I'm sorry, I had to restructure the plot a little. I think y'all will like this chapter a bit more. Some good old fashioned angst and character development.
Winter Palace, 2036, early morning.
The ruler of Russia, Tsar in all but title, was quaking in his bed. The sweat streamed off his body, the sheets clutched to his chest. In his head, he was still screaming.
Moscow, 1970
The ten year old Romanov, ex-noble-to-be, grandson of a branch of the family that had fallen out of favor, shivered. He had on his back the barest rags, brown leathers that did little more than hide his shame. His proud blue eyes were looking down at the brown horse dung that was now his job to shovel, for two reasons. First off, the stable he was shoveling currently would be his home for the foreseeable future, and second, he would not eat for a week if he did not get the stable clean by tomorrow.
The sadist behind him wasn't making his job any easier. He was using a long whip. Every few minutes, when the boy had gotten into the rhythm of cleaning, and might be able to lessen his misery, the bastard would whip him as he was leaning to dump the shovel into the barrel- covering him in the filth.
After that, Grigor had to go in the back, remove his clothes, and change into a new set of rags. He ran out of clothes and had to clean the stables in the nude. Finally, as he was about to lift the last shovel to the barrel, Satan snapped the whip- and Grigor's mind snapped with it. He fell to the ground, and surrendered his humanity. He prayed that any deity, any Power that Be would just take the pain away. Then the lashes came faster- the new "boyar" didn't like having his fun taken away. The thoughts grew less and less coherent until thoughts had no room to exist, only the pain. He thought he was about to become unconscious when the man walked to a nearby refrigerator, which, despite this being the sixties, looked like it was from before the Great Patriotic War. The man picked out the last pickle, stuck it in his mouth for safekeeping, and dumped the brine on Grigor's body. Grigor just screamed.
Vomit Stained Bed, Winter Palace, 2036, early morning.
Attendants came rushing. What could be so as to disturb such a confident and powerful man? His sheets wet with sweat and vomit. He stood up weakly, answering their pleas.
"I'm fine. No, really, just a nightmare."
"But sir- you vomited and sweated as if you'd run a marathon- how can it have just been a nightmare?"
"Trust me. just some old war wounds and memories acting up again."
The maids came in and changed the sheets. He couldn't get to sleep again. How could anyone get to sleep after that nightmare? He nursed some coffee- black, his hands would've shaken the sugar and milk all over.
After two hours of caffeine and War and Peace, he was ready to get dressed. He went to his closet, and felt his old uniform, to remember the glory days and give him some confidence after that nightmare, the fur lining splitting, the insignia on top feeling older than even he felt, the hammer and sickle peeling off with time, even the star, sword and shield of the KGB rusting. What a time he'd had getting that one.
Saint Petersburg, Romanov Residence, 1980
"But I hear that they are in here, right now. The Americans have a spy in this neighborhood! Have you ever heard supposed Mr. Stoyanovich talk? His Russian has the Chinese tinge to it."
"So what? A lot of people do."
"Yes. Near China. But we are in Sankt-Petersburg, hundreds, thousands of miles away from the Chinese border."
"Well, I don't care what you do. Accuse him if you want. Leave me out of it. So long as this government pretends to pay me, I'll pretend to work."
"I'm not going to turn him in! We could provoke war, or even slow the fall of the Communists!"
At that, the young man behind the door had to hold his breath to keep from jumping through. He waited for the conversation to end, and for the lazy man and the traitor to stop talking. He threw the door wide open. The man was his father, and the woman, his mother.
They had both been tortured, but as they swore oaths of loyalty, they were reluctantly let go and had managed to scrape together a life. He stood there, in shock. The only parents he'd ever known were traitors.
"Son, what is it? What's wrong? Are you sick? Did you have a nightmare?"
"I think I'm going to be sick. Anyway, what were you two just talking about? I could hear snatches as I was walking up the hall, but not anything coherent."
"Son, we were just talking about the weather, what's been going on in the neighborhood, nothing more. Go to bed; it's almost ten!"
And now they had lied to him. There was no question what must now be done. He was an honest man. If they had just told him the truth, he may have been able to torture himself over what to do. But, even his parents didn't rank above the State. He stepped out into the Russian air, with a shiver not related to the cold. The Army base where he is stationed is just down the road. This suburb doesn't have a police station. You didn't need one. The soldiers kept people in line out of terror. He shuffled down the street, slowly and sadly.
He'd been fishing in Lake Onega once with his parents… He could still remember his father's grand outfit, the tassels he played with all day long. They didn't catch any fish, but they had a good time. And now he was about to end the good times forever. He stopped. There was a door in front of him, and never before had it seemed so foreboding. Step through the door and surrender his soul, or back away and surrender his life?
For the God of the state.
Winter Palace, 2036, mid morning.
That was the day he started earning his KGB badge. Turning in your own parents was one of the few things that automatically earned you a spot at the academy. He passed through the academy easily- apparently, blood did make all the difference- then, over the next few years, he'd struggled up the cloak-and-dagger ladder of the KGB, betraying every confidence he made, even his training partner from the academy- who had been days away from throwing the USSR into chaos. He'd been poised near the head of the department. He had enough men for a coup d'etat- becoming Premier of the Soviet Union, Head of the KGB, and Ruler of Russia. But then the Berlin Wall fell. With it, his hopes and dreams fell too.
His dreams twice shattered. He would've been a noble, maybe Tsar if the communists hadn't deposed his grandfather's second cousin twice removed- or whatever his relation was to the Tsar. So for a second time, he signed a pact with the Devil. This time, he signed with actual blood, his humanity already signed over, mingling it with that of Kim Possible. After Ron's death, she had founded the CVB. But over time, bitterness had taken hold, and she now only went out when GJ was involved. Being raped by your husband because his post at GJ drove him insane will do that.
Shego was better off; she had liked Ron, yes, but didn't grow up with him, and she already had a husband. Her twins- Jenine and Jacques Standard- grew up with a father, and were so much tamer than the non-"Standard" CVB.
Grigor, of course, was one of the "elderly youngster" generation. He was older than anyone else at the CVB, even Kim, but he joined with the hopes of ascending- within and without the organization.
Grigor's next job was to walk down and manage the Duma. It had voted the power to rule by decree to him, because of the destruction of Beijing, and half the Duma had been in his pocket anyway. That was more than enough to ensure that the veto- a simple majority- was never employed. He had decreed that the Duma would, from now on, be picked entirely by him. Ceremonially retaining the veto. He dismissed the half that wasn't in his pockets, made it illegal to criticize his actions, and that was that.
He saw an old man as he walked down the hall of the . He put on his "politician" face.
"Good afternoon, my good friend. What can the President of Russia do for you today?"
"It is not what you can do for me, but what you can do for yourself."
That voice had an icy chill to it, the cold tone you expected to hear while reading Mein Kampf, a logic that was bourn in and borne out of Hell on Satan's back- but Grigor's tone didn't waver
"Why, my friend, whatever do you mean?"
"I mean that little commanding whore you work for. I mean her brother who looks like he should be in a punk band. I mean how you are stuck reporting to them, enslaved to their whim, how you have to get on one knee when you come into Kim's throne room- and how you get stuck wiping her spittle when she naps unexpectedly, just like you cleaned the stable."
Grigor's breath caught in his throat. The shame immolated his skin, the fire spreading with every second. His shoes had suddenly become the most interesting thing on the planet, and the back of his head had a lead weight on it. The clutching despair gripped his heart, allowing the man to speak again.
"Your whole life, you have hovered near importance. Near wealth. Near power. Always, you have been unjustly denied. Your noble bloodline was stamped out. Your chance to lead the Communists was felled by their own incompetence. Your telecommunications company went bankrupt when GJ withdrew their defense contract… which lead you to the CVB- an organization with a fragile plan, which you are now posed to disturb. The world is now in shambles. You can claim your place as savior- and Tsar- of all the world on top of the pile of corpses you helped create. Who would resist? The U.S.? No, their plan is already in effect after the twin attacks on Peach Creek and New York City. They have retreated from New England and are praying for God to grant mercy. Would it be the E.U.? No, they have already yielded to the newly founded Islamic Nation- the ex-Arab League- and the Islamists are under the CVB's control. All that's left is for you to clear the field of the battered remnants of GJ and the CVB- both having roughly ten thousand members worldwide."
Grigor left, a hammer taken to his soul. The Duma was the last thing on his mind. In his head, he was still in that stable, having the brine poured on him to take off the horse crap.
Behind him the old man smirked and walked away, his subdermal transceiver telling him to answer. Vengeance would be his.