[identity profile] krasnogorje.livejournal.com

Dmitry Grigoriev winced at the loud hum of the crowded mess hall, gritting his teeth against the throb in his head. He still had a headache, but he wasn’t entirely certain if it was a product of all the pertsovka he drank the night before, or the empty vodka bottle that his commander smashed over his head.

The aspirin and black coffee of the morning had taken most of the edge off, making the dull thump at his temples bearable.

It was a fucking stupid idea to go after the Fury with a knife anyway, but it seemed like a good idea at the time he found his Iosef sucking their commander off in the hovercraft hangar.

Dima limped along gingerly as he took his tray and started toward the table where the flame unit was usually quarantined. None of his own were there -- the table was deserted, excusing a stray napkin that lay in a crumpled heap at the edge.

He did not realize that he had stopped until a GRU grunt bumped into him and scurried off with a shrill apology.

Deimos did not want to sit alone, and he was suddenly aware of his disappointment that none of his unit mates were there waiting for him. It would have been nice to sit in the company of warm comradeship after the turbulence of the last few days.

Somehow, they reached an awkward, fumbling agreement, he, Iosef, and their commander. Everything, the Fury explained, was supposed to be shared equally between comrades, like good pertsovka, and by the end of the night they were drunk as hell and laughing like nothing was ever wrong to begin with, and thinking kalinka, kalinka, kalinka, moya was a wonderful song to serenade the night patrol with on the way back to their barracks.

Normalcy had returned like the first spring buds blossoming on a birch tree after a harsh winter, only to be frostbitten when Iosef suggested he should fuck Deimos while their commander watched.

He was smiling now, as he stood there in the shaft of sunlight pouring in from the window, and the GRU soldiers sitting at the nearest table began to murmur among themselves, stare, and scoot toward the other end of the bench.

It was amazing, the things pertsovka made men agree to.

The memory of the night drinking with Katerina flickered across his mind, chased by the meeting with the black-haired boy-sniper in the yard and the words spoken against the cold night air: “Maybe you should try something new…find someone to talk to, or do something else.”

Deimos’ depraved smirk faded as impulse inspired him suddenly; he turned on his heels and he made his way between the tables, wordlessly sitting down at a table near the center of the room occupied by a gaggle of Ocelot Unit soldiers.

He nodded to them even as they glared and their conversations fell silent, and self-consciously tugged at the sleeve of his jumpsuit, until the marbled scaring on the back of his hand was covered again. Deimos decided they would just have to deal with the faded blue letters on each finger above the first knuckle, because he wasn’t wearing his fireproof gloves in the chow hall.

Dima cleared his throat and picked up his spoon even though he didn’t have much of an appetite and it was unbearably hot in the mess hall all of a sudden.

“So... how's the borscht today?" 

[identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
"We're here," the army pilot called back to them, yelling over the rumble of the helicopter's rotors.

Taras Cheslavovich Oleksei raised his head, blearily.

"Khorosho," he muttered.

He sat between Ilarion and Anya, hunched over, broad uniformed shoulders curled inward, arms folded in front of him and pressed against his stomach.

It had been a very long flight.

They'd arrived at the army base outside of Leningrad just before nine in the morning and boarded the military helicopter. It had clamshell rear loading doors that opened into a cargo area large enough to hold a MVD sedan with room to spare, though it was empty. Apparently, they were the cargo.

The hold was clearly not meant for passenger comfort, or for long trips, for that matter. They sat on a thin metal bench that folded down in the front of the cargo area, which was unheated.

Taras had never been in a helicopter before. He hadn't been prepared for the sensation of flight, which had seemed to vibrate straight through him, shaking him to his core.

He'd spent the first hour of the flight puking into a bucket in the back of the hold.

The second hour, he'd spent dry heaving until he was exhausted. Taras had rinsed his mouth out with vodka and went back to the bench to sit down. Anya had rubbed his back and murmured comforting words, then gave him some hard candy from her purse, like a mother.

After that, he hadn't puked any more, which he considered a point of pride.

Taras knew you had to take it where you could get it.

Ten more hours and four stops to refuel later, he still felt like he'd been beaten from the inside out with brass knuckles.

Conversation had been sparse. Ilarion had seemed preoccupied, while Anya read a pocketbook novel with a small flashlight she had in her purse. Taras thought he might have dozed fitfully, waking up disoriented.

Ahead and below, he could see a few scattered lights through the darkness through the canopy windows in the cockpit, faint signs of what passed for civilization. They circled the base once.

He wondered whose brilliant idea was it, to put a military base out in the middle of the Urals.

Taras straightened in his seat, squaring his shoulders, tugging his MVD cap down low on his brow, shading his mismatched mongrel eyes.

The helicopter hovered, then started to descend.

"All right," Taras said, breaking the silence. He had to speak loudly to be heard, and his voice sounded a little raw.

He turned to look at Ilarion.

"How are we going to play this?"
[identity profile] krasnogorje.livejournal.com

The hallways were silent except for his boot clicks on the tile and the occasional plaintive mew coming from the bundle clutched to his chest.

Io murmured reassuring words to his quarry, stroking her head through the blanket to keep her still.

So far, so good.

The East Wing was disserted; no one saw him invite Major Krauss’ beloved Persian cat into room 307 and no one saw him emerge with the Major’s feline half an hour later, dripping wet and wrapped in a moth eaten green blanket.

He thought he was home free, until he saw the soldiers standing at the bottom of the stairs.

If he saw them, they saw him, and there was no use in turning back to find an alternate route.

“Comrades!” He called cheerfully to them, descending the stairs with grace and enthusiasm. “How are you, on this lovely, lovely morning?”

The blanket in his arms meowed, and struggled.


Dec. 11th, 2007 10:10 pm
[identity profile] nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com
Liadov stood at the head of a long table, in a room crowded with crimson and black, low with murmurs and rustles of wool, the clink of kalashes and AKs against buckles and buttons.

The Ocelots, en masse, assembled. And Ocelot himself, arms crossed and leaning negligently against the wall of the conference room to one side.

He didn't looked worried, but he did look guarded.

Rakitin was sitting, slightly beneath and to his right- the only one sitting, actually, with a stack of notes and a couple of illustratory vials at hand.

Liadov cleared his throat and surged right in, without preamble.

"Lieutenant Vladislaus Yamirich Borishnakov was found this morning at approximately 11 AM, or thereabouts. He was deceased."

Liadov paused. Silence answered him, uneasy.

"...There were some very interesting details present. It has come to our attention that Ocelot squad activity was responsible for some aspects of the state Lt. Borishnakov was discovered in- namely, a hazing ritual in which an Ocelot officer is 'de-initiated' upon turning in a repeatedly unsatisfactory performance."

Nika turned his head and looked squarely at Ocelot.

"Major, is that true?"

Ocelot narrowed his eyes.

"It's true," he answered, flatly, without apology.

Liadov nodded.

"What we would like to know is what was done, how the ritual proceeded, and how far it went before you called it a night, men."

His eye roamed the crowd, and fixed on the brooding face of Kolyin first. Kolyin was looking straight ahead. He stood by a taller blonder man with unusually wide-set eyes, who averted them.

Nika hadn't spotted Irinarhov yet, nor Isaev, though he hadn't looked yet, and he had a feeling they would be standing to the back of the room, as was Kasya's preference.

No matter.

He had all the time in the world.

"Would you care to elaborate on how things progressed last night, Lieutenant Kolyin?" Liadov asked, crossing his arms.
[identity profile] capt-kasya.livejournal.com
Kassian stood in the corridor of guest hall of the Main Wing, just outside Liadov's quarters.


He'd looked for Liadov in the lab outbuilding, but it had been curiously empty. No sign of him in the mess hall, either. Kassian had decided that Liadov's quarters were the last place he'd look before he gave up and just tried CODEC, though he doubted Liadov would be here. It was almost 1200 hours, and even though Liadov had had a lot to drink the night before, he couldn't still be sleeping, Kassian thought. Still, he wasn't sure.

Part of him almost hoped that Liadov wouldn't be inside, but then again, this was important.

Outwardly, Kassian looked as calm and composed as always, he knew, but inwardly, he felt off-balance, shifted from his center like a broken scope. If he lifted his rifle, his hands would be steady, but the late-morning remnants of a hangover pulled at his brow. Earlier in the morning, his headache had almost faded, but now it was back, pounding sullenly behind his eyes.

Better that than jangled nerves, though.

Kassian frowned, and knocked on the door, a little more forcefully than he intended.

He thought he heard a noise from within, but there was no immediate answer.

Kassian knocked again.

"Liadov? You in there? I need to talk to you."
[identity profile] ilya-imanov.livejournal.com
Ilya stared at the ceiling.

Was Andrei going to be back here to sleep tonight?

He missed the simple things deeply - falling asleep with a lazy smile from some last-second dozy joke, sharing warmth, secret midnight excursions to the gym...

Every single bit of it.

Ilya chewed the inside of his lip. He was better at carrying on with the way things were now, but somehow he just couldn't let it go. Hard, when he passed the guy all the time, and smiled and pretended nothing was wrong.

And he didn't want to. He really, really didn't want to.

He heard the sound of bootsteps in the corridor, and sat upright. Who was that, he mused, trying to place the rhythm of the footfalls.

Too heavy for Charushkin. Besides, he was already in his bunk. He seemed to have turned himself to bed earlier the last couple of nights.

Ilya's heart opted to jump a beat, much to his annoyance, on the slightest hope it would be his door opened.

If not, he'd find out who it was. He needed a good comrade right now.
[identity profile] ocelottery.livejournal.com
Senior Lieutenant Arkady Sergeyevich Kolyin decided he'd underestimated.

He wasn't having a bad week. He was having a bad month.

He'd had no more than the equivalent of another nap when he'd had to go back out on patrol again, though at least this time Savva was stuck doing the same turnaround with him.

Misery loved company and all that.

Kolyin yawned. That made it perhaps around five hours of sleep in four days. Not exactly conducive to being alert enough to actually notice much while on patrol, but he was sure that sort of logic was lost on anyone else.

"Are you sure you want me to tell you?" Semeyonev asked.

"Sure, why not."

"I mean, it's a little freakish. Even for Groznyj Grad."

"Nothing can surprise me anymore, chuvak," Kolyin said, sighing.

"Well. This will. Dogs."

Kolyin blinked, then turned to stare at Savva, incredulously.

"You're dicking my ear, comrade."

"Dayu slovo, bratan. I wouldn't make that up, would I?"


His attention wavered as he heard pounding bootsteps coming in their direction.

Please, he thought, suddenly and urgently. Please let this not be another murder.

A GRU lieutenant appeared out of the night, pulling up sharply as he saw them, saluting.

Kolyin's stomach twisted with dread.

"Sirs!" the lieutenant belted out, briskly.

Arkady wasn’t sure why regular GRU treated them like superiors, even though they were technically the same rank. He supposed it was because of their elite status as Ocelots. That, and the fact that leadership from the upper echelon on the GRU side of things was…a little lacking, to say the least.

"There's someone…we found something," the soldier said. "Outside the main gate."

"Someone, or something?" Kolyin asked, frowning.

The lieutenant hesitated. "Someone, sir. A man. He, ah, didn't have any clothes on. No tags or gear, not even boots. We're not sure who he is."

Kolyin thought about Sergei, and closed his eyes briefly.

"Dead," he said, not a question. He wondered who it was.

"No sir…he's still alive."

Kolyin blinked.

"He is?" Semeyonev asked.

Arkady glanced at him. It was clear that his rankmate had been thinking the same thing.


The GRU lieutenant hesitated. "Well…there were some wounds, but nothing serious…"

Kolyin's eyes narrowed.

He could tell the soldier was holding something back, but decided not to press, at least not right then. "Where is he?"

"Captain Tabolov brought him to the infirmary, sir. He wanted us to alert Major Ocelot."

That was because Ocelot was the only senior officer who did any real soldiering, Kolyin knew, but he also knew Ocelot wouldn't be happy if he were woken up again in the middle of the night for something that wasn't strictly an emergency.

"Why don't you bring us to him?" Kolyin suggested. "We'll make the assessment and alert Major Ocelot if it's necessary."

Relief shot across the man's features. "This way, sir!"

Kolyin thought that would be the reaction.

They followed the lieutenant to the infirmary and slipped inside. Kolyin cast a glance toward the room where they'd brought Colonel in the other night, but it was empty. Ocelot had sworn them to strict silence regarding the Colonel's condition. Kolyin figured that once he was stabilized, Volgin had been moved elsewhere, for the sake of both security, and discretion.

Captain Tabolov lingered outside a door at the end of the hall, and turned to them as they approached. Tabolov had been the one who had cleared the bystanders from outside the Colonel's quarters a few nights ago, after the Colonel's decoy had been assassinated. He was dependable enough, if a bit indecisive.

Tabolov had his balaclava off, and looked between them expectantly, as if trying to tell if he knew them.

He wasn't much older than they were, Kolyin realized. Brown hair cropped close, narrow features, sallow grey eyes. Good-looking enough, but nowhere near as pretty as Major Raikov. Kolyin imagined he had followed his superior's example and slept his way through the ranks, though.

"Captain. Kolyin and Semeyonev."

"Lieutenants," Tabolov said, nodding to them, seeming relieved. It seemed like he was going to say something else for a moment, but paused and nodded to the GRU lieutenant. "That'll be all. We'll handle it from here."

The lieutenant saluted and departed quickly, seeming to be grateful to be absolved of the responsibility.

When he was gone, Tabolov sighed. "I'm glad you're here. I'm not quite sure what to make of this…situation."

Kolyin glanced at the door, which was closed.

"The lieutenant told us that you found a man outside the gates?"

Tabolov nodded. "He walked right up to the gate and said something, but I didn't catch it. He was shivering. No clothes. He collapsed almost immediately, and we couldn't revive him. He had puncture wounds on his chest and neck, and…"

The captain hesitated, discomfort seeming to deepen, gaze skipping away.

"It looked to me like he'd been raped."

"Shit," Savva said.

Kolyin winced. He understood the GRU lieutenant's earlier hesitance now, his reluctance to voice his observations aloud.

Arkady turned his gaze to Semeyonev, meeting his rankmate's eyes briefly. Supposedly all the men who had been killed – save Sergei, he reminded himself, firmly – had been raped, both before and after they'd died. Or so he'd heard. If this man had somehow gotten away from the killer mid…process…he might have valuable information.

Savva returned his gaze, his normally pale grey eyes shadowed. They were thinking the same thing again. Kolyin gave him a brief, grim nod.

"Who is he?" he asked, turning back to Tabolov.

"I don't know. Not GRU. I'd know him. I don't think he's one of you, either. Dark hair."

Kolyin frowned. "Older?"

"No, young. My age, or a little younger."

Savva shook his head. "Maybe he's a scientist."

"Maybe," Tabolov said. "Well-built, though. Muscular, like a soldier. I don't know what he would be doing outside the gates, in any case. The nurse said he's stable, but he didn't wake up. She thought he'd been injected with something. Some kind of toxin, she said."

Like the Colonel, Kolyin thought, frowning, though he couldn't voice his suspicions aloud, not in front of Tabolov at least.

"She called for the pathologist. He should be here shortly," Tabolov said.

"I see. If you want, Captain, we can handle it from here. It sounds like something Major Ocelot is going to need to be briefed on anyway, and it would be better if it came from us," Kolyin said.

Tabolov looked between them. "Are you sure? I'd appreciate it, Lieutenant."

Kolyin nodded. "Not a problem."

Tabolov took his leave of them. Hastily, Kolyin noted.

Semeyonev turned to Kolyin. "This is fucked up, comrade."

"I know."

"Should we call Ocelot?"

Kolyin shook his head. "Let's wait to see what the pathologist says first. I think we can probably wait until morning before we call Ocelot, especially if this guy isn't going anywhere."

"All right."
[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] heartofthunder.livejournal.com
Volgin popped the last chocolate in his mouth and closed the box.

He felt better.

It had been a long, stressful day. Every time he'd walked unthinkingly past a window, realizing only as he'd passed that he shouldn't have done that, Volgin had nearly flinched, and Colonel Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin did not flinch.

Ocelot had been scowling, even more than usual, as he saw to various security precautions: extra patrols, guards posted on rooftops, a stuffed effigy wearing one of Volgin's uniforms left to sit behind his desk. Ocelot was looking even for another decoy, but there were few men who even approached Volgin's size.

That made Volgin think of Alexei, who actually did approach his size. Alexei, who'd appeared out of the ether and back from the dead to warn him, who cautioned him to move from his regular quarters in the Main Wing to his secondary quarters bunkered below, and just in time, too.

Like he'd known there would be an attempt on Volgin's life. He must have.

Volgin wanted to talk to Alexei now. He wanted answers, but more than that, he wanted to feel Alexei's ruthless mouth and unyielding arms, to have Alexei take him, possess him the way only Alexei ever had.

He sighed.

But there was no Alexei. Not last night, not all day.

His monthly shipment of imported Belgian chocolates had arrived earlier in the day, and it had been like a godsend. Exactly what he needed. He'd even put off eating them until he was alone in his quarters, and could really enjoy them.

He'd eaten every delectable piece in the span of mere minutes.

Carefully, Volgin hid the empty box in the trash, making sure to get every wrapper. It wouldn't do for Ivan to find out. Ivan disapproved of the chocolates, especially when Volgin ate too much in one sitting. "You'll ruin your teeth, Zhenya, or you'll get fat," he would chide, and then take them away, just like Volgin's mother had done, all those years ago.

Volgin loved Ivan, but he also loved chocolates.

Ivan didn't have to know about this.

Volgin got up, restless. Too early to go to bed, too late to be stalking around the base, especially with a sniper on the loose.

Maybe he should go find Ivan. Maybe he should find Ocelot, so they could have that talk. Maybe he should find someone hapless to terrorize, one of Ivan's men, perhaps, someone dispensable, whose smoking corpse wouldn't be particularly missed the next day. There had to be some sort of discipline problem that could use his assistance.

Hmm. Yes. That sounded like a good idea, actually.

Volgin turned to the door, then frowned. His stomach hurt. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten all those chocolates at once, after all.
[identity profile] ocelottery.livejournal.com
Senior Lieutenant Arkady Sergeyevich Kolyin was having a bad day. Most of the problem stemmed from the fact that his “day” had extended beyond a mere twenty-four hours, and had become two.

He’d had night duty with his usual partner and rankmate, Semeyonev, last night, when Sergei had died, but the next morning, he’d had an additional shift playing at babysitter for the MENTs, partnered with none other than the squad’s sullen sniper, Irinarhov.

When he’d finished the guard detail, he’d barely had time for a meal and shower before it was back on night duty with Semeyonev, who, as usual, had a quick grin and smile. Kolyin didn’t know how Savva could do it given everything that had happened, but at least he was better to patrol with than Irinarhov.

“And I swear, they’re fucking,” Savva was saying, filling him in on the latest gossip.

Arkady sighed. “I don’t care. Good for them.”

“You’re a beam of sunshine tonight.”

“You try spending all day with Irinarhov. I swear, that guy never says anything. No personality.”

Savva shrugged. “Snipers are like that,” he said, as if he had some special knowledge. “He’s just quiet. Anyway, Isaev seems to like him well enough.”

Kolyin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Actually, the relationship between Andrei and the sniper had been fodder for unit gossip lately. No one fucked regularly without everyone else knowing, and the fact that Andrei was rarely in his bunk in the mornings when Kolyin and Semeyonev got off duty hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Semeyonev laughed. “He’s not a bad looking guy. I’d do him.”

“Well, that’s not saying mu – ”

A shout broke the evening’s relative silence, followed by a call for help. Kolyin’s chest started pounding, and his gut twisted in the silent fear that it was another Serhyoza, that another Ocelot had died.

He and Semeyonev met gazes briefly, then ran forward to the sound of the disturbance.

One of the regular GRU stumbled out of the main wing, pointing a shaking hand behind him. “He’s dead!” the soldier barely managed to get out before he bent over and vomited.

“Who’s dead?” Kolyin shouted, but Savva was already running toward the building.

Arkady gripped his AK-47 tightly as he rushed after his rankmate.

There was already a stir inside – more GRU, running around uselessly, bumping into things like headless rabbits.

One had the presence of mind to run up to them and signal them forward frantically. Kolyin and Semeyonev followed the soldier down the hall, to a half-opened door.

“In there,” the soldier said, stopping in his tracks, showing no sign of accompanying them the last few steps forward.

Savva looked at Arkady again, and reached out to touch his shoulder briefly. Kolyin understood what it meant. Whatever it was – whoever it was – they’d face the horrible truth together.

Side by side, they walked down to the open door and peered in.

The room beyond was simple but spacious, and featured little more than a table and desk and wardrobe, and a giant, oversized bed. And there, near the bed, was the body of a tall and muscular man with a near-Herculean build, clad in a forest green greatcoat.

…and rubberized boots, Kolyin realized, after a moment, but his mind balked even then.

Together, he and Semeyonev edged forward, and saw that the body had only a gaping, bloody ruin where the top of his head should have been, and the floor around the body was decorated liberally with pink brain tissue.

It looked like bubblegum, Kolyin thought, vaguely.

“God,” Savva said, “It’s Volgin.”

“Oh God,” Kolyin said. “We have to tell someone. Major Raikov.”

Semeyonev shot him a look. No, not Major Raikov, he though in faint horror. Never mind his patented ball-crushing maneuver; someone would get castrated.

“Ocelot. We have to tell Ocelot. You call him, Savva. He likes you.”

Everyone knew that Savva got called for Special Duty more often than anyone else.

“You call him! No sense in having him pissed at the both of us. This way, if he gets pissed at you, I can calm him down.”

Semeyonev had a point, Kolyin thought, though he felt reluctant to concede it.

Suddenly, Savva grabbed his arm. “Fuck, bratan, do you see that? There’s a hole in the window. A sniper did this. We need to get back.”

They retreated into the hallway, and Kolyin let out a pained sigh. “All right, I’ll call him, but you’d better have my back on this.”

Raising a hand to his ear, Kolyin slotted Major Ocelot’s frequency and prayed for the best.
[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] 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] 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--

[identity profile] capt-kasya.livejournal.com
[PANIDYELNIK, 27 YANVAR, 1964 0530 hours]

(OOC: After roll call in the courtyard, at mess. All Groznyj Grad personnel, feel free to post!)

Read more... )


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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