[identity profile] charushkin.livejournal.com
Matvei squared himself up for his third shot at Liadov and his evasive techniques.

He couldn’t press too hard – for his own sake – but the half-truth was driving him insane. He had to know.

He’d tried asking, he’d tried cookery… the only weapon he had left was persistence.

He didn’t bother knocking on the lab door this time. It was early evening, and maybe they wouldn’t be right in the thick of… anything major.

No one else was exceptionally dead right now. Although he had heard from his rankmates quick enough about the man with a lucky escape.

… And he was curious about that too. He shuddered to think it could’ve been any one of his friends. Why did all his friends have to be blond, too?

He stepped inside, yanking off his balaclava. “Major Liadov?”
[identity profile] charushkin.livejournal.com
It had taken several days for Matvei to have grown used to having Sergei's bunk empty when he awoke in the morning.

His other bunkmates tried to cheer him up, but could see he was better off left alone. They understood that. Matvei was grateful, and more so that they, or one of his other friends, had left Sergei's stuff undisturbed for a few days. It would've been nothing short of traumatising to see all evidence of his existence disappear overnight, as official protocol would've demanded. But they were Ocelots. They were treated exceptionally well.

He had woken up that morning feeling, for the first time in days, a sense of focus and determination, capable and ready. He mulled over breakfast absently, but ate a reasonable amount. He needed to do something. It lay uncomfortably on his conscience.

He knew where the MVD had their current laboratory. He'd overheard Kolyin moaning to Semeyonev about it at some point.

He left early, a good fifteen minutes before he had to be anywhere, and quickly located the building. Fully uniformed and ready to rejoin his group, and they'd be none the wiser.

He hesitated when he arrived. Probably wouldn't do any good to cause any more alerts, given how... on edge everyone was the last couple of days. He opted to knock, carefully. He was fairly sure in his timing; they were probably holed up in there, busy, but he could just leave very quickly if he wasn't told to fuck off.

At least he'd have tried.
[identity profile] charushkin.livejournal.com
Matvei was late for breakfast.

The mess hall buzzed with whispered conversation. Another corpse. Another body.

The one that had been his friend, and explained the quiet of the bunk below his from last night.

He hadn't taken the news well, although he had acted to perfection. Didn't cry, didn't avert his eyes when Ilya delivered the news somberly, Andrei's hand on his shoulder. Didn't say much when a few well-meaning rankmates asked him if he wanted to crash with them to not have to be alone.

Matvei had grieved too much in his lifetime, and he no longer wanted to. He felt sick and tired of it, and had hardly slept, his mind ticking. Options, plans.

He'd avoided facing his friends again, and he could tell they understood: he didn't want to hear it again, didn't want their looks of pity. He needed some time alone, as much as they worried for his health.


Matvei found himself with a tray and nowhere to sit. The hall was almost full, and he didn't want to sit with the Ocelots. He wanted to be alone.

The table at the north-east of the kitchens had several spare seat, and several dark uniforms.

Sergei's death had driven away Matvei's usual sense of propriety and he sat himself down unapologetically at the MENT table, and glared at his food, as though it was all its fault that he didn't feel the slightest bit hungry, ignoring how obviously he clashed with the ranks sitting down nearby.
[identity profile] gurlukovich.livejournal.com
It had been far too long since Sergei had seen Grozynj Grad. Not many people would say that sort of thing - no, most people were eager to get out of there, not to go back - but it was closer to a home to him than where he'd just been.

When news had come that his mother was sick, he still hadn't hesitated to jump on a plane for home. The fact that he never spoke about his family was sign enough that they didn't get along very well, but blood was still thick. He wasn't about to ignore his mother's illness. If it had ended up being bad enough that she'd died from it and he hadn't gone to see her one last time, what then?

Unfortunately, the reunion had been far from pleasant, but he had been expecting that. As it was, it seemed that his mother would recover. At this point, however, he didn't want to think on it any longer. There was probably only one person that would ask him more than a few questions about it. Luckily, the major was the one person he was willing to talk to about it.

As he exited the helicopter, the artificial gusts caused by the propeller blew dust into his eyes. He turned his head and coughed. It hadn't helped that the flight into the base had left him a little queasy. Usually it wouldn't be problem, but the fact that he'd gone straight from an airplane into a helicopter meant there hadn't been much time for his stomach to settle.

Now that he was back home, however, he got the feeling he'd be just fine. Pulling out his unit's trademark red cap and placing it firmly on his head, he scanned around for anyone familiar. Had anyone caught wind of his return and decided to come give him a warm welcome, maybe? He'd been gone for a while, so it was possible some of the others had been missing him. Then again, he could be hoping for too much. But if no one showed up, he could easily get back to his room to unpack on his own.
[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] imre-nico.livejournal.com
Andrei 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..."
[identity profile] charushkin.livejournal.com
Matvei had helped Sergei along with his bad leg, determined they should get their fair chance to inflict as much embarrassment on Borishnakov as when they had each been forced to do the circuit.

And now, they had a damned good front-row seat of the hilarity.

The Gauntlet )
[identity profile] capt-kasya.livejournal.com
(Continued from previous thread.)

Borishnakov burst from the dog pen, leaving dozens of barking puppies in his wake, though with a pair of boots clutched tightly to his chest.

First test passed, then. Kassian nodded. He had the feeling this particular Ocelot would earn his spots, as Isaev had phrased it, without any trouble. He certainly seemed ardent enough, barely pausing long enough to stamp on his boots before he began to slog through the snow toward the tanks Isaev had pointed out. Each was marked with a flash of red or black, though getting to the items in question without freezing body parts to the metal would be tricky. Trickier while drunk, he was certain, but Borishnakov seemed game.

As they watched from the landing, Kassian and Isaev started to talk...
[identity profile] charshy.livejournal.com
((OOC: holy crap.))


Matvei was vaguely irritated by Andrei's sudden adoration of their moody sniper.

It just... wasn't right.

Ocelots had to earn their place. Matvei had done his bit by trying to be polite and friendly, but Andrei was already swearing blind devotion.

He couldn't help but feel slightly disturbed by that.
[identity profile] vladya-yamirich.livejournal.com
(A new Ocelot, the more the merrier)

Vladislav was quite relieved when he was finally allowed to go to his assigned bunk and sleep. First days were always boring, hectic, and exhausting at the same time.

Groznyj Grad was a very unusual base, filled with very unusual soldiers. This had become apparent when he'd nearly been knocked down by a soldier dressed in some frightening, full body, flame proof suit shortly after arriving at the base.

It had become undeniable when Major Raikov had grabbed him, by the crotch, then again, he wasn't the only one the Major had grabbed. That was slightly comforting.

Vladislav Yaromirovich Borishnakov had quickly come to the conclusion that this was where soldiers who fail their psych evaluations are sent.

But all of those thoughts left Vladya's mind as he closed his blue eyes, only to recall that Raikov had commented on those too. That was really the last thing to cross his mind before he fell asleep. He was too tired to be concerned about the Major.
[identity profile] capt-kasya.livejournal.com
[PANIDYELNIK, 27 YANVAR, 1964 0600 hours]

The Ocelots had made it to the range on time - a "piece of cake" as Isaev had so flippantly phrased it - though it was less Kassian's doing than it was simply that firearms drill was part of their routine. He didn't have to lead them anywhere, just follow as they marched out through the muddy snow.

It actually suited him just fine. Kassian preferred to be the last one in line, to have everyone in his field of view; to observe, but be unobserved.

He watched them mill about, with with purpose: all business now as they prepped their rifles and sidearms, with little chatter and talk between comrades. The confrontation with the cosmonaut had left them uneasy and unsettled, sentiments that Kassian actually shared. In his book, threats against one's commander could not simply be written off so lightly, not in favor of fetching a scarf to keep one's neck warm. Where the hell were Isaev's priorities, anyway?

If Kassian was in charge - and he technically was, thought not in the way that really counted - he would have made it his first priority to find the major and warn him, inform him of the cosmonaut's words, then plan a strategy to deal with the man.

Kassian pulled his Mosin-Nagant out of its case, stroking the stock with an affection most men usually reserved for their lovers or pets. The stock was stained dark from long years of use, with faded marks along the right side, remnants of when he used to mark off every kill. He'd stopped after that night in Berlin, but it hardly mattered - he knew the count like the sound of his own name, the sort of knowledge that followed one everywhere, even in sleep.

A bullet to the brain of a certain insane cosmonaut would bring that count up to two-hundred twenty-nine, he thought, idly.
[identity profile] major-ocelot-2u.livejournal.com
Ocelot hadn't followed his men to mess after roll. With a taut and monosyllabic "yours", he left the unit to the discretion of Lt. Imanov and took off down the yard toward the East Wing, in the direction Raikov had headed.

Generally, he and the Major got along famously. They were both young and overachieving- albeit in different arenas- and had a shared proclivity for using human nature against itself. He admired Raikov's deceptive Adonis Flytrap technique and ready brutality when the situation demanded he stop being pretty and start getting results. He also admired his nasty sense of humor. He was, like Ocelot himself, a polished brat.

What did not please him was when that extended into needling him by breezily transferring random soldiers into his unit.

Random soldiers with questionable incidents.

Especially random soldiers with friendly fire incidents.

Considering the haste of his departure, Ocelot was pretty sure the Major was having cock for breakfast.

Raikov was going to eat his fist for lunch.

Ocelot gritted his teeth.

"I hope he left some room," he muttered to himself.
[identity profile] gurlukovich.livejournal.com
Sergei was seated in a chair in the infirmary, his head placed into his palm, trying his hardest not to pout.

He'd been forced to walk alongside the doctor's jeep while his leg continued to make a fuss, explaining how he'd stupidly ventured too close to the swamp area and ended up getting intimate with a crocodile's teeth--on his leg. Then again, this sort of thing must have happened before. At least he hadn't been rendered unable to walk. Then he would have been laying in the middle of the denser jungle area, bleeding to death.

Not fun.

After his report, he'd ushered himself back to the infirmary for the second time that morning. Everyone else would be eating at the moment, but he had to sit and wait.

Prodding carefully at the makeshift bandaging on his leg, the boy let out a sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. It was just about numb at this point, though he knew it still had to be taken care of.

He was going to need crutches, wasn't he? Otherwise he'd tear the stitches and--



Jul. 17th, 2006 06:48 pm
[identity profile] raidenovitch.livejournal.com
(OOC: Feel free to start... incidents. This is another introduction, breaking-us-in-gently entry before we get stuck into the story/crack properly.)

Soldiers had best better get in line... )
[identity profile] lt-vulich.livejournal.com
(OOC: Whoever wants to jump in here can feel free. Let's start a big soapy naked man party)

Cuz everyone loves naked men )


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The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

December 2010

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