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[vostok-n2o4.livejournal.com]

ATTN:  Col. Volgin, whoever else wants to join...

It was early in the afternoon before the hovercraft occupying most of laboratory number 307 was in one working piece again. Fixing things, the cosmonaut mused, was almost as satisfying as destroying them. To take something previously useless and coerce it to function again…

Phobos and Deimos would be along soon to collect it, and return it to its proper hangar.

He shook the thought from his head as he shut the door and scanned the hallway for any signs of life through his gold-hazed view of the world. Everything was as quiet as he had expected to find the narrow corridor -- no one ever visited, except for the Krasnogorje flame thrower unit…

…Or the Ocelot soldiers, who had came to call earlier. To retrieve crimson scarves, and bring interesting, if not infuriating, news.

…Or the welcome visitor from beyond the grave. The Sorrow, long departed, was a welcome sight.

And, the Fury thought, deliberately lingering on the top step of the narrow staircase, the expected presence of the Ocelot unit had seemed far stranger than the appearance of a deceased comrade. Such things were mundane to individuals as unique as the Cobra Unit. Ghosts and reanimated dead, holding conversations with hornets and the spectacular view of falling back to earth.

…Or men who bent electricity to their whims.

Ocelots soldiers were fantastical creatures, surreal in the way they believed in reality.

The Fury laughed to himself as he descended the stairs, with characteristic heavy footsteps and clank of his jet pack. Volgin. Something about the Colonel was amusing to the point of maniacal delight. Something was likeable about the man, despite his obvious excessive hubris.

Perhaps his lust for experimental technology.

Maybe it was his temper, and his common violent outbursts. It was enjoyable to see someone so willing to give in to their rage.

Or perhaps it was the Colonel’s willingness to fund the cosmonaut’s special weapons projects that made him so likeable.

Either way, it delighted the Fury to find Volgin lingering about on the second floor, outside the empty office of Ivan Raikov. How predictable. He was out of place under the harsh fluorescent lighting, a man like Volgin seemed to belong only on a battlefield.

“Colonel,” he began with a brief salute, stopping on the second step from the bottom. “If I may have a word with you…or is this a bad time?” He had several words in mind, right at the top of his list were fucking kraut and son of a bitch and kill the lying bastard, but he remembered Major Ocelot’s words -- the kid had promised it would be much more rewarding to let Volgin deal with Krauss’ gross abuse of power.

Still, it nagged at his conscious. He would have honestly rather left the lying German with a few broken bones and third degree burns over ninety percent of his body.

Swallowing his pride and saluting Volgin was quite possibly the greatest insult of all to the cosmonaut's dignity, but a neccicary evil.