NOTES
I know nothing about Russia.
I wanted to explore the aftermath of the Furan's clash with GLOVE first time round, and I also wanted to explore the character of Gregori Leonov more. Gregori was one of the few people we saw interact with Nero purely as friends and equals, rather than as staff, pupil, former pupil, or savoir and I wanted to explore that relationship- how does Nero react when forced to work with someone who does not, ultimately, have to defer to him. I suspect not very well. I am also curious as to what it takes for Nero to learn how trust someone as well as how he might have been as 'a dangerous, wild predator' as Number One described him in The Higher Institute of Villainous Education. Characters will likely be OOC- the Nero here is rather more reckless and callous than the experienced man we see in the books, and the extent of our information about Gregori is Russian, eventually marries and has children, possibly too curious for his own good, beats Max in card games. That's it. That's the sum total of what we know.
Having said that, I hope you enjoy this. I am not Mark Walden, I don't own HIVE and this is not canon.
It's built around the headcanon that the Furans initially worked for GLOVE, then split off/were kicked out. It is set in the week immediately following Elena's death.
If the speech is in italics, the speaker is talking in Russian.
There is some swearing- not masses of it, but some. It isn't used for the sake of it, it's used because Nero is currently a volatile train wreck waiting to happen. Further warnings will be added to each chapter.
St Petersburg.
The domed spires of the city gleamed in the frozen light of dawn, the shrunken sun bleaching the white-blue sky a dull, lifeless yellow. Something in the city had changed- not on the surface, perhaps, but underneath, a subtle, sudden shift in the atmosphere as if news of the death of a great and terrible power was slowly making its way from person to person. The city felt...empty.
The atmosphere set Gregori Leonov on edge as he walked through the streets, and he found himself looking over his shoulder more often than usual as he made his way from his 'public' house- that of a moderately successful banker devoted to charity works and public service- to his private one- the one he ran his criminal enterprises from that was disguised as some outpost of the Kremlin. The soldiers outside seemed undisturbed; they stood to attention as he walked up to them and keyed his pin in to the reader, letting him pass through without suggesting that something may be wrong.
Inside, the house was quiet.
That was not unusual in and of itself; he was often the first person to arrive in the morning. But something, something-
It smelt of vodka.
Gregori was striding towards the kitchen before his mind had fully made the connection, drawing his revolver as he moved soundlessly towards the kitchen door and kicked it open-
"There's really no need to be so melodramatic."
A young man, barely into his twenties sat with his hands raised in what would have been a gesture of surrender if it weren't for the shot of vodka in his left hand, and the fact he was leaning back in the chair with his highly polished shoes on the table. A slightly battered, massive grey fur coat enveloped him; he had sleek, raven black hair pulled away from his face in a lose pony tail and a small, neatly trimmed anchor beard. Bright blue eyes watched Gregori with a glittering insolence; apparently the stranger was unconcerned about the loaded gun being pointed at him.
"Who are you?" Gregori asked. "What are you doing in my house?"
"It's not your house," The stranger replied. He tossed town the vodka and slammed the glass on the table. "You wouldn't keep vodka this crap in your house."
"I asked you who you were." Gregori growled, pointing the revolver straight between the man's eyes.
"You know Anastasia Furan and her siblings are dead?" the man replied.
What?
That wasn't possible. The Furans were untouchable, invincible. They ran in higher criminal circles than Gregori, they were higher than the mafia. Rumours suggested that they had a powerful backer, someone with their fingers in a lot of different stolen pies.
"How do you know this?" Gregori demanded. "Who are you?"
"I used to work for Madame Furan. Not very important. Not unimportant, either. I could probably fill the vacuum they'll leave...if I have the right support."
He was lying, of course. A man of middling importance would not be so arrogant as to believe that they could replace a major crime syndicate with help from outside the organisation. One of the deputies, unpopular with the others, perhaps, but strong and ruthless enough to stage a coup. But why come to him? Why come to Gregori Leonov for help?
"Who are you?" he asked again.
The man smiled. "My name," he said in English, "is Maximillian Nero."