Доверься - Prologue:- The Oncoming Storm
PROLOGUE:- Oncoming Storm
Yevgeny could hear it.
The patter of rain on the windows outside was quiet enough. To most it would have been unobtrusive, even calming. It called to mind images of nights spent listening to the wind howling outside, sitting with family or friends and telling stories which grew increasingly wilder as the hours passed and the liquor cupboards emptied.
To him the storm meant something else. It meant pain and fear. The first he could handle, the second- not so much. Fear was one of the emotions he found the most alien. He could hear the wind now, a rising shriek as it darted in and out of the many nooks and crannies of the base. It reminded him of the old western myth of the banshee that wailed to signify death in the family. Ivan would not be happy. With a grunt of irritation, he set the pen in his hand down on the desk and rose from his chair.
The halls of Groznyj Grad seemed almost deserted. Few people had access to the building where his office had been carefully placed. The howling of the wind made the empty corridors seem almost haunted.
He paused in his walk in order to stare out through the window. The window was almost impossible to see through; the strengthened glass was covered with streams of water that seemed to blur everything he looked at. He raised a hand to touch the glass, feeling the cold even through his thick rubber gloves.
The storm clouds up above were dark and thick, blotting out almost all of the natural light that usually caressed Tselinoyarsk with warm rays. From what he could tell, the searchlights were the only source of light. Volgin doubted anyone would be foolish enough to attack in weather like that, but he made a mental note to improve the lighting facilities outside. It wouldn’t do for his men to be taken by surprise because of a storm.
He stood there for a moment longer, admiring the way the sky seemed to be split apart by the occasional bolt of lightning. A spark crackled over his arm as though greeting it in response and he chuckled darkly at the image. If that lightning ever did strike him, he was sure it would kill him. His body was surely close to the limit for how much electricity it could handle. As the thunder seemed to roll overhead once more, he remembered why he was out of the office and began his slow walk again.
Volgin never hurried. He was one of those people who assumed that whatever happened it would always wait for him to be there and that if it didn’t it wasn’t worth being there for. At any rate, he knew Ivan would be waiting for him.
He knew the halls of the fortress as though he had lived there his entire life. Sometimes it felt to him as if he surely must have; the images of the past before coming here were oddly faint. Remembering those days was like looking at a broken mirror. The images seemed to multiply and merge together in odd ways and in the right light it was as if they were mocking him. It didn’t bother him. His time was taken up with thoughts of the future, of the Metal Gear which was already in production and the final result of using it. He had no doubt that he would win. This world was his. It had been promised to him at the moment of his birth and he knew he would claim it in time. It was his destiny.
The door he sought was set aside from the rest, at the end of a small corridor that would otherwise have been considered unmemorable. There was nothing on the door to indicate what lay beyond it, nothing to make it different from any other door except its simplicity. He didn’t bother to knock, reaching out and pushing the door open slowly.
The room looked almost empty at first glance. As the door slid open with a barely-noticeable creak, Volgin ignored the furniture in favour of scanning the room for the inhabitant he knew was there. There was no point in taking notice of furniture. He knew what was in the room. Basic furniture: bed, table, chairs. A few amenities that were definitely not standard for the army. There was no point in dressing up a room that was only visited at night.
His gaze passed slowly around the room, seeing no one. Then a faint flicker of movement caught his eye and he turned slowly. His gaze fell upon the black-booted feet that were just barely sticking out from the floor at the other side of the bed. A frown crossed his face, making the scars that adorned it wrinkle and seem to deepen. It was an alarming effect on most people.
His footsteps remained even as he walked towards the bed. There was no need to hurry. He turned the corner and looked down at the man who was sitting there. Ivan’s arms were wrapped around his knees, hugging them closely to his chest as though they were some sort of comforting toy. He didn’t look up. His lips were moving silently.
As Volgin knelt down in front of him, the wind picked up once more, howling louder than ever. With a strangled cry, Ivan unfurled, hurling himself into Volgin’s arms and clinging to him. “Make it stop…” he muttered feverishly, as if Volgin were the god he wanted to be. “Make it stop, make it stop… It’s calling me…”
To anyone from outside the fortress it would seem a bizarre sight. Rather than anger, the Colonel’s face showed only the faintest trace of concern. His arms enfolded the smaller man protectively. “I’m here. Don’t be afraid,” he soothed. He murmured a low litany of soothing words, his voice disturbingly low and soft, as if he were talking to a child. The effect would have been frightening to anyone but Ivan. As it was, it seemed to work. He felt the man’s tremors die down as he began to calm.
Volgin wasn’t sure why Ivan was so afraid of the wind. It was irrational, as far as he could see. It reminded him of the reactions of some traumatised war victims who, even years later, would panic at the sound of a car backfiring, mistaking it for a gun. In Ivan’s case it only ever surfaced during storms. He seemed perfectly normal with the wind - unless it was like this, this wretched, piercing shriek that seemed almost ethereal. Then the panic would come.
Carefully, he moved his hands lower. It was hardly any effort to lift the smaller man. Ivan was no lightweight but Volgin’s strength was remarkable. He set him gently on the edge of the bed, studying his face for any signs of another attack. There were none. Ivan’s face was pale and tired, but there was no longer a frightened look in his eyes. Volgin took a step back. When Ivan was like this the worst thing anyone could do was to stay too close. He wasn’t afraid, but it was possible to make things worse.
He folded his arms and watched the man silently. Ivan’s hands were clenched into fists. His gaze seemed focused entirely on the floor, but Volgin knew that wasn’t what he was thinking of. He was trying to regain his control. As he watched, Ivan’s eyes fluttered closed as his harsh, ragged breathing slowed to a more regular pace. He sat there for a moment longer before opening them again. The distress was entirely gone now. Lightning flashed outside the window behind the Colonel’s back. It caught in Ivan’s eyes, seeming to make them glow for just a second. He smiled at the gargantuan man and said just three words. “Colonel, thank you.”
Volgin just nodded. He often had difficulty responding to gratitude or affection. Anger and sarcasm seemed to come so much easier. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked, gruffly. Ivan echoed his nod, the smallest of smirks visible on his lips. “There’s no problem now, Colonel,” he informed him. His tone was formal despite the informality of the situation. Volgin’s lips twitched upwards slightly. It was hard for him not to laugh.
The lightning struck again, bathing the room in white brilliance for just a second. A moment later the rumble of thunder followed. Ivan closed his eyes again. Volgin scowled. “Kuwabara, kuwabara,” he muttered almost automatically as he strode over to the window. For a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of someone standing outside. Then he blinked and there was nobody. “…hn. Trick of the light,” he muttered aloud, tugging the heavy curtain over the window.
Outside, a figure stood in the rain. He had no fear of lightning or rain. He was long past the point where those things mattered. Despite that, a raincoat covered his pale gray camouflage uniform. The hood was drawn down low over his face, casting enough of a shadow that only his intense eyes were visible. If they had seen him the soldiers who muttered curses against the fierce rain might have thought they were glowing.
The Sorrow stared expressionlessly at the large building in front of him. The faintest of whispers slipped past his pale lips, though none who passed by could hear it.
I wonder, do you know what is to come?
No, I think not. Nor do I think it would change anything.
Sad… so sad…
To be continued
CHAPTER NOTES
-chairkov's aversion to the sound of the wind will be explained in time. There is a clue buried in there as to why.
-Yevgeny's a little different in this than he is in my Volgin RP accounts. Just look at what he's thinking when he looks out of the window to evidence that.
-The prologue is set a few months before the Virtuous Mission.
-Sorrow doesn't like Yevgeny even back then. He's aware of more than just his reputation.
-Originally, chairkov was going to be hiding under the blankets, but it seemed a little out of character for such a person, even when terrified.
-Volgin dislikes his justified fear of water and lightning, yet accepts chairkov's inexplicable fear of the wind without the slightest bit of annoyance?
-Even though he's scared of lightning, Volgin seems to like watching it from afar.
-As mentioned in Fission Mailed, Volgin is commissioning the Metal Gear, rather than the Shagohad. However, that doesn't mean Sokolov is off the hook...
-I'm much amused by the idea of Volgin being awkward when it comes to the fluffy side of things.
-chairkov's formality even extends to their bedroom, it seems. Even before the incident he's rather tense. We can blame Raiden freely for that one.
Criticisms? Ask away! I know it's short, by the way. This is what I tend to think of as a teaser-prologue.
Yevgeny could hear it.
The patter of rain on the windows outside was quiet enough. To most it would have been unobtrusive, even calming. It called to mind images of nights spent listening to the wind howling outside, sitting with family or friends and telling stories which grew increasingly wilder as the hours passed and the liquor cupboards emptied.
To him the storm meant something else. It meant pain and fear. The first he could handle, the second- not so much. Fear was one of the emotions he found the most alien. He could hear the wind now, a rising shriek as it darted in and out of the many nooks and crannies of the base. It reminded him of the old western myth of the banshee that wailed to signify death in the family. Ivan would not be happy. With a grunt of irritation, he set the pen in his hand down on the desk and rose from his chair.
The halls of Groznyj Grad seemed almost deserted. Few people had access to the building where his office had been carefully placed. The howling of the wind made the empty corridors seem almost haunted.
He paused in his walk in order to stare out through the window. The window was almost impossible to see through; the strengthened glass was covered with streams of water that seemed to blur everything he looked at. He raised a hand to touch the glass, feeling the cold even through his thick rubber gloves.
The storm clouds up above were dark and thick, blotting out almost all of the natural light that usually caressed Tselinoyarsk with warm rays. From what he could tell, the searchlights were the only source of light. Volgin doubted anyone would be foolish enough to attack in weather like that, but he made a mental note to improve the lighting facilities outside. It wouldn’t do for his men to be taken by surprise because of a storm.
He stood there for a moment longer, admiring the way the sky seemed to be split apart by the occasional bolt of lightning. A spark crackled over his arm as though greeting it in response and he chuckled darkly at the image. If that lightning ever did strike him, he was sure it would kill him. His body was surely close to the limit for how much electricity it could handle. As the thunder seemed to roll overhead once more, he remembered why he was out of the office and began his slow walk again.
Volgin never hurried. He was one of those people who assumed that whatever happened it would always wait for him to be there and that if it didn’t it wasn’t worth being there for. At any rate, he knew Ivan would be waiting for him.
He knew the halls of the fortress as though he had lived there his entire life. Sometimes it felt to him as if he surely must have; the images of the past before coming here were oddly faint. Remembering those days was like looking at a broken mirror. The images seemed to multiply and merge together in odd ways and in the right light it was as if they were mocking him. It didn’t bother him. His time was taken up with thoughts of the future, of the Metal Gear which was already in production and the final result of using it. He had no doubt that he would win. This world was his. It had been promised to him at the moment of his birth and he knew he would claim it in time. It was his destiny.
The door he sought was set aside from the rest, at the end of a small corridor that would otherwise have been considered unmemorable. There was nothing on the door to indicate what lay beyond it, nothing to make it different from any other door except its simplicity. He didn’t bother to knock, reaching out and pushing the door open slowly.
The room looked almost empty at first glance. As the door slid open with a barely-noticeable creak, Volgin ignored the furniture in favour of scanning the room for the inhabitant he knew was there. There was no point in taking notice of furniture. He knew what was in the room. Basic furniture: bed, table, chairs. A few amenities that were definitely not standard for the army. There was no point in dressing up a room that was only visited at night.
His gaze passed slowly around the room, seeing no one. Then a faint flicker of movement caught his eye and he turned slowly. His gaze fell upon the black-booted feet that were just barely sticking out from the floor at the other side of the bed. A frown crossed his face, making the scars that adorned it wrinkle and seem to deepen. It was an alarming effect on most people.
His footsteps remained even as he walked towards the bed. There was no need to hurry. He turned the corner and looked down at the man who was sitting there. Ivan’s arms were wrapped around his knees, hugging them closely to his chest as though they were some sort of comforting toy. He didn’t look up. His lips were moving silently.
As Volgin knelt down in front of him, the wind picked up once more, howling louder than ever. With a strangled cry, Ivan unfurled, hurling himself into Volgin’s arms and clinging to him. “Make it stop…” he muttered feverishly, as if Volgin were the god he wanted to be. “Make it stop, make it stop… It’s calling me…”
To anyone from outside the fortress it would seem a bizarre sight. Rather than anger, the Colonel’s face showed only the faintest trace of concern. His arms enfolded the smaller man protectively. “I’m here. Don’t be afraid,” he soothed. He murmured a low litany of soothing words, his voice disturbingly low and soft, as if he were talking to a child. The effect would have been frightening to anyone but Ivan. As it was, it seemed to work. He felt the man’s tremors die down as he began to calm.
Volgin wasn’t sure why Ivan was so afraid of the wind. It was irrational, as far as he could see. It reminded him of the reactions of some traumatised war victims who, even years later, would panic at the sound of a car backfiring, mistaking it for a gun. In Ivan’s case it only ever surfaced during storms. He seemed perfectly normal with the wind - unless it was like this, this wretched, piercing shriek that seemed almost ethereal. Then the panic would come.
Carefully, he moved his hands lower. It was hardly any effort to lift the smaller man. Ivan was no lightweight but Volgin’s strength was remarkable. He set him gently on the edge of the bed, studying his face for any signs of another attack. There were none. Ivan’s face was pale and tired, but there was no longer a frightened look in his eyes. Volgin took a step back. When Ivan was like this the worst thing anyone could do was to stay too close. He wasn’t afraid, but it was possible to make things worse.
He folded his arms and watched the man silently. Ivan’s hands were clenched into fists. His gaze seemed focused entirely on the floor, but Volgin knew that wasn’t what he was thinking of. He was trying to regain his control. As he watched, Ivan’s eyes fluttered closed as his harsh, ragged breathing slowed to a more regular pace. He sat there for a moment longer before opening them again. The distress was entirely gone now. Lightning flashed outside the window behind the Colonel’s back. It caught in Ivan’s eyes, seeming to make them glow for just a second. He smiled at the gargantuan man and said just three words. “Colonel, thank you.”
Volgin just nodded. He often had difficulty responding to gratitude or affection. Anger and sarcasm seemed to come so much easier. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked, gruffly. Ivan echoed his nod, the smallest of smirks visible on his lips. “There’s no problem now, Colonel,” he informed him. His tone was formal despite the informality of the situation. Volgin’s lips twitched upwards slightly. It was hard for him not to laugh.
The lightning struck again, bathing the room in white brilliance for just a second. A moment later the rumble of thunder followed. Ivan closed his eyes again. Volgin scowled. “Kuwabara, kuwabara,” he muttered almost automatically as he strode over to the window. For a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of someone standing outside. Then he blinked and there was nobody. “…hn. Trick of the light,” he muttered aloud, tugging the heavy curtain over the window.
Outside, a figure stood in the rain. He had no fear of lightning or rain. He was long past the point where those things mattered. Despite that, a raincoat covered his pale gray camouflage uniform. The hood was drawn down low over his face, casting enough of a shadow that only his intense eyes were visible. If they had seen him the soldiers who muttered curses against the fierce rain might have thought they were glowing.
The Sorrow stared expressionlessly at the large building in front of him. The faintest of whispers slipped past his pale lips, though none who passed by could hear it.
I wonder, do you know what is to come?
No, I think not. Nor do I think it would change anything.
Sad… so sad…
To be continued
CHAPTER NOTES
-chairkov's aversion to the sound of the wind will be explained in time. There is a clue buried in there as to why.
-Yevgeny's a little different in this than he is in my Volgin RP accounts. Just look at what he's thinking when he looks out of the window to evidence that.
-The prologue is set a few months before the Virtuous Mission.
-Sorrow doesn't like Yevgeny even back then. He's aware of more than just his reputation.
-Originally, chairkov was going to be hiding under the blankets, but it seemed a little out of character for such a person, even when terrified.
-Volgin dislikes his justified fear of water and lightning, yet accepts chairkov's inexplicable fear of the wind without the slightest bit of annoyance?
-Even though he's scared of lightning, Volgin seems to like watching it from afar.
-As mentioned in Fission Mailed, Volgin is commissioning the Metal Gear, rather than the Shagohad. However, that doesn't mean Sokolov is off the hook...
-I'm much amused by the idea of Volgin being awkward when it comes to the fluffy side of things.
-chairkov's formality even extends to their bedroom, it seems. Even before the incident he's rather tense. We can blame Raiden freely for that one.
Criticisms? Ask away! I know it's short, by the way. This is what I tend to think of as a teaser-prologue.