A/N: Woo. I'm back from indeterminate hiatus! Hoorah! Thanks very much for the continued support. I appreciate it all. The last few reviews I received actually helped me kick start this chapter, as it had fallen into sad disrepair! So extra thanks to Aqua Phoenix1 for the very encouraging feedback and for clearing up my stupid mistakes while making me sound smarter! Thanks also to my regulars. I have regulars! -

Disclaimer: I still don't own any Metal Gear Solid characters. I do own Lenusya, which is just as satisfying. Nearly.

My Pretty Jungle Flower

Chapter 6

Nearly seven months had flown by since I arrived in Groznyj Grad. Early February had melted in spring and the first few days of August had already been and gone. Life in the facility had continued as normal, with its own idiosyncratic comings and goings. The Colonel and I were still locked in a liaison that neither of us could genuinely explain or understand, nor did we want to. In the beginning, I had been at his beck and call whenever he so desired my company. I understood my position to be his… relief. And I accepted it. Better to serve as a release than to not serve any of his purposes and face the consequences. Yet recently, with silent compromise, I had become more of a – what's the right term? - consort. Without ever expressing it overtly, he expected me with him, to be by his side at every corner and every turn. I was even provided with a military uniform. At least, it bore some resemblance of a uniform. Not many military uniforms included a skirt (and an impractically short skirt at that). It was very obviously designed by a man: minimum functionality, maximum exposure.

"An honorary private. The only one among many that I can trust."

Perhaps he gave me too much credit, yet even this small amount of respect, coming from him, was earth-shattering. He took counsel with me (though never admitted to it), asking for my advice on matters ranging from how many pounds of flour to order in, to how best to advance on Moscow in a purely hypothetical situation. Of course, at this stage, he knew that I was perfectly aware of his intentions within GRU, so the "purely hypothetical situation" that he spoke of became something of a running joke. He taught me to fire a gun, despite my original protestations. He produced a Makarov and told me I was going to learn to fire it. Of course, I refused politely, folding his fingers back around the handgun. What would I possibly need with a gun? He spent the next few minutes detailing quite unambiguously several situations in which I would need one, until I cracked and snatched the weapon from his hand.

"Enough, Yevgeny!" He laughed gruffly, and I punched his upper arm indignantly, succeeding only in hurting my hand when it collided with a granite bicep. But I was already laughing. He was wonderful at doing that.

At first, I was appalling with the weapon. Not only did the tool of death terrify me, it served to remind me of how very far I was from home. As time went on, however, I grew accustomed to the recoil and even began to enjoy using it. It was like… being thrown from a horse. There was the initial pang of shame and shock followed closely by the overwhelming urge to harness the beast, even a surge of anger at how it dared throw me in the first place. Svetlana like to remind me that I had much greater power at my disposal. Nearly seven-foot of the finest Soviet weapon, always primed and ready to fire, more volatile than any gun in the East. And he enjoyed his toys more than anyone.

The great weapons lab of Groznyj Grad was in constant animation from day break to sun down, and occasionally even prior to that. The Colonel's scientists competed each day to come up with proposals for bigger and better weapons, crawling and backstabbing just for the slightest chance to earn his rare approval. He rejected dozens every week. Volgin may have had deep pockets, but he was wise with his money. His current favorite was a light machine gun, which had just sailed through its phase two tests after three years in development. Like a child unwrapping a long-awaited Christmas present, he unveiled the gun and his true self, the deceptively docile façade for a brief moment removed to reveal a sincere happiness I had barely glimpsed before

"The RPK is a variant of the AKM assault rifle. It has a longer, heavier barrel, a stamped metal bipod and a heavier type of fixed, wooden buttstock. The modified receiver of the RPK can accommodate its larger-diameter barrel. The RPK normally feeds ammunition from either a 40-round curved box magazine or a 75-round spring-loaded drum magazine…"

He never noticed how I gazed at him with the simplest form of wonder as he rhymed off the details. I often fantasized that he was looking back with the same expression. The soldiers, though, regarded me with new-found suspicion, as my influence upon the Colonel was becoming more profound. Not in any malicious way, naturally, but still in a way that made them uneasy, as if displeasing me would place their lives in danger. At that stage, it might have. A romanticist would have described Volgin's current state as showing all the signs of obsession; the more wary onlooker would have hesitated to make any observations at all. And I didn't. He was still very much the same hulking, sneering giant that I had met in the beginning, just… different. Almost imperceptibly softer. With me, at least.

It was around this time that I began to realize that young Ocelot was beginning to have problems with me. It wasn't hard to see. A snide comment here, a cold shoulder there. He wanted me to notice it, with all the lack of subtlety that only a teenager can muster and still imagine he's being delicate. Of course he was irritable. He was Volgin's infant prodigy. The Colonel was the closest thing to a father that the youngster had ever had, and he had instilled some admirable principles in the Major, as well as some terrifying ones. I gathered that, up until now, no one had ever rivalled Ocelot for Volgin's affections and although it wasn't intentional on my part, he naturally wouldn't take kindly to someone eclipsing him with qualities that he simply could not equal. On a purely physical basis, that was. At least, that's how Ocelot thought of it.

Goodness knows they fought. They would have blazing arguments, exhaust themselves with shouting and then retire to their separate rooms, where each would have a separate story to tell me about how the quarrel started. Typical father/son behavior. I would often sit in Ocelot's room, waiting for him, revelling in that young face, ignited in adolescent rage, his gloved hands wringing his beret irately before he would throw it to the ground.

"Who does he think he is?"

"He's your commanding officer, Major."

"He's an idiot!"

"Is he, now?"

"One of these days, he'll regret treating me like a kid!"

"Is that a threat?"

I would receive a fierce glare for my efforts. Conspiratorial, even. But he would have at least calmed down at this stage, moved in front of his mirror and played quick draw with his reflection, ignoring me.

"The Colonel has big plans for you, Major." An attempt to settle him, as I shifted from his chair by the door to stand beside him in the mirror, picking up his discarded beret as I went. He addressed my reflection, as though it were less irritating. What did I know, after all?

"What do you know!"

A-ha!

"Only what he's told you to get you on your back!" His face contorted childishly but still completely vitriolic, marring those beautiful features and sharpening his glorious blue eyes with unqualified contempt. I blinked, smiled. He relented, embarrassed by his petulant outburst, and pointed the gun at his image in the mirror.

"You'd be surprised what you can learn on your back, Major." I soothed him, replacing his beret carefully. He retracted his weapon slowly, holstered it, and regarded me with an expression that could only be described as stunned hilarity. The look was quickly short-circuited with a whimsical "huh". After that, I left to continue our silent battle another day. As it was, that day arrived sooner than we both thought.

Ever since "Captain" Malenkov's untimely demise six months previous, there had been a noticeable void in the ranks of the junior officers. Although he never said it, I imagined the Colonel was hesitant to fill the position after the last mistake that was actually no fault of his own. He said he was merely anxious to choose the best candidate for the job this time. He spent hours each day reading and rejecting applications and suggestions from officers higher up in GRU, reading them twice for discrepancies. He was a naturally suspicious man, but the "Malenkov Episode", as it had come to be known, had increased his natural paranoia ten-fold. At my gentle, but irrefutable request, the Colonel had allowed Ocelot to assist him in selecting an applicant, as the youngster was the unofficial second-in-command in the facility. The Major took to his task with particular relish and enthusiasm, and for a blessed period something like harmony enveloped the great fortress of Groznyj Grad.

At the end of August, the Colonel called us both to his office. It seemed he had finally narrowed down his search enough to select a "lucky winner". There was something different about him, though, something verging on sinister in his demeanor… more so than usual, that is. Ocelot was already there when I arrived – after all, I still had domestic duties to attend to even if those menial tasks were few and far between these days.

"Sorry I'm late." There was no reply, but I was sure Ocelot rolled his eyes. I moved to a position in the room, just to the right of the Colonel's desk, even though the chair beside the one in which Ocelot sat was vacant. I'd never liked sitting in his office. I never liked to be the proverbial "sitting duck". The Colonel, however, was reclining in his armchair, looking as serene as a nearly seven-foot GRU Colonel could, giving me a look that I'd told him not to give me in front of the Major. He stretched his fingers within the confines of his gloves. We were waiting, and he knew it. Then, quite unceremoniously, he threw a file onto the desk, in front of Ocelot. The Major blinked.

"It's taken a while, but I've found a suitable candidate for the void that our friend, Captain Malenkov, left." He began glancing at me, somewhat accusingly. I ignored it. Ocelot leaned forward, tentatively, and took the file from the desk. I watched the Colonel break into a smile as he read it. Ocelot looked up, his face a mixture of comical puzzlement.

"You're kidding, right?" he said, incredulously. I was intrigued now, and edged closer to Ocelot in an attempt to read the file that he was referring to.

"I don't kid, Major," the Colonel retorted, his face becoming oddly stoic. The youngster lowered the file. He'd seen enough.

"Colonel… I…" he struggled to voice his protestation. "This is a boy scout! He's barely seen active service!" he exclaimed, making an obscure hand gesture. The Colonel simply nodded.

"Remind you of anyone?" he said coolly. I shot him a glance, but he wasn't looking. Ocelot had dropped the file on the table in disbelief, and I had picked it up again, eager to see just who the Colonel had recruited.

Surely not.

I had to admit, Ocelot was right. This young Lieutenant was little more than a child with a gun. His parents were wealthy land-owners and his grandfather had been an Admiral in the Navy. He had been home-schooled until the age of eighteen, at which stage his parents paid his way through Officer Training School. There was a note attached saying that the lad had barely scraped through his medical, but that his parents had provided substantial motive for GRU officials to turn their heads. These were lean times, after all. He finished Officer School and went immediately to work for a GRU Lieutenant Colonel Chzov, as a military assistant.

Ocelot was speaking again.

"He doesn't have the experience! The most he's seen of battle is the dust cloud of a shell explosion from a mile away!" he spluttered, becoming more and more desperate to get his point across. "He's a secretary, Colonel!"

"Perhaps that's what we need around here, Major; we seem to be up to our ears in fool-hardy, gun-happy, juggling clowns." The Colonel rejoined, looking to me as if he expected me to laugh. As it was, I snapped shut the file tersely and fixed him with an uncompromising expression. When I turned back to Ocelot, his face had dropped, his shoulders had slumped. He was defeated. But what was worse than that, when he looked up again I could see that he was legitimately hurt.

In the military, "beasting" was an everyday occurrence (and even more so in Groznyj Grad). It was structured torture, designed to break a man down and rebuild him into a tenacious but conscientious serviceman. I witnessed all sorts of physiological and psychological beasting. For the simple crime of talking back to the sergeant or having a spot of grime on your uniform during daily inspection, a soldier was sent to the Starshina (1)for punishment. This punishment was wide-ranging, from a ten-mile run through the jungle to a series of rigorous and exhausting physical trials in the yard, while the Starshina shouted insults in your ear. One of the Colonel's favorites, although he was only directly responsible for beasting in the most extreme cases, was to make the delinquent in question perform push-ups while balancing on three barrels, one under his feet and one under each hand. Gradually, the two barrels under his hands were moved apart and he was ordered to remain balanced in this position, sometimes for hours. It sounded simple, but it was quite possibly one of the most excruciating and draining ordeals a soldier would ever go through, short of being tortured by the enemy. The theory was that if the solider took his punishment with dignity, he'd be one step closer to promotion and an officer's rank.

I doubt Ocelot had ever been beasted, and if he had, it would have been half-hearted to say the least. He was an accomplished "beaster", of course (he learned from the best), but he was too treasured amongst the GRU ranks to ever be exposed to any real form of torment. Yet, standing where I was, watching the Major crumple in front of me, this particular situation seemed to be the worse form of psychological suffering that he'd ever faced.

"Did you even… look at any of my suggestions?" he ventured, his sentence broken, but his voice never faltering. It seemed his expression was not completely lost on the Colonel, who cleared his throat and leaned forward, ignoring the Major's comment entirely.

"He'll be here at 1900 hours, Major. I'll see you on the helipad."

There was silence, where everyone seemed to freeze, broken only when Ocelot's chair scraped across the floor as he stood, delivering one of the most anguished salutes I'd ever seen.

"Colonel, sir," he acknowledged lamely, before turning and leaving the room. I stared at the closed door for a long moment, before beginning to replace the file in accordance with the Colonel's very specific system. He could tell from my very body language exactly what I was thinking.

"It's the best thing for him. He's had it easy until now. I'm just giving him the incentive he needs to really impress me."

"Who are you trying to convince, Yevgeny?" I answered, my back turned on him aggressively as I worked away within the treacherous filing system. I heard him sigh wearily, so I turned. "You'll know about it when he becomes so disillusioned that he forgets who he works for." I challenged. He snorted.

"Ocelot wouldn't betray me," he said confidently. "He isn't smart enough."

At this, I took umbrage.

"You know so little about him. You really do. He'll show you one day…"

He laughed soothingly, holding out his hand, which I begrudgingly took. He drew me into his lap, where I was still determined to seem aloof and standoffish, but I could only turn my head from him a few times until he took my chin, told me my hip bone was jabbing him in the most objectionable of places and made me laugh until I cried.

"Come now, Lenusya, a little healthy competition won't hurt the boy," he said into the curve of my ear, as I lolled luxuriously against his chest.

Little did I know that it would be me, not Ocelot, battling for the Colonel's affections.

-----

The helicopter arrived only minutes later than scheduled. Things rarely ran off schedule in Groznyj Grad, especially when the Colonel was waiting. It was a civilian helicopter, quite unlike the enormous Mi-24's which were being developed in extreme secrecy in the weapons lab. NATO would have killed for a peak inside the labs. At the side of the helipad stood the Colonel, the Major and myself. Ocelot looked as if he may vomit. The helicopter landed, and there was long moment where nothing happened. The propeller seemed to remain in perpetual motion for much longer than normal. Perhaps it was the anticipation of what was to come that made the moment so unbearable. Ocelot's fingers were flexing at his side, and I got the impression that he was nervous as I.

The propeller finally stilled. More silence. The door opened and our new recruit finally descended, stiffly, but quite properly. Attired to the nines, in full GRU regalia, an officer's uniform no less. Perfectly immaculate. Yet, I could see the expression on both the men to my right turn to something like vague amusement when we all noticed the baby blonde hair, worn much too long, peeking out from under his cap. Either his provided photograph had been taken some time ago, or he had worn his wispy tresses up but this young man was certainly different from the one we had seen in his file.

Just what Groznyj Grad needed: another attractive blonde officer.

He walked with a certain authority, but with definite wariness in the way he carried himself that paid homage to his inferiority, at least in current company. He seemed to frog march himself towards us, much faster than I was comfortable with, before he stamped his right foot and went into the straightest, most practiced salute I'd ever had the privilege and complete bewilderment to witness. My God, but he was stunning! In the most disturbing and ambiguous way, a manner that was at the same time effeminate and distinctly masculine. A little juxtaposition in a GRU uniform!

"Colonel Volgin, sir! Lieutenant Ivan Raidenovitch Raikov reporting for top secret military duties in Groznyj Grad, sir!" he cried. It was a sound that I'd heard before, belonging to a vixen artic fox who was calling for her cubs.

Now, the Colonel looked perfectly terrified. This boyish recruit with the baby blonde hair was almost louder than he was! Ocelot gritted his teeth, before exploding.

"Lower your hand, you idiot!" he snapped, viciously. "You may as well put a neon sign on the Colonel's chest telling enemy snipers where to shoot! And while we're at it, it's unwise to announce in a loud voice in a military facility that is under constant scrutiny from enemy spies that you're reporting for top secret military duties! Are we clear, Lieutenant?" With this, he took an intimidating step forward, bringing him nose to nose with the new recruit.

Now, Ocelot's warnings were all theoretically true. The soldiers rarely saluted the Colonel outside of the relative safety of the fortress, and the helipad was indeed a way removed from the facility, abutting the edge of the jungle, where a hypothetical spy could be lurking. After the incident with 'Captain' Malenkov we couldn't be too careful, especially since Khrushchev now had at least some idea of the magnitude of the extremist movement in the East. Seemingly, the beasting, for Lieutenant Raikov, had begun early. He and Ocelot were matched in height, but the Lieutenant seemed to have the advantage in brawn, if not wit. Still, however well-built he was, that monstrously pretty face that begged that eternal gender question countered any imposition of strength or power.

I broke into a smile; Lieutenant Raikov lowered his hand gingerly to his side, suitably chastised. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, in which the Lieutenant's fingers clenched self-consciously. The Colonel spoke, and the recruit's posture stiffened once more.

"You'll have to forgive the Major, Lieutenant Raikov. He tends to see a newcomer less as a new recruit and more of a new…" he paused, inhaled, and the Lieutenant seemed to lean forward expectantly. "Chewtoy," he finished, smiling strangely. Raikov smiled too. I frowned. Ocelot looked disorientated. There was another long, strange silence after which the Colonel spoke again. "Welcome to our humble mad house, Lieutenant. I trust you'll feel at home," and he turned to walk away, taking my elbow as he went, moving me in the same direction as he was going whether I liked it or not. There wasn't much point in protesting; if he wanted to move me, he would!

"See that the Lieutenant settles in." Was all he said. I stuck out my bottom lip petulantly.

"Why do I have to do it?" I whined. The Colonel looked at Ocelot, who was still staring rather bemusedly at the new Lieutenant, and looked back to me.

"I know who I'd rather have tucking me into bed," he grinned, and began walking back towards the facility, chuckling to himself.

-----

I'd directed the Lieutenant to his rather comfortable quarters right away, shown him the laundry room, which he'd probably never see again, but he'd asked, so I'd obliged. I'd gotten him some towels, told him when breakfast was served in the Officer's mess and even, at his request, told him about the other girls who were working there. His room was agreeable - nowhere near the standard that the Colonel's had been furnished to, but perfectly adequate. A desk, double bed, bookcase, filing cabinet and affixed washroom were his only meagre fixtures, but plenty of space and a south facing window gave it plenty of potential.

He seemed genuinely appreciative. And likeable. And this was inconvenient, as I'd made up my mind in advance to dislike him. I began to make my excuses to leave when he started questioning me as he walked around his new habitat, tossing his cap onto the bed and exposing the sheer brilliance of that flowing hair. I was suddenly very wary of my own.

"I didn't know the Colonel had many women working under him…" he observed, pleasantly, making conversation that I'd just as soon he didn't. I had to stifle a laugh, but when he looked embarrassed, I straightened my face.

"He doesn't… as far as I know. Just Agnessa, Natalya, Svetlana and myself," I returned, trying to be equally pleasant and failing. He nodded, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then made a second attempt.

"So what is it you do here exactly, Miss…?"

"Lenusya is fine, Lieutenant," I provided quickly, wringing my hands as I thought of an appropriate answer. Maid? Cook? Cleaner? Seamstress? Laundry girl? Concubine…?

"I'm just a general dog's body, really…" I finally settled on a somewhat cryptic response. He looked at me suspiciously, apparently not completely satisfied with my answer. "If there's nothing else, Lieutenant…" I said quietly, unnerved. His lips pursed faintly and he shook his head. I turned to walk out the door.

"The Colonel's an interesting… character, isn't he?" he called after me. I paused, moistened my lips and turned around again to face him.

"Yes… in my opinion." I replied, quietly but quickly. He continued to look at me skeptically, clearly dismayed by my tight-lipped approach to him. I'd been far too open and negligent with 'Captain' Malenkov, and refused to do the same with Raikov. Satisfied that he'd gotten everything he could from me, at least for now, he motioned for me to take my leave, which I gratefully did.

I found the Colonel in the connecting passageway to the West Wing of the Weapons lab, where he was surveying what he could of Groznyj Grad from the window.

"It's raining," he commented dryly.

"It's always raining," I replied, coming to his side and looking from the window. I couldn't explain then what made me move so close to him and I couldn't explain now but for some strange reason he offered me the comfort that I so desperately needed. He reached out and took me within the crook of his strong arm without having even glanced sideways to gauge my disposition. Apparently, the simple tone of my voice betrayed me and begged for his consideration.

"I love you," I said in the silence.

"I know." Was all I received.

----

(1) The Starshina was the highest ranking non-commissionedofficer amongst conscripts in the Soviet Amy.