majorbonerkiller | FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

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FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

Well Ivan certainly didn't remember leaving the door to his apartment wide open, just beckoning squatters to come shit on his carpet--or even worse, eat his food.

Not that they weren't all squatters here anyway. Ivan crouched down near the door frame, pulling out his tranquilizer gun. He peered over the threshold, and took a chance, hoping his dog was still here--and still alive.

"Galina! Here girl!"

When he heard the familiar patter and panting he sighed in relief, ruffling her ears when she was close enough, "Good girl." Curse himself for smiling at a time like this.

Slightly more confident now with his canine comrade, Ivan entered the dark apartment, keeping his footsteps quiet and his tranquilizer at the ready.

And he almost immediately tripped over his own dirty laundry, screaming in the process of mid-falling terror. Luckily his amazing acrobatic skills (catching himself on the dresser) came to the rescue.

Moving forward towards the center of the room Ivan could hear--breathing. He baited his breath, trying to hold back any instincts to just start shooting up the place. He was fueled by a sort of cocktail of terror and anger--how dare somebody come waltzing into his apartment thinking they own the goddamn place?!

He padded closer, towards the sounds of life--they must be on the couch, since he just knocked his knee on the coffee table and had to hiss in silent agony a moment before going on.

Finally steadying himself he located the perpetrator's head after several seconds (a whole minute of squinting) and pressed the muzzle of his gun against it, "Get up!"

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Ivan held onto the arm rest, leaning over to shout. "If you don't leave her alone, Yevgeny--!"

Wait, he had a better idea.

"Leave her alone and I'll give you something special~" He put on his best prostitute voice to boot.

"My things!" Volgin growled, despite the fact that they were very much not his things until he slipped out of the Nexus with them.

Now where was that dog?

Ivan threw one of his boots at Volgin's head. "YEVGENY!" Pay attention to me.

Galina barked and ran past him during this dull distraction.

Pompf! Volgin jerked back towards Raikov, blinking, if surprised that it had been a boot and not a fist or one with an actual foot inside it.

"The dog is eating your food," he stated with a rough grunt, snapping his arms out in an attempt to catch the nimble husky as it swiftly darted by.

Ivan froze.

Time stopped.

Somewhere miles away a child cried.

"What?" Ivan, fixated and with a terrifying aura, practically visible around him, whistled harshly; Galina darted over, box still in mouth.

"Drop it."

She wagged her tail; Ivan pointed to the ground, "Drop. It." With a small whimper Galina dropped the box and Ivan scooped it back up, patted her on the head, and opened up a packet of poptarts.

"Mmm," he mused as he bit into one.

Volgin puffed his breath, narrowing his eyes at the offending dog as she so obediently (yet hesitantly) relinquished what was his prize. He quietly slung his bag around his large shoulder instead, approaching the beast.

(He was tempted to send a swift boot into its side.)

"The dog had those," he stated in that dry voice again, never mind his entire life prior to his inheritance hinged on not being picky when it came to matters of food. Dog drool was not a deterrence when it came to the ravages and aches of hunger.

He shrugged, finished the poptart and setting the box on the table. Galina hoped up onto the couch and curled up against Ivan's side, resting her head in his lap; he returned the gesture with lazy pets.

"Ugh...how are you going to clean this shit up...?" Ivan groaned as he gestured loosely to the settled white mess around them.

"Actually," Volgin was reaching into a pocket on his person, "I should go soon." He produced a case of his favorite cigars (they still made them! they were expensive to import on his paycheck!) and taking one, clipped it and started to light up.

The giant was backtracking towards the front door.

"What time is it?"

"What--you're not going anywhere!" Ivan sprung to his feet and kicked Volgin square in the shin--with his bootless foot, causing the younger Soviet to hop around on the other. "Ow ow ow!"

Volgin's voice darkened, as he tilted his large head down at the fellow Communist. He did not feel that kick, really.

"This is a serious question." The fresh cigar bounced in his mouth as he spoke. "What time is it."

He was reaching for his own phone anyway, a thick, doubly reinforced and insulated thing custom-made to withstand the worst of his body's unpredictable currents. Not to mention accommodate his thick fingers. It was a very nice phone for what it was.

Ivan rubbed his tender foot, standing back up on his uneven limbs. Did his boots really add that much height?

"I don't know, but you're not going anywhere until you fix this mess!"

"You're not going to even have a Yevgeny to fuck your tiny white ass if I stay too long!" the older man snapped back.

Ivan raised an eyebrow, "Why? Whatever you had back home...doesn't effect you here."

Volgin's ass was grazing the front door's knob.

"You want me to chance it?" His tone was laced with paranoia. The phone's clock was checked; it was not showing right. The numbers were flashing nonsense at him like an unset VCR. Volgin curled his lip and flipped it open. No service. "If I'm right and you're wrong, I will die."

Again.

Ivan smiled, confident.

He liked being in the know.

A hand pressed itself against Yevgeny's chest, followed by another, followed by a delicate white face.

"I'm sure. You can't die here," not forever, anyway.

It was hard not to fall for that beautiful man. Incredibly hard. Volgin was trying to best not to melt at his touch; he had been very well conditioned to relax at his attentions when the pressure (the external stressful kind) approached his limits.

"You believe in an Afterlife?" the giant's voice was a distant drift. He rolled away the cigar's band and tossed it aside, tilting his head back. Raikov could feel his torso heave, on the cusp of hyperventilation; whatever was bothering him was bothering him.

Ivan looked up, then let his eyes drift back down in silent thought.

"If a place like this can exist...why not? Sure."

Thinking of death wasn't a pleasant thought--even here when he pushed it aside because of some grandiose loop in the system. Most of all, he didn't like where this conversation was going. Even if his answer had flimsy logic, it was enough for him.

His hands tightened a bit in the fabric of Volgin's shirt.

"I've been there for almost half a century, Vanya."

Let that sink in. Whatever, whatever the Nexus was and is, it did not change the fact of Volgin's perspective that decades had passed (he was still realizing how many decades it had only been -- otherwise they had felt like centuries).

He felt those pale hands cling. He could almost feel the nails against his insulative second skin.

(The ex-GRU Colonel coldly steeled himself; his... his heart hurt. That was how he could describe it.

It was a pain he dreaded most of all.)

"There are terms to my continued living, is all."

"What? How old are you?" Was the only question Ivan could fathom at the moment, panicked almost, but trying to conceal it. "I--I mean before the...half century..."

He'd bother Yevgeny on the latter half of his admission later.

Volgin thought on this for a moment. "Fifty-five, fifty-six. I am not sure. I feel about that much. I'm not ageless."

Large hands slowly closed around Raikov's. One was gloved, the other still bare. It was deceptively soft and warm, a consequence of his constant need for insulation.

"But...that's...," he swallowed, "1964..."

"Yes?"

Volgin did not like where this conversation was going.

"But what about the Shagohod?" He said firmly.

"I used it."

Volgin hesitated, narrowing his eyes, trying to keep himself confident, powerful. His gut was still twisting, he was not liking this conversation and its implications.

(Raikov was at his lap again, morose and stroking his erect cock.)

The old Colonel straightened himself, shuffled, made sure he was at his full height. Be vague, but truthful.

"What became of it, I do not know."

Ivan's lip quivered, "I came here--stripped down to my thong. That Yankee...bastard took my clothing. How...," and the emotion really started to pour out on his question; the urgency of the situation. What he had at stake.

"How long do I have?"

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