He sat at the writing desk in his private quarters for nearly an hour, his head in his hands, eyes closed and fingertips tracing the scar that crossed his forehead; content with the silence of the afternoon and the golden light from the window that lent warmth to the barren room.
Life at Orenburg had often followed a similar pattern, the path of least resistance. Quiet introspection in the hours between instruction; he would sit in his office and listen to the constant, consistent ticking of the clock on the wall, thinking of nothing.
There were be letters now and then from wartime comrades, none who knew his call sign, and none at all after Baikonur.
Elusive as time seemed relative to the distance of memory, it was cyclical based in practice and observation. The habits of men never changed, only the circumstances.
A letter lay half-written in deliberate and punctual Cyrillic, addressed to Yaromir Borishnakov. The correct words were difficult, so Vladislav substituted the incorrect words until even those became treacherous and slippery.
There was no easy way to explain to a man he hadn't seen in over twenty years that his only son didn't die in great service to his country, but at the hands of some sick fuck or the vindictive members of his squad, or both.
Several times stumbling over words and finding himself lost in the wilderness of scorched-earth ethics, he laid the pen down to question if it was the correct thing to do, or if the senior Borishnakov and his wife would be better off to keep on believing whatever fate the State claimed befell their son.
The Fury looked down the barrel of the worst possible scenario, and questioned if he'd want to know if it happened to one of the men from his unit; the closest thing he had to family, and arrived at the conclusion that Yaromir absolutely deserved to know, and know that his son's death would not go unavenged.
The difference was weighty as a hand full of ashes; the entire base and everyone in it would burn if it were one of The Fury's men rotting on a table in Rakitin's lab.
The journey to the marshy shores of Styx was delayed for as long as possible, until the shadows spilling across the room became long and thin. Farewells and severed sorrows never became any easier with either time or habit or circumstance, but Charon was patient, and had all eternity.
He left the unfinished letter where it lay, and stepped back from his desk without sparing it another thought.
Sometimes it was easier not to think.
The gloves delivered with his new uniform were soft and supple leather, in a deep charcoal gray that contrasted the sky-blue wool of the VVS officer's uniform rather nicely. The matching ushanka hung on the hook beside his usual attire; the black fireproof jumpsuit that gave allusion to the shed exoskeleton of a cicada.
The Fury considered it for a moment before donning the fur-lined hat and departing Cobra barracks.
Not flamethrower. No jetpack. No helmet or fireproof suit, or anything else Rakitin or his guards might find alarming; just as promised. This wasn't business, it was personal, and despite all the things that Vladislav Savitskiy wasn't, the Fury was a man of his word.
The service Makarov at his side was customary and holstered, and regarded the pistol as useless but obligatory.
A vague and indefinite sense of discomfort nagged at him like a blinking red light near a cockpit fuel gauge; he felt out of place and out of sorts crossing path with GRU soldiers and their guarded curiosity for a ranking officer in an azure dress uniform.
The characteristic jingle of gold and silver medals lined up in a neat row across the front of his jacket betrayed the Fury's best effort to go unnoticed.
The clear spring afternoon with its crisp breeze and puffy white clouds made the little whitewashed outbuilding at the edge of the base seem all the more ominous, and he regarded it for a moment with a vicious glare.
It was anger, not restraint.
There was no hesitation in ascending the concrete steps and knocking thrice on the painted wooden door of the investigators' laboratory.
Life at Orenburg had often followed a similar pattern, the path of least resistance. Quiet introspection in the hours between instruction; he would sit in his office and listen to the constant, consistent ticking of the clock on the wall, thinking of nothing.
There were be letters now and then from wartime comrades, none who knew his call sign, and none at all after Baikonur.
Elusive as time seemed relative to the distance of memory, it was cyclical based in practice and observation. The habits of men never changed, only the circumstances.
A letter lay half-written in deliberate and punctual Cyrillic, addressed to Yaromir Borishnakov. The correct words were difficult, so Vladislav substituted the incorrect words until even those became treacherous and slippery.
There was no easy way to explain to a man he hadn't seen in over twenty years that his only son didn't die in great service to his country, but at the hands of some sick fuck or the vindictive members of his squad, or both.
Several times stumbling over words and finding himself lost in the wilderness of scorched-earth ethics, he laid the pen down to question if it was the correct thing to do, or if the senior Borishnakov and his wife would be better off to keep on believing whatever fate the State claimed befell their son.
The Fury looked down the barrel of the worst possible scenario, and questioned if he'd want to know if it happened to one of the men from his unit; the closest thing he had to family, and arrived at the conclusion that Yaromir absolutely deserved to know, and know that his son's death would not go unavenged.
The difference was weighty as a hand full of ashes; the entire base and everyone in it would burn if it were one of The Fury's men rotting on a table in Rakitin's lab.
The journey to the marshy shores of Styx was delayed for as long as possible, until the shadows spilling across the room became long and thin. Farewells and severed sorrows never became any easier with either time or habit or circumstance, but Charon was patient, and had all eternity.
He left the unfinished letter where it lay, and stepped back from his desk without sparing it another thought.
Sometimes it was easier not to think.
The gloves delivered with his new uniform were soft and supple leather, in a deep charcoal gray that contrasted the sky-blue wool of the VVS officer's uniform rather nicely. The matching ushanka hung on the hook beside his usual attire; the black fireproof jumpsuit that gave allusion to the shed exoskeleton of a cicada.
The Fury considered it for a moment before donning the fur-lined hat and departing Cobra barracks.
Not flamethrower. No jetpack. No helmet or fireproof suit, or anything else Rakitin or his guards might find alarming; just as promised. This wasn't business, it was personal, and despite all the things that Vladislav Savitskiy wasn't, the Fury was a man of his word.
The service Makarov at his side was customary and holstered, and regarded the pistol as useless but obligatory.
A vague and indefinite sense of discomfort nagged at him like a blinking red light near a cockpit fuel gauge; he felt out of place and out of sorts crossing path with GRU soldiers and their guarded curiosity for a ranking officer in an azure dress uniform.
The characteristic jingle of gold and silver medals lined up in a neat row across the front of his jacket betrayed the Fury's best effort to go unnoticed.
The clear spring afternoon with its crisp breeze and puffy white clouds made the little whitewashed outbuilding at the edge of the base seem all the more ominous, and he regarded it for a moment with a vicious glare.
It was anger, not restraint.
There was no hesitation in ascending the concrete steps and knocking thrice on the painted wooden door of the investigators' laboratory.
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