surface tension
an eclectic rhythm of click clack heart attacks

raikov, ocelot, and volgin. written for chewilicious back in may.

At any sort of sharply clacking footsteps of a superior, the soldiers of Groznyj Grad stand to attention; yet they worry little, still possessing whatever thought they previously held, because the officers rarely give a damn. It's when they hear smooth, sexy, confident slaps of a hard surface against another that they really begin to fear. Major Raikov is quite unlike the other officers, after all, with long hair, beautiful features, and one hell of a right hand.

Soldiers and officers alike tense and gravitate to the walls because they know better by now. If the clicks are slow and on patrol, they salute in deference and hope their intrusion upon the Major's view is a transgression he'll forgive - or that he's sufficiently occupied. It's when the rhythm increases that they sweat and pray to a deity they never knew to grace Mother Russia that they're in the right place at the right time because Major Raikov Is Going Somewhere. If God doesn't answer their prayers, and He rarely does, then they'll be damned days after as they still feel it.

What favoritism lets one get away with.

The footsteps of Major Ocelot are unmistakable: slinky jingles following sharp yet languid clicks. They've come to realize that the twenty-year old walks as if he takes in every detail that could possibly exist in this world, processes it, and then understands effortlessly at his own pace, which seems to be as fast as he can kill a man. And they know that no man can escape his notice. If they do their job and do it well, then they have little to fear; in a bizarre sense, the jingles of the spurs they hear that distinguish the Major's footsteps from the others are comforting even though they innately realize that Major Ocelot is one of the most frightening men they'll ever have the misfortune of knowing.

Do your job and don't make trouble seems to be the mantra, because if the work, food, and environment don't kill them, Colonel Volgin just might. They know his footsteps to be heavy and deliberate, more of a stomp than a clack, but there's a carelessness about them that makes the soldiers nervous. They could be doing an outstanding job but die just for being there. Where was the justice in Groznyj Grad? It certainly came not in the form of the towering, electric Colonel.

When the footsteps of Colonel Volgin are accompanied by Majors Raikov and Ocelot, an eclectic rhythm of click clack heart attack, the soldiers of Groznyj Grad aren't quite what to do with themselves. Hearts pound, hearts still, hearts regain a steady beat in the thrill of danger, but always A Change Occurs.

And so Change parades down the hallway along the necessary pathways to the Colonel's office, stomps followed by clicking jingles - two majors side by side behind a Colonel. It's a business walk from all the clattering talk of non-confidential plans and delegating responsibilities. "You'll take your kittens outside for a walk," the Colonel says to the slinky jingles; "You'll take your beauty in my room for overtime," the Colonel says to the confident slaps. The majors say nothing to this because this is the way it always sounds, and Volgin wants nothing to hear but his own dreams and plans of action.

It's a steady cadence they always create, and it's what keeps the soldiers calm - until Major Ocelot misses a step

(from a subtle sway and a sudden tension in the Majors' walk as the two titles meet: a major collusive collision in the form of Major Raikov's shoulder brushing against Major Ocelot's and the significant smirk and muted moue that follows in production

[the soldiers hold a collective breath])

...but he regains it with nothing to show that any of the sort had transpired, save for a heavier step away; Major Raikov falls back into cadence, into a beautiful, habitual clacking, and the soldiers of Groznyj Grad can breathe easy for the moment as the Colonel followed by two Majors (one minor) pass.

When they disappear into the Colonel's office, the sound of life inside the Grad resumes with gentle whirrs, professional clicks, and the easy greetings of soldiers acknowledging to each other that they are indeed still alive.