The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

The Fury staggered across the roof of the armory, helmet in one hand, a half empty bottle of vodka in the other. They had been celebrating, he and the flame patrol, but he couldn’t exactly recall what the cause for celebration was.

No matter. It probably wasn’t important anyway he told himself, stepping off of the edge of the roof. He fell, until the good sense kicked in to activate his thrusters, and flames lit up the dark, cold night. The bottle of alcohol hit the concrete far below and shattered into a million pieces, but he didn’t notice.

The cosmonaut landed again on the roof of another building, though he wasn’t entirely sure what building it was. That, he laughed, wasn’t important either. He was still generally in a mood for celebration, even if the flame soldiers had drunk themselves into a complacent stupor and passed out long ago.

“Someone’s been fucking around with the gravity again.” He mumbled to himself, fighting to keep his balance on the steep slope of the roof.

The soldiers he passed earlier had not been keen on his drunken ravings about purifying the earth in flames, but that didn’t bother him either. They were simply brainwashed, and needed to be purified right along with the rest of the world. It was delightful when they went screaming into the night, flailing and on fire.

Again, he stepped off the roof, deciding that the fight against gravity was not worth fighting, and he departed for the rooftop of a building he recognized: the main radio transmission building, it was hard to miss with the massive antenna that stood behind it, stretching into the clear night sky.

He was startled to find someone else occupying the rooftop, an Ocelot soldier, he thought, though it was hard to tell in the dark. The Fury shook his head to be sure he was seeing things correctly, then gathered his composure once more, and addressed the young man. “Fucking Ocelots.  Are you the one who’s been fucking around with the gravity around here?”

The greenhouse was barely visible from the roof of the East Wing -- over the hill and through the dense greenery. The Fury stood balanced precariously on the ledge like some great black vulture ready to take flight, transfixed with the small clearing in the woods.

Beside him, a single flame soldier waited in khaki drab, arms crossed over his chest, gasmask dangling limp in his hands, short platinum hair damp from the rain and clinging to his forehead. The infamous Lieutenant Io, never too far from the cosmonaut-commander.

It always rained at Groznyj Grad, but for once, the cosmonaut could find no reason for complaint. He only wanted to destroy the greenhouse, not burn all of Groznyj to the ground.

Not just yet, anyway. That was something thrilling to consider…

And besides, it was better rain than snow.

So he paced back and forth on the narrow ledge, radio clutched in one gray-gloved hand, detonator in the other. Absentmindedly, he noted that it was a very long way to the ground, nothing to worry about though, not equipped with a jet pack.

“Captain!” A voice crackled finally over the radio, “he’s got a fucking grand piano in here.” Distant sour notes soon followed, as if to illustrate the soldiers’ point.

He laughed, yes that seemed typical of Johann Krauss, sitting in his greenhouse and playing Bach or Wagner to his precious lilies, or whatever the hell it was he played all the time. “Fill it with C-4 as well,” he answered finally, “and tell Phobos to quit screwing off.”

The Fury did not wait for the reply; footsteps on the rusted metal fire escape that hung on the side of the building caught his attention, not the tell-tale heavy bootsteps of the Krasnogorje soldiers, burdened under their heavy gear -- no, someone else entirely.   GRU, perhaps.  Maybe even Ocelot himself, coming to watch the fireworks.

“We have company.” the pale Lieutenant announced, glancing at the Fury for some signal of how to precede.

“Yes.” The cosmonaut observed.

“Shall I kill them?”

“Not yet.  At least wait until they reach the top.”