A/N: Warning! There's some unpleasantness in this chapter. No more Russian, I think. It causes more problems than the style value is worth! There'll be some Latin though, just a spattering!…Thanks to my reviewers! You're both very fine writers and your opinion means a lot! Cheers! Bare with me, it's a difficult story to write, I'm trying to approach Volgin through the eyes of this girl. It's not easy…

Disclaimer: I don't even own these pants! Lenusya is my creation, though, so back off!

My Pretty Jungle Flower

Chapter 2

I settled into my duties more quickly than the other women who had arrived with me. Mostly they took to cowering in the corridors, pressing themselves into the grey walls when a soldier would pass, heads turned and eyes averted in some sort of show of humility. They slept together, they ate together, they showered together. Truly, they valued their innocence more than their independence. However, it didn't save them. Innocence never does. Even as they huddled together in their room during the night, where I sat at the opposite end, regarding the view from the high window, watching the shadows of the jungle cross the face of the moon, we could hear the soldiers approach, whispering outside for several moments before they would throw the door wide open and send the girls into a mad, shrieking scrabble to defend themselves. The officers came first, the highest ranking among them took their pick of the flailing rabble, and the others carried her off to his quarters, where I imagine after he had his fill, they indulged themselves too. It continued like this, night after night, each of the young women being stolen from their bed in the witching hour to satisfy some greedy soldiers need. Now when they cowered in the corridors, they shivered with genuine fear, collected bed linens pressed against their tear-stained faces when one of those horrific soldiers passed, precious little things ruined by the hands of men.

Yet through all this, I couldn't help but wonder what they had expected. Three quiet, pretty young girls brought to work here, in a military facility in the middle of nowhere, completely inhabited by men? Each one a guaranteed virtue. Obviously, their score of years had done little to teach them of the way the world was. "Sic transit gloria mundi" (1) as my grandfather had said. Life is simply a succession of tolerable pains, and if you're lucky, it'll end peacefully. I never really felt pain, I never really cried. I never really felt anything. I just was. No one ever hurt me, because no one ever knew me. It was that simple.

Even though I lived with these girls, we were worlds apart. I knew they resented me, even though their pallid faces said differently, because thus far, none of the soldiers had touched me. Not one of them dared. The girls came to me one night, begging me to use whatever influence I had to bring their mistreatment to an end.

"Why do you come to me? I have no influence here." I lied.

The soldiers regarded me with suspicion, laced with the fear that someone might see that suspicion. The order had obviously come from above that I was not to be interfered with. I could only guess at where such an order had came from. In fact, I knew. Of course I knew. Everyone knew. That's why they treated me with such contrived courtesy. I didn't complain. Colonel Volgin's desire to have a monopoly upon my "affections" kept me safe from the wickedness that ran rampant in the corridors of Groznyj Grad. It also kept me annexed from every other soul in the facility. Yet, I hadn't so much as seen the man since the first night we arrived. The man was bizarrely secretive. Reclusive even. The kind of person who caused such terror for the short moments he was around, that it was pointless to remain any longer. He couldn't scare these soldiers anymore than he already had.

It was the Tuesday of the third week of my being there that I saw him again.

He was accustomed to taking tea before he retired in the evenings, at ridiculous times of the day. I worked on and off in the kitchen, catering to the half starved convicts/conscripts of the facility. That particular evening he requested that tea be served in his rooms at exactly 19:53, and that I must serve it. The prestige was welcomed, if not predicted. I prepared his tray, cursing the vagrant quiver in my right hand as I went. A single silver teapot filled only with hot water, his silver tea leaf filter with the delicate silver chain that hung over the side of the cup, already stuffed with fragrant leaves (I wore my fingertips raw removing their course veins), a small china cup and a small sugar bowl. He may have been a monster, but he was a monster with a sweet tooth. He drank his tea black. "Black as his heart!" The other girls commented. I thought them bold to make such a judgement, as they had seen as little of him as I. He liked to watch the tea leaves "corrupt" the water into that derisive brown colour. As valid a way to take one's pleasure as any, I mused as I left the kitchen with my precious cargo.

His was a large room at the end of a corridor. There were several other rooms in this same hall, none of them occupied. Drawing myself up in front of the large, mahogany (I noted, the only one in the facility) door, I struggled to balance the tray on one hand as I rapped with my knuckles.

"You're late. Come in." Came the response. I inhaled sharply. This was not a good start. Again, I struggled to straighten out the uniform I wore with a single hand. All of us had been given the same dress. It reminded me of a nurse's uniform, sterile and white, it buttoned from our sternum all the way down to the hem of the skirt, which was ludicrously short. Again, what did we expect? It was not designed with comfort or style in mind, merely functionality and ease of access. The back of the skirt creased when we sat and the material strained over our chests causing what turned out to be a great source of amusement for the soldiers. I opened the heavy door awkwardly, and had to push it open with my back as I held the tray steady. To my surprise, when I turned around, Colonel Volgin was sitting at his desk, in an armchair of all thing, staring at me, his ever present sneer of a grin etched across his face. I stood completely still, until he beckoned me forward with the crook of his index finger, and I laid the tray in front of him, cursing that straining material as I did so. The last thing I needed was for a button to pop loose and hit him in the eye!

It was only then that I took a look around his quarters. It was unlike any other room in Groznyj Grad. The walls had solid oak panelling. One wall was adorned with a Soviet flag that hung proudly against the wooden background. The floor too was wooden, but was covered by a red carpet that stretched over all but a few feet of the room. Bookcases, atlases, maps strewn across a coffee table in the corner, even a telescope! It was like stepping onboard on 18th century Russian galley! And there sat Vice-Admiral Zakhary Mishukov himself! Clearly he was a traditionalist as much as a progressive fundamentalist! I stood aghast for a moment.

"Not what you expected, hmm?" he inquired, arching a single eyebrow. He sounded almost proud, but in a way impatient with my reaction.

"No, sir." It was the absolute truth. He grunted a laugh, and leaned forward to pour the hot water into the china cup, the leaf filter already giving colour to the liquid. It was then that he said something very strange.

"Please, call me Yevgeny." he said deftly, leaning back in his chair, with a solid creak of the wooden legs as they battled to support his very tangible weight. Yevgeny. From the English name Eugene, meaning "well born" if I wasn't mistaken. My grandmother had a penchant for useless knowledge like that.

So… Thunderbolt was very much human.

If I regarded him questioningly, I wasn't aware of it, but he picked up on it immediately. He looked at me with impressive concentration, as though he were attempting to discern something that I would not tell him.

"What? You thought I had no name, is that it?" he questioned me, accusingly, narrowing his eyes slightly, whilst maintaining that intriguing smile of his. I started to speak, then regretted it.

"No, sir!" I protested, "It's just that I inquired as to what your name was, and no one seemed able to tell me…" I trailed off, annoyed and frustrated at my inability to communicate. "I just assumed…" I attempted a new line of speech. He silenced me almost before I began.

"Why would you be asking about me?" he asked confidently, inclining his head to one side. He knew instantly that he had me exactly where he wanted me. I stammered, made a show of wringing my hands. My mouth opened and closed like a dying perch, like the ones my grandfather used to catch to make ukha (2) in the winter months. For all my "biting intelligence", he had indeed caught me out.

"I…I…don't know, sir." I conceded, admitting my defeat and regarding the carpeted floor. As I continued to squirm on his hook, he seemingly released me, by standing slowly and coming around the desk to join me where I stood. I continued to look at the floor. I daren't look up at him. Those small hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, just as they had the first night I met him. That strange, static charge crept along the length of my spine unchecked. Instead of stopping next to me, he moved on, walking past me with his arms braced along the base of his back. Then he spoke with his back turned to me.

"The drones that inhabit this facility don't need to know my name. They do their job all the same." he said. I noticed how he stressed certain words in his sentence, 'need' and 'job'. It was unique. He tended to roll his head on his shoulders when he did it. I smiled. He turned around to face me so quickly, that I had no time to wipe that smile away. I bit my lip in an attempt disguise it, but he had already seen it. Three concrete footfalls brought him back before me, a sense of inevitability washed over me.

"But you…" he continued. I hadn't expected him to, and in my surprise, I lifted my gaze to meet his. "You're no soldier. No cut-throat mercenary." His tone was fond. Even affectionate. His hand closed around my jaw again, then slipped down my exposed neck. An oddly gentle touch, given his reputation, until his fingers tightened slightly around my throat. "You're my pretty jungle flower, aren't you?" he concluded, inclining my head by his own hand. He must have felt me swallow. He must have felt everything. With his fingers clamped around my pulse, he must have felt it race with a mixture of fear and elation.

"Yes, Yevgeny…" I squeaked, my eyelashes fluttering as his grip tightened again. At this he laughed uproariously, and for a brief moment, I swore he was about to kiss me! I was ready for it, too. But he didn't. He released me, and moved me aside as he walked back to his chair.

"Now, go." he said, waving a hand in dismissal. I hesitated. My stomach churned. I'm not sure whether it was with relief, or disappointment. Probably both.

"But I thought…" I began to speak again. I don't know what I thought! Or why I felt so hard done by. He silenced me with a look.

"Not tonight." Was all he said, again waving me off with a flick of his hand. I exhaled sharply, and gave him a nod before I left. It occurred to me as I walked back to the kitchen that perhaps I had read the situation entirely the wrong way. The older girl who worked with me in the kitchen threw her arms around me when I returned. She was obviously surprised to see me back in one piece.

"Not so much as a black eye!" she said triumphantly. "Be thankful he's lost interest!"

But I wasn't.

(1) "So it goes" (Literally: "So passes the glory of the world.")

(2) A Russian fish soup. Mmmm, uhka! It's good, trust me!