A/N: Ok, it's hard to say that you like Volgin, what with all the mindless violence and all, but everyone's entitled to have one than one dimension demonstrated, aren't they? So, I wanted to pad out the Bond-villain-esque manic into something a little more, dare I say, human? He's as intriguing as he is horrifying, and long overdue a little fanfic exposure. I've translated a few spoken lines into Russian, just so you get the idea. Read and review, please. "It sucks" will be viewed positively...
Disclaimer: I don't own jack. Or any other characters. Har har har! Except Lenusya. Of course.
My Pretty Jungle Flower
I never expected to be assigned to Groznyj Grad. In truth, I never fully expected to be assigned anywhere after so many years slaving away in the bowels of Kirovo-Chepetsk's Care Home, a glorified death house that was still struggling to undo the years of damage that Stalinist rule had caused. A home for the insane, the elderly, the terminally ill and the "undesirables" in the community, it housed over two hundred wards and only thirty able-bodied souls to man it.
I was one of them.
My mother had died there in 1953, crippled with tuberculosis at the age of forty-five. My father had died in the war, and so I had nowhere to go. The Warden offered me a bed in return for my services, and I agreed. He was a corpulent, pious traditionalist who mourned every day over the death of Stalin that year. He used to lecture me about the value of a "strong hand" while he puffed on a pungent pipe and I went about my work, collecting the bed linens from the rooms, washing and bleaching them, then hanging them to dry in the constant chill of the Kirovskaya air. Whether I was the only one who would listen, or whether he truly sensed in me a kindred spirit, I don't know. I couldn't say I did know the value of a "strong hand". Both my mother and father refused to so much as look at me, let alone touch me. I didn't tell the warden this, merely nodded politely and stoically when he called me to his office specifically to rant about how if it were up to him, he'd liquidate every last one of the wards in the Home. He said that Stalin had the right idea when he purged the country of the cancers that were living off the hard working folks like him.
And that's how it went for ten years. I kept my head down, I did my work, I listened to the Warden as he bent my ear about "undesirables". It was a few days before my twenty-forth birthday that he announced I was to be transferred. I cared little. In the ten years I had been there, I had made no friends, not so much as an acquaintance among the staff or the wards in the Home. I was, however, surprised to find out that the transfer was to a military facility in the East. The name and exact location was classified. I was told nothing else, except that I was to tell no one of my transfer. The Warden muttered about how they needed someone diligent, level-headed and above all, quiet. It made me smile, in spite of course, to see that the warden was upset to see me go. No doubt he had become accustomed to my being there, comforted by my pleasant, soft appearance. He would often, when drunk, embrace me, touch me. He would tell me how he loved my warm, sleek curves, the smell of my fine, blonde tresses; the way I was "put together". I was robust, healthy. The way a woman should be. Built for wear and tear. So he told me.
I gathered the small bundle that contained my entire life, looked around my room one last time and blew a kiss to the poster of Stalin that adorned my wall; a gift from the Warden, to "inspire" me in dark times, he said. The car came for me at midnight, under cover of darkness. Two soldiers in military garb ushered me into the back in hushed voices, where there sat a second woman, older than I, a timid-looking brunette. She had nothing note-worthy about her, and we passed the long journey in silence. Many miles by road, hundreds more by train, where we joined by two more women, again entirely unremarkable. The private military train had blacked out windows, blocking our view of the outside. It was only when the engine came to a halt many hours after we departed that we finally saw our surroundings. The train track came to an abrupt stop on the edge of a densely wooded expanse, where we were to take a helicopter to the final destination of our journey.
My grandfather had told me of the dense jungles of the East, and until that moment, I scarcely believed him. How could such jungles exist so close to the grey, putrid slums of Kirovo-Chepetsk? We were unloaded from the helicopter, again, under cover of night. A clear, cold night, so much clearer than in the city where the street lights stained the sky a sickly orange. This was proper night, inky black and full of wild noises that made my flesh crawl. We were lined up and counted, a strange act, considering there were but four of us. Our names were called out to us. I didn't catch the other women's names, I didn't really care to. One was perhaps Natalya, one maybe Svetlana; common names like that.
"Lenusya Grigorovna Romanova?" Came the call from one of the soliders, barked into the quiet night.
«Да.»(1) I said clearly. Evidently, it wasn't what he wanted to hear.
«Да, господин!»(2) He corrected me, hissing through his cloaked mouth, showing me the barrel of his gun. «Не забудьте его!»(3) He bore the back of his palm, and I tensed in anticipation of the blow. It was then I heard a second voice, so powerful and resonating that my attention was roused.
"Lieutenant! Stand down!" The other women jumped, the soldiers surrounding us flinched. The one who had spoken to me yelped, spun around on his heels, and saluted. I could see the fear behind his eyes as he did so. Who was it that inspired such terror within these young servicemen? Put the very fear of God in them?
As it turned out, he was not so very far from godliness.
He emerged from the shadow of the night, fists clenched, towering over every solider there, with a grin and an aura of overwhelming power.
"C-c-colonel Volgin!" The youngster stammered, standing so straight, I feared his spine may snap with the effort. "The ones you requested are here." Holding his salute with a tremble that we all could see, he stepped away from us, as Colonel Volgin approached. The otherworldly eyes of his superior officer followed him, scrutinised him, penetrated him. The officer drew up in front of the rookie, placed a hand on his soldier, and I was sure I heard the young man whimper.
"You forget your manners, Stefan." His grasp audibly tightened, the solider cried out, his knees buckled beneath him. "Don't make me remind you of them…" With that, Colonel Volgin tossed the youngster aside, and approached our line. Starting at the opposite side, he looked intently at each of the women it seemed he himself had requested.
"Please accept my apologies, ladies. Our welcome wagon is not what it used to be…" he said smoothly, passing along the line. In the dark, I heard each of them let out a frightful gasp as he went. The girl next to me covered her mouth and turned away, eyes squeezed shut. It was only when he drew up before me that I could see what had distressed them so.
Scars. Scars that broke the surface of a beautiful face. Though it was twisted with contempt and rage, it was beautiful. Fine, sharp, poignant features carved out of alabaster flesh. I'm sure that the others did not see what I did. In fact, I imagine not even he saw it as I did. It was only then that I became aware that I was staring, gazing upwards at a man who had just brought a solider to his knees for speaking out of turn. And the strangest thing was, he was staring back. When my well-learned modesty finally took hold, I lowered my gaze and turned my head slightly. He protested by taking my chin within his hand. I heard the creak of rubber and smelled it from his fingers. I liked it.
"What's your name?" he asked me, his grip tightening slightly around my jaw. I let a small cry of anguish escape my lips, because I knew it was what he wanted to hear. He gave a grunt of approval.
"Lenusya Grigorovna Romanova…" I said meekly, my innocence and naivety well performed . He laughed heartily, and discreetly drew my body closer to his.
"I know of your family, Lenusya Grigorovna Romanova…" he chided me, "Proud war heroes!" he laughed again. I wasn't sure how to take this. My grandfather, Vassily Romanova, went to war for the Tsar in 1915, securing one of the Russian Armies few victories in East Prussia. Yet, my father, who went to war shortly after I was born in 1939, was an infamous deserter, shot through the heart as he ran for his life from the battlefield during the Battle of Stalingrad in 1942. I was willing to imagine that Colonel Volgin knew of both my father and my grandfather.
"Yes, sir…" I managed to say. At this, he grunted another laugh, and brought his face close to mine. I felt him inhale, savour my scent and then I felt a snap of energy jolt through me. I jumped, shocked and excited, turned those pleasantly surprised eyes on him curiously. He released my chin, and took a step back.
"You're much better in the flesh, Lenusya…" he said slowly, producing my photograph from his pocket and flicking it across my nose playfully. The side of my mouth twitched into a curved smile as he continued, leaning close into me once again. «мой милый цветок джунглей.»(4)
(1) "Yes."
(2) "Yes, sir!"
(3) "Don't forget it!"
(4) "My pretty jungle flower." (Literal translation: "My dear flower of the jungle")