[identity profile] parabellum-p08.livejournal.com
Johann Krauss pulled his office door shut behind him, turned the silver key in the lock, and wriggled the door handle out of habit just to be sure all of the tumblers had fallen into place.

After dear Savva Semeyonev returned Motte, the hideously pink Persian curled up on the corner of Johann’s desk like a wad of chewed up and spat out bubble gum, and fell into a deep, peaceful slumber.

The cat only stirred when he took out a pad of stationary and began at letter to Nataliya Molokova, and only to cast an annoyed glare in his general direction, insulted that he dared to exist in her office.

Whatever horrible crime had been carried out against his cat, she remained relatively unchanged beyond her new obnoxious blush.

As he navigated the hallway with his characteristic limp, he hummed the first few lines of  Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen softly to himself, thinking about nothing beyond what dinner lay ahead of him at the mess hall.  


Mess, cont

Jan. 2nd, 2008 08:00 pm
[identity profile] hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com
Rakitin stared at Liadov, his stomach clenched into a ball of ice.

Slowly, as he studied Nika's expression, he realized something.

Someone was striking derision and a wall of cold rejection, someone was where they weren't wanted, and it wasn't Polya.

How strange.

In the wash of relief and something else (acceptance? No, that was absurd), he felt an undercurrent of sympathy for the supply captain.

For the first time, it occured to him that he could play along.

Polya looked met Utrov's eyes and smiled a little, shyly.

The secret was shared, after all.

"You know, I think he does."


Dec. 17th, 2007 08:27 pm
[identity profile] hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com
Life went on.

Heat and noise, startling after the cold open space of the courtyard, enveloped Liadov and Rakitin as they walked into the mess hall. It was a little early yet, and the building was half full of soldiers boasting, arguing, laughing. It was easy to slip under the surface, though Ippolit was peripherally aware that he still merited a few odd looks. He was used to that.

It was an opportunity to recover from the inquest, and Rakitin was grateful. Isaev's calm stare had been as disorienting as Irinarhov's forgiveness. The interview had been bad enough, but it hadn't disturbed him to this extent. Rakitin hadn't been been given that quality of fear by a man's mere presence since...

...since a long time ago.

The chill was leaching from his mind, now, with the awareness that the case had taken a temporary reprieve. Nika seemed relieved as well.

The corpse would be as dead in the morning.

Rakitin felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. The day was done. It was unlikely the rest of the evening would provide any especial trials.

By the time they took their places at the accustomed table, Polya had regained the equilibrium to find it all darkly funny. Some days it was as though someone had written half a tragedy and half a farce and thrown the pages in the air.

"So," he said to Nika conversationally, "I hear Molokov's replacement came in today."
[identity profile] utrov.livejournal.com
If anything could be said about Captain Vasily Kirilovich Utrov, it was that he never backed down from playing along with a joke.  When the helicopter had hit a patch of rough air and his travelling companion had gotten agitated he'd wondered only half frivolously if that would be on his epitaph, but things were calmer now.  They'd reached an understanding. 

"That's right," Utrov said with affection.  "I don't bother you, and you don't kick me through the wall.  We get along just fine, eh?"

His companion snorted softly and rolled her eyes. 

She wasn't the kind of individual you expected to run into on your first day of serving as supply officer for a remote outpost.  It just went to show, you never knew.

A shift in the pitch of the cabin signaled that they were descending.  She didn't like it.  Utrov got a glimpse out the window of forest and a structure that must have had 'ominous' written on the blueprints next to the dimensions before he turned back to the primary concern.

"It's all right," he soothed, patting the 'cargo' on the shoulder.  "We'll be on the ground soon, and all you'll have to deal with is whyever the hell somebody sent for you in the first place."

She didn't find this amusing, but didn't try to bite him.  The satisfactory state of relations continued until they touched down. 

Utrov opened the door and jumped down into the sunlight, turning back to coax the other to daintily disembark.

"Somebody order a horse?"  he called.
[identity profile] krasnogorje.livejournal.com

Time was a very precious commodity. Finding himself with hours to spare, Iosef immediately gathered his violin and bow and set out for the hallway outside of Volgin’s office in the Main Wing.

Io went the first time to tempt the Colonel’s temper because he found it altogether thrilling in ways he could never hope to understand. He returned the second time for the quiet praise that the first impromptu serenade had received.

What started as an attempt to annoy and provoke had somehow switched gears in the flame solder’s mind. He felt something akin to remorse for the provocation as he stood in the deserted hallway once more.

The Blue Danube only brought secretaries to come and stare with awe and approval, and gasps of delight, and much appreciated applause. No one came forth from Volgin’s office; not for the Blue Danube, or the Gimn Sovetskovo Soyuza, or even for Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

Io spent a good ten minutes scowling at the door from behind his respirator, as though sheer force of will alone would bring the Colonel out from hiding. There was nothing, the lights were off, and Yevgeny Volgin was certainly not home. It was foolish to think will alone could coerce him to appear on command.

So Iosef eventually retreated to the yard, disappointed with the world, and left the office workers to their dull paperwork.

It was a beautiful spring day, clear and blue. The snow had all but melted away, and the illusive promise of warmth drifted on the breeze.  The sun was pleasant and gentle on his face. 

A seemingly abandoned truck was all the invitation he needed. Climbing onto the hood with violin and flamethrower was a difficult task, but one that was overcome with ingenuity and creative wiggling.

A pair of GRU regarded the gas-masked violinist with hesitant curiosity, until he began to play for them. A sweet melody to match the kind disposition of the early spring day.

Ode to Joy seemed to match the mood set by the clear, light hearted day. It translated well to a solo piece he thought, shutting his eyes as the notes flowed from the violin, took flight, and fluttered away on orange and black butterfly wings.

It wasn’t long before he had another crowd gathered around. Among them, he recognized the German Major, but there were others who were unfamiliar to the flame patrol Lieutenant.

It struck him just fine, and he smiled.  Strangers were always welcome to listen.

[identity profile] parabellum-p08.livejournal.com
The storm that blew in off the mountain in the black of night left a thick blanket of snow in the yard. On the buildings, it clung to eaves and window ledges, softened the edges of the Grad and made the East Wing look like a Lebkuchen Haus.

From the window of his office, Johann watched the soldiers in ribbon candy uniforms and licorice jackboots diligently work to uncover the spice drop trucks from the powdered sugar snow. He smiled grimly, sipped the last of his cognac, and turned from the window.

Those licorice boots, he thought ruefully to himself, were best for licking.

When news of an attempt on Volgin’s life reached him, the very first thing he did was descend the stairs into the dank catacombs under Groznyj, disable the alarms, and touch the door of the vault, just to be sure it was still there. Lacking the codes and combinations and keys, it was the best he could do, sliding his mangled hand across the dial of the combination lock as gentle as a lover’s touch. The micro film slumbered peacefully in the darkness, secured by three feet of solid steel from every side, and the best security system in all of Russia.

Then, he breathed a sigh of relief.

The journey. He went out in the snow storm just to be sure. Poison. He got the distinct impression that he was not supposed to know, but it was his job to know things.

His expression softened as his eyes lingered over the cat that slept on the corner of his desk, the only thing that remained for him that was truly his own. Lethargically, he trailed his fingers through her silken fur, and she rumbled at being disturbed.

“Motte,” he mumbled, “du hast werden fett.”

It would have been a good day, he told himself. Could have. It had potential. The storm had purged the moisture from the air, and his bad hip was feeling alright. Slowly, the pain in his heart receded as well, gradually. The memory of Molokov was sweet and golden and distant. It shimmered like dewdrops caught in a spider web in the wee hours of dawn.

Something else nagged at his psyche though, and ruined his day vicariously. He checked every pocket of very pair of jodhpurs. He checked his bedside table, and found nothing in the carved mahogany drawer. The pockets of his coats turned up nothing, neither wool greatcoat nor white wolfskin.

The keys to his 9-11 Porsche, his pride and joy, imported straight from the heart of the Vatterland had vanished into thin air.

Motte had not batted them under the liquor cabinet. They weren’t in his desk drawer, or the filing cabinet, or on the reading desk in his private quarters, or even in the refrigerator.

They were simply gone, as though stolen right out from under his nose and the red rocket sat in the steel shipping container, cold and still.

As he stepped into the hallway and closed the office door behind him, he tried to recall everywhere he had been on the last day he had them. First, the mess hall, but the cooks said they had found nothing. Then, it was the office of Lydia Solovyeva in the administrative building, to clear up some questions regarding personnel files. Back to his office to phone in the month’s supply request list from the Cobra Unit.

That, he remembered clearly. Someone had thought it would be funny to scribble, ‘a horse’ at the very bottom of the paper.

The hornet keeper had turned up not soon after that, with the news of a potential witness, and Krauss immediately went to fetch the investigators. Perhaps he dropped his keys in their laboratory, or worse yet, in the hangar that housed giant hornets.

Worse still, maybe they were in the Fury’s laboratory. He found the cosmonaut aloof and friendly that day, contrary to what the Pain had suggested.

Following a rather pleasant conversation with the pyromaniac, he went to a private dinner with a certain Lieutenant Anton Deviatov and after the slivovic everything got all fuzzy. He distinctly remembered that someone had been in a leather skirt and stockings, but couldn’t quite grasp whether it had been him or Antosha. Either way, the sex was good.

No matter though, he told himself as he rounded the corner and pushed open the outside door. He would simply retrace every step he took that day, until he found his missing keys.

[identity profile] hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com
The narrow strip of skin visible through The Pain's mask was uneven, covered in welts long since solidified, like lava flows turned to basalt. Earlier curiosity had prompted Rakitin to take a closer look, but better sense had assured him staring would have been unforgiveably rude. However, now that consideration had been rendered moot. He noted with interest the thin zone of clarity encircling the Cobra's eyes, keeping visibility unobstructed. The damage must have been inflicted by his own companions. The Pain's place at the center of the hive had not come easily.

"I see," Rakitin said grimly.

He thought of the Ocelot boy who had taken Gurlukovich's death so badly. Had he been his lover? Either way, it was obvious he would lash out at anyone who became a convenient target, an outward direction for his pain. No doubt he wasn't alone.

Rakitin let the warning about The Fury pass him by. Warnings about the cosmonaut's madness were thick as flies on the ground. It was none of Rakitin's concern.

They called me mad, I called them mad, and damn them, they outvoted me.

He took the file, and frowned down at it. Dubious legibility was not enhanced by the dim light.

"Would you prefer, er, privacy?" Rakitin said, with a surreptitious glance at Krauss.
[identity profile] parabellum-p08.livejournal.com

As soon as he heard the news, Krauss grabbed his coat and ushanka and departed his office without so much as a nod to Motte.

It wasn't much, but it was good news. Very, very good news, as far as he was concerned, even if the source was a bit sketchy. He wanted to believe it was all true, wanted to believe that someone had caught a glimpse of the murderer leading his second victim to his death in the caves. And as crazy as the whole story seemed, he found himself believing it, because he could find no reason not to. The source had always been reliable and honest before.

So he searched high and low, near and far for Liadov and Rakitin. A man on a fruitless mission; they were nowhere to be found. The mess hall was full of all the wrong people, the war room was deserted, and the only thing he found in Volgin’s office was Volgin, who glowered at the disturbance.

Half way back to his office, he glanced at his watch, and sighed. Slowly, realization trickled into his stream of thought: their laboratory.

He stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and nearly ran into a GRU lieutenant with his arms full of paperwork. Krauss didn’t even spare the time to mumble an apology.

By the time he reached the little building on the outskirts of the Grad, his bad hip was bothering him much more than he cared to admit to himself. He hurried up to the door though, knocking once, then again when he didn’t get the prompt reply he hoped for.

“Liadov! Ippolit!” He called, leaning against the frame of the door for support. “Are you there? Open the door, it’s Major Krauss.”

[identity profile] heartofthunder.livejournal.com
[Continued from "Meanwhile, Back at Groznyj Grad"]

Volgin had begun to pace, but paused at Krauss' words.

The German was right. Roll call would be necessary, and at this hour, a hassle. He didn't particularly want to be the one that had to deal with it.

"Yes, yes." He waved a dismissive hand. "See to it," he told Krauss, then paused, and looked to Ivan.

"Afterward, do what you can," he said in an undertone to Ivan, his gaze flicking to Ocelot purposefully, but only for a moment.

The young major would be understandably upset at the death of his man, but flush with the bravado of youth, would probably deny it. Volgin knew that, about young men. He had been young himself once, fearless and invulnerable.

Ocelot was not a sentimental fool, but he hadn't had his command long. Oh, he was good - one of the best Volgin had ever seen, which was why he'd been chosen - but still, he hadn't experienced everything there was to know about command yet.

In times like these, a man needed a peer and rankmate. Not his subordinates, to whom he couldn't show weakness, and certainly not a superior.

Ivan would be able to do more for Ocelot than Volgin could. He would get a few drinks into Adamska, and talk to him. He could make sure Ocelot stayed grounded and focused.

"Report to me when you're done," he said, letting his gaze fall to all three men in turn. "I'm going to check on the weapons lab myself."

In addition to the Shagohod, there were some technicians and scientists that were essential. He would issue the curfew order himself, and made sure they understood it.

They were too close to success now to be thwarted by anything.

Or anyone, Volgin thought as he strode away.
[identity profile] raidenovitch.livejournal.com
Raikov's boots struck the floor hard and fast, as he paced furiously around the central building.

He was not pleased. Not pleased at all.

Being thrown off of Ocelot was not the greatest moment, but he could grudgingly admit that Ocelot was needed elsewhere.

So, of course, as soon as they had all left, it had been just him and the Colonel, and a shared wicked grin.

And they'd just settled into the mood when Raikov had been turfed out, again.

He was too annoyed at the whole situation to say much to the Colonel, although he was not personally angry with him. Jesus motherfucking bastard christ, he couldn't concentrate on a thing.

And the worse part was he couldn't go back to his quarters to deal with it himself, not when he was supposed to be keeping tabs on absolutely everyone on-base.

Anyone who came near him right now would live to regret it.
[identity profile] heartofthunder.livejournal.com
[PJATNICA, 14 FEVRAI, 1964 1100 hours]

Yevgeny Volgin strode out of the investigators' office, his mind turning like the gears of war, slow and grinding, but inexorable.

The Internal Services major had given him a lot to think about.

He was actually more concerned about the murder now than when it had occurred. Liadov's grim words had sent wet, icy fingers into his core, a sensation of numbness that threatened to spread.

It felt something like electrocution, though only without the pain.

The thought of Ivan as the object of some psychopath's fixation...

In the distance, outside the building, he thought he heard thunder rumble.

Another storm, perhaps.

Volgin had learned early on that delegation was a good thing. Surround yourself with the best people, tell them what to do, but leave them to their own discretion as to how they do it. It had worked for him throughout his entire career, and he was highly pleased that now, at the apex, he had the very best people he'd ever had - well, with a few exceptions.

He had a lot of people to talk to this morning. Ocelot. Ivan. The Boss. Krauss, and the Fury. He thought he was missing someone...or something...but he didn't let it bother him.

It would come to him.

It always did.

He had faith in himself.

He hadn't come this far to let something like this stop him.

Soldiers and secretaries scattered in his wake as he returned to the East Wing, equally alarmed by the intensity of his bearing, though probably for different reasons.

"Where's Major Ocelot!" he snarled, and one of Ivan's men blanched.

"Sir! We'll find him for you!"

The solider made to hurry off, but Volgin just shook his head.

"No. That will take too long. But if you see him, tell him I'm looking for him," he said, then cut a swath out of the office area, rumbling like a single tank on a mission to conquer all of Europe.

Faint sparks of electricity trailed in his his wake.

[OOC: Volgin wants to talk to several people in succession, including but not limited to Major Ocelot, Major Raikov, Voyevoda, Major Krauss, and the Fury. I will update this tag to reflect who he's currently looking for/talking to, so you'll know when your turn has come!]

[Currently: off to The Groznyj Grad Tour thread.]
[identity profile] parabellum-p08.livejournal.com

With a weary, exhausted sigh, Johann Krauss set his pen down for the millionth time that morning. It was difficult to concentrate with the cognac swimming through his veins and the thoughts swimming through his head. Every footnote, every box ticked and every line requesting his signature reminded him of Stefan, in some way.

He consciously allowed his attention to drift to the life size gilded statue by the window, delivered just three days ago. Tut-ankh-amun, the boy-king, immortalized forever in yellow gold and lapis, poised with a spear and ready to strike at the Persian cat, sleeping at its feet in the sunbeam that spilled across the carpet.

The ancient statue obtained through questionable means did bring some hint of comfort to the Major: gone, but never forgotten.

“Motte,” he called, chuckling to the unconscious feline dozing in the sun, “you’re getting fat.” His pet was as good of distraction as any, and certainly better than the vase of white lilies on the corner of his desk.

It wasn’t an insult or a threat, as he first speculated, but a offering sympathy and compassion, brought down from the Krasnogorje mountainside every morning before the dew had evaporated and left near his door. He could only wonder who left them, the cosmonaut or one of his men, but Krauss was thankful for the anonymity of his admirer. It made the gift easier to accept, and he would not ask.

The knock at the door roused him from his thoughts, and startled him so badly he nearly spilled his glass of cognac in his lap.

“Wer ist da? Come on in, it’s unlocked.”

[identity profile] parabellum-p08.livejournal.com

“Welcome to Groznyj Grad.” Krauss chuckled, stealing a sideways glance at the investigators. He decided it would be best to play it all off as a routine, normal occurrence, both for his own personal amusement, and because such strange sights were common around the Grad. Better to let them in on the secret now, lest for the poor bastards get a nasty surprise later on.

“Are you gentlemen alright?” He raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward the yard full of naked and semi naked soldiers. “You act as though you have never witnessed morning roll call!”

It was easy to pick out Volgin, a mountain swathed in olive wool among the fleshy-pink unclothed crowd. The sooner he was able to pawn the investigators off onto someone else, the sooner he could retreat into his office, and drown his misery in Cognac.

“Right this way then. There is the man which you seek, by that tank, that’s Colonel Volgin.” He skittered along the edge of the crowd, not particularly inclined to venture into a writhing sea of naked men. Unusual, for the Major, but he was still heartbroken over the loss of Stefan.

“Colonel!” He called out, “we have a slight --” problem, was the word he wanted to use. “We have visitors.” Krauss did his best to smile, but it was useless, and hopeless.  

[identity profile] hajimenoippolit.livejournal.com
Senior Lieutenant Ippolit Zosimovitch Rakitin waited in the helicopter and tried not to think about wolves.

There was an old story they used to tell, about a wolf in the sky. The gods thought they could control it, but it grew too big and it grew too fast, and ferocious things turn on their handlers. They told it the binding was only a game, but no wolf is that stupid. For collateral, a god's right hand, bold interloper rappeling into the cavern of blood-scented breath beneath stalactite incisors. And when the deal was broken and the trap revealed, there lay the forfeit, sheared off at the wrist.

The first reason Ippolit had this job was that he remembered stories.

Outside of the thin steel shell, a man's voice called to another. Distant forms were outlined against the tarmac, as though it had come down with something that made it break out in uneven splotches of humanity. Life went on, motion and action, removed by an intangible membrane from the here and now of thought and stasis.

None of the figures seemed to be moving toward where the Kamov dozed, but the rising ripples of heat made it difficult to tell.

The second reason was that he never jumped to conclusions.

"Find the murderer," General Olavyenko had said, barely looking at him as he threw down a file whose emptiness spoke volumes. He had added, with a sort of gruff magnanimity, as though he should show gratitude for being handed a valuable secret, "And keep your nose out of what doesn't concern you."

Ippolit had spent most of the time from then until he was to report here - hardly any time at all, which he tried very hard to believe was due simply to the urgency of the mission - asking questions about this Groznyj Grad.

The closest thing he had gotten to an answer was a Captain who had done nothing but laugh.

And the third, maybe the only one that mattered, was that he stuck his hand where no one else would.

Restless, Ippolit's eyes ran a thousanth lap of the Kamov's interior. The other one should have been here by now.

There was that, at least. No matter what sort of place this was, he wouldn't be going into it alone.

Or, as far as he knew, he could be walking into a den of wolves with a tiger at his back.

Ippolit waited, and tried not to think.
[identity profile] 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?
[identity profile] nafanielkhostov.livejournal.com
The night after the Greenhouse Explosion

Chemical Storage Shed number 12 had a sub-basement.  The whole warehouse had been built on top of a stable and the old cellar was still standing beneath it.  It wasn't a secret, simply a room not on any map.  The technicians or any other of the myriad of support personnel knew where it was.  For those who couldn't get into the officer's club, it was the local speakeasy.  Even some of the officers knew about it.  Mostly because from time to time... there was a poker game.

Marco the Cuban quarter master with his thick black beard presented the rules.  "The Americans play with chips.  We comrades, we play with their money" the quarter master grinned and stood up grabbing the metal briefcase and opening it upside down.  Stacks of currency fell onto the table.  "The finest counterfeit unfit for our spies" the Cuban said, each player bought their tokens exchanging real money for the American fakes.  Khostov had suggested the idea.  At first the Cuban didn't understand but after playing one against one with stacks of the fake bills sharing a bottle of vodka, he had seen the light.

There were four people in the room including Marco.  "No I don't think he'll be coming" Marco said answering a question from the man on his left.  He turned his head to the man on his right  "Non, non" Marco said.  Marco looked around the table.  "Everyone heard the... fireworks last night?" he said.  He dealt the cards talking while smoking his cigar.  Everyone in the room laughed.  The Cuban simply smiled a little.  "Khostov's sister was inside" the Cuban said.  Dead silence for a few minutes except for Marco who concentrated each hand.  "What what his name" the Cuban frowned either it was from his cards or frustration at the words on the tip of his tongue.  "I can never remember that man's name" he said.  He rubbed his beard and snapped his fingers.  "L'Albinos! He helped Khostov smuggle her out of France, three years back.  I wasn't on base at that time but Nafaniel told me about it" he said threw a hundred into the pile.  "Damn shame.  Ante in" he said. 

((Edit, the version uploaded was not the spell-corrected one.  This is.))
[identity profile] shadowstark.livejournal.com
It was around the right time for a report to be handed in to the clerks, and Aleksandr Leonovich Granin, honored two times with the Order of Lenin, once with the Order of Stalin, designer of highly effective, highly expensive weaponry, was craving his vodka. He'd liked it better when Tanya had driven him to the complex. She'd asked questions about his work, and though Granin doubted she understood any of it, it had been better than sitting next to this... this dullard through the trip.

He wasn't even looking forward to it any longer. He had nothing to report except some vague numbers and plans that would probably sit on someone's desk, unused. There was little to discuss with his superiors, since they had no real concept of the sheer brilliance of his still-unfunded plans. It was all very routine these days, and he already knew that this day would end by finding Colonel Volgin, asking for money to finance his projects, and being refused. The man was an idiot just like all his soldiers. Ah, how he needed a distraction on days like these...

The truck spluttered to a halt, and Granin opened his eyes. "Looks like it overheated," said the nameless, boring, and probably stupid soldier who was even now jumping out to look at the engine. Granin had seen men like him work on engines before. He'd probably blow it up.

They were only 200 yards from the complex gates, and there was no point to delaying it. Maybe today would be different. Maybe he'd convince Volgin to fund him and stem the flood of money leaking to that pathetic Sokolov. Granin shook his head and got out of the vehicle, making sure all his papers were with him. "I'll walk," he said. Maybe he'd find a guard wandering around with something to drink before he found Volgin.
[identity profile] parabellum-p08.livejournal.com

How entirely fucking humiliating, taking orders from a psychopath and subordinate soldier, if the cosmonaut actually qualified as soldat. Scowling, Major Krauss pulled off his ushanka, cold blue eyes following Snake across the mostly empty mess hall, just starting to fill up for dinner.

Boots clicking sharply on the concrete floor, he grabbed a tray and closed the distance between them swiftly, slipping into the seat beside the American with only a friendly smile, that hid resentment. “Comrade Vladislav sent me to keep an eye on you.” He smirked at invoking the Fury by his given name his absence. “You’re pretty obvious around here. I thought you may enjoy conversation over dinner. It is so difficult being a stranger in a strange land…”

Krauss looked the American over, no, not at all the kind of man he would typically want to have dinner with, not soft or blonde or even vaguely feminine, and the filthy spy could certainly do with a shower.

“We shall find you a suitable uniform straight away after dinner,” he offered, picking at his meal, then added thoughtfully, “and maybe a haircut too.”  Thoughtfully, he examined what they were passing off as dinner and smiled grimly.  Was that a potato, or slime mold?

[identity profile] charshy.livejournal.com
(OOC: Ilya's introspective stint in the infirmary alone. Do visit him until he gets better, won't you?)

Ilya despised being sick. )


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The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

December 2010

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