of himself.

In fact, he knew it.

"I'm here, Major," he called from the skybridge, voice low but pitched to carry. Kassian kept his Mosin-Nagant in his hands, but did not keep it pointed. Instead he held it in a seemingly casual grip with one hand above the other. It was a combat grip, designed to let him bring the weapon to bear quickly, should it become necessary.

He did not bother to explain why he had his weapon while not on patrol. If Ocelot knew enough to know he was here - and Kassian still couldn't figure out how he'd noticed - Ocelot must also know what Kassian was doing here, and Kassian did not have to clarify the details.

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

Despite the deliberately pitched tone, Ocelot was startled.

He'd been expecting Irinarhov to be...elsewhere. His guns halted abruptly in their path, but slowly resumed spinning once he'd recovered, eyebrows resettling to lie in their customary arch.

He turned and saw the sniper, looking jaded and ready as ever.

Sullen, too, no doubt at being pulled away from a mark. Ocelot could relate, but he wasn't here to suck Irinarhov's cock and gratify his needs.

"Captain," he said. "Initiative is next to god. God doesn't exist in Rossiyja. Therefore there is nothing greater. Do you understand?"

He pointed his gun at Irinarhov with idle directness, not aiming, but more as a puncuation to his words.

The Captain's face showed no response, so Ocelot pulled back the gun, and offered a curt nod.

"It's been noted," he said. "I've made a mark in your favor, Irinarhov."

He smirked.

"Isaev's too."

Ocelot narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"I'm going to give you a choice, instead of an order, Captain. You can accompany me, or you can stay here and wait for Isaev. Your call."

He walked a short distance, spurs chinking in the empty hall.

"I need to see some people, and you're technically my closest ranking officer. I'm clearly without Isaev and Imanov, who I would usually tap for this kind of thing."

He paused.

"However...it's a good thing to stand by a comrade, Captain, once you've got his back. He'll be expecting you, of course. Even if the event is...uneventful. Solidarity is a good aspect to build...but if I'm right, you and Isaev have been working on that already, haven't you?"

He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly.

"It's entirely up to you."

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

It was a test, Kassian knew instantly.

Major Ocelot didn't really need him. From what he'd observed, Ocelot was content to single-mindedly pursue his own goals.

His own ego was his constant companion.

Of course, Ocelot Squad had its purpose, but it was more like...punctuation. In spite of the fact that Ocelot not only put his squad in the same uniform he wore, and he also insisted that they look like him, Kassian didn't think Ocelot usually felt like he needed backup.

No, he thought, this was Ocelot's way of finding out where Kassian stood. This was about squad dynamics.

In a squad this close-knit, any newcomer was bound to cause a ripple, but Kassian had made more of a slash. His very first day, he'd gotten both Imanov and Charushkin pissed off at him, which was something of an accomplishment, and not a good one. The close bond Kassian had formed with Isaev, the squad's second, could be another potential imbalance.

Ocelot seemed like a man who was attuned to balance. To the arc of a gun thrown in the air. Catching it took not only a good eye, but also a steady hand. He was probably willing to tolerate disruption, for a time, if it would eventually lead to the greater good.

But not if it made him drop the gun.

Kassian did not hesitate in his reply.

He would only tell the truth, and had no qualms about informing Ocelot of where his priorities stood.

He would not deny his relationship with Lieutenant Isaev, or apologize for it.

"I'll stay, Major. Isaev is expecting me. If you can wait, we'll both accompany you afterward, but if not, perhaps you should find Gurlukovich. He was...concerned...about you earlier, and he probably would appreciate the experience."

[major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com]

Ocelot nodded, indifferently.

"When Isaev gets out, take the squad down into the lowlands around the mangrove swamp. Junior Lieutenant Borishnakov is AWOL, and willfully evading his duty as an ocelot. Apparently he's been hiding in the wilderness."

A sneer crossed his lips.

"Apparently you fuckwits traumatized him enough to make him go native."

The Major scowled.

"He's high maintenance. I should have studied his profile better. That's what I get for following blind recommendations from Volgin's personal pincushion."

Raikov usually picked well, but he must have been divining with his prick on this one.

"Since you're ranking officer, Irinarhov, I suppose you'll be in command." Ocelot paused, cocking his head.

"Although Imanov might take exception to you taking his place."

He offered a vague salute and a half-smile, and sauntered off, spinning his guns, in search of Raikov and his requisition forms.

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian watched Ocelot leave.

"Yes, Major," he muttered, belatedly.

After a moment, he crouched down, checked his rifle, then resumed his position covering the doorway. Waiting, for Isaev's return.

His mind was nowhere near as still as his body.

Kassian could recognize a warning when he heard it.

The whole thing had not been so much a test, Kassian thought, as a way to confirm what Ocelot already suspected. He supposed the rest of the squad would have duly noted that Isaev had not slept in his bunk previous night, after the hazing concluded.

It had not concerned him earlier, but...

Imanov.

They were here for Imanov's scarf.

Imanov, who was very close with Isaev.

Imanov, who might take exception to Kassian taking his place. In the squad. And...

...Isaev's bed.

He'd gotten the feeling, earlier, that it was more than friendship, but since Isaev hadn't seemed concerned, then neither was he.

But perhaps he'd been too quick to discount Imanov.

Or too quick to trust Isaev.

Or...

Or maybe Ocelot was just sticking his nose in places it didn't belong.

Or maybe it had been another test.

Kassian didn't know. He turned it over in his mind for a few minutes, examining it from each side. Ultimately, though, he decided he didn't have enough information.

He would just have to ask Isaev about it, and go from there. It was the best course of action.

Kassian nodded to himself. He did not rush to conclusions.

And in the meantime, whatever it was that Imanov thought, whatever he would do, would not change the way Kassian felt about Isaev.

He drew in a deep breath, and let it out, then his lips curved.

It was a rare expression on the sniper's face, and there was no one there to see it. But good things happened to him so rarely that he wasn't going to let this one go. Not easily.

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

It was amusing, that a man who had been at the forefront of so much violence could feel the social impingement of delicacy when faced with its aftermath.

"Forgive my absence, comrade."

Time, after death... a river in a dream, out of sight and at the edge of hearing, a babbled whisper that the mind's base fibers dismissed as of no consequence... Was there any way to describe it?

Perhaps only that one was careless with any quanitity that was no longer in limited supply.

"The future has never been my domain." The Sorrow smiled. "I could only make an educated guess."

He remembered the cosmonaut's face, livid with fresh burns and terrible, perhaps. The Sorrow had no basis for such judgements. They had caught eyes, at that time, and known that they had seen the same landscape.

They had had something of an understanding, after that.

"A mission?" The Sorrow tilted his head slightly, and smiled. "Do tell me what you have in mind..."

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

The Fury stopped pacing and raised his head as if to acknowledge the Sorrow’s question, though he was really still thinking about it.

If the ghost would have had substance or physical form, the cosmonaut would have seriously debated grabbing him in a hug that he would have no-doubt protested. But the Sorrow was only a wraith, and the Fury, antisocial, so he only smiled.

“What do I have in mind? Only revenge…” He shrugged slightly, turning back to hovercraft repairs. “A certain Major has been lying and manipulating other Groznyj staff in an attempt to make my life miserable. He keeps a greenhouse that he is inordinately proud of; as we speak, I am making plans in my head to blow it up over dinner with…”

No, not his unit. The Krasnogorje patrol may have been loosely under his command, and their weapons his inventions, but it seemed strange to call them his. In truth, the Fury belonged more to the flame patrol than the flame patrol to the Fury.

“Comrades.” The cosmonaut concluded, continuing to rummage through the interior of the craft, pleased that taking the vehicle out and shooting it as an experiment had done no real damage. The armor held up just as it should have, there were only a few charred wires from electrical malfunction.

“Death must be extraordinarily boring. What do you do all day? Float around and watch soldiers play slap and tickle in the showers?” He tilted his head, smirking at the mental image. “So if you’re bored, I thought you may enjoy haunting the Major in question. That is, if that sort of thing strikes your fancy.”

Haunting was such a harsh word, it seemed. It conjured images of rattling chains and floating white sheets, and of malevolent will. There was nothing particularly malevolent about the spirit floating near his desk. Really, the Fury thought that the lithe, pale ghost didn’t look that much different than when he was alive…except for the semi transparency and floating.

“I’m curious…very curious about many things.” That was how his mind worked, fascinated by all aspects of science and nature, probably the leading factor of agreeing to participate in a space mission. “What happened? How did you…” The Fury stumbled over the correct words, “end up taking a dirt nap?” Probably not the best phrasing, but he was not known for being overly diplomatic about anything.

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

The Sorrow watched the young Major take his leave and wondered what he had expected. Recognition? Some sort of significance? Or that the aura that surrounded the boy, the pain and sorrow that clung to him like gunsmoke, was something he could somehow disperse?

Hubris. Ever the classical tragic flaw.

Perhaps he should have bowed, like Father Zosima to Dmitri Karamazov.

The Sorrow would not let bitterness tinge his smile. What dominion, after all, did he have on what would come? The future was the business of the living.

There, as ever, lay the tragedy.

"I'm afraid I have little talent in the area of spectacular revenge, my friend," The Sorrow said, smiling fondly. "You, however, have more than enough for the both of us."

Demur though he might, the name Krauss slipped into a pocket of The Sorrow's mind. There, now, was a man with his share of ghosts...

The Sorrow laughed silently at The Fury's suggestion of how he mght be spending his time. Such an interestingly limited imagination. "Boring? Not as such, no. It is..."

He paused for a moment, doubting that such an enduringly kinetic personality as The Fury could understand the endless entrancement afforded by simple observation. The relevance despite inestimable distance, the motions predictable in their grandious sweep but with fine details dictated by unnumbered thousands of conflicting forces...

The Sorrow had forgotten how easy it was to underestimate his comrade.

"It is," he said softly, "something like watching the stars."

The Fury's curiosity was natural, and brought a smile to The Sorrow's incorporeal lips. As did his choice of euphemism.

The cosmonaut's attempts at delicacy always had met with mixed success.

"Not such a terrible metaphor, really. It is indeed something like sleep."

The Sorrow smiled.

"The difference lies, of course, in how vividly we dream."

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

Typical, the cosmonaut thought, and all too nauseatingly familiar.

He asked a simple enough question: how? How did the spirit medium come to be separated from his earthly form? It seemed the best place to start in order to eventually reach some vague understanding of the phenomenon floating before him. The question was logical and structured, and the Sorrow responded with hazy descriptions of what it felt like.

Very well, then.

“You didn’t float up to heaven, sprout wings, and start playing a harp.” The Fury observed, uncoiling a roll of wire thrown haphazardly to the floor. It was an innocent reflection, though it made him wince visibly at the thoughts that followed. “I saw no God beyond the atmosphere. Only darkness, and the cleansing fires of hell itself.”

The silence was deafening.

“There is no God.” The cosmonaut concluded, “and humanity is doomed.”

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

In no state of matter would lying to a comrade become acceptable. The Sorrow had thought himself rather clever for avoiding the question.

Dissembling, as it turned out, felt little better.

It had been no tragedy. Certainly no betrayal. To The Sorrow, death was essentially a change of address. But some viewed it otherwise. The Fury was familiar with death as associated with the enemy. The Sorrow had no fear that the news of his end could affect the unit's loyalty, but the truth could serve no purpose, and only add to his Joy's pain.

"Some mysteries," The Sorrow said gently, "are meant to remain enshrouded. Once the departed release hold of this world..."

He shrugged.

"Those who die in battle are more reluctant to sever our ties." The Sorrow smiled. "We want to see how the war ends."

His comrade's despair saddened him. Hopelessness in a soldier was unbecoming.

"We may all ascend to Valhalla yet."

A firelit hall of warriors... Not a bad afterlife, as they came. The Sorrow felt fond sympathy for the wise old one-eyed god. And he had always liked ravens.

"The difference between doom and salvation is only a choice."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Isaev had been standing there for several moments, politely hesitant to intrude on the Fury's delusional ranting with himself.

No, Isaev thought, that's not fair.

It wasn't ranting at all. It was a fully-formed and civil conversation, albeit from one side.

Sprung, no doubt from the brow of Zeus, and right into that colossal fishbowl the cosmonaut watched the world through.

Andrei had once seen an old man in Petrograd Square wearing a metal colander on his head, with a wire coathanger twisting out of the top into a kind of antenna.

"Hello, grandfather," Andrei had said, cheerfully, even though this man was nothing like his own grandfather.

"Going to wash and dry a salad, are you Grandfather?" Andrei had laughed, good naturedly, patting the old chuvak on the back and giving him a few rubles from his pocket money.

The old man had smiled and kissed him on the cheek then fixed him with solemnly shining black eyes.

"No!" he said, pointing to his unconventional hat. "I talk to God, direct!"

Andrei had been delighted with this answer, for reasons he couldn't identify. Everyone knew there was no God, so why should he be any less accessible by colander than through a priest?

The old man had curved a clawed hand around his forearm and leaned in.

"You are young man. You need know nothing yet, but if you have question, I ask him!"

It was a soft memory. Standing there, despite the ominous presence of the looming flame soldier, Isaev smiled.

He cleared his throat, lightly, to get the Fury's attention

"Sir," he said, saluting, raising his chin. "Many apologies for the intrusion- Major Ocelot admitted me on his way out, Sir."

He turned his head toward the Fury's imaginary friend.

What the hell.

"Pardon me, I didn't see you there, Sir," he added, graciously, saluting in the direction of the Fury's attention.

Who the fuck knew. Maybe there was actually something there. Maybe the man had a muse.

Maybe he talked to God direct.

"I won't take much of your time, sir," Andrei added, with a nod at the dissembled mass of metal sheeting and wires that seemed to be slowly coalescing into a whole. "I can see you're busy."

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

The Sorrow appreciated youth who knew their manners, inevitable hint of mockery notwithstanding.

Long past were the days of conversational reverence for the deceased.

The boy had been mentioned, in...passing, by a few spirits of The Sorrow's acquaintance. His aura held no outright malice. How rare.

The Sorrow smiled, and inclined his head toward Isaev.

To The Fury, he said,

"You've grown popular."

It was amusing, that they should share now a similar aversion to prolonged exposure to humanity, for entirely different reasons.

The living were...tiring.

"Later, then."

The Sorrow drew himself together for a last moment of solidity, and smiled at the both of them.

"We'll meet again."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

"Holy fuck," exclaimed Andrei, dropping his salute like a hot rock.

He hadn't drunk enough in his lifetime to see shadow men. But there one had been, he swore, for the slightest of infinitesimal moments.

The Fury was distracted from replying to him, and seemed to grab at the empty air, looking irritated.

So he hadn't imagined it.

Andrei took a breath and looked down, adjusting his beret and gathering his expression.

Best to ignore it, like most things here, unless explicitly directed to acknowledge them.

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

The way the lieutenant looked at him was a familiar enough expression, marked by doubt that was barely hidden -- the bewilderment of a man who considered himself sane, observing the conversation of someone he considered insane.

The Fury often found himself on the receiving end of that uneasy half smile, enough that it didn’t bother him to be gently mocked by the Ocelot soldier.

After all, he was an Ocelot through and through, secure in his perceived sanity, marked in red and black. His opinion counted for little. Still, it would be fun to fuck with his brain a little.

“Comrade Isaev, I see that you have just reached a newfound belief in the existence of wraiths, apparitions, specters, spooks, and ghosts. I congratulate you whole-heartedly.” The Fury drew himself up and applauded Isaev with just as much graciousness as he had spared saluting the Sorrow.

“Now, how do you feel about space aliens, extra-terrestrials, and little green men from Mars?”

The cosmonaut stepped around the remains of the hovercraft and grabbed the lieutenant, throwing an arm around his shoulders in a surprising gesture of camaraderie. “I’ve seen some pretty terrifying aliens in my day,” The Fury laughed, pulling Isaev along to where he had last seen the red scarf, before he turned over the table it was resting on. “Big, bulbous black eyes, slimy gray skin, and mouths full of razor sharp teeth. You should really be careful, on night patrol. Phobos of the Krasnogorje patrol swears he was abducted and experimented upon by similar vile creatures.”

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei was mollified by the cosmonaut's casual acknowledgment of the sighting; it told him this was something that he could acknowledge as well. Technically the Fury was a superior officer, and he while his ultimate loyalty was to Ocelot, in the major's absence he was equally pleasant to the ranking officer in any given room.

"Newfound, no," said Isaev, with a wan smile. "I don't think there's anyone in Matrushka Rossiyja who grew up without a house spirit, comrade. I just hadn't expected anything more arresting than yourself to be occupying this room."

It didn't bother him to be given shit over his startle response. It had been rather humorous. He paused, smiling wryly as the Fury enacted his supercilious lauding, then shrugged.

"Aliens, however, I must confess, do not intrigue me. That they exist seems a fully foregone conclusion- with such an infinite cosmos, and the laws of probability being what they are. I don't consider them supernatural."

His eyebrows raised in frank surprise as the flamesuited man slung an arm over his shoulders.

"You seem unusually ebullient today, comrade cosmonaut," Isaev remarked, watching the table upend, prey to the Fury's cheerful swath of destruction. "To be honest, I hadn't expected any smiles, from you or the Major."'

He really didn't want to speculate on what happened to poor Phobos.

[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

“I have no reason to be in a bad mood. Not anymore.” Not when he had such marvelous plans for revenge, and a good reason to test out the experimental composition-4 explosive shipped in nearly two months ago. “I found a reason for exaltation.”

The Fury let go of the lieutenant, righting the table that had faced his wrath. It wobbled, unsteady with bent legs and loose screws. Obviously, the poor thing was accustomed to rough treatment, as evident by the scorch marks.

“The last I saw of the scarf I stole from you at mess a few mornings ago, it was on the desk in the corner.” The cosmonaut gestured -- a crimson mantle drowning in a sea of blueprints. If inanimate objects were capable of human gestures, the scarf was struggling to stay afloat and gasping for air.

“But you did not come here to fetch it,” the Fury concluded. “You are an Ocelot; your specialty is stealth. If you wanted to, you could have picked the lock on the door and stole it back in the darkness of night, when I was away…”

He glanced at the folding chair that had been victim to the brunt of his rage, twisted into a mangled knot of bent metal, and the hole it had knocked in the plaster wall. “You came here because I invited you.”

Pointedly, he glared at Isaev through the thick hazy glass of his helmet. “Why? Not because it is socially expected to accept an invitation. No, I want to know why…why do you trust me? Even when your commander flinches away?”

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

The Sorrow laughed quietly to himself, glad that a last notion had caused him to linger, though no longer at any visible opacity. So The Fury had something of classical mythology stored behind that helmet of his after all. Though it would be difficult not to, when so many of the names scattered across the heavens had been pulled from the unresisting hands of ancient gods and heroes.

"One final thing I must ask of you, comrade," The Sorrow murmured, pitched for the cosmonaut's ears alone, and deftly resisting the phrase 'last request.' "Please, do not mention this meeting to The Joy."

Another advantage of being dead was that one had no compuction to linger to answer questions.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Isaev paused, blinking.

He caught sight of the crimson scarf, and reached for it, plucking it from the smothering table and pulling it out like a snake. The relief of holding it again was an absent afterthought, as the Fury's words made him contemplative.

"That's...a very good question, isn't it?"

Andrei paused, then smiled bemusedly.

"I don't rightly know. I shouldn't trust you, by apocryphal accounts, of course..." he glanced up, regarding the cosmonaut carefully. "And yet...I feel you've given me no reason not to. After all, you're not one to gild the lily, comrade. Even when you plan to stomp on it."

He ran the scarf through his hands. Ilya's scarf. It felt good. The wool was soft and carded.

"I suppose I could still fear you, even if I trusted you...but the thing is- it seems contraindicated. I like you, comrade. You aren't a shell."

It was honestly said.

The Fury was not pretending to be anything, and had never been anything but civil to him.

"Why, even your death threats are unfailingly polite," said Andrei with a grin. "And I suppose I came because I was welcome."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"Aren't I?"