Евгений Борисович Волгин (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
colonelcrotchgrab) wrote2012-04-08 05:51 pm
colonelcrotchgrab) wrote2012-04-08 05:51 pm
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[nick / name]: Dyson
[personal LJ/DW name]: Simurgh @ DW
[other characters currently played]: Nuffin'.
[e-mail]: crowbargasm at gmail
[AIM / messenger]: okamitetsuo, I don't have a plurk
[series]: Metal Gear Solid 3
[character]: (Colonel) Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin
[character history / background]: Metal Gear Wiki
[character abilities]: Volgin is capable of creating an internally generated bio-current that can easily reach 10,000,000 volts. He can attempt to exceed this at the expense of his internal integrity, but in Volgin's lifetime, a lot of things tend to die quickly at a fraction of that power. There is suggestion that he has been in this perma-electrified state for awhile, having various and... occasionally inventive uses for his ability (this does include bedroom activities, assuming he decides that the bedroom is the place to do it at that time anyway). He has been shown to fire ammunition from his hands, trigger control panels, create an electromagnetic barrier capable of stopping bullets, absorb energy from electrical sources into himself, control machinery through manipulating the appropriate wires, among other things. It is also suggested that he can augment his strength with it, enabling him to perform Herculean feats of strength such as punching through an experimental tank hull where rocket-propelled grenade rounds hardly blemish.
Sometimes he likes to make like Captain Blackbeard and light himself on fire before a fight.
Canonically, it's unknown where exactly this ability comes from, but in this instance, he is a Soviet experiment reappropriated from his original purpose as a living bio-power generator. His body "default" is the current being on, making physical contact with him unaware and not "anticipating" a deadly affair. When he does not want to be touched, he will not be touched.
His electricity does not always completely bend to his will. Often it will behave like "normal" electricity and he can be grounded if someone knows what they're doing. Volgin has enough skill to "bend" the rules and do some odd things with it at times but it will quickly tire him.
His natural size and strength are of note. He's a massive man at seven feet tall with a powerful, capable physique in his mid-50s. To make matters worse, he also has a nearly inhuman pain tolerance; chances are the layman trying to pop him in the jaw will likely hurt themselves before hurting him. Canon infers that he can tank RPG rounds and still have the muster to stand after the onslaught, apparently.
The supernatural and Charles Atlas aside, he has some considerable skill as a fighter as well, his fighting style resembling that of a boxer's. Whether he had other training is unknown, but he seems to crutch a bit on his sheer brash brutality these days, as it tends to get the job done easily enough in a one on one situation against a mundane mook.
His facial scars say you should leave Bond to him.
[character personality]:
In short? Volgin is a complete monster, one of the most despicable, unlikable atrocities of a character offered in his franchise.
To call Volgin a human being is a debatable matter; he is best described as a human-shaped predator, a dangerous creature confined and pacing within the strict rank and file of military protocol and politics. Cultivated from his early days when he was a boxing champion, he is arrogant and cool, confident in his power and ability in the face of a challenger, or target. He can almost be described as bored, as most of his prior victims had tended to pose little difficulty for him, and he prefers his prey screaming and struggling.
Indeed, he is a sadist, and relishes in it without remorse or inhibition. It's to a dangerous fault, where he will get "high" on the rush at the expense of everything else. To an extent, it happens too often that he could care less about information and the original purpose of the torture session for as long as he gets his kicks (and the subject is debatably useless). If you're of the female persuasion or easy on the eyes in whatever respect, expect death to be delayed in the name of his depraved sexual gratification.
On that note, he really doesn't care who he beds down with, where it happens, and whatever else, as long as they have something for him to work on. He is best described as a man of broad tastes. Usually this does not mean well for his partner; because of Volgin's ability (and political climate where Soviet officers were frequently executed!), he has learned not to grow too attached to his lays, or anyone else for that matter. Sure enough, in a moment of weakness in the face of grand plans of world domination and political theater, Volgin found himself giving in to one man.
Fair enough that a single paragraph is at least dedicated to Raikov: Little is known in the giant's personal affairs in regards to the relationship that budded between him and what was once presumably a young upstart transferred to Groznyj Grad with a pretty face, but what resulted later very much indicates that Volgin cares very, very deeply for the man. Threatening, injuring and at times so much as looking at Raikov the wrong way can send the larger Russian into a rage. Volgin, although trusting in Raikov's abilities in regards for what he has as a mundane human, can teeter between overprotective, fussing over Raikov's safety as he becomes a viable target for antagonists in his affairs, to turning a blind eye, letting Raikov's original duty slip in his excessive permissiveness to the extent that he naps on the job and slugs his subordinates as he feels like it... as Volgin goes away on a long business trip and puts Raikov in charge.
(Raikov is also treated as a Colonel despite being a Major, never mind the... very public displays of affection. Scandalous.)
Volgin is arrogant. When he isn't arrogant, he is maintaining the air of overbearing confidence and arrogance. Originally honed in his boxing career, Volgin's arrogance has become a mask to conceal his growing paranoia and superstition (it isn't good for morale, after all). For all of his ability and power, he isn't immune to a bullet lodged in his brain and he's very aware of it. He also isn't immune to his own current either; how he became disfigured isn't clear, some suggestions indicating it was his own power, but he will shuffle off into the depths of his bunker when the rain comes, muttering "Kuwabara, kuwabara", a Japanese chant to ward off lightning strikes.
Although he has a healthy fear of lightning, he is also deathly afraid of frogs to the point of being unable to function in combat should one (somehow) appear. Some suggest it's because of his superstitious side giving way to a fear of things that remind him of the rain, but he could not just like frogs either; this isn't something you'd expect him to be upfront about. He's pretty good at demonstrating his own jumping abilities at catching sight of one of the little amphibians, in any case. Dead frogs burned into amorphous crisps are less bothersome (as they are too disgusting to bother with touching).
For all his irrational reactions, he's still a dangerous opponent due to the fact that he will lock on a target not unlike a pitbull and not let go. Enraged enough and he will ensure that the offender will die, no matter what and by any means necessary. Collateral damage is at best an enjoyable distraction from the ultimate end of a violent affair. He is ruthless and cold-blooded in all his terrible endeavors, with no mercy or regard for whoever happens to be unfortunate enough to be perceived as an enemy, or an immediate stress relief fit for public display to keep his men in line. Livid and provoked enough, he will fear nothing to the point of dangerous carelessness.
For all of that though, it should also be noted that contrary to his appearance, he is very intelligent when his emotions and id aren't in the way. Assuming Volgin's investment is purely in his bulk can be a fatal mistake (and what he would like you to think). In addition to his business in running his fortress, he's also a feared spymaster and very well connected in Soviet politics. He also appears to be educated, with some knowledge of American history and a keen interest in Japan. Very likely he is cultured in some respects. He's also very fluent in English.
[point in timeline you're picking your character from]: One month before the events of Snake Eater, shares timeline with the City's Raikov.
[journal post]: [For a time, the aging Colonel, Yevgeny Volgin had been tapping his pen on the page of his private journal, normally kept snug between the mattress. He was not sure if Raikov had been aware of his usual habit of documenting his daily exploits through the growing collection of diaries over the years, but for one, he did not care, and it had been something of an ease off his general stresses and headaches when it came to the matters of the political mess at the Kremlin and the building tension with the States, maintaining the precarious position of his contacts and keeping suspicion (and most of the snipers) in his current position and rank for the most part away, not to mention the smooth running of his fortress while building up his ultimate goals to the fore in a grand gambit of success or death: the end of the Cold War with the world so played in the palm of his hand. Unity by his own design!
But, right now, he had a lot to be concerned about, to manage, to keep straight.
Sometimes, in his age, he had to have been surprised at how well he could still so precisely manage it all and still find time for the little things. Meanwhile, his appearance and frame, he looked very good for his age, had his enemies writing him off as a stupid brute. He preferred it that way.
With that, he organized his thoughts for his current entry, the most foremost things that had came to him. Occasionally he would spew out the small allowance of humanity he had allowed himself on that damn paper, indulging in the small relief of when he could afford to drop the carefully maintained image of ferocity and terror he usually instilled in his men (kept their morale up and their asses in line). It was not very often. Raikov had been wonderful in this respect, even as he entertained the thought that came now and then that it might have been a bad idea to entrust him with so much of himself, his private world and his artificial sickness. Journals did not have minds of their own. An organic capacity of temptation and betrayal was much different then the absolute control of him selecting a hiding place that was not piss poor.
He scribbled nosily, quickly. For a man so strict and meticulously organized in every other sphere (as he had to be), his handwriting was an atrocious. Normally he pounded at a typewriter with whatever he had intended to send out on important business, but it was all the better to complicate anyone who was able to get ahold of something so very private and make deciphering attempts even more difficult. Sometimes he wrote in his own invented code. Not tonight. Didn't feel the need to.]
... I've arrived here, forced to explore the topography of a strange new universe beyond proper time and space. I've found Ivan quite alive and well, although he tells me that it was like a day never missed in the times he have come here before and have returned. For some peculiar reason, if this is a place for him to escape to, I have joined him. How come? Did he want me here? In this place, no time will pass, he assures me, as I see the day and night come like anything else. The weariness growing with my age still weighs on me regardless. I could not be given the luxury of being "trapped" twenty years younger. For now I look outside, stand on the streets dressed in civilian clothing, studying my surroundings; I want structure and sense, but this world so far is not allowing it. The residents, if what I am interpreting correctly from what I have been shown of this... "network", appear to be from other points in time, other worlds.
I will keep reading. Eventually I will see how they respond to me. Caution, Yevgeny. Be cautious. Don't reveal too much, yet. Find out how much Ivan has already said before you make the mistake of saying too much yourself.
Yes, I can handle this. I have baited nosy Americans thinking themselves clever in probing and bribing answers from me to do otherwise. This will be no different.
I wonder how long has Ivan stayed here? What has he done in my absence in this ... pocket? I do not quite fear for him, if our political allegiances do not pursue us into this place; he can manage my affairs in my absence back at Groznyj Grad beautifully. If we are allowed to return as he tells me, when my original duties and affairs are relevant again, I will find the time to make a fine leader of him, fit to be at my side. He will be my right hand.
If I succeed, we will have all the time in the world. For now, it seems that will be the case here, time shared between us as a preview of what will be.
I look forward to it.
[third person / log sample]: The proud and lovely Major Ivan Raidenovitch Raikov had not approved of his Colonel's more frequent trips to Moscow to straighten out his business there. Manufacturing the proper political puppets and ensuring they would carry out his will would take work, Volgin would say as he had indulged Raikov in more and more of his usually privately organized plans once so carefully divided between various contacts, but for all of the importance he stressed in managing these things in person, still the smaller, younger Major would pout his lip in an attempt to compel him to reconsider and attempt to manage it all from a distance, through someone else, on the phone. For his safety.
It was sometimes difficult to resist that face, but...
His lifetime mantra had still served him well: Stay the course, no matter the cost. Major Ocelot and Major Raikov had proven to be quite capable at keeping the fortress in line without him there. Stop worrying. Volgin had been very aware of the growing suspicions of his enemies. They had been watching him closely, even for all the spies he had rooted out, all of the men he thought of as spies but were likely not beaten and fried as a show to the others anyway, the price of treason. His men could piss their pants at catching a glance of him in passing, salute, anything to keep his interests away from his occasional need for more carnal and brutal means of stress relief, but things still leaked. It troubled him, for he had taken every precaution he could, but the most he could do, ultimately, was slow the ebb. It was a race between carrying out his purposes before the dam gave. This was what his life had finally come to, this whole thing building up so far, piece by piece, everything unusually playing so perfectly in his powerful lap.
Best not take it for granted. In the recent months, he had been overall pleased with its progression.
Stop worrying.
Besides, the soft snow drifting outside in the dark Moscow night, it was good to be at his lavish estate again. The servants had managed the upkeep beautifully in his absence, even in the span of months. Maybe they had been slacking off. No doubt they had been told of his return. He could not tell.
For now, he had been enjoying a fine wine in his giant quarters, thumbing through his papers at the large desk, the proud hammer-and-sickle of his country hanging behind him. Fine artwork, pillaged pieces from his exploits in the war, illegal purchases in the underground, were on display around him. A phonograph passed down from his father rolled off a crackling recording of Ravel's Boléro.
The wine was delicately sipped. Chateau d'Yquem, 1811. Quite a fine acquisition for his cabinet, easily afforded with his great wealth. He could allow himself a little indulgence. Tonight was going to be Hell, even under the cover of darkness. Who knows what his contact was hiding under his own coat. Volgin was not a trusting man, and for good reason. Men often changed allegiances when bribed with the right amount.
In this line of business, truth was best snug within the cover of lies.
His eye trailed to the window, uneasy. They would likely know of his arrival by now. His dogs prowling the perimeter of the estate, trained to kill, had been relatively silent so far.
Stop worrying.
The lights dim, curtains drawn, under the simple lamp, Volgin thumbed at his current report, curling his lip. He was not enjoying what he was reading so far. His presence had indeed been needed. Required. He could not be everywhere at the same time, as much as he wished he could, but this, this was going to be straightened out. Right now.
He set the paper down, having shuffled through most of the brown envelope's contents, having read enough. He stood up, his great, ornate chair creaking, and went to dress himself. Civilian clothing. Something relatively mundane. Surely his size would give him away, but from a distance without a frame of reference, he could get by, just long enough to disappear and carry out what needed to be done.
His footsteps echoed along the great hall. He had called up his driver earlier. He would be there shortly, if not now. A good man, reliable and quick. Didn’t question. Knew very little. Upon stepping outside, his breath coming out in large puffs slightly illuminated in the lights of a sleepy Moscow, he gave a dog cheerfully greeting him an affectionate rub.
He wished men were more like dogs. It would have made his life much easier.
------
Volgin being a prominent member of the Brezhnev faction was not a surprise. Very few knew however that he had been eating out of the GRU colonel's rubber glove-clad hand. They had met and it was the usual display of formalities, the fancy talk, the dance of trust and lies and give and take, but, thankfully, Brezhnev was still aligned quite tightly to his vision. Or he appeared to be. Reliability was still something of an uncertainty, but that was to be expected of his kind. He had shown some hesitation with his plans, but Volgin had the folder, the photos, the plans and blueprints. He showed him, and explained its progress. ''
At least politicians were a lot like dogs, faux intelligent things that knew how to weave words. The creatures had a tendency to salivate and bend quite well to his will when he offered the right cut of meat. Volgin had some considerable skill. His time in the NKVD, the constant monitoring of his freakish condition, had taught him to be sly. Dangerously clever. Manipulative. He had to be, or he would have been long since purged like so many of his fellow officers. He had come very close.
Instead, he had one of the most powerful men in the Soviet Union beneath him.
Brezhnev, over another round of his finest wine and his half-eaten delicacy, was impressed in the end. That was good, if it was not the alcohol talking for him at least.
Volgin picked at his serving. It was good, very good, he had a fine kitchen staff even at this hour but he still had business to attend to; he had to be quick. One of his contacts had been arranged to meet him after. The next few days would be a test of his speed and tongue. He had not been looking forward to it.
Which upon leaving, instead, there was the crack of a gun from a rooftop. A familiar bud of red pain bloomed. The giant worked on instinct, found himself clutching his shoulder in the back of the car, telling the goddamned driver to step the hell on it.
Things had been going too well.
He was going to have to rearrange that meeting. Somewhere outside of Moscow. Too important. Possibility of bugs at his estate. Moscow was too dangerous now. Not a surprise he was in their crosshairs already. They had been getting alarmingly quick, bold.
Volgin was a very dangerous animal. Very few men could deal with him directly without the nearly palpable weight of fear. His facial scarring beautifully accented his predatory nature, his partially gold eyes under his heavy brow reflecting a nearly bestial intensity. Exerting his dominance was often easy, nearly boring; he only needed his presence. A motion to stand had settled most arguments. It was very rare that a situation called for him to demonstrate his... anomaly.
But even the most deadly members of the animal kingdom were hunted. Volgin did not enjoy being hunted.
The massive man closed his eyes, feeling his age as the car bumped along. This was not the first time he had been shot, wouldn't be the last time. He had taken far worse in stride. Nothing vital this time.
Pain was one of the most beautiful of human expressions, but for all of the bullets that could wedge themselves into his side, he could not evade the inevitability of time. He was in the twilight of his prime, if he had any left. In five years, if he lived that long, if he succeeded, he would be 60.
Seldom he would admit it, never aloud, but he was getting tired. All these years orchestrating his grand vision. The Cold War was going to end, the East and West reunited again, and it was going to be the glorious Soviet Union at the top, under the strings of his control.
It was going to be beautiful, and he would have all the time in the world after. He promised Ivan, in murmurs, in the lull of afterglows, just as much.
Meanwhile, his driver was offered a cigar. Cuban, of course.
After tending to his injury, Volgin had made himself scarce in one of the guest rooms. No windows. Secure doors. Still as ornate and sized for him, garish and excessive for most anyone else, but not as insulated. Terrible place for his more intimate urges when he wanted his company alive after.
The phone was hung up and had trudged over to the plush room, pulling himself onto the bed in his insulated suit. A precaution. Normally he slept naked. He wanted to sleep naked, his containment suit itching terribly. Ivan got fussy when he picked too much at the sensitive, irritated rims of the scars cutting across the entirety of his body when he had that goddamn suit on for too long. They often hurt him still, sometimes bled when he had to exert too much of his power. Two decades old, but it was only Ivan that had to deal with his griping about the damn things.
Ivan often shushed him.
Of all things, he found them exotic. It was... an odd feeling. A change from the usually pitying stares, the cringing, the fascination with the grotesque.
Volgin took an interest in the wall.
The final hours of the night were spent in the tangle of racing thoughts. Names. Places. Pieces of things. Faces. Surprised he could still keep track of it all. Had to. He would be testing his honed soldier's adaptability against uncertainty. Somehow, sleep came but it was with one eye open.
He awoke somewhere else.
[personal LJ/DW name]: Simurgh @ DW
[other characters currently played]: Nuffin'.
[e-mail]: crowbargasm at gmail
[AIM / messenger]: okamitetsuo, I don't have a plurk
[series]: Metal Gear Solid 3
[character]: (Colonel) Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin
[character history / background]: Metal Gear Wiki
[character abilities]: Volgin is capable of creating an internally generated bio-current that can easily reach 10,000,000 volts. He can attempt to exceed this at the expense of his internal integrity, but in Volgin's lifetime, a lot of things tend to die quickly at a fraction of that power. There is suggestion that he has been in this perma-electrified state for awhile, having various and... occasionally inventive uses for his ability (this does include bedroom activities, assuming he decides that the bedroom is the place to do it at that time anyway). He has been shown to fire ammunition from his hands, trigger control panels, create an electromagnetic barrier capable of stopping bullets, absorb energy from electrical sources into himself, control machinery through manipulating the appropriate wires, among other things. It is also suggested that he can augment his strength with it, enabling him to perform Herculean feats of strength such as punching through an experimental tank hull where rocket-propelled grenade rounds hardly blemish.
Sometimes he likes to make like Captain Blackbeard and light himself on fire before a fight.
Canonically, it's unknown where exactly this ability comes from, but in this instance, he is a Soviet experiment reappropriated from his original purpose as a living bio-power generator. His body "default" is the current being on, making physical contact with him unaware and not "anticipating" a deadly affair. When he does not want to be touched, he will not be touched.
His electricity does not always completely bend to his will. Often it will behave like "normal" electricity and he can be grounded if someone knows what they're doing. Volgin has enough skill to "bend" the rules and do some odd things with it at times but it will quickly tire him.
His natural size and strength are of note. He's a massive man at seven feet tall with a powerful, capable physique in his mid-50s. To make matters worse, he also has a nearly inhuman pain tolerance; chances are the layman trying to pop him in the jaw will likely hurt themselves before hurting him. Canon infers that he can tank RPG rounds and still have the muster to stand after the onslaught, apparently.
The supernatural and Charles Atlas aside, he has some considerable skill as a fighter as well, his fighting style resembling that of a boxer's. Whether he had other training is unknown, but he seems to crutch a bit on his sheer brash brutality these days, as it tends to get the job done easily enough in a one on one situation against a mundane mook.
His facial scars say you should leave Bond to him.
[character personality]:
In short? Volgin is a complete monster, one of the most despicable, unlikable atrocities of a character offered in his franchise.
To call Volgin a human being is a debatable matter; he is best described as a human-shaped predator, a dangerous creature confined and pacing within the strict rank and file of military protocol and politics. Cultivated from his early days when he was a boxing champion, he is arrogant and cool, confident in his power and ability in the face of a challenger, or target. He can almost be described as bored, as most of his prior victims had tended to pose little difficulty for him, and he prefers his prey screaming and struggling.
Indeed, he is a sadist, and relishes in it without remorse or inhibition. It's to a dangerous fault, where he will get "high" on the rush at the expense of everything else. To an extent, it happens too often that he could care less about information and the original purpose of the torture session for as long as he gets his kicks (and the subject is debatably useless). If you're of the female persuasion or easy on the eyes in whatever respect, expect death to be delayed in the name of his depraved sexual gratification.
On that note, he really doesn't care who he beds down with, where it happens, and whatever else, as long as they have something for him to work on. He is best described as a man of broad tastes. Usually this does not mean well for his partner; because of Volgin's ability (and political climate where Soviet officers were frequently executed!), he has learned not to grow too attached to his lays, or anyone else for that matter. Sure enough, in a moment of weakness in the face of grand plans of world domination and political theater, Volgin found himself giving in to one man.
Fair enough that a single paragraph is at least dedicated to Raikov: Little is known in the giant's personal affairs in regards to the relationship that budded between him and what was once presumably a young upstart transferred to Groznyj Grad with a pretty face, but what resulted later very much indicates that Volgin cares very, very deeply for the man. Threatening, injuring and at times so much as looking at Raikov the wrong way can send the larger Russian into a rage. Volgin, although trusting in Raikov's abilities in regards for what he has as a mundane human, can teeter between overprotective, fussing over Raikov's safety as he becomes a viable target for antagonists in his affairs, to turning a blind eye, letting Raikov's original duty slip in his excessive permissiveness to the extent that he naps on the job and slugs his subordinates as he feels like it... as Volgin goes away on a long business trip and puts Raikov in charge.
(Raikov is also treated as a Colonel despite being a Major, never mind the... very public displays of affection. Scandalous.)
Volgin is arrogant. When he isn't arrogant, he is maintaining the air of overbearing confidence and arrogance. Originally honed in his boxing career, Volgin's arrogance has become a mask to conceal his growing paranoia and superstition (it isn't good for morale, after all). For all of his ability and power, he isn't immune to a bullet lodged in his brain and he's very aware of it. He also isn't immune to his own current either; how he became disfigured isn't clear, some suggestions indicating it was his own power, but he will shuffle off into the depths of his bunker when the rain comes, muttering "Kuwabara, kuwabara", a Japanese chant to ward off lightning strikes.
Although he has a healthy fear of lightning, he is also deathly afraid of frogs to the point of being unable to function in combat should one (somehow) appear. Some suggest it's because of his superstitious side giving way to a fear of things that remind him of the rain, but he could not just like frogs either; this isn't something you'd expect him to be upfront about. He's pretty good at demonstrating his own jumping abilities at catching sight of one of the little amphibians, in any case. Dead frogs burned into amorphous crisps are less bothersome (as they are too disgusting to bother with touching).
For all his irrational reactions, he's still a dangerous opponent due to the fact that he will lock on a target not unlike a pitbull and not let go. Enraged enough and he will ensure that the offender will die, no matter what and by any means necessary. Collateral damage is at best an enjoyable distraction from the ultimate end of a violent affair. He is ruthless and cold-blooded in all his terrible endeavors, with no mercy or regard for whoever happens to be unfortunate enough to be perceived as an enemy, or an immediate stress relief fit for public display to keep his men in line. Livid and provoked enough, he will fear nothing to the point of dangerous carelessness.
For all of that though, it should also be noted that contrary to his appearance, he is very intelligent when his emotions and id aren't in the way. Assuming Volgin's investment is purely in his bulk can be a fatal mistake (and what he would like you to think). In addition to his business in running his fortress, he's also a feared spymaster and very well connected in Soviet politics. He also appears to be educated, with some knowledge of American history and a keen interest in Japan. Very likely he is cultured in some respects. He's also very fluent in English.
[point in timeline you're picking your character from]: One month before the events of Snake Eater, shares timeline with the City's Raikov.
[journal post]: [For a time, the aging Colonel, Yevgeny Volgin had been tapping his pen on the page of his private journal, normally kept snug between the mattress. He was not sure if Raikov had been aware of his usual habit of documenting his daily exploits through the growing collection of diaries over the years, but for one, he did not care, and it had been something of an ease off his general stresses and headaches when it came to the matters of the political mess at the Kremlin and the building tension with the States, maintaining the precarious position of his contacts and keeping suspicion (and most of the snipers) in his current position and rank for the most part away, not to mention the smooth running of his fortress while building up his ultimate goals to the fore in a grand gambit of success or death: the end of the Cold War with the world so played in the palm of his hand. Unity by his own design!
But, right now, he had a lot to be concerned about, to manage, to keep straight.
Sometimes, in his age, he had to have been surprised at how well he could still so precisely manage it all and still find time for the little things. Meanwhile, his appearance and frame, he looked very good for his age, had his enemies writing him off as a stupid brute. He preferred it that way.
With that, he organized his thoughts for his current entry, the most foremost things that had came to him. Occasionally he would spew out the small allowance of humanity he had allowed himself on that damn paper, indulging in the small relief of when he could afford to drop the carefully maintained image of ferocity and terror he usually instilled in his men (kept their morale up and their asses in line). It was not very often. Raikov had been wonderful in this respect, even as he entertained the thought that came now and then that it might have been a bad idea to entrust him with so much of himself, his private world and his artificial sickness. Journals did not have minds of their own. An organic capacity of temptation and betrayal was much different then the absolute control of him selecting a hiding place that was not piss poor.
He scribbled nosily, quickly. For a man so strict and meticulously organized in every other sphere (as he had to be), his handwriting was an atrocious. Normally he pounded at a typewriter with whatever he had intended to send out on important business, but it was all the better to complicate anyone who was able to get ahold of something so very private and make deciphering attempts even more difficult. Sometimes he wrote in his own invented code. Not tonight. Didn't feel the need to.]
... I've arrived here, forced to explore the topography of a strange new universe beyond proper time and space. I've found Ivan quite alive and well, although he tells me that it was like a day never missed in the times he have come here before and have returned. For some peculiar reason, if this is a place for him to escape to, I have joined him. How come? Did he want me here? In this place, no time will pass, he assures me, as I see the day and night come like anything else. The weariness growing with my age still weighs on me regardless. I could not be given the luxury of being "trapped" twenty years younger. For now I look outside, stand on the streets dressed in civilian clothing, studying my surroundings; I want structure and sense, but this world so far is not allowing it. The residents, if what I am interpreting correctly from what I have been shown of this... "network", appear to be from other points in time, other worlds.
I will keep reading. Eventually I will see how they respond to me. Caution, Yevgeny. Be cautious. Don't reveal too much, yet. Find out how much Ivan has already said before you make the mistake of saying too much yourself.
Yes, I can handle this. I have baited nosy Americans thinking themselves clever in probing and bribing answers from me to do otherwise. This will be no different.
I wonder how long has Ivan stayed here? What has he done in my absence in this ... pocket? I do not quite fear for him, if our political allegiances do not pursue us into this place; he can manage my affairs in my absence back at Groznyj Grad beautifully. If we are allowed to return as he tells me, when my original duties and affairs are relevant again, I will find the time to make a fine leader of him, fit to be at my side. He will be my right hand.
If I succeed, we will have all the time in the world. For now, it seems that will be the case here, time shared between us as a preview of what will be.
I look forward to it.
[third person / log sample]: The proud and lovely Major Ivan Raidenovitch Raikov had not approved of his Colonel's more frequent trips to Moscow to straighten out his business there. Manufacturing the proper political puppets and ensuring they would carry out his will would take work, Volgin would say as he had indulged Raikov in more and more of his usually privately organized plans once so carefully divided between various contacts, but for all of the importance he stressed in managing these things in person, still the smaller, younger Major would pout his lip in an attempt to compel him to reconsider and attempt to manage it all from a distance, through someone else, on the phone. For his safety.
It was sometimes difficult to resist that face, but...
His lifetime mantra had still served him well: Stay the course, no matter the cost. Major Ocelot and Major Raikov had proven to be quite capable at keeping the fortress in line without him there. Stop worrying. Volgin had been very aware of the growing suspicions of his enemies. They had been watching him closely, even for all the spies he had rooted out, all of the men he thought of as spies but were likely not beaten and fried as a show to the others anyway, the price of treason. His men could piss their pants at catching a glance of him in passing, salute, anything to keep his interests away from his occasional need for more carnal and brutal means of stress relief, but things still leaked. It troubled him, for he had taken every precaution he could, but the most he could do, ultimately, was slow the ebb. It was a race between carrying out his purposes before the dam gave. This was what his life had finally come to, this whole thing building up so far, piece by piece, everything unusually playing so perfectly in his powerful lap.
Best not take it for granted. In the recent months, he had been overall pleased with its progression.
Stop worrying.
Besides, the soft snow drifting outside in the dark Moscow night, it was good to be at his lavish estate again. The servants had managed the upkeep beautifully in his absence, even in the span of months. Maybe they had been slacking off. No doubt they had been told of his return. He could not tell.
For now, he had been enjoying a fine wine in his giant quarters, thumbing through his papers at the large desk, the proud hammer-and-sickle of his country hanging behind him. Fine artwork, pillaged pieces from his exploits in the war, illegal purchases in the underground, were on display around him. A phonograph passed down from his father rolled off a crackling recording of Ravel's Boléro.
The wine was delicately sipped. Chateau d'Yquem, 1811. Quite a fine acquisition for his cabinet, easily afforded with his great wealth. He could allow himself a little indulgence. Tonight was going to be Hell, even under the cover of darkness. Who knows what his contact was hiding under his own coat. Volgin was not a trusting man, and for good reason. Men often changed allegiances when bribed with the right amount.
In this line of business, truth was best snug within the cover of lies.
His eye trailed to the window, uneasy. They would likely know of his arrival by now. His dogs prowling the perimeter of the estate, trained to kill, had been relatively silent so far.
Stop worrying.
The lights dim, curtains drawn, under the simple lamp, Volgin thumbed at his current report, curling his lip. He was not enjoying what he was reading so far. His presence had indeed been needed. Required. He could not be everywhere at the same time, as much as he wished he could, but this, this was going to be straightened out. Right now.
He set the paper down, having shuffled through most of the brown envelope's contents, having read enough. He stood up, his great, ornate chair creaking, and went to dress himself. Civilian clothing. Something relatively mundane. Surely his size would give him away, but from a distance without a frame of reference, he could get by, just long enough to disappear and carry out what needed to be done.
His footsteps echoed along the great hall. He had called up his driver earlier. He would be there shortly, if not now. A good man, reliable and quick. Didn’t question. Knew very little. Upon stepping outside, his breath coming out in large puffs slightly illuminated in the lights of a sleepy Moscow, he gave a dog cheerfully greeting him an affectionate rub.
He wished men were more like dogs. It would have made his life much easier.
------
Volgin being a prominent member of the Brezhnev faction was not a surprise. Very few knew however that he had been eating out of the GRU colonel's rubber glove-clad hand. They had met and it was the usual display of formalities, the fancy talk, the dance of trust and lies and give and take, but, thankfully, Brezhnev was still aligned quite tightly to his vision. Or he appeared to be. Reliability was still something of an uncertainty, but that was to be expected of his kind. He had shown some hesitation with his plans, but Volgin had the folder, the photos, the plans and blueprints. He showed him, and explained its progress. ''
At least politicians were a lot like dogs, faux intelligent things that knew how to weave words. The creatures had a tendency to salivate and bend quite well to his will when he offered the right cut of meat. Volgin had some considerable skill. His time in the NKVD, the constant monitoring of his freakish condition, had taught him to be sly. Dangerously clever. Manipulative. He had to be, or he would have been long since purged like so many of his fellow officers. He had come very close.
Instead, he had one of the most powerful men in the Soviet Union beneath him.
Brezhnev, over another round of his finest wine and his half-eaten delicacy, was impressed in the end. That was good, if it was not the alcohol talking for him at least.
Volgin picked at his serving. It was good, very good, he had a fine kitchen staff even at this hour but he still had business to attend to; he had to be quick. One of his contacts had been arranged to meet him after. The next few days would be a test of his speed and tongue. He had not been looking forward to it.
Which upon leaving, instead, there was the crack of a gun from a rooftop. A familiar bud of red pain bloomed. The giant worked on instinct, found himself clutching his shoulder in the back of the car, telling the goddamned driver to step the hell on it.
Things had been going too well.
He was going to have to rearrange that meeting. Somewhere outside of Moscow. Too important. Possibility of bugs at his estate. Moscow was too dangerous now. Not a surprise he was in their crosshairs already. They had been getting alarmingly quick, bold.
Volgin was a very dangerous animal. Very few men could deal with him directly without the nearly palpable weight of fear. His facial scarring beautifully accented his predatory nature, his partially gold eyes under his heavy brow reflecting a nearly bestial intensity. Exerting his dominance was often easy, nearly boring; he only needed his presence. A motion to stand had settled most arguments. It was very rare that a situation called for him to demonstrate his... anomaly.
But even the most deadly members of the animal kingdom were hunted. Volgin did not enjoy being hunted.
The massive man closed his eyes, feeling his age as the car bumped along. This was not the first time he had been shot, wouldn't be the last time. He had taken far worse in stride. Nothing vital this time.
Pain was one of the most beautiful of human expressions, but for all of the bullets that could wedge themselves into his side, he could not evade the inevitability of time. He was in the twilight of his prime, if he had any left. In five years, if he lived that long, if he succeeded, he would be 60.
Seldom he would admit it, never aloud, but he was getting tired. All these years orchestrating his grand vision. The Cold War was going to end, the East and West reunited again, and it was going to be the glorious Soviet Union at the top, under the strings of his control.
It was going to be beautiful, and he would have all the time in the world after. He promised Ivan, in murmurs, in the lull of afterglows, just as much.
Meanwhile, his driver was offered a cigar. Cuban, of course.
After tending to his injury, Volgin had made himself scarce in one of the guest rooms. No windows. Secure doors. Still as ornate and sized for him, garish and excessive for most anyone else, but not as insulated. Terrible place for his more intimate urges when he wanted his company alive after.
The phone was hung up and had trudged over to the plush room, pulling himself onto the bed in his insulated suit. A precaution. Normally he slept naked. He wanted to sleep naked, his containment suit itching terribly. Ivan got fussy when he picked too much at the sensitive, irritated rims of the scars cutting across the entirety of his body when he had that goddamn suit on for too long. They often hurt him still, sometimes bled when he had to exert too much of his power. Two decades old, but it was only Ivan that had to deal with his griping about the damn things.
Ivan often shushed him.
Of all things, he found them exotic. It was... an odd feeling. A change from the usually pitying stares, the cringing, the fascination with the grotesque.
Volgin took an interest in the wall.
The final hours of the night were spent in the tangle of racing thoughts. Names. Places. Pieces of things. Faces. Surprised he could still keep track of it all. Had to. He would be testing his honed soldier's adaptability against uncertainty. Somehow, sleep came but it was with one eye open.
He awoke somewhere else.