The Search For Vladya the Coward
Nov. 8th, 2006 11:14 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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groznyj_gradAndrei breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the door behind him.
That had been easy. Pleasant, really.
He wasn't sure why he lacked the instinctive fear of the man that everyone else seemed to carefully carry in a handkerchief. Probably had something to do with being the son of a party member, and growing up seeing far worse beasts.
The Fury was a violent, tormented man. Russia was full of violent, tormented men. He'd seen them all his life- on the streets, in the taverns, in the Palace Square. Beating their wives and daughters, knifing other men in alleys, sodomizing the weaker. Dragging themselves upright in the morning again, to drive his father's car and shine his boots.
Those were broken men. Wounded and furious. Dangerous, certainly, if one was too trusting, or in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But they weren't beasts.
Real beasts were sleek and well-fed, and their wives wore white mink. Real beasts had smiles and platitudes that killed more slowly and painfully than any britva to the gut.
Andrei had been raised by wolves.
It might have made a good folk tale, if not for the lack of a cautionary moral.
Isaev sighed. The scarf was his again. And next time he saw Ilya he'd be wearing it, prominently, so as not to catch hell from his comrade.
Ilya was very sentimental. Especially when he was drunk.
Andrei grinned.
Irinarhov. He'd almost missed spotting the fucker, he was so still and unflinching in his perch.
"Ochi chornoyje," he sang loudly, throwing open his arms. "Ochi krasivy..."
That had been easy. Pleasant, really.
He wasn't sure why he lacked the instinctive fear of the man that everyone else seemed to carefully carry in a handkerchief. Probably had something to do with being the son of a party member, and growing up seeing far worse beasts.
The Fury was a violent, tormented man. Russia was full of violent, tormented men. He'd seen them all his life- on the streets, in the taverns, in the Palace Square. Beating their wives and daughters, knifing other men in alleys, sodomizing the weaker. Dragging themselves upright in the morning again, to drive his father's car and shine his boots.
Those were broken men. Wounded and furious. Dangerous, certainly, if one was too trusting, or in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But they weren't beasts.
Real beasts were sleek and well-fed, and their wives wore white mink. Real beasts had smiles and platitudes that killed more slowly and painfully than any britva to the gut.
Andrei had been raised by wolves.
It might have made a good folk tale, if not for the lack of a cautionary moral.
Isaev sighed. The scarf was his again. And next time he saw Ilya he'd be wearing it, prominently, so as not to catch hell from his comrade.
Ilya was very sentimental. Especially when he was drunk.
Andrei grinned.
Irinarhov. He'd almost missed spotting the fucker, he was so still and unflinching in his perch.
"Ochi chornoyje," he sang loudly, throwing open his arms. "Ochi krasivy..."
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Date: 2006-12-03 09:20 am (UTC)He smirked.
"That is, if you're not too busy."
Andrei glanced at Irinarhov and nodded.
"What do you say?" he said. "I'm willing if you are. And I tend to be a pretty apt pupil."