[Wed, Feb. 12, 1964, six o clock PM]

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

SRIDA, 12 FEVRAI, 1964: 18:00 hours

[OOC: Two weeks after the first body is discovered. Ocelot is in the East Wing, walking toward the Shagohod Hangar. Anyone is free to jump in, or start coexisting threads.]


The day was nearly over, and the shadows hung long in the East Wing halls.

The Grad was industrious, striking in quartz precision like the innards of a clock. Ocelot walked in counterpoint to this timekeeping, his spurs clanking with languid haste.

The victim had just been indentified dentally as GRU Captain Mikhail Stovanovich Molokov. Or Styopa, as he'd been more commonly known around the Grad. Styopa was a handsome blond man of about thirty-two, a sometime fixture, a decent enough officer to Ocerlot's mind. He was in charge of supervising the delivery of supplies and requisitions from Moscow, and came through with the helicoptors every three months, looking staunchly official and polished within an inch of his life. He was General Olavyenko's personal attaché, and though he didn't like being reminded of it, Volgin reported, loosely, to Olavyenko.

This probably went over like a lead balloon, thought Ocelot, glad he hadn't been privy to that phone call.

No, Volgin didn't need the resources of GRU or Mother Russia. But he did need Olavyenko to keep leaving him alone in his outpost at the frontier edge of the Motherland.

Ocelot's lip twisted as he crossed the East Wing Atrium, and passed the library where scientists thumbed through books with downcast eyes.

Some sick murdering fuck. That was fucking great. The one thing Groznyj Grad didn't need another one of.

Oceelot knew Volgin wanted answers yesterday. He hadn't solved their little problem, yet. He intended to.

Lieutenant Imanov had been studying criminal psychology before he got his conscription notice. The obvious thing would be to avail himself of Ilya Piotryvich's expertise and insight by picking his brain, which Ocelot had every intention of doing.

But it was that same expertise that gave him pause. Imanov knew a little too much about the subject. Imanov had been conspicuously indisposed at the time. There was no presumption of innocence. Not here.

The previous week he'd only had a few minutes to speak with his lieutenant before Khostov had wrenched him back into quarantine with a wagging finger and a baleful glare. Ocelot hadn't mentioned the murder, but he assumed Imanov must know by now. ...If he hadn't known before.

Ilya hadn't looked good, but Ocelot knew that didn't necessarily preclude his involvement. A man could be sick in a lot of ways.

If it was Imanov, he would want to find out quick, and hush the inquiry. It would require serious disciplinary restrictions and short leash, but he didn't let his men go down easily. He wasn't going to lose his second in command over some unfortunate piece of ass, General's attache or not.

And the American.

Ocelot's eyes narrowed.

Everyone knew that Capitalist dogs were the sickest fucks of all fucks so afflicted. They'd never had a problem like this before. Never this....animal sickness.

Was it just a coincidence that the Boss showed up with her hairy, grunting lap dog, and a handsome young Russian wound up sexually tortured and violated?

Comments

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

The nurses at the infirmary had only been able to tolerate Johann Krauss for just so long. Concussion or not, they were happy to see him released after a mere twenty-four hours of observation.

It wasn’t delirium that found him staring at the floor, and scowling. It was the bouquet of white lilies, out of place and surreal on the gray concrete in front of his office door.

Soldiers passed, nervously, unsure of what to say. He ignored them, lost in thought.

Every morning, for the last two weeks. White lilies.

There had been white lilies, first thing when he opened his eyes in the hospital bed. No note, no card, nothing. Just the flowers, delivered to his bedside table, rather fashionably in an old oil canister cleaned out and filled with fresh water.

He rubbed the cut on his forehead, wincing as the stitches pulled. Krauss laughed in spite of it, shaking his head.

White lilies, the kind that only grew on the south side of the Krasnogorje mountain. More of the Fury’s mind games, though he hadn’t seen the cosmonaut or his flame patrol at all since the explosion.

Sometimes, the lilies even came tied up in pretty ribbons. Red seemed to be a favorite color. The German found himself questioning the reason. Was it a mockery of love, love inverted, red being the traditional color of liebe? Or was it just what was convenient? Perhaps it was a reference to fire, he thought, fire was red. Or maybe the fucking psychopath just liked red.

Krauss looked up from his bouquet when he heard the familiar clink of spurs, and for once, Ocelot was a welcome sight. The younger Major existed entirely within the realm of normalcy, and seemed the most standard, military issue thing in the whole hallway of unyielding gray concrete, fluorescent lights, propaganda posters, and fresh cut lilies, still coated with morning dew.

“Guten Abend, Major Ocelot.” He offered, and nudged the flowers out into the hallway with mirror-polished jackboot. “You have a lot on your mind, yes? I can tell.” The old German winced as he bent to pick the bouquet up; his bad hip had been bothering him more lately, since the incident with the flame patrol. “Flowers. Flowers will cheer you up.”

Krauss held them by the ribbon, glaring at the lilies with marked distrust and disgust. “Every single day since he obliterated my greenhouse, he leaves me flowers. I don’t understand, and I pray to God I never do.”

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

Flowers did not cheer him up, but it was a nice try.

Ocelot snorted, amused.

"How gallant," he said, dryly. "It seems you have a suitor."

The flowers might have been a daily yeb-tvoyu-mat to Krauss, to remind him of what he'd lost, but Ocelot didn't assign the Fury that kind of calculated sadism. He was a creature of Id, expressed in the most immediate and bombastic sense.

Adam stopped, crossing his arms.

"He'll run out of them eventually," he said, shrugging. "In the meantime, just give them out to all those women you love so much. That ought to buy you...whatever it is you get from them."

He honestly didn't know. It was that Ocelot was inexperienced in these matters. From fourteen on, he'd gone to whorehouses with comrades, taken local women home from canteens. Fucked them silly. And shrugged afterward.

He truly had not gotten what all the fuss was about, what made other men swear and chuckle in confratory delight. It was all right, but it was a means to an end. A physical end, and nothing more.

Ocelot's eyes narrowed.

"They identified the corpse," he said quietly. "But perhaps you know that."

His tone was neutral enough, neither suggesting or accusing.

Though the Fury seemed convinced Krauss had killed the Captain, Ocelot had his doubts. Krauss had never seemed interested in pursuing the obscene attentions of his fellow soldiers in any way. And what motivation would the German have for killling a GRU officer in such a depraved fashion?

On the other hand, Krauss' background suggested torture was an intimate friend to him, and it was his greenhouse that the body had been found stashed in.

Ocelot couldn't completely write him off.

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

“Verdammte Scheiße!” Krauss spat, tossing the flowers across the hall. They landed with a soft plop, a few leaves disheveled, but otherwise largely intact. “First thing in the morning, I order the whole mountain sprayed down with pesticide, until not even mildew grows in the cracks between the rocks. I already demanded the immediate disbandment of the flame patrol. I want those lunatics stripped of all rank and title, and most important, weapons…”

He looked at Ocelot, then to the crumpled mess of flowers on the other side of the hall. “I’m really starting to hate flowers, you know. I’d put them in the trash, but the can in my office is already overflowing with the damnable things, decaying, stinking up the room.”

With his carefully constructed and polished façade reduced to ashes, he was clearly at a loss. There was a conscious realization several mornings ago, gazing into a bathroom mirror, that he just didn’t have the same elegant presence without his mink coat. It bothered him, more than it should have, he knew.

His interests perked visibly when Adamska mentioned the cadaver, his usual sadistic grin spreading in familiarity. “No, I don’t have any idea about that sort of thing. Perhaps you could share what you know, out of general professional courtesy? Do you know who killed him yet? I would bet anything it was one of the cosmonaut’s men. Depraved killers, every last one.”

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

Ocelot tilted his head.

"No," he said. "I'm inclined to think it was someone...more intellectual, Major. More...polished. This murder took more savoir faire than any of those incendiary barbarians possess."

The flame patrol were lunatics, not degenerates.

"The cosmonaut's self-expressed desire is to purify the world by fire, Johann. Not molest and dismember it."

And I do mean dis-member, thought Ocelot, grimacing to himself.

Now to pull out the big guns.

"The body was that of a Captain Molokov. Did you know him?" He asked blithely. He knew the German did. Rather well, if rumors were to be believed. "He went by Styopa, more commonly."

Styopa to Russians, yes. But Krauss, he understood, had called him Stefan. Krauss wasn't above a pretty young man, if the nurses and secretaries weren't biting. And Mikhail Stovanovich had been a conveniently transient fixture at Groznyj Grad, with his handsome presence gliding through every three months.

And the tolkachery...

Krauss would have found it very convenient to have a blatnoy Captain as a contact procurer.

If Molokov had been his lover...Ocelot could only expect a reaction.

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

Krauss started to speak, but for once, he could find no words. There were no words to describe the shock and disbelief, and so he stammered for a moment, trying to bring his thoughts together in coherency. “Das ist… nein. I mean, rather, that is impossible. Stefan…” His eyes widened, and he realized that he had slipped with the improper pet name. “Captain Molokov boarded a helicopter bound for Moscow the morning my greenhouse was…unless he missed his flight…”

Johann looked around, appearing entirely lost in the brightly lit hall. “Gott im Himmel,” he mumbled to himself. Regaining a shred of composure, he could only shake his head. “Please, if you have a moment?” The Major gestured to his office door, something in his voice pleading, and motioned for Ocelot to follow him into the lavishly furnished room.

He didn’t even bother with the speech about not stepping on the rug, it’s wolf skin. He just went to his desk straight away, and threw himself into the overstuffed leather chair.

“Rumors travel fast, you know that.” Immediately, he was rummaging in his desk drawers tossing out papers, pens, books onto the hardwood floor. Still, he could not find whatever it was he searched for, only glanced around nervously, and resumed turning over the papers that littered his desk. “You’ve probably heard a few rumors… about myself… and Captain Molokov. Off the record, I may even be so bold as to admit that most of the things you have heard are the truth, but perhaps not for the reasons you may think.” Finally, he stopped, and sunk back into his chair. “It is… so lonely here at Groznyj Grad, and I have an eye for beautiful things.” There was a certain obvious sadness in his voice that, no matter well his composure was kept, he could not hide. “I have also heard some rumors which are not so pleasant.”

Krauss raised his head finally, looking up at Ocelot with a sort of lost, distant haze about him. “I have heard that they… whoever did this… did terrible, terrible things to… to the…” To the corpse, but he couldn’t bring himself to say that. It was too cold, too clinical of a word. “To Stefan. Is it true, Major? Please, you must know… I am not without a heart, not without kindness.”

The Persian cat that had been sleeping on the rug in the sun spilling in from the window finally stretched out, making a small sound, and she rose to slink over to the German. She rubbed her massive body against the edge of the desk, tail coiling up along the carved edges, she eyed Major Ocelot in feline curiosity, licking her elegant whiskers.

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

Brooding, Ocelot walked across the room, and turned, leaning against the sill of the window, taking the sun-warmed spot vacated by the cat.

He needed to feel the sun on his back, suddenly. Something- some warmth- to counteract the air of hollow sorrow that had descended with the widening of the German's eyes, and continued to shake off in waves with the trembling of his finely made hands.

Ocelot felt sharply uncomfortable, suddenly- young and out of his element. He regretted breaking the news so callously to Krauss, who was clearly traumatized beyond losing a mere piece of ass. It had been a calculated strike, to evoke a reponse, whether guilt, or disavowal...or shock.

He hadn't counted on heartbreak.

Adam grimaced, rubbing his brow, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Johann," he said, at last. "You and...Captain Molokov. You don't need to justify it. We all inhabit the Terrible City."

The Captain had been a humorous and good-natured man, but an officer's officer in every respect. Adam had liked him, as far as he knew him. His shirts were always crisply laundered, uniform lightly and immaculately starched to an easy lie, and his boots buffed to a mirror shine.

"I don't know how much to tell you, Major."

That Mikhail had died horribly. That the evidence on the skin that remained to him suggested he'd been strangled, manually throttled within an inch of his life. That three of four limbs were gone, and that the fourth had been piteously outstretched, as if begging for mercy...

Even though he knew the posture had just been the result of the blast, that had clenched at Ocelot's insides.

"The body was mutilated, post-mortem." That, at least, was better than the alternative, Adam thought, though it made it little better to the Major, who by his own admission, loved beautiful things...

"I can give you the file, if you really want to know the unsavory details," Ocelot scowled, softly, looking away. He couldn't bring himself to tell the man that his lover had been castrated and sodomized. Let him read it in black and white, where it could be clinical and removed.

But that led him to a valid and pressing question.

"Medical found evidence of sexual activity," Ocelot said with difficulty, "both pre and post mortem."

The German's look of anguish was palpable, and Ocelot winced unconsciously as Krauss covered his face with his hands.

"Sodomy, in both cases," Adam added, quietly, eyes downcast. "But perhaps not all nonconsensual, Major."

It was entirely possible, he thought, that Mikhail had welcomed his first lover. The Major had confessed to his affair with Molokov, so it was not unreasonable that they had possibly engaged in a farewell liaison of some kind, before the Captain ostensibly would have departed that morning.

(...)

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

Either that, or he had been unconscious, and unresisting to his assailant, Ocelot's mind added darkly, and he shuddered.

"No tearing or injury was sustained by the live tissue," Ocelot recited, flatly. "So it seems that in the first case, he was both alive and willing. The traumatic assault occurred after the body- Mikhail Stovanovich was already deceased."

He paused to regather his professionalism, meeting the silverback Persian's greeny-gold eyes, set like jewels in its flat, panfaced cat head. It wore a permanent look of disapproval, as if it were dourly appalled by him and his presence here, in her sunspot. Ocelot narrowed his eyes at the cat, who promptly turned her cat-ass at him, waving her tail high and flaunting her rosebud, as if to suggest how she really felt.

Krauss was staring straight ahead. He looked as if he were at the point of tears. His hand absently stroked the greedy beast, who purred, indifferent to his loss.

"Another thing, Major, before you answer...Captain Molokov was found wearing...a women's two piece negligié. Silk," Ocelot muttered, "and expensive, by the look of it. It's possible the killer dressed him up as a..."

What had Imanov called it?

"...an expression of his paraphilias. The other option of course, is that the killer had nothing to do with what we found him wearing. Perhaps this was something...the Captain liked to indulge in..clandestinely."

Ocelot averted his eyes quickly, and felt a flush hit his cheeks.

"I wouldn't know, of course. But perhaps you would, Major," he said, as tactfully as he could.

His eye fell on Krauss' liquor cabinet, a fine piece of Burmese lacquerwork in black and red with gold leafing.

"Let me get you a scotch, Johann," Adam said, as restrained empathy overcame him. "It will calm your nerves. So that we can talk candidly."

[elyseexpatriate.livejournal.com]

The pang of grief rang like a tuning fork tapped lightly with a sliver of glass.

Regret for a comrade lost was the most steadfast and trustworthy of emotions.

It called The Sorrow to its source, stark and melifluous in its immediacy.

This crumpled man, with wide eyes and trembling hands.

Was this the man he had promised to torment? Memory was a soft, diluted thing, here with one foot ankledeep in the Lethe.

The threads to the tapestry of tragedy were not solely of his creation, saw The Sorrow with a pang of undeniable surprise.

Thin and odd in hue, yes, like the shell of a spider's egg, but some belonged to the boy soldier.

This boy with the scent of death on him, and the stature that would not suffer repentance.

The Sorrow listened to the details of the death recounted, inflicted by the hand of neccessity and without deliberate cruelty.

He walked a half-circuit of the room, directing the appearance of feet to floor for the sake of novelty. Cat's eyes followed him, curious, but not to the point of caring.

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

The last thing he wanted was to be calmed, swathed in the toxic comforting darkness of alcohol, swimming through his veins, numbing his senses. He wanted time, and resources. Instead, he took the glass that Ocelot sat on the corner of his desk, and downed it in on gulp. “Give me the whole bottle.” He murmured, laying his head down on the desk and shutting his eyes. “Give me everything in the cabinet.”

The polished African mahogany was mercifully cold against his cheek, and he chose to ignore the twinge of soreness in his brow that made him want to wince away.

Mikhail would have addressed the stitches with an amused smirk and a lingering touch, and laughed that Krauss was finally doing the work of a real Russian for a change.

“He had a son.” The Major blurted, “and a wife, away in Moscow. Another child on the way, he was hoping for a daughter, due in May. A charming double life like the rest of us.”

Krauss sighed, and remained still as Motte picked her way across his desk, poking her flattened nose at his fountain pen. He didn’t even shoo the Persian away when she began lapping the remnants of scotch from his glass.

“I don’t want the file.” He said finally. “I don’t want to know what they did to my dear, dear friend.” His voice cracked, but he kept his composure, carefully, taking a deep breath and holding it. “I believe I may have some insight into… you make it all sound so clinical… the things. Sodomy. I don’t like that word, I never have. All the sinners of Sodom, lost to the fire and brimstone.”

He looked up at Ocelot finally, but for only a brief moment, and wiped his eyes. “I have no doubts about the sort of clothing you found…the sensual things of a feminine nature. Pink, with detailing of tiny yellow flowers, trimmed in complimenting lace around the edges. Stefan was fond of these things, fond of wearing them under his uniform when he paid visits to Groznyj Grad. That does not surprise me, not at all.” Momentarily, his stomach did a flop, and he thought he might be violently sick. There was a sudden coldness to the room that was entirely unnatural.

There was a firm knock at the door, but Krauss did not move from his chair. He glanced at his pocket watch, and sighed when the guest knocked again, more urgently.

“It is the Pain, from the Cobra Unit.” There was really no need to mention what unit the hornet charmer was from, Krauss realized.

The Cobra soldier did not knock a third time, but took it upon himself to open the door. A single hornet trickled in, flying around the room with peculiar enthusiasm. A new place, how fantastically exciting, filled with new pheromones. The Pain, however, did not follow; he looked from Ocelot to Krauss and back again.

“Please. Not right now.” The German managed. “If we could reschedule this? This is a very bad time. I am…”

“Suffering.” The hornet charmer observed, with a nod. “When you are finished, then.” He moved, and the insect followed, lighting on the front of his vest, where it was more than camouflaged in the yellow-black striping. “Enjoy yourself, Major.” He shut the door, quietly.

Krauss looked to Ocelot, thankful for a diversion. “He wants a heated aircraft hangar, fully furnished for his bees. Don't we all?”

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

Ocelot smiled obscurely, also thankful for a moment of respite.

"I think most of us want to rule the world, actually. A hangar for some bees..." he shrugged wryly. "Modest in comparison."

So that was the hornet soldier. Interesting. It seemed the Major got along better with the Pain than the Fury, at any rate.

The undergarments had been Stovich's then; that took a little edge off the crime. Not nearly enough to quiet the foreboding in his forebrain.

"I didn't mean sodomy as the military laws state it, as in in...muzhelostvo...Major. I meant it by the American criminal definition. Of forcible..." Ocelot found he couldn't trick the word "rape" into crossing his lips. "Congress," he finished euphemistically.

A wife, a child. An unborn child. Things Ocelot had never wanted, and from his own history, could never imagine anyone else wanting.

And if he actually wanted the children, that was something, thought Ocelot, cynically. A good man, just as he suspected. A shame he had to come to Groznyj Grad.

"You'll take care of the widow, Krauss," he said, suddenly, narrowing his eyes. "Those children are yours now. You'll make sure they never wind up...at the mercy of the stadja."

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

“You presume to tell me what to do?” He raised his head, narrowing his eyes at the younger man, not sure that he had heard correctly. “Within the last two weeks, my life has been threatened not once, not twice, but three times by a psychopath in a space suit. I’ve been beaten to a bloody pulp, by a woman no less, and my prized snow roses are nothing but ashes now. Then I am informed that the dead body found tortured, raped, and mutilated in my now-defunct greenhouse is…”

Krauss stopped, quivering. He pressed a hand to his mouth, forcing his eyes shut, forcing the hot tears back. “The widow has my deepest sympathies, because I share in her tragic loss, but I have too many burdens to bear as it is.”

He looked away, feigning interest the birds tittering in the trees outside the window, hopping from branch to branch. Impossibly small birds, black and brown and gray.

Before he even drew another breath, he knew he would help Mikhail’s family in any way possible, despite his harsh words. It would be impossible not to, remembering the creased and worn photograph Stefan had produced with such pride, all smiles.

“And what shall I say when I phone her in Moscow?” He snorted, “Terribly sorry for your loss, Ma’am. No need to worry though, I regularly bedded your husband and indulged his kinks while he was away on official business at Groznyj Grad. I’ll take care of everything for you, even though you’re a complete and total stranger, thousands of miles away.”

The Major looked away again, disgusted, and watched the cat go after some imaginary thing in the corner of the room. Most undignified.

“His son looks just like him.” Krauss mumbled, more to himself than to Ocelot. “Same golden blonde, scantly a hair out of place, and that wry half-smile.” He shook his head, warily. None of it seemed real, not at all.

And then, an idea hit him.

“When we catch the killer and the sick son of a bitch is brought to justice…” He looked down at his missing fingers, and remembered cooking and eating the heart of the man who tortured him all those years ago. “Then, I should bring them here. At least meet them, and explain a few things…” He looked up at Adam, with a cold and calculating gleam in his eyes. “When we find the murderer, you know, I expect to be the first to know, and to be given full liberties with him in the torture room. Have you ever eaten human flesh, Adamska? It is divine.”

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

Ocelot raised an eyebrow, his empathy chilling briefly in the face of Krauss' unstable temper.

Once a Nazi, always a Nazi, he thought. To think he had felt sorry for the bastard.

"If I were a cynical man, Major, I might consider whether the Captain's missing and as yet unrecovered appendages had met a similar cannibalistic fate at the hands of some...what were your words? Yes. Some...sick son-of-a-bitch."

He narrowed his eyes, meeting the German's, glacier blue on pale colorless grey.

After a moment, Ocelot frowned, shaking his head. He knew that Krauss was innocent- of this one murder, if not many hundred others. He steepled his fingers slowly.

"I'm not here to pour salt on your wounds, Johann. You've told me what I need to know. The rest...is entirely yours to keep."

At the thought of the orphaned boy, Ocelot's lip twisted slightly.

"..how old is the son?" he asked, hesitantly, averting his eyes as he crossed his arms over his uniform.

His eyes caught a faint outline, a man-shaped disturbance in the fabric of the air, and his eyes widened, then slatted, peering into the space where it shifted and shimmered.

That ghost, that ghoulish apparition. Apparently it didn't just linger around the cosmonaut.

The persian was watching it too, sitting primly on her haunches, batting feebly at nothing with her declawed mittens.

As if trying to cajole it closer.

...or was it that placid spirit, after all? Perhaps it was someone more restless. Even Styopa himself.

Ocelot shuddered.

[parabellum-p08.livejournal.com]

“An eye for an eye.” The German replied offhandedly, rising from his desk with newfound resolve. He went to the coat rack and pulled his standard issue drab greatcoat from the hook, draping it over his arm. “I appreciate hearing it from a friend, Adam. Officially though, this conversation never happened.”

Krauss smiled warmly, a smile of genuine appreciation, even though he was bitter and cold. He would mourn later, in private. Now was the time to plan just how to avenge his lover’s death.

“I shall give the widow Molokova a phone call this evening. Introduce myself, and check in on her and her son.” He opened the door, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the hornet keeper was not waiting for him in the hallway, as he suspected. "The boy?" He asked, caught off guard by the young Major's question. "Four. Just had a birthday."

Krauss took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts.

“Then, in the morning, I shall do what any proper gentleman going through a horrible midlife crisis should do: I’ll phone Stuttgart and have them send me a brand new red Porsche on my government expense account.”

He frowned, and looked at Ocelot. The kid was staring off into blank space, just like the other feline. Maybe the stress was starting to get him. “No, two. I’ll have them send two, and you can have the other. I’ll tell them to make the interior leopard print.”

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

Ocelot smirked, amused by the German's dramatic hyperbole.

"And where would I drive such a delicate machine? Over the rocks of Krasnogornyje, perhaps? Through the jungles of Lower Tselionyarsk?"

He snorted.

"Thanks, all the same, Johann, but I'll stick to helicopters."

While he was sure that the German had not expected him to accept, he was equally sure that in a short time he would indeed see the Major driving tight slow circles around the yard of Groznyj Grad in a new 9-11 as if it were a compound Jeep, honking in SS-style irritation at the soldiers on drill .

Ocelot thought about the Molokov kid. He hadn't known Mikhail was a father, but he supposed it made sense. A lot of those men, the Moscow men, had families and went home to flats and houses for dinner.

"Poor kid," Adam said, flatly. "Maybe he'll make a officer someday."

Krauss had helped shed some light on Captain Molokov's personal life. Though in truth, it only widened the pool of possible perpetrators.

He wondered who to talk to next.

...On his way to the Shagohod.

Ocelot scowled inwardly.

[heartofthunder.livejournal.com]

"Ocelot?"

Volgin stuck his head into Krauss' office. He ignored Krauss, knowing the man would only whine again about the disbanding of the Krasnogorje Patrol, or reparations for his greenhouse, or some such. Volgin didn't have time to deal with Krauss' entitlement issues.

General Olavyenko had called him again that morning, and demanded answers regarding the death of his attache. Answers, or else he would send his own investigators to Groznyj Grad, and Volgin could not allow that.

His plans were not yet in full motion, not yet unstoppable with the full force of momentum. They could be stunted at this point. Derailed.

Volgin would not see his life's dream ruined for the death of some young fool who had probably been indiscreet in his affairs, and brought it upon himself.

Volgin scowled hugely at Ocelot, who looked sour-faced and petulant.

Like a boy who'd done something wrong, and was only angry that he'd gotten caught.

Remorseless, Volgin thought. That was the quality he liked in Ocelot.

One of them, anyway, but even so, his goodwill for the major would only extend so far.

"Ocelot, I need to talk to you. Outside," he said, fixing a glare on Krauss briefly as if daring him to speak.

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

Ocelot stifled an instinctive smirk at the sight of the Colonel's massive head peering around the doorframe like a gruffly curious mastiff.

At the same time, he knew Volgin was not in a mood to be trifled with or peppered with insolent jokes.

Ocelot holstered his guns and quit the room with a slight upward nod at Krauss, now engrossed in his thoughts of vengeance. Or perhaps he only dreamed of the balm of his government expense account on his personal inconvenience. Ocelot wondered if he had misread the German, if he had any emotions beyond proprietary for Captain Molokov. Or if this was just another ruined greenhouse.

It could be rebuilt, replaced?

He joined Volgin in the hall, crossing his arms readily, back straight, chin up. Receptive to orders.

"What is it, Colonel?"

[heartofthunder.livejournal.com]

"I got another call from General Olavyenko," Volgin said without preamble.

He knew he did not have to explain to Ocelot what that meant. The major might be young, but he was not stupid, and would understand the ramifications.

"He's threatening to send an investigator of his own here." He let that sit for a moment, scowling remorselessly. "We can't have that happen, Ocelot. You need to find out who did this. Olavyenko wants answers. He wants someone to hang."

Volgin's hand tightened into a fist. His gloves creaked, as if in protest of the strain.

"I got the impression that Olavyenko has a...personal interest, in seeing Molokov's killer punished."

Volgin allowed for the fact that he might have been reading into the general's words, or perhaps even thinking of himself. If something ever happened to Ivan...

...

Well.

Nothing would happen to Ivan.

It didn't apply.

But Volgin still found himself wondering why Olavyenko didn't feel compelled to show up and reduce Groznyj Grad to a smoking ruin. Did Molokov somehow deserve less?

Volgin shook himself, like an angry bull. He narrowed his eyes on Ocelot.

"At this point, I don't care if you have to find someone and make him guilty. Choose someone who's a problem around here. Or someone useless. Ask Ivan to recommend someone if you don't know anyone. I just want this done, do you understand?"

His scars went taut and livid across his face, pulling his mouth into a death's head sneer.

Static crackled around his fist. "This needs to be taken care of...one way, or another," Volgin said, with finality.

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

Ocelot's mouth fell open, slack, for the span of a lightning strike. Sometimes, even all the hours he spent in Volgin's company, the fascinating man still had the power to stun him with his sheer absolutist philosophy.

"Fine," he said, snapping his jaw closed.

He scowled, casting his gaze to the side.

"I'll find your scapegoat," he said. "But Colonel--"

Ocelot hesitated, eyes narrowed and serious as he looked up into the unforgiving stone of Volgin's visage, meeting his furious, steel blue gaze.

"You know that won't solve our problem here."

It would get Olavyenko off their backs, true- but there would still be a depraved psychopath cheerfully roaming the halls.

Did Volgin not conceptualize the threat?

Sure, if it had been a singular event, aimed at punishing Molokov, then they might never see another horribly mangled corpse except for the sanctioned ones Volgin left in his wake.

But what if it wasn't? He couldn't let it go along with a token sacrifice to appease Olyavenko.

"...I need permission to continue looking, Colonel."

He paused.

"After we take care of the General," he muttered quickly. "That's obviously our first priority."

The Colonel's earlier words sunk in slowly.

He'd heard them, understood them, but only now did he give them the consideration they deserved.

"...So Molokov was Olavyenko's personal attache."

It made sense, thought Ocelot, grimly. Mikhail was winsome, gregarious- and apparently- good-naturedly receptive to the kinks of older superiors.

"I wonder if Krauss knew."

[heartofthunder.livejournal.com]

"Yes, yes," Volgin said, impatiently.

He waved his hand, imperious and dismissive.

"After Olavyenko is satisfied, then you need to find out who really did this. We can't have someone running around the base killing people on a whim, now can we?"

His question was rhetorical, and said with utter seriousness. He held Ocelot's gaze until he was sure the major understood him.

Ocelot's eyes were glittering, but he nodded.

"Good. What's this about Krauss? Why would he - "

Volgin broke off, frowning suddenly.

Krauss and Molokov, then. He understood. No wonder why the attaché's body had been found in Krauss' greenhouse. Maybe it was some sort of message. He didn't know.

Volgin personally preferred his messages to be much more direct. They meant more, if the person knew it was coming from you, and understood what it was supposed to mean.

"Anyway," Volgin continued. "You know what needs to be done, Major. I'm counting on you. After that..."

He shook his head, slowly. "You need to find the killer."

Cowards who didn't claim responsibility for what they killed tended to kill again, Volgin thought. If for no other reason than to cover it up. Out of fear, or shame.

It was pathetic.

His lip curled, and scars rippled along his jaw.

"I don't want...anyone else...put in danger because of this," he told Ocelot.

It had occurred to Volgin earlier that Captain Molokov had borne a passing resemblance to Ivan.

He felt a chill.

Just a coincidence, he told himself, trying to shake it off.

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

Ocelot nodded uneasily.

He could read the faraway concern writ in the lines of Volgin's igneous face, and he understood, with a sudden and unmistakable clarity, what the Colonel was thinking.

What he was fearing.

"I'll check in with Major Raikov," he said, at once. "Make sure he's...keeping an eye out," he added vaguely, averting his gaze. "...I can ask him to recommend a worthy candidate for Olavyenko's wolves."

Even once they procured a suitable poor bastard to frame, would it be enough to keep Olavyenko at bay?

Under the circumstances, Ocelot wasn't sure the General would be satisfied with merely a report of a punishment at Volgin's hands.

"...He'll want to do it himself, won't he?" he muttered. "Are you certain he'll be satisfied without an independant internal investigation?"

He'd never met Olavyenko on his rare visits to Groznyj Grad. Volgin seemed to know him well, however.

Ocelot scowled.

He had to trust in Volgin's assessment, something he always did with a kiss and a prayer.

[heartofthunder.livejournal.com]

"Ah, I don't know," Volgin said with a dismissive wave. "If the evidence looks good enough, it'll give him something...someone...to focus on."

Let the general slake his anger on something tangible, Volgin thought. He could understand that.

He didn't know Olvayenko well, didn't fully know his temperament. But such a scenario seemed...likely. Kill the murderer himself, just for closure's sake, though Volgin couldn't imagine how...

...no.

He wasn't going to think about it anymore.

Instead, he studied Ocelot for a moment.

The major might be hot-headed and surly, and occasionally too impetuous, but all in all, Volgin trusted him. Trusted him to do his job and to look out for Ivan.

Not that Ivan couldn't take care of himself, of course. Vanya had received the same training as any GRU officer, and had excelled at it, according to his file. It was just that Ivan's area of expertise fell outside of the spheres of violence and combat that Volgin and Ocelot traveled. He would reason, before killing, and even that much delay could be fatal.

It was one of the things that Volgin appreciated about Ivan, as much as it made him worry at times.

Volgin realized his look had grown distant, and frowned. Worrying over Ivan was a distraction he couldn't afford right now. He needed to know Ivan was safe.

His gaze, weighted by nameless dread, settled on Ocelot, who seemed to stand straighter.

"Give Ivan my regards," he said, gruffly. "That's all."

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

"Sir, yes sir."

Ocelot saluted, and was intrigued to find himself actually feeling an intangible sense of obligation to the monolithic Colonel.

The Americans were here now, and the Boss would be going after the Shagohod...

...He hadn't liked her methods. Hadn't liked the cur she brought with her.

ADAM might have dangled for the CIA and the KGB, but Adamska had no binding chains. He could turn on a dime.
It was crazy to consider...but...maybe Volgin's cause was worth pursuing sincerely. It hadn't been on his mind at the outset, but there was something tragic and anti-heroic about Volgin- misguided but stalwart and earnest, strong but weakened by his own irrationality- like a cross between Atlas and Don Quixote. Something that almost made Ocelot want to help him realize his dream of windmill genocide.

Raikov saw something in him, that was undeniable. Ocelot wanted to ask him, in all sobriety, exactly what it was- but he knew better. Raikov would either bristle and shut him down, or dismiss it with a joke and a slick shifting of focus. For an exhibitionist voyeuristic self-described whorepportunist, Ivan avoided speaking too candidly about his affair with the Colonel.

Ocelot watched Volgin depart with hasteless and sweeping strides, swaggering slightly in his broad-backed olive coat. He forged, even when there was no resistance. Like a massive ice-breaker, out to make the world his terrain.

Ocelot narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, fingering the stock of his gun.

The Weapon to End All Wars.

Maybe he was the heir to Volgin's personal legacy, without understanding it. Maybe the Colonel was a great man in his fashion. Or could be, with the right benevolent interference.

Had circumstances been different- had things gone according to plan- he had no doubt he'd soon be gone along with the microfilm.

But this was an entirely new set of circumstances.

Molokov's brutal murder, Johann Krauss's meglomanical unpredictability, Ocelot's own inadvisable liaisons with the Major, the American presence-

This was a new reality. And a new reality....demanded assessment. Reevaulation. And according action.

Frowning, Ocelot twirled his gun and turned, sauntering toward the hangar where the Shagohod was housed.

Raikov had said he'd be there.

Ocelot refused to remind himself of the circumstances under which this information had been imparted.

He had a legitimate reason to seek the Major, and no one was forcing him to do anything stupid.

It was nothing to worry about.

[naked-snake.livejournal.com]

Considering the amount of time Snake had now been stuck in foreign territory, he was becoming more than a little restless. It didn't help that his living quarters were in such close proximity to that of the Cobra Unit. He'd managed to keep out of their way thus far, but his luck wasn't going to last.

The man was frustrated. His mentor had been closed off and they hadn't yet had a proper conversation about what was going on. He wasn't sure if he could trust her anymore, and yet it was hard for him to believe that, with everything they'd been through.

His time hadn't been completely wasted, however. The base had good facilities and he'd been keeping physically fit; at any time, he might have to spring into action in one way or another. Snake wasn't sure when that would happen and what it would consist of, but he was going to do his best not to be taken by surprise.

He'd done quite a lot of exploring of the base - of the parts he actually had access to, at least - and more or less knew where everything was now. If he ended up having to sneak his way around, he was most certainly set. If he wished to, he could be invisible in this place.

What he wanted was a real challenge, or at least something to do. This was supposed to be a mission, but he felt like a prisoner. He was eventually going to go stir crazy if he didn't get some form of assignment.

Snake had made a habit of wandering through the complex, if only to stretch out his legs. It was by doing this that he'd heard rumors here and there of a murder; not that anyone had been willing to give him details. He was slightly curious, but not enough that he'd gone actively searching. It was probably an internal affair, and therefore, none of his business.

The American was lingering near the hangar that was said to hold the Shagohod, that weapon of the colonel's that could serve a threat to the United States. From what he had seen, the area was very well-guarded, but it was difficult to get a good look without becoming suspicious. If he was going to be stuck in this place for a good while longer, he couldn't draw too much attention to himself.

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

"What the hell are you doing here?"

His tone was demanding, out of habit.

Snake looked up at the sound of his voice, with that expressionless intensity he had, and Ocelot snorted.

The man had no personality to speak of, but he was good. Ocelot had to give him that.

But only that.

"Pardon my stupid question," Adam said, narrowing his eyes. "It's obvious what you're doing here."

He strolled closer, spurs chinking on the concrete, arms crossed casually.

"Looking for the weapon to end all wars, eh, Snake?"

There was no showdown to be had. The American was, at least tacitly, a guest of the Colonel's.

Instead Ocelot pulled out a cigarette and put it between his lips. He rarely smoked, but an occasional vice was permissible outdoors and outside of his duties.

"So," he smirked. "Who told you to come here? The Boss?"

Ocelot didn't really care who was jerking Snake's strings now. Everything that had once fired him up seemed moot at this point, aside from the very real problem of a non-sanctioned psychopath casually butchering Spetsnaz's best and brightest in a very militarily nonstandard procedure.

He snorted, exhaling a stream of ghost blue into the ether.

"Even if you sabotage the machine, Snake, it won't make a bit of difference. There's still Granin. You should really be worrying about him."

Ocelot glanced up and gave him a supercilious smile.

"He's got a real weapon."

After a moment his eyebrows wove thoughtfully and he looked up at the American, who still hadn't spoken, and was looking at him like he was sure Ocelot was a delusion brought on by eating strange fauna.

"You smoke?" he said, casually, snapping open a flat tin and holding it out to the solider. "Cigarette?

[naked-snake.livejournal.com]

It seemed like the major could talk enough for the both of them. Seeing that he asked so many questions without waiting for responses led Snake to believe that they weren't important enough to Ocelot that he actually had to answer them. If they were, he'd repeat them. Besides, he was getting a bit too nosy for his taste.

The hint that was dropped was filed away carefully. Ocelot had to know a fair share about the base and all of its secrets, so he doubted he was speaking out of his ass. Still, there was the possibility it was a trap. After all, what reason would he have to help him?

When the cigarette was offered, he shrugged. "I prefer cigars." Not that they were easy to find in this place. He was certain that the higher ranking officers had some, but it wasn't as if he was chummy with any of them. He considered the German, but realized he wouldn't demean himself by asking that man for anything. Taking a cigarette, he placed it between his lips and then started searching his pockets for a lighter.

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

Ocelot shrugged, tossing him a red-star embossed GRU issue lighter, which he pulled out of the breast pocket of his black field jacket.

"I prefer Russian comrades as smoking companions, but I have you," he said, offhandedly. "We do what we can, right, Snake?"

[naked-snake.livejournal.com]

The man caught the lighter effortlessly and had the cigarette lit in the blink of an eye. He held the lighter out to the younger soldier rather than tossing it back. There was no reason to be showy, in his opinion.

Snake nodded at the comment, a silent way of saying 'point taken.' He wasn't quite sure what the emphasis on his name was for - they were all functioning under fake names here - but he didn't let it get to him.

"You know why I'm here. How about you?" He took a long drag on the cigarette and then glanced over at the hangar.

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

"I'm everywhere," Adam responded, pocketing the lighter. "That's my job."

He glanced up, giving Snake a cryptic raise of his pale brow.

"Whatever else you think you know about me, remember that."

"...Snake," he added, after a moment.

He wasn't used to addressing the American as anything other than "YOU" and "Hey. The American's handle tasted strange in his mouth. Felt odd on his tongue.

The lilt would burn off, he thought, eventually.

Or it wouldn't.

Ocelot narrowed his eyes.

That was up to Snake.

"Don't worry," he said, with a wry and slight twist of his lips. "I'm not stalking you anymore. To tell you the truth, I've been a little preoccupied with more...domestic matters."

He muttered this last with veiled annoyance, trailing off absently, like the diaphanous blue smoke of their cigarettes.

[naked-snake.livejournal.com]

There seemed to be some weight to those words; something that Ocelot wanted him to take from them. Snake wasn't one to let anything like that slide. He made a note of it as something to think over when he was laying up in bed.

It was good to know the major hadn't been looking for him. To be quite honest, however, he'd already been aware of that. If he was being stalked, he knew about it. It was almost amusing that the younger man assumed that he could pull any wool over his eyes.

Taking another drag, the American closed his eyes when Ocelot decided to hint at some troubles. "The murder I've been hearing about?" he asked, opening one eye and pinning it on the man.

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

Ocelot narrowed his eyes.

"Good news travels fast."

He glanced over Snake's camouflage, the same type he'd been wearing at the burned out factory, though not the same pattern.

He must have had a dozen of those things.

"So," he said, unable to suppress a smirk. "Was it you?"

He made an expansive gesture with his hands, keeping his cigarette between his lips.

Ocelot tried to keep his voice demanding, but in truth he couldn't really suspect the American. He'd flirted with idea in a reactionary sense- after all, they'd never had an issue with this before the bridge mission fell through.

But Ocelot didn't smell it on this guy. He was...what was the term? Oh yes. A boy scout.

"But you don't stray down that path, do you," Ocelot mused, dryly. "No strapping young blond soldiers for Naked Snake. The American male ideal."

He shook a finger lightly, out of time.

"That woman," he said, raising his eyebrows. "She's more your kind, isn't she?"

[naked-snake.livejournal.com]

"I thought it was 'no news is good news,'" Snake replied with a huff. Then again, even if he was fluent in Russian, he certainly didn't know all of the sayings. He'd been in a few conversations where statements would go completely over his head.

The fact that Ocelot suspected him wasn't that hard to believe. Of course it should be pinned on the foreigner, bringing in all of his American ideals.

Not knowing the details of the murder (lingerie and sodomy aplenty), Snake wasn't sure what Ocelot was getting at. When a woman was mentioned, however, he forgot everything else. At first, he didn't know who the major was referring to, but as he thought it over a bit more, he realized he could mean--

"The Boss?" he growled, his more laid-back attitude dissipating. "Don't talk about her like that."

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

Ocelot's face contorted in horror.

The Boss?

God, where the hell had he come up with that?

"That's repulsive," he muttered. "I would never..."

Ocelot hardly even thought of her as a woman, much less...

He shuddered. The very idea made him physically ill, for reasons he couldn't discern, and didn't care to.

Ocelot scowled.

"I was talking about Sokolov's woman. I saw her looking at you."

You and everyone else, he thought, wryly, but kept it to himself.

"She's good looking. If you like that kind of thing."

Ocelot was fairly sure he didn't. But it seemed reasonable that Snake would.

And wasn't that what soldiers talked about? Women?

Small talk had never been his strong suit, but he was trying for civility.

"Might be something to kill time on."

He paused.

"Good news travels fast," he repeated belatedly. "I was being facetious. Ironic, comrade. You know."

Ocelot's lips twisted grimly.

"It's definitely not good news."

[naked-snake.livejournal.com]

Oh, her. Snake felt somewhat idiotic for having assumed it was his mentor first, but she was the woman he knew best in this place. Hopefully Ocelot wouldn't read to deeply into that misunderstanding.

As for "Sokolov's woman," Snake got the feeling Volgin had more of a claim to her at this point, if the rumors he heard had any truth to them. Then again, considering how many times he'd heard tell of the colonel's sadistic nature, he honestly wouldn't be surprised if he was the type that liked to claim people and brand them for his own sick satisfaction.

"Might be," he replied. She was definitely attractive, and he wouldn't mind a romp with her if the chance arose. Granted, as much as he was fond of the female figure, he tried to keep that sort of thing separate from the mission. Though with how bored he'd been lately, it was becoming increasingly difficult...

Right, sarcasm. It wasn't Snake's fault that he couldn't detect it as easily when he wasn't speaking in his native tongue. "I don't know much about it, but whoever is behind it should be stopped." He killed because it was a part of his job, but pointless murder like that didn't sit well with him.

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

Ocelot nodded.

They could agree on that point, at least.

"Someone killed the Major in charge of supervising supplies." He paused, flicking some ash onto the concrete. "In an unpretty way."

He glanced up, scowling.

Snake was looking at him, neither looking curious or disinterested, so he elected to continue.

"He was choked and sodomized. And his khui was chopped off and shoved down his throat. Among other things."

Ocelot deliberately evoked the coarsest, most dismissive language he could use in describing the crime.

It was a way of dehumanizing it, beyond even the clinical.

Otherwise it all seemed too close to home.

[naked-snake.livejournal.com]

Even someone like Snake, who ate his namesake without flinching, made a face at the details of the murder. He was surprised he hadn't heard the gritty parts until now. Then again, even hardened soldiers didn't want to speak about something that brutal casually.

He killed, but not like that. It was best to be precise, so they didn't even feel it. Hopefully they didn't, at least. He didn't know what it was like to die.

Scraping his boot on the concrete, he let out of a puff of smoke and closed his eyes, tilting his head up slightly as if in thought.

"Think there's any significance to the supply issue?" As vile as the act itself had been, Snake knew the motive was what had to be focused on.