#COLD RUSSKY

[7h3g3n3r4l]

COLD RUSSKY

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 1: A SILENT DOG & STILL WATERS

synopsis: the soviet union has been producing robots for a long time based on a miracle compound: polymer. but that was invented in 1941. the current year is 2038, and, due to rising tensions in the arctic, americans aren't as kind to soviets as they once were. it's too bad you're a russki, and it's really too bad that you work in cybersecurity. and honestly, with the case fowler has put you on, you're at risk of losing your job. it doesn't help that you're stuck with lieutenant hank anderson and some new android apparently called connor.

word count: 2.6k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: based on an au i literally had a dream about. it's basically d:bh with elements of atomic heart :P this ch. is half exposition and half hank being an alcoholic lolololol

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

The Soviet Union had always been very good at spying on and stealing American technology. They did so with the atomic bomb, the B-29 superfortress, and the space shuttle – with no lack of effort on America’s side of trying to keep them secret. 

But one thing set the USSR above the rest: polymer. A miracle compound that formed the backbone for every technological evolution that came after. It mimics a human neuron, including its ability to interpret input signals. With tinkering from top Soviet scientists (and a whole lot of luck), a gigantic neural network was established, the maximum computing power of which was orders of magnitude higher than the power of a conventional network.

With polymer, the Soviets reigned supreme as the only real international superpower. The other countries could play at being powerful, but the USSR was top dog – and she wasn’t keen on letting the others forget.

But that was in the past. And the past is boring. That was in 1941, and something you learn about in history class. Polymer is now regularly sold and traded and built upon and shared. After the Cold War ended, it was expanded outwards and is no longer a precious commodity. It was even needed to build a modern technology – androids. Ones that could pass the Turing test, unlike the TER-A1 Tereshkova (which was a human-looking robot, sure, but one that had an unsettling, unmoving mask for a face). 

And androids are simply better than Soviet bots. They’re versatile and able to be mass-produced without specialization development. They’re not big and clunky like the chimpanzee-esque MA-9 Belyash and can still accomplish the same installation, plumbing, and welding work. They can do the same agricultural work an ARU-31/6 Rotorobot can do without the risk of accidentally endangering humans while in use.

Again, they’re simply better. In the current year of 2038, American androids just trump similar Soviet tech in every way.

But that doesn’t mean that the Soviets aren’t still trying. They’ve invaded the Arctic with intent to claim the land, heavy with NA-T256 Natasha bots and the claim that the “heavy-duty ground-based loader bots can squeeze up to five liters of blood from a human body in under twenty seconds,” as a deterrent to American forces.

And this action has made your workplace a hell away from home.

Even though you immigrated from Chelomey, Russia to Detroit, Michigan in 2027, before all this business went down, people still eyed you warily – like you secretly enjoyed living under communism and the ever-watching eye of the Kremlin. Like you were just itching to get your grubby little paws on American secrets so you could report them to Comrade Molotov and a beautiful girl back home called Katya. Yeah, right.

These small, under-the-breath and glance-of-the-eye accusations weren’t helped by your current occupation: as a screen jockey for the Head of Cybersecurity of the Detroit Police. They acted like you hadn’t worked just as hard as everyone else for your position – for your polymer glove and the privileges that came with it.

Polymer gloves have come a long way from their prototype in 1955. They’re a single fingerless glove – one glove, as a person doesn’t need two – with an adjustable wrist strap. In the middle of the palm is a small silver star that can retract to expose prehensile, tentacle-like wires that can interface with terminals and other technology. 

But it doesn’t stop there – with a single gesture (holding your hand out and making an “L” shape) the glove can scan the surroundings of the user. Paired with an artificial polymer retina, the user can have information about the environment that they otherwise wouldn’t have. 

And, of course, you’re outfitted with the top versions of both – on the precinct’s credit card, obviously. 

But, again, you’re just a screen jockey. One of the best, but still just a worker bee that reports to a higher-up. There’s little to no interaction with the other departments, as cybersecurity is mostly isolated without any related crimes. Maybe cyberterrorism, but cases of that are few and far between. 

And you thought that’s all you’d ever be until you heard Fowler’s bellowing voice call your last name.

When you pop your head up from behind your terminal, you see him standing halfway through the glass door to his office. You swallow and trot over, a nervous idea tickling the back of your mind. Is he mad? Did you do something wrong? Shit… did you accidentally leak something?

You push open Fowler’s door and slowly shut it behind you. He’s sitting behind his desk, stark against the blue-grey backdrop of the wall behind him. His constantly furrowed brow and permanent frown lighten a little when he sees you.

You fold your hands behind your back politely. “Yes, sir?”

Fowler gestures to the seat in front of his desk. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. You definitely did something wrong.

You walk over and sit in the chair. It screeches with a horrible sound.

You lean back in the chair and cross your arms. “What is this about, sir?”

Fowler leans back in his chair and drags a hand down his face. Immediately, the worst things pop into your head. You fight the urge to worry your bottom lip. 

“You have experience with androids, yes?” Fowler asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question – rather, a statement.

“Yes, sir.” You nod.

“And you have experience with Lieutenant Hank Anderson?” 

Your eyebrows furrow a little, but you still nod. “Yes, sir.”

Fowler turns to his terminal. “How do you feel about him?”

You bite your bottom lip as you think, then let it slip from your teeth. “I don’t know what you want me to say. He’s my friend. He is still a valuable member of the force, even if he has presented a few problems in the past couple of years.”

Fowler laughs. “A few?”

“Ah…” You smile, but it’s a bit forced. “More than a few. A lot. More problems than solutions, if I’m being honest.”

“That’s just how it goes sometimes.” He shrugs and sighs. “Do you know about the new case he’s been assigned?”

“Yes, sir,” you say. “He won’t shut up about it.”

He hums and leans forward, resting his chin on folded hands. “Always one for discretion, that one.”

You duck your head, instead looking down at your lap. “Yeah. But I think he can do better – be the cop he was before.”

“An optimistic Soviet.” Fowler laughs lowly. “That’s a new one.”

You just clench your jaw and meet his eyes. “What is this about? If you’ve called me in just to poke fun at me and gossip about Hank, I’d like to go back to my desk. Uh, sir.”

“No, no.” He holds a hand up. “Tell me what you’ve heard about Hank’s case.”

You think for a second. “Deviant androids murdering their owners. It sounds like it would’ve been labeled self-defense if it was a human-on-human crime, but…” you shrug. “I’m not in Homicide. I’m in Cybersecurity.”

“Well, you’re getting some experience.” Fowler pulls a cord from his terminal, one you recognize as a port compatible with a polymer glove. “You’re on the case.”

“I’m on the case?!” You repeat in disbelief. “Sir, I – I don’t –”

He holds up a hand for the second time. “I don’t want to hear it. You’re the best screen jockey with the most field experience I can spare.”

He gestures with the cord still in his hand. “Now, c’mon. Jack in and download the files.”

You swallow your objections and outstretch your gloved left hand. The thin metal of the star retracts, and the prehensile wires extend towards the port, waving like blades of grass. The ends of all six find their homes in the port, still wiggling like black tapeworms. 

Documents appear in the corner of your eye, one after another, like pop-up ads. You blink hard to dismiss them, then disconnect.

Fowler feeds the cord back into his terminal, then leans back in his chair. 

He looks over at you. “What’s that one saying you Soviets say? Something about champagne.”

You look up at him, then down to your glove. The star retracts, then goes back to its original position, like it was winking at you. “He who doesn’t take risks won’t drink champagne.”

“Well, I hope you have a taste for harder liquor,” Fowler says. “Hank’s at having a drink somewhere nearby. Go find him.”

And Lord, did you know right where to find Hank. 

On the door to Jimmy’s Bar is a firm warning, reading: NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED – OWNERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. You just hope that they don’t extend the same kindness to russkis. 

When you open the door, everyone in the bar turns to look at you. You nod and, once they see who you are, turn back to their conversations or nursing their drinks. 

You spot Hank at the bar with what looks like a Tennessee whiskey. You sidle up onto the barstool next to him, easing into the creaky seat. As you drape your rain-speckled coat on the back of the chair, you glance at the clock on the wall. It reads just before twenty past eleven.

“Bartender?” You call. Your thick accent immediately catches his attention, and so does the money you slide onto the bartop. “Vodka, please.”

The bartender, presumably Jimmy, picks up a bottle of Stolichnaya from the shelving behind him. “This good?”

You nod. “More than good.”

He pours vodka into a tumbler glass, then pushes it across the bar. You accept it readily, and the tiny sip you take gives your throat a nice burn on the way down.

“A Soviet and vodka,” Hank mumbles against the lip of his glass. “Like a moth to a flame.”

“It’s what my mother served with dinner,” you say. “I’m just glad Jimmy’s got enough sense not to keep us from his bar.”

Hank chuckles and raises his glass to that.

“Fowler’s gone beyond the pale.” You sip at your drink. “Have you heard?”

“Yup.” He sighs, setting his drink on the bartop harder than necessary. “Don’t know why a kid like you has business with an old timer like me.”

“Oh, believe me,” you say, your voice heavy with sarcasm. “It’s nice to visit, but it’s better to be home. I don’t know what he’s thinking. A Cybersecurity worker partnering up with someone in Homicide? Next, we’ll have androids doing our thinking and philosophy instead of our laundry and dishes.”

Hank snorts into his drink. “Hell, with all these runaways? They might as well be.”

“I mean, I can see his line of thinking.” You swirl the vodka in your glass, watching the way it catches and reflects the low light of the bar. “Cybersecurity, androids… makes sense, but me? A russki? With all that’s happening in the Arctic? If we don’t do well, my job is on the line.”

Hank sips his whiskey. “It really sounds like Fowler’s settin’ you up to fail.”

“Setting us both up to fail.” You correct and mirror him, sipping at your vodka. 

The sound of the door opening and the rain outside cuts into your conversation. Nothing you’d usually take a glance at, but what puts you off is the sudden silence of the bar. Bars shouldn’t be silent – especially not Jimmy’s.

You look over your left shoulder and see a nice looking man that’s just walked through the door. He looks a bit dorky, sure, and a bit like a lost puppy dog, but that could look nice on certain guys. And the asymmetrical tuft of loose hair that’s escaped his hair gel looks –

There’s a blue triangle just above where his left breast pocket would be. On the other side of his blazer reads RK800 in even, white text. He’s an android, not a man. He meets your gaze and you inhale sharply.

Your eyes return to your drink, and so does Hank’s. This isn’t what you want to deal with right now – or ever, actually. It’s Jimmy’s establishment, so it’s Jimmy’s problem.

But still, as soon as the android saw you, he started making a beeline for you. His footsteps are quick, measured, and even. 

“Excuse me,” he says, putting a hand on your shoulder. He addresses you by your title, and your gut clenches.

“No.” You try to wave him off. “No English. Sorry.”

“Officer, you passed each of your TestEaFL’s with flying colors,” he says, narrowing his eyes a little. “You can speak English perfectly fine.”

You cringe a little, but then a thought strikes you – how would this android have access to the scores of your Test of English as a Foreign Language? But before you can ask, he’s turned to Hank and started speaking.

“Oh, Lieutenant Anderson.” He moves so that he’s standing beside Hank. “Just the other person I was looking for.”

He glances between the two of you. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife. Captain Fowler said that you were both having a drink nearby. I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.”

You snort and your eyebrows shoot up. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that there was a hint of… something other than monotone indifference in his voice.

“What do you want?” Hank grinds out.

“You were assigned a case early this evening. A homicide, involving a CyberLife android.” Connor glances at you, like he’s reminding you that you were also assigned this case. “In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators.”

“Well, I don’t need any assistance.” Hank jabs a thumb at you. “I’ve got all the unwanted assistance I need right here, and I don’t need any more. ‘Specially not from a plastic asshole like you. So just be a good lil’ robot and get the fuck outta here.”

“He’s right,” you chime. “And it doesn’t really look good to have androids investigating androids. What if you snap, too?”

“I will not.” Connor meets your eyes, and you can almost see the switch flick in that little android brain. Great, now it’s your turn to be grilled.

He circles so that he’s standing beside you and leans down a little, putting his hand on the bartop. You keep your eyes down, firmly on your drink. 

“I’m sorry, Officer, Lieutenant, but I must insist,” he says. “My instructions stipulate that I have to accompany both of you.”

“You know where you can stick your instructions?” Hank chimes in with a throaty laugh.

You glance over at Connor, who looks thoroughly confused. You smile and bring the glass to your lips. 

“No,” Connor says. “Where?”

Your throat seizes around the sip of vodka you were trying to take, causing you to cough it out as you try to suppress your laughter. You slam down the glass (effectively spilling most of it) and bring a hand to your chest, trying to ride it out as Hank pats your back.

“чёрт возьми!” You wheeze, your voice hoarse. Your chest burns. “Oh, fuck.”

You wipe your eyes as the burn dulls, still coughing slightly. Connor purses his lips before coming to a conclusion. 

“You know what?” He offers. “I’ll buy you both one for the road.”

“You better,” you say. “You made me spill mine.”

“Bartender!” Connor calls, and slips money onto the bartop. “The same again, please.”

“See that, Jim?” Hank says. “Wonders of technology. Make it a double.”

Jimmy pours a healthy amount of Jack Daniels into Hank’s glass, and starts to pour Stolichnaya into yours. You cut him halfway with a raised hand and a “Someone’s gotta drive us home safe.”

You knock back your drink, then let out a low whistle at the nice burn. Hank follows soon after and sighs heavily. 

He leans back and looks over at Connor. “Did you say homicide?”

[heister-shmeister]

“-When was someone going to tell me tea tastes different if you put it in hot water?”

a funny thing i wrote in my notes app

based on that one shitpost

Calmly the Mastermind sits on the couch, handling a white mug. The windows are cracked open to allow a steady flow of air into the building. It was quite a refreshing day with many members of the crew situated in the surrounding areas of the safehouse leisurely attending to their own activities. Duke was in the kitchen, typical of the older man. Sokol was on the other set of furniture in the downstairs area that belongs to absolutely nobody. Houston was doing his routine maintenance of his favorite firearms in the threshold between the garage and the main room. Clover was sitting on the stairs and who knows what she was thinking about. The comfortable heisters were happy simply existing. 

Dallas looks down into his mug and then takes a nice sip of it. Dangling over the rim of the ceramic cup was the paper tab of a tea bag. After his initial sip, the gentleman’s face seemed to contort. Not in a bad way but in a curious, ‘huh’ sort of way. With little to no warning the crew chief asks nobody in particular-

“-When was someone going to tell me tea tastes different if you put it in hot water?”

And the air feels chillier all of the sudden.

The frantic sound of the fridge being thrown shut followed by the pitter patter of dress shoes as Duke hurriedly walks across the kitchen. He grasps the handrail with his gloved hands and cries out as if in shock.

“You were putting it in COLD WATER?”

Sokol’s neck snaps in the direction of the crew chief as the room once again falls silent. The slav, too, was utterly stunned. His eyes were blown wide and as second by second past with no elaboration the more his brows furrowed in frustration.

“DALLAS,” the russki calls out, warranting mentioned heister to once again start paying attention.

“Answer the question, Dallas,” the grinder pleads. His eyes were glossed over. Though his sitting position seemed comfortable and content, Sokol was far from it. His entire day had just been derailed by this information. Clover and Houston also poked their heads out of their current activities to provide the conversation with some of their attention.

The mastermind was confused. He swallowed down another sip of his tea and explained.

“For like, five years, I was under the impression people put tea into hot water to speed up the-“ he grasps at the air for the word he’s searching for, “-the TEA-IFICATION process. I didn’t realize there was an actual reason!” he casually remarks, chest trembling with an amused yet embarrassed chuckle.

“Do you think I have the patience to boil water,” he tacks on at the very end much more quietly than his previous statements. Despite his attempts at discreetness, Sokol shouts once again, somehow even more exasperated than before.

“You don’t have patience to microwave water for THREE minutes??” Sokol asked. He had grabbed a handful of his own hair in order to stabilize himself, brushing his hair back with his fingers.

“Why.. are you putting it in the microwave…” A ghost who’d gone previously unnoticed could not hold his peace for any longer. Houston lowered his currently unloaded pistol as well as the cloth he’d been using to wipe it down. “To boil it??” The notion someone would boil water in a microwave was utterly fucking absurd to him? He didn’t know exactly why but that seemed like a really bad idea. 

Sokol slowly turns his head to face Houston. He’d been frozen in shock. He lowers his hand and his previously slicked hair falls in his face, disheveled. Rather hypocritically he interrogates, 

“Do you think I have the patience to boil water on a stove??” He asks this like he didn’t JUST accuse Dallas of being impatient. Sokol /was/ pretty impatient. Seemed like any drill the cree had just wasn’t speedy enough for him.

“IT TAKES. LESS THAN A MINUTE!” Houston yells as he recklessly enunciates with words with a strike by his pistol into his palm. Sokol interrupts him.

“BUDDY, IS YOUR STOVE POWERED BY THE FUCKING SUN?” Sokol, energetic as ever swings himself over the back of the couch and walks over to Houston.

“How long does it take you to boil a cup of water on the stove??”

“Like seven minutes!”

The rogue looks up at the Russian now staring him down. Sokol wasn’t looking down on him in anger but in desperation. Houston holds up a hand and motions the following tutorial,

“Take a mug and put it on the stove on medium heat and it boils in like, two minutes,” Houston details like he’d deciphered the Rosetta stone.

“Any less than that and you use a saucepan.”

Sokol places his hands on his knees and bends down to look Houston even more intensely in the eye. The hockey player’s pupils were frantically shaking in circles and his smile was ear to ear. It was a terrified smile.

“You’re putting a whole mug of water on the stove?” the younger man asks accusatorially. “On medium heat?? Your stove is fucking enchanted.”

While the two goofy goobers continue to debate each other in their own corner of the safehouse, Clover lowers her hand from the bridge of her nose and mumbles shakily under her breath.

“Every person in this building is an utter fucking loon.”

Hoxton emerges from the basement stairs by the living room. His usual smug look was replaced with another one of his usual irritated looks. He reaches out his own fancy little cup of tea. He says this like everyone in the room is fucking stupid.

“Have none of you owned a fucking kettle??”

[munvermaniac]

I saw @zephrr’s post about Russian!Jason and I was thinking (I know, I know, that’s surprising) about the angst that could come from it.

Think about it: it’s the 80’s, the Cold War is still going on stronger than ever. If it gets out that Hawkins’ golden boy is a Russian, he’s going to be just as outcast as Eddie.

Russian!Jason has to keep his entire family a secret, he has to hide his accent perfectly, he can’t bring in lunches from home, or else it’s all over.

A while into their relationship he makes the mistake of telling Chrissy. They’re at the movies seeing the newest Bond movie, and the oh-so-intimidating villain speaks to his henchman in Russian.

Jason laughs, because this scary villain has the same grasp on the language as a three year old. His grammar is all wrong, and his accent is so god awful that Jason can’t help but find it funny.

Chrissy asks what he’s laughing at and he tells her, just like that. Something in her expression changes, and Jason knows their relationship won’t be the same.

She starts ducking out of date night more often, saying she has plans with friends or with family. She won’t let him walk her to class, and they hang out at school less. She doesn’t like to be alone with him anymore.

Chrissy doesn’t say it, but he knows. There’s a distrustful, nervous look in her eyes whenever they’re alone, and it always looks like she’s poised to run.

She breaks up with him after a while. He tries to reason with her, convince them to stay together, but she threatens to call the cops on him.

“I’ll report you as a Russian spy if you come near me or my family,” she says, with genuine fear in her voice. “I don’t want to, but I will.”

Jason can’t even bring himself to be surprised, to be honest. This has been coming for a while. He just hopes she keeps it a secret. And she does, at least until the mall fire.

Everyone in town knows the Russians had a base under there, and Russian-American tensions are at an all time high.

Jason’s on his way to biology when it happens. Andy passes by him and Jason goes to say hello. Andy knocks the books out of his arms and spits, “Commie bitch.”

It takes him entirely off-guard at first, but then he realizes. No one in the school has looked him in the eyes. No one has spoken to him. Not in the normal, popular-boy-privilege kind of way.

In the afraid kind of way. In the whisper-as-he-passes kind of way. In the don't-touch-the-russki kind of way.

And just like that, Jason's completely outcast.

He's kicked off the basketball team, the football team, and the baseball team, he's pushed out of every club he's signed up for. Hell, Jason just counts himself lucky that his grades aren't tanking.

So, he goes where all the outcasts do: Eddie Munson. It's almost freeing, not having to keep his secret any more. His birth name is Dzheysin Karkov. His parents love to tell the story about how the immigration patrol misheard it so badly he automatically became Jason Carver.

Eddie takes to calling him Dzhey, and he lets it slide for now. After all, Eddie gave him the choice between Dzhey or Sin. Not very inventive, but Dzhey was the much better choice between the two.

Eddie always asks Jason to come up with cool Cyrillic character names, and even drags him to a session so he can do the voice for the main villain. He gives Jason a script to read and everything, with little voice lines and comments based on what numbers the club rolls against him. And Jason revels in it.

He actually finds himself having fun, letting loose. He can bring the Hellfire Club to his house and they won't judge the okroshka or the pelmeni his parents make, or the casual use of Russian around the house.

He feels more at home than he ever has in America.

[saucetail-hasanewblog]

well I guess if I had to make a tier list of cold war era movies about soviets in america, it'd go russians are coming (pretty good, even with all its flaws) > red heat (super fun but american characters suck) > rocky iv (mid as fuck but also really funny) > russkies (oh this one was bad bad) > red dawn (absolutely dog shit, one of the worst movies I've ever watched)

[themightyfoo]

Nah, that's just 2023's eco-anxiety talking. The end of the Cold War, the new European Union, and the rise of the Internet made 1999 a year of unbridled optimism. Back then we thought the Millennium was going to usher in a new golden age of humanity.

Don't believe me? It's true. To prove it, here's The Economist's take on Millennial Futurism, as good a source of conventional wisdom as any. I've kept it all these years just to remind myself what those heady days were like:

War between nations was consigned to the scrap heap of history, along with communism and the Cold War.

Democracy had triumphed over the forces of repression.

Corporations were put on notice, henceforth they would need to clean up their act.

All this corporate reform would be ushered in by the waves of women who would soon take over as CEOs.

In Britain, the future was so bright they had to wear shades.

Meanwhile, in Russia collapse and disintegration were seen as inevitable. But The Economist wasn't going to lose too much sleep if a bunch of backwards Russkies couldn't figure out the capitalism thing.

The Y2K problem was the punchline to a joke, nothing more serious.

And we'd soon banish disease altogether thanks to our hot new cyborg bodies.

That's the real reason so many children were born in 1999: we were so optimistic about the future. The economy was going gangbusters, the Dot Com Bubble was at its zenith, and there never seemed to be a better time to start a family. A 1999 poll found "happily married with children" to be the most popular aspiration for young people age 16-21, ahead of having a successful business career. You are the children of a more optimistic world.

But don't take it too much to heart. If we turned the way-back dial to 1983 on behalf of the people who are just now turning 40, then we would have seen end-of-the-world omens a'plenty. It was the height of Cold War tensions, and we thought we'd soon go up in a mushroom cloud (or maybe a new Ice Age, there was talk of Nuclear Winter setting that off.) Plus which, the economy cratered as the first major tidal waves of globalization hit our shores and whole industries shuttered and rusted. And people were starting to panic about AIDS.

We got neither the Apocalyptic Dystopia nor the Millennium Utopia we were so sure would happen.

That's an excellent reason not to give in to climate despair now. The future is never inevitable.

[poorbrutus]

hs are the russkis doing psyops on this Very American chess player in columbo… cold war-pilled killer

[jacensolodjo]

I've gone back to doing more of my Soviet studies and shit and I've been looking at the Doctors Plot some and nearly spilled my drink on my book. Emphasis mine

"We may give a few examples of the general theme [of newspaper articles]. The Agitators' Notebook of January 1953 linked doctors and spies, and Sotsialistichesky Donbas of January 18 attacked 'Ukrainian and Jewish nationalists' as agents of U.S. imperialism. On January 25 Pravda celebrated the eighteenth anniversary of the death of Kuibyshev - also a victim of doctor-poisoners, a fact which, the paper pointed out, should be a reminder to the Soviet people. Trud of February 14 mentioned the Khain group again, and also attacked a Jewish railway doctor called Izrailit. Pravda Ukrainy of February 17 carried an attack on Zionists who, before the war, had penetrated the Communist Party in Czechoslovakia and Transcarpathia', and named local rabbis and others in Uzhgorod as enemy agents - an interesting case of a direct link with the satellite traitors. Izvestia of February 18, 1953, had a leader linking the 'Rajk, Kostov, Slansky, Xoxe and Gomulka-Spychalski plotters' with the Doctors' Plot, and going on from these to denounce various minor Soviet saboteurs and spies - with Jewish names. And there were dozens of similar articles, all in terms of extreme menace."

Proof? We don't need no stinking proof! Just pluck Jewish names out of the air and say they're involved! And I love the random side throw of Ukrainian nationalist in there, too. We can't forget them either. Can't forget the icky Ukr patriots are still lurking about, probably teaming up with the Jews. Ewwww.

Gods it must have been fun being a russki commie in the Cold War. Everyone's out to get ya. Don't open up your faucet, ur jewish neighbor put lye in it! probably got it from the capitalist pig dog americans!

(for those uncertain how to parse that 'carried an attack' part cause the English is a little weird, it basically means they made up a story about how boogeyman 'Zionists' aka Jews infiltrated the communist party of Czechoslovakia and Transcarpathia. What is modern day Czech Republic, Slovakia, and western Ukraine in that order. Remember this was 1953.)

[7h3g3n3r4l]

Nastya. February 2019

COLD RUSSKY

[thedreadvampy]

Oh my god I cannot believe that after 8 years we are still pretending that the only reason somebody might be disillusioned with electoral politics (after a plague, the second enormous financial crash in the last 15 years, the rollback of basic civil rights, an upswing over years in bigoted violence, their state sponsoring an ongoing genocide, etc) is because they're Paid To Be Evil To Weaken The Great State Of America

Even if you don't agree that electoral politics is useless (and I still vote in my general elections even though I think everyone likely to win is shit) could you at least do the basic grace of understanding that other people might feel differently to you for reasons other than Cold War Russkis Under The Bed style jingoistic conspiracies?

Some of us literally just think that it sucks for politicians to offer no material arguments to vote for them except the colour of their tie, and think they should have to offer any sort of incentive to vote for them other than 'I'm not the other guy' 🤷‍♀️

after roe v wade got overturned under biden (a constitutional right we had for FIFTY years) i don’t believe any of the goofy “biden is better for domestic issues” rhetoric . you are lying to me and you are lying to yourself

[writer-of-various]

Russell Adler, the man whom I have complicated feelings for...welcome to the spotlight

Soviet Adler and Adler putting down his shades make me feel like I love this man but I don't know if I want to love him-

[ashintheairlikesnow]

One of Jake’s rescues becoming ill, but managing to keep their condition to themself by mostly sticking to their room. Until their fever spikes, and half the safehouse witnesses them collapse when on their way to the kitchen for water.

CW: Sickfic, feverish whumpee, sick whumpee, memory loss, BBU, past pet whump referenced, caretaker and whumpee

This is for @vickytokio who has been so patient in waiting for this moment.

-

There is a hand at his elbow, and he shakes it off, shifting to press his back to the wall. It's cool, cold enough to make him shiver, and his shirt sticks to the sweat on his lower back as he tips his head back.

"Eli?" Antoni leans over him, eyebrows furrowed in a slight, soft concern.

Better him than anyone else, Eli thinks.

"I'm fine," Eli says, voice low. The music of his natural singsong, the softest hint of an accent from the mystery of his birth, is buried beneath a hoarse, husky overlay. His throat aches, stabbing sharp pains with every swallow, making him wince. "Just thirsty."

Antoni’s lips thin, and there’s a tension to him. Eli’s eyes roam slowly over the lines of his shoulder beneath the heavy sweater he wears, linger on the single ancient round scar on one side of his neck. “You are sick,” He says, softly. “I know sick.”

“Oh, do you.” Eli pushes himself to his feet, using the wall for balance, and when Antoni wordlessly offers a hand he pulls away from it, moving further down the hall towards the kitchen.

He wishes he didn’t have to shuffle not to feel like he’ll fall over. It doesn’t help him seem as fine as he’d like.

“You should… you should rest,” Antoni says, a little helplessly, as he shadows Eli down the hallway. Eli sets his jaw and ignores him. The rough touch of the hallway along his fingertips hurts. His skin feels stretched over empty air inside him, and he shivers at something like a breeze.

“I want a drink of water,” He says. He can’t keep his voice low enough to disguise the roughness of it. There’s a pressure above and beneath his eyes, throbbing as it pushes against the bone beneath. He has to squint against the ache of the light. “I’ll lay down after that, An-... Antoni.”

“Please,” Antoni says, and there’s something tentative and nearly tremulous in his own voice. “Pozhaluysta, Eli, let me help you.”

Eli pauses, and the corner of his mouth twitches, the faintest, faded hint of a smile. “Mne ne nuzhna tvoya pomoshch', Antoni.”

He risks the dizziness to turn, just so he can see the look of shock on the other man’s face. “You-... you-... ty govorish' po-russki?”

“Da.” Eli laughs, raspy and barely-there, and wanders into the kitchen. It feels like it’s taken weeks, months, ages just to walk from his room in the back into here. Sunlight streams in from outside, and he shudders against the stabbing pain of a memory of a warmer sun in a hotter place, of a different kind of hand pressed to his forehead. A whisper of a woman’s voice, Asahaay bachcha. Ab so jao, Jairaj.

Her eyes and skin and hair were all so dark, blocking out the hated, hurtful sun when he burned, warm as a blanket when he froze. Warm hands on cold skin, cool palm to sweating forehead or the back of his neck.

He tries to forget it as quickly as he can, to let her voice slip back and away. He can’t take the migraine that comes with memories, on top of all his other hurts. The bones of his very thighs ache as he makes his shuffling way to the fridge, opening it up.

“Since-... since when do you-”

“My master,” Eli says, pulling out a bottle of vaguely-gray-blue Gatorade, twisting off the top and drinking the cool, sweet liquid until it runs out of either side of his mouth. “Loved opera. We went to the Bolshoi at least once a year, the two of us. He had friends who were Russian. I learned to pass the time. There was…” He hesitates, staring at the Gatorade. Somehow, half of it is already gone. “There was so much time.”

Antoni is quiet, but he moves to the side, setting the kettle on the stove full of water to boil, pulling down two mugs. Eli watches him with hazy eyes as he opens two different boxes of tea, the elaichithat Eli prefers, heavy and sweet with cardamom and ginger, his own strong black tea. “The day gets away from you,” Antoni says without looking at him.

Eli considers escaping back to his room from this… this moment that comes between them, uncomfortable intimacy.

Instead, he turns and leans against the fridge, lets the cold of it soothe the burn of his skin right through his shirt. “There are too many days,” He says, wiping at his mouth, looking down to find drips of Gatorade soaked into his shirt. Oh, well. It can join the sweat, can’t it? “Especially after my bonded was gone-... after I came back to my master. What else did I have to do, but learn while locked into my master’s bedroom?”

“Your bonded must miss you,” Antoni says, quietly. He stays on the other side of the room the span of the table and chairs between them, and Eli could cry with gratitude at the air Antoni gives him to breathe, so unlike the suffocating concern of therapists and doctors and Jakob Stanton.

“I assume he is dead,” Eli says, voice flat. “We don’t live long, away from each other. Everyone knows that.”

“But you are here,” Antoni counters, voice gentle. “You are still here, Eli.”

Eli raises his chin, jaw set, dark eyes flashing beneath the fog of his fever. “I am stronger than others.”

“Stronger than your bonded?”

His heart flutters, deep down, beneath the solid breastplate of bone where it is carefully shielded. He can withstand the blows.

“He was never the same kind of strong as I. Why are you making me tea?”

Antoni doesn’t answer at first, turning away to pull down honey in a little plastic jar shaped like a bear, tipping it upside down to add the cloying syrup first to Eli’s mug, then his own. Without looking back, he says quietly, “How else will you allow me to show you that we care if you are ill?”

“I don’t get sick,” Eli says, but he knows his appearance - pale, clammy, with the deep circles beneath his eyes - gives away his lie. “Good pets don’t-”

“We are neither of us very good pets,” Antoni says, and he smiles over his shoulder. Eli can’t help but return it, somehow.

He must be sicker than he thought.

“This is true. But I have always kept to myself, Antoni. I do not intend to stop now-”

“What was your bonded’s name?”

Eli stiffens all over again. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because… because…” The water in the kettle is starting to make a soft sound, as bubbles form on the bottom and break the surface. Not quite boiling, but close. “Because I think everyone should be remembered, this is all. I think we all of us deserve our names, and to be thought of.”

“I never stop thinking about him.” Eli looks down at his fingernails, still carefully filed and trimmed and cared for. “They don’t know what they’ve done to us, when they make us bonded. That it doesn’t stop, that you can’t turn it off. They don’t know what they’ve done-”

“Yes, they do.” The whistle of the kettle starts up, soft as a song, and Antoni pulls it off the stove immediately, pouring the steaming clear water into the mugs, one by one. There’s a silence, as he does it, the strong smell of cardamom rising in the air almost immediately. “They know exactly what they have done.”

“Yes.” Eli sighs heavily, and finally allows himself to sit at a chair at the kitchen table. His legs are nearly weak with relief, and he finds himself resting his forehead on his arms, slumped. Some part of him screams to straighten his posture, keep his chin up, smile warmly when he’s looked at, be seen and not heard, no one cares about his thoughts, recite the words he’s learning in his mind while they talk around and over him. After all, he’s just there to decorate.

Just there to be his master’s exotic trophy, as lifeless as the head of a lion on the wall.

But he’s not there any longer.

“I found him once, I was able-... able to send a package. But then he was gone again, the house was empty. I don’t know where he went. If he hurts as much as I do at not having each other… maybe he is dead.”

“I am sorry,” Antoni says, softly.

“Ne izvinyaysya.”

“‘Do not be sorry,’” Antoni echoes, opening the fridge. “I could hardly understand that one.”

“Well, I am sick, aren’t I? You can’t blame me for screwing up the emphasis.”

Antoni laughs. There’s an odd warmth in Eli at the sound. “That is fair.”

“In any case… Nine,” Eli says, muffled by the dark soothing prison of his own arms. “His name is-... it was Nine.”

There’s a thunk, the gurgle of liquid pouring out, and Eli looks up from his arms to see Antoni staring at him as milk pours onto the kitchen floor from the half-gallon tipped onto his side at his feet. “Did you say Nine?”

“My master never gave him a name,” Eli says, confused. He stumbles to his feet to grab at a towel, which seems to break Antoni from his strange trance, as he jerks back into motion and picks up the milk, splashing it into the cups before stashing it back in the fridge, nearly empty now.

He drops to a crouch to help Eli clean up the spreading pale liquid, shaking his head. “Eli-”

“I think I did not smile, after we were found,” Eli says, looking at the soaked-through towel, a pale cream with blue stripes. It’s spotted with old stains that never came out in the wash. His master would demand the towel be replaced when the first stain stuck, but here everything is kept until it is threadbare. “What did I have to smile about? Do you see?”

“I-”

“What will I ever have to smile about again?” Eli chuckles, then winces as his throat punishes him for even a hint of cynical, unhappy humor. “This is more than you have heard me speak ever before, I guess. He does that to me. Thinking about-... he could always get me talking when nothing else could. Even if he’s gone… even if he’s gone, he’s still here.”

Antoni is quiet, and then shifts to his feet. He drops a damp towel into the sink. “Eli, he is not gone.”

“No, I know. Memory is-”

“He was good with devices,” Antoni says, suddenly. “Was he not? Good at looking at a phone, a computer, and knowing how it would work inside? Good at knowing how to use them?”

“What? No, we were never allowed to touch anything like that.” Eli pauses. His brain feels too full of fog and his eyes ache too much to fully understand what Antoni is saying. The smell of cardamom is stronger, and it seeps into his mind, brings back to his thoughts the shadowy woman, the scent of her own teas steeping, the steaming samosas on the table, the way she would bring home mangos when he was sad without him having to ask, piling them high and watching as he demolished them-

The pain rises, and he puts his hands over his face, trying to force her back down again, but she doesn’t want to go. Her lips thinned with disappointment, her soft subtle proud smile when she didn’t think he would see it. She loved him in the things she did, not the things she said.

He has a sense of them both covered in color, vibrant as paint, a small boy in a woman’s arms.

His master never wanted him to wear colors at all.

His master talked about adoration but it was only in his words, and his actions were always suffocating and buried Eli, alone.

“I think I know your Nine,” Antoni says, a hand at Eli’s back. It hovers, not quite touching, but Eli can feel the weight of it even so, feel the pressure of the near-contact. He swallows the lump in his throat, pushes past how it hurts.

“My Nine,” He says, a breath. A sigh and nothing more. He doesn’t want to believe it, and so he doesn’t. It’s as simple as that. “It was years ago, Antoni. I was taken back to my master. I was alone for years, and the days were… so long. I’m sure you’ve met people like him. There are so many of us, there must be others who feel like me.”

“No, Eli. Nyet, listen to me, I know your Nine. He is hiding in a place north of the city, he is-... he is-... he helps us all now. Your Nine, I know it must be yours, he told me once he knew what it means to lose, and he asked if I had a bonded, then. I did not understand that he meant he had one.”

Eli’s body is frozen, torn with equal strength between denying it - he cannot grieve Nine all over again, his heart won’t withstand the pain of the loss, if it isn’t him Eli may lose his mind this time - and wanting to ask.

He settles on the question.

“What does he look like?”

“This Nine that I know is tall, but he slouches. His hair is brown-”

“Everyone’s hair is brown,” Eli says, acid-laced, his eyes closing at the memory of Nine and his wide bright smile, slouching in the heavy oversized sweats he wore day-in and day-out in shades of beige or gray, compared to Eli’s perfectly tailored suits and silk pajama sets. “It is a common color of hair and it means nothing-”

“He wears a brace when he works,” Antoni says, “and he is telling me once it is because his arm was broken so many times by his master that it never healed right in the end. He has scars-”

“Stop,” Eli says, and the heels of his hands push into his closed eyes, sparking bright colors behind the darkness of his eyelids. “Do not say-”

“His bonded loved stained glass, he tells me, one day we are working together. His bonded loved color but could not have any of his own, his bonded had dark eyes and dark hair, his bonded would sing sometimes in-”

“Hindi,” Eli cuts him off, and his voice sounds strangled. Hands around his throat that are nothing but memories of those bare moments of happiness they had together, lying on his master’s bed whiling away the day, teaching his bonded the songs he couldn’t forget, child rhymes from a home he couldn’t remember. "I like to sing in Hindi."

“Da,” Antoni breathes, and Eli opens his eyes to find Antoni setting the mug down in front of him, milky and pale brown, looking at him with his deep brown eyes, an urgent expression.

“Chto, yesli eto ne on?” It seems safer to ask in a language that isn’t his in any way.

“It is him,” Antoni whispers, and puts his cool hands over Eli’s. To be touched directly by Antoni is so rare that it occurs to Eli he has never seen Antoni touch anyone first, only react to be touched by others. But now, he puts his hands on Eli’s, and his fingers are cold but they warm to Eli’s skin quickly.

The sleeve of his sweater pulls back at the motion, and Eli seems circle-scars along the inside of his wrist, disappearing up inside his sleeve. When his eyes raise, he can see more through the shadowed neckline of Antoni’s shirt, traveling down his collarbone until the shadows overtake them.

“Eli, I am sure it is him.”

“If it isn’t, I won’t survive it,” Eli admits, voice cracking, his smooth soft singsong shattering beneath the insistence. “I won’t. I can’t lose him again, even if it is only a dream of him, I cannot lose him again-”

“But what if you find him, instead?” Antoni meets his gaze, his messy dark hair falling over his own eyes in contrast to how neatly short Eli keeps his. There is an uncertain, hopeful smile on his face. “Will you survive that?”

“I might.” Eli is whispering, now. “I might. But-”

“Then I will call him.” Antoni pulls out his cell phone, and Eli exhales, closing his eyes. He’s too sick to say no to hope, when he has kept himself safe by doing exactly that, over and over again, ever since he lost Nine in the first place.

The ring of the phone is audible, just barely, against Antoni’s ear.

Nothing will come of it.

Nothing has ever come of his hopes-

“I know I am waking you,” Antoni says, cutting off whoever is speaking on the other end. “I know.”

Eli looks to the clock over the oven, and it reads 11:34. Nine always could stay up all night and sleep the day away, if allowed to.

He fights the way his heart starts to flutter, as if trying to escape how tightly he has caged it under the stone of his skeleton to keep it safe. It isn’t him, he tells himself, desperate not to feel the tearing, screaming grief he has felt once before. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him.

“Just bear with me. I will put you on speaker.” Antoni sets the phone down in front of Eli on the table. “Say hello to one of our residents.”

There’s a pause. Then, tired and hazy, a familiar voice. A little deeper, with time, but still… familiar. “Hello? Is there a reason I’m saying hello to-”

“Nine,” Eli breathes, his fingers twitching towards the phone and stopping themselves. His vision blurs, and it takes him a few seconds to realize it’s because he can’t see through his tears. “Nine. Nine, my Nine, my Nine, it’s me.”

There’s a silence, and then a thunk, and a curse comes through the phone. Eli puts his hands over his mouth to hide the way he wants to laugh, high and crazy, because he knows exactly what happened.

“You fell out of bed, didn’t you?”

“I sleep on a mattress on the floor, but I managed to fall out of that anyway,” comes the voice on the other end. “I always-... is this really Eli?”

“It’s me,” He manages. “Did you g-... did you get my gift when I sent it-”

“Yes. Don’t leave that fucking house, I’m coming to you.” He can hear Nine moving, shuffling and rustling through the speakerphone, the jingle of keys. “Don’t you dare leave, don’t you dare, it’s going to take me like five hours to get to you, don’t you fucking leave-”

“I w-won’t, I’ll be right here, Nine, I’m right h-here-” He lets out a single, uncontrolled sob before he tightens himself, before he forces the emotion as deep down as he can force it to go.

“I’ve been keeping that stained glass in the window of my last four houses,” Nine says, breathless. Eli closes his eyes and imagines his bonded running down the stairs of some house somewhere, the focus on his face.

How has his face changed? Has it? Or will he look just the same?

“I couldn’t find you again,” He says, voice shaking still. Cautiously - he allows his heart to beat fast. He lets the cage of his emotions crack, just the slightest bit, open. Lets himself breathe. “You should know, I am very sick-”

“Let me guess, you’re telling all of them you’re fine and you can handle it and do it all yourself, like always.”

Eli laughs, startled into the freedom of the sound. “Yes.”

“Good to know I still know you as well as I used to.”

“We always knew each other best,” Eli says, and then his voice dips, and he leans forward to whisper. “I missed you so much.”

“I thought of you every day, Eli. Every damn day. I’ve been looking for you, every single day.”

“Well… here I am.”

“Don’t hang up the phone.” Eli hears Nine’s ignition start, the rumble of some ancient car. “Please. Please just keep talking to me, I’m afraid if you hang up I’ll wake up and this was just dreaming about you again.”

“Do you dream about me?”

“Always. Do you remember how we used to sing?”

“Yes.”

Antoni taps the back of Eli’s hand, lightly. His smile is wide, and there is a shimmer in his own eyes, too. “Take my phone to your room with your tea,” He offers. “I will bring you the charger.”

“Thank you,” Eli says, and he doesn’t just mean about the phone.

Antoni only turns away, leaving to head for his own room. Eli stands, balancing phone in one hand and mug in the other, moving slowly down the hall. Nine starts to talk to him about where he’s staying now, and Eli lets the familiarity of that voice wash over him. The empty spot they made inside of him during training starts to refill.

His bonded, after all, always meant far more to him than any master he was meant to love.

They didn’t know what they had done, when they came up with bonded pairs. They didn’t just give Eli a built-in nursemaid, companion, or servant. They didn’t make him a weakness.

They gave him a way to break through the love he was supposed to feel and remember what actual love felt like. They gave him the first steps towards escape, they made it so they couldn’t paint over the person he is with someone else he was supposed to be. Not entirely.

He showed through, an oil painting with a second one hidden just beneath the first.

Nine made it out earlier, but the love of Nine had led Eli here anyway.

“I can’t wait to see you again,” Nine says as Eli drops onto his bed, closing his eyes, letting the phone rest warm just beneath his collarbone.

Over his heart.

His fever burns, but the knowledge that Nine is coming burns brighter.

-

@whumptywhumpdump @finder-of-rings @also-finder-of-rings @burtlederp @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @orchidscript @whumpiary @wildfaewhump @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @cassicuterat @raigash @crystalrainwing

[mcmansionhell]

Underground, Part 1

[Author’s Note: A year ago, when waiting for the DC Metro, I came up with an idea for a short story involving two realtors and the infamous Las Vegas Underground House, typed up an outline, and shoved it away in my documents where it sat neglected until this month. The house recently resurfaced on Twitter, and combined with almost a year of quarantine, the story quickly materialized. Though I rarely write fiction, I decided I’d give it a shot as a kind of novelty McMansion Hell post. I’ve peppered the story with photos from the house to break up the walls of text. Hopefully you find it entertaining. I look forward to returning next month with the second installment of this as well as our regularly scheduled McMansion content. Happy New Year!

Warning: there’s lots of swearing in this.]

Underground

Back in 1997, Mathieu Rino, the son of two Finnish mechanical engineers who may or may not have worked intimately with the US State Department, changed his name to Jay Renault in order to sell more houses. It worked wonders.

He gets out of the car, shuts the door harder than he should. Renault wrinkles his nose. It’s a miserable Las Vegas afternoon - a sizzling, dry heat pools in ripples above the asphalt. The desert is a place that is full of interesting and diverse forms of life, but Jay’s the kind of American who sees it all as empty square-footage. He frowns at the dirt dusting up his alligator-skin loafers but then remembers that every lot, after all, has potential. Renault wipes the sweat from his leathery face, slicks back his stringy blond hair and adjusts the aviators on the bridge of his nose. The Breitling diving watch crowding his wrist looks especially big in the afternoon glare. He glances at it.

“Shit,” he says. The door on the other side of the car closes, as though in response. 

If Jay Renault is the consummate rich, out-of-touch Gen-Xer trying to sell houses to other rich, out-of-touch Gen-Xers, then Robert Little is his millennial counterpart. Both are very good at their jobs. Robert adjusts his tie in the reflection of the Porsche window, purses his lips. He’s Vegas-showman attractive, with dark hair, a decent tan, and a too-bright smile - the kind of attractive that ruins marriages but makes for an excellent divorcee. Mildly sleazy.

“Help me with these platters, will you?” Renault gestures, popping the trunk. Robert does not want to sweat too much before an open house, but he obliges anyway. They’re both wearing suits. The heat is unbearable. A spread of charcuterie in one hand, Jay double-checks his pockets for the house keys, presses the button that locks his car. 

Both men sigh, and their eyes slowly trail up to the little stucco house sitting smack dab in the center of an enormous lot, a sea of gravel punctuated by a few sickly palms. The house has the distinct appearance of being made of cardboard, ticky-tacky, a show prop. Burnt orange awnings don its narrow windows, which somehow makes it look even more fake. 

“Here we go again,” Jay mutters, fishing the keys out of his pocket. He jiggles them until the splintered plywood door opens with a croak, revealing a dark and drab interior – dusty, even though the cleaners were here yesterday. Robert kicks the door shut with his foot behind him.

 “Christ,” he swears, eyes trailing over the terrible ecru sponge paint adorning the walls. “This shit is so bleak.”

The surface-level house is mostly empty. There’s nothing for them to see or attend to there, and so the men step through a narrow hallway at the end of which is an elevator. They could take the stairs, but don’t want to risk it with the platters. After all, they were quite expensive. Renault elbows the button and the doors part. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” he says as they step inside. The fluorescent lights above them buzz something awful. A cheery metal sign welcomes them to “Tex’s Hideaway.” Beneath it is an eldritch image of a cave, foreboding. Robert’s stomach’s in knots. Ever since the company assigned him to this property, he’s been terrified of it. He tells himself that the house is, in fact, creepy, that it is completely normal for him to be ill at ease. The elevator’s ding is harsh and mechanical. They step out. Jay flips a switch and the basement is flooded with eerie light. 

It’s famous, this house - The Las Vegas Underground House. The two realtors refer to it simply as “the bunker.” Built by an eccentric millionaire at the height of Cold War hysteria, it’s six-thousand square feet of paranoid, aspirational fantasy. The first thing anyone notices is the carpet – too-green, meant to resemble grass, sprawling out lawn-like, bookmarked by fake trees, each a front for a steel beam. Nothing can grow here. It imitates life, unable to sustain it. The leaves of the ficuses seem particularly plastic.

Bistro sets scatter the ‘yard’ (if one can call it that), and there’s plenty of outdoor activities – a parquet dance floor complete with pole and disco ball, a putt putt course, an outdoor grill made to look like it’s nestled in a rock, but in reality better resembles a baked potato. The pool and hot tub, both sculpted in concrete and fiberglass mimicking a natural rock formation, are less Playboy grotto and more Fred Flintstone. It’s a very seventies idea of fun.

Then, of course, there’s the house. That fucking house. 

A house built underground in 1978 was always meant to be a mansard – the mansard roof was a historical inevitability. The only other option was International Style modernism, but the millionaire and his wife were red-blooded anti-Communists. Hence, the mansard. Robert thinks the house looks like a fast-food restaurant. Jay thinks it looks like a lawn and tennis club he once attended as a child where he took badminton lessons from a swarthy Czech man named Jan. It’s drab and squat, made more open by big floor-to-ceiling windows nestled under fresh-looking cedar shingles. There’s no weather down here to shrivel them up.

“Shall we?” Jay drawls. The two make their way into the kitchen and set the platters down on the white tile countertop. Robert leans up against the island, careful of the oversized hood looming over the electric stovetop. He eyes the white cabinets, accented with Barbie pink trim. The matching linoleum floor squeaks under his Italian loafers. 

“I don’t understand why we bother doing this,” Robert complains. “Nobody’s seriously going to buy this shit, and the company’s out a hundred bucks for party platters.”

“It’s the same every time,” Renault agrees. “The only people who show up are Instagram kids and the crazies - you know, the same kind of freaks who’d pay money to see Chernobyl.” 

“Dark tourism, they call it.”

Jay checks his watch again. Being in here makes him nervous.

“Still an hour until open house,” he mutters. “I wish we could get drunk.”

Robert exhales deeply. He also wishes he could get drunk, but still, a job’s a job.

“I guess we should check to see if everything’s good to go.”

The men head into the living room. The beamed, slanted ceiling gives it a mid-century vibe, but the staging muddles the aura. Jay remembers making the call to the staging company. “Give us your spares,” he told them, “Whatever it is you’re not gonna miss. Nobody’ll ever buy this house anyway.” 

The result is eclectic – a mix of office furniture, neo-Tuscan McMansion garb, and stuffy waiting-room lamps, all scattered atop popcorn-butter shag carpeting. Hideous, Robert thinks. Then there’s the ‘entertaining’ room, which is a particular pain in the ass to them, because the carpet was so disgusting, they had to replace it with that fake wood floor just to be able to stand being in there for more than five minutes. There’s a heady stone fireplace on one wall, the kind they don’t make anymore, a hearth. Next to it, equally hedonistic, a full bar. Through some doors, a red-painted room with a pool table and paintings of girls in fedoras on the wall. It’s all so cheap, really. Jay pulls out a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket along with a pen. He ticks some boxes and moves on.

The dining room’s the worst to Robert. Somehow the ugly floral pattern on the curtains stretches up in bloomer-like into a frilly cornice, carried through to the wallpaper and the ceiling, inescapable, suffocating. It smells like mothballs and old fabric. The whole house smells like that. 

The master bedroom’s the most normal – if anything in this house could be called normal. Mismatched art and staging furniture crowd blank walls. When someone comes into a house, Jay told Robert all those years ago, they should be able to picture themselves living in it. That’s the goal of staging. 

There’s two more bedrooms. The men go through them quickly. The first isn’t so bad – claustrophobic, but acceptable – but the saccharine pink tuille wallpaper of the second gives Renault a sympathetic toothache. The pair return to the kitchen to wait.

Both men are itching to check their phones, but there’s no point – there’s no signal in here, none whatsoever. Renault, cynical to the core, thinks about marketing the house to the anti-5G people. It’s unsettlingly quiet. The two men have no choice but to entertain themselves the old-fashioned way, through small talk.

“It’s really fucked up, when you think about it,” Renault muses.

“What is?”

“The house, Bob.”

Robert hates being called Bob. He’s told Jay that hundreds of times, and yet…

“Yeah,” Robert mutters, annoyed.

“No, really. Like, imagine. You’re rich, you founded a major multinational company marketing hairbrushes to stay-at-home moms, and what do you decide to do with your money? Move to Vegas and build a fucking bunker. Like, imagine thinking the end of the world is just around the corner, forcing your poor wife to live there for ten, fifteen years, and then dying, a paranoid old man.” Renault finds the whole thing rather poetic. 

“The Russkies really got to poor ol’ Henderson, didn’t they?” Robert snickers.

“The wife’s more tragic if you ask me,” Renault drawls. “The second that batshit old coot died, she called a guy to build a front house on top of this one, since she already owned the lot. Poor woman probably hadn’t seen sunlight in God knows how long.”

“Surely they had to get groceries.”

Jay frowns. Robert has no sense of drama, he thinks. Bad trait for a realtor.

“Still,” he murmurs. “It’s sad.”

“I would have gotten a divorce, if I were her,” the younger man says, as though it were obvious. It’s Jay’s turn to laugh.

“I’ve had three of those, and trust me, it’s not as easy as you think.”

“You’re seeing some new girl now, aren’t you?” Robert doesn’t really care, he just knows Jay likes to talk about himself, and talking fills the time.  

“Yeah. Casino girl. Twenty-six.”

“And how old are you again?”

“None of your business.”

“Did you see the renderings I emailed to you?” Robert asks briskly, not wanting to discuss Jay’s sex life any further.

“What renderings?”

“Of this house, what it could look like.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Jay has not seen the renderings.

“If it were rezoned,” Robert continues, feeling very smart, “It could be a tourist attraction - put a nice visitor’s center on the lot, make it sleek and modern. Sell trinkets. It’s a nice parcel, close to the Strip - some clever investor could make it into a Museum of Ice Cream-type thing, you know?”

“Museum of Ice Cream?”

“In New York. It’s, not, like, educational or anything. Really, it’s just a bunch of colorful rooms where kids come to take pictures of themselves.”

“Instagram,” Jay mutters. “You know, I just sold a penthouse the other week to an Instagram influencer. Takes pictures of herself on the beach to sell face cream or some shit. Eight-point-two million dollars.”

“Jesus,” Robert whistles. “Fat commission.”

“You’re telling me. My oldest daughter turns sixteen this year. She’s getting a Mazda for Christmas.”

“You ever see that show, My Super Sweet Sixteen? On MTV? Where rich kids got, like, rappers to perform at their birthday parties? Every time at the end, some guy would pull up in, like, an Escalade with a big pink bow on it and all the kids would scream.”

“Sounds stupid,” Jay says.

“It was stupid.”

It’s Robert’s turn to check his watch, a dainty gold Rolex.

“Fuck, still thirty minutes.”

“Time really does stand still in here, doesn’t it?” Jay remarks.

“We should have left the office a little later,” Robert complains. “The charcuterie is going to get –“

A deafening sound roars through the house and a violent, explosive tremor throws both men on the ground, shakes the walls and everything between them. The power’s out for a few seconds before there’s a flicker, and light fills the room again. Two backup generators, reads Jay’s description in the listing - an appeal to the prepper demographic, which trends higher in income than non-preppers. For a moment, the only things either are conscious of are the harsh flourescent lighting and the ringing in their ears. Time slows, everything seems muted and too bright. Robert rubs the side of his face, pulls back his hand and sees blood.

“Christ,” he chokes out. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” Jay breathes, looking at his hands, trying to determine if he’s got a concussion. The results are inconclusive – everything’s slow and fuzzy, but after a moment, he thinks it might just be shock.

“It sounded like a fucking 747 just nosedived on top of us.” 

“Yeah, Jesus.” Jay’s still staring at his fingers in a daze. “You okay?”

“I think so,” Robert grumbles. Jay gives him a cursory examination.

“Nothing that needs stitches,” he reports bluntly. Robert’s relieved. His face sells a lot of houses to a lot of lonely women and a few lonely men. There’s a muffled whine, which the two men soon recognize as a throng of sirens. Both of them try to calm the panic rising in their chests, to no avail.

“Whatever the fuck happened,” Jay says, trying to make light of the situation, “At least we’re in here. The bunker.”

Fear forms in the whites of Robert’s eyes.

“What if we’re stuck in here,” he whispers, afraid to speak such a thing into the world. The fear spreads to his companion.

“Try the elevator,” Jay urges, and Robert gets up, wobbles a little as his head sorts itself out, and leaves. A moment later, Jay hears him swear a blue streak, and from the kitchen window, sees him standing before the closed metal doors, staring at his feet. His pulse racing, Renault jogs out to see for himself.

“It’s dead,” Robert murmurs. 

“Whatever happened,” Jay says cautiously, rubbing the back of his still-sore neck, “It must have been pretty bad. Like, I don’t think we should go up yet. Besides, surely the office knows we’re still down here.”

“Right, right,” the younger man breathes, trying to reassure himself.

“Let’s just wait it out. I’m sure everything’s fine.” The way Jay says it does not make Robert feel any better. 

“Okay,” the younger man grumbles. “I’m getting a fucking drink, though.”

“Yeah, Jesus. That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.” Renault shoves his hands in his suit pocket to keep them from trembling.  

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[pretty-face-breaker]

You’re in Shock

At last, it seems Hayko is dragged out of the mess he found himself in two years ago. Though, the road to freedom is not a peaceful one and especially when Nick is driving.

c.w. minor character death, guns and descriptions of blood, whumpee going into shock/being unable to verbally communicate, noncon touch (nonsexual), getting carried against will

1 2 3 4 

—

Bang.

Thud.  

Hayko’s eyes snapped open to watch him lower the gun, the blur of his surroundings replaced with a sudden awareness. The man—what had been one—had made a fleeting jerk for his waist when he had seen the barrel between his eyes but too little, too late. Nick had sent him down in less than a second. Then, just as clinically, tucked the gun away.

His mouth was stuck agape. He was unable to peel his eyes from the gore on the ground, make sense of what just happened when he suddenly saw Nick turn and lunge at him. Those green slits were focussed but Hayko screamed anyway and threw an arm up that Nick caught with ease and twisted, earning another wail from his sore body.  

“Hey, shut up,” Nick hissed close to his ear. Hayko felt a spot of blood smear onto his wrist. “Stand, now.” 

If he could obey as easily, he would have. If Nick hadn’t beaten the ability to obey out of him over the last hour, before the gunshot, before the chastising, his involvement in all of this, he would have but all he could do is push himself to his knees and keel at the sudden stab of pain in his ribcage. Hayko gripped at Nick’s arm blindly, hauling himself up through the pain until he was half-standing and could take a better look at him. 

“Ah, f-fuck. Why did you-...wh—” Desperate for an answer, he stammered until Nick was pulling him to the door under his arms. He grunted as his head hit the door frame he was thrown against and slid down on pulse with his heart in his throat. Nick stood, fully visible through the open door and only an inch away. 

He glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Yes?” That cool and unphased fucking tone, like he hadn’t just blown someone’s brains out directly in front of him. 

“Y-you…” Hayko faltered, never before feeling so helpless. “You kill—” Nick’s expression seemed to change mid-question to the dark contortion that shut him up. He didn’t have to specify that if he wanted to live, he should stop asking questions. Besides, Nick was focussed on someone else. 

“Alright Miguel, I’ve got it. I’ve gotta go, yeah.” Eladio sneered the acknowledgement into the phone at the bottom of the hall, one finger twirling the silver on his neck. 

This is happening too fast.

Hayko felt everything in him freeze. On the other hand, Nick just stared ahead, arm ghosting the leather to remove the gun in a few soft clicks and rustles. Too far for the man at the end of the hall to have heard a thing. When his eyes finally did focus on the lone figure standing in the doorway, his lips curled into a knowing smile. 

“Killed him already? Thought you’d go for a couple more hours,” Eladio could be heard lilting through his own grin. Hayko didn’t dare breathe. Through the corner of his eyes, he kept a firm stare on the man in black and recently added red as if he’d disappear as quickly as the other had. 

The one laying a few paces behind the both of them at that moment. 

Nick smiled in return, not one to disappear. “I couldn’t forgive this one, unfortunately. He pushed me too far.” And diligently, he kept his eyes lock-stock through the frame, not once letting them flicker over to Hayko who stared at his enigmatic look with a fear so deep in his bones, it could have choked him. 

Soon enough, Eladio’s eyes travelled to the mess, too. “I can tell, Jesus, right through the face? You surprise me, Sinc—” He was no more than a few feet from Nick, judging by his volume. Hayko swore he could have heard the sharp inhalation which felt louder now than every other sound he’d heard that night, even his own directionless wails when Nick had hit him with the cane and then told him he’d spare his life. Now, he and Eladio both weren’t breathing. 

“You trusted my father and he fucked you over. Honest mistake, right?” Hayko felt Nick’s grip choke the gun as evenly as his cold words wound around the room. He clenched his teeth together so hard from the roar of blood in his head, he thought they might crack when Nick would finally pull the trigger. 

Father?

Nick laughed, watching Eladio arm jerk to realization and go for his waist. “But you were stupid enough to trust me and that one’s on you.” 

The bang erupted before he had seen him raise the gun again. And another, and another, until Hayko had slid down to the ground, shielding his ears from the explosions with his palms tight against his temples. 

The first gunshot had brought him from fading away into the warmth of unconsciousness. Now, he couldn’t differentiate one sound from the other. Eladio talking, no, that was Nick. Eladio had hit the ground, collapsing backwards—or forwards, no difference. He could feel the warmth seeping out and he was so close to them. The air stunk of blood and the residue of the flashes still pulsating every time he blinked and all he did was hold on tighter and tighter, praying it would all end soon. 

Bang bang bang bang—

Eventually, he clamped his ears in hopes that the world would fade away, brushing past him noiselessly. It wasn’t until he felt the warmth of a finger brush his cheek after however long it had been that he cracked his eyes open. 

Nick, with his face and clothes pockmarked with red, knelt at his level with a soft expression. 

“We have to go,” he murmured, scratching his cheek and waiting for a reaction. 

Hayko’s hands shook when all he could return was a blank stare. Feeling nothing stirring, Nick’s eyebrows furrowed and he took his jaw in his hand. Hayko moved his elbows defensively to shield his face as the man surveyed him, recovering from the blasts and blood. God, he thought he’d stare at him with that intensity forever.

“You’re in shock.” He stated it, nothing behind the words but clinical observation. 

Hayko only whispered what mimicked a noise of confusion before he felt himself being lifted and lifted and, finally, slung over warmth—his shoulder. His hair fell in front of his eyes like a curtain and he wanted to sink his fingernails into the flesh of the shoulder as a wait, wait a minute, something to make him understand what he couldn’t say. 

Why can’t I say anything? 

What’s happening? 

Nick, however, hadn’t planned this around his silent protests. He maneuvered out of the room, over what Hayko thought was a body when they both moved up, and rushed through the crushing emptiness of the warehouse. He watched the metallic patterns, let the tools envelop his vision, registering only a faint bouncing of hair next to Nick’s shallow breaths until they jerked to a stop at a door. 

A strong hand pushed it open and Hayko braced himself for the blast of cold night air against the bruises and roar of blood in his ears. Diligently, it came and he winced all the same, screwing his eyes shut as Nick waded into the night. 

“A friend’s going to take us from here,” Nick’s voice rumbled against his ribs and he mewled and shifted, bouncing on his shoulder with each step. 

It seemed that over the past two years, things had stopped happening on cue, instead taking him all at once and winding him, too. Life hadn’t gone the way he had wanted it to and every time he had prayed for something, it had come moments too late to the point where he wondered if he had violated some nameless law to become the target of all the wrath in the world. 

But at that second, a few breaths later, two headlights shone through the darkness. The crunch of gravel poked holes in the night and Nick took off in a sprint, shushing Hayko when he gasped and held on tighter. He ran down the path and planted two hands against the passenger seat window. “Roll it down,” he ordered, breathless.  

Hayko couldn’t exactly distinguish the mumbling through the crack of the window but it was enough for Nick to throw open the backseat and let him tumble down. Groaning in pain, he felt the release of what he hadn’t been able to say since the gun had gone off, and let the little noises slip out into the leather as the driver changed seats with Nick. Doors closed and opened with no particular pattern and he felt himself being jostled, his head lifted. 

A breathless laugh came from the driver’s. “Make him comfortable, Russki.” 

Hayko gasped—wheezed, moreso and stopped himself from a hysterical laugh.  

“I have you, do not worry,” Vladimir whispered quickly. His fingers worked just as fast in adjusting his head comfortably and clicking the seatbelt in place for a meager amount of restraint. Hayko buried his head against the leg, grateful the dark could shield his face from his friend, bruises and all. 

With wheels on gravel flow, the initial acceleration and the feeling of being pushed back, the feeling of leaving everything behind, driving really did become meditation with enough time in the car. Hayko, for the first time, felt a few pounds lighter and even if it was his head, it couldn’t have hurt. He let Vlad cradle his head, smooth his hair back as the three dove into the woods. 

He let things fall behind. 

Before they had left though, he thought he had seen a sea of headlights with dark eyes peeking just enough behind each windshield, maybe a gun or two, and he could have sworn he had heard the pounding of those feet against the gravel as they left the compound behind. Weapons loading, skilled preparation, planned preparation. In the empty warehouse, he thought he heard men organizing themselves, paying no attention to Nick. 

If that had seen him, they had ignored him, Hayko realized dimly but wasn’t able to make a connection. Whatever it was, he could deal with it later.  

And still, he let things fall behind and let the darkness take what was left. 

—

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[epoxyconfetti]

I'm reminded of my Russian-speaking colleagues in intelligence, back in the day, who refused to be retrained into another language, or go into another field, after the Soviet Union fell and anti-terrorism. Through, defunding and lack of promotions and billets, they slogged through their careers. "You'll see. One day, you'll need us again. Then you'll see."

They felt the new young cyber-guys getting all the glory were a bunch of young punks. Their Russian was crap, except for hacker slang. Couldn't list the order of battle of a Soviet, er... Russian motorized infantry division to save their souls. Putin's a madman, they said. He wants to be Czar. Don't trust him.

Not to mention the Ukranian linguists, who were tough enough to find even in the Soviet days. Down to a small handful, everywhere in the IC. They lost funding, and billets too, entire offices eliminated and restructured. Retired, retrained into *spit* Russian, or left for private industry or teaching jobs. Russia will never let Ukraine be independent, they whispered, Crimea was just the start.

I don't keep in touch with any of them. But I don't need to be, I can hear their collective screams of "I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO!" perfectly well from here.

I'm an old cold warrior, trained to find and kill them damn Russkies. To standa speed bump as 20 divisions of Soviet armor rolled through the Fulda Gap, hoping to live through the delay as reinforcements shipped in from the states. But that never happened, except in a Tom Clancey novel. Europe was mostly at peace.

But I see Russian conscripts being killed by the under-equipped Ukranian forces, and poorly trained Ukranian civilians pulled into service, some as they were trying to flee the fighting. I have nothing but pity for all of them.

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Red Dawn (Milius, 1984)

When approaching work with politics that I don't share or are specific to its time, I try to picture how the original audience might have reacted. And for certain viewers in the Reagan era, the opening moments of Red Dawn would have been a vividly realized nightmare scenario, Soviet troops on American soil, killing Americans in cold blood or otherwise rounding them up for indoctrination. (Part of this includes playing Alexander Nevsky in the town's theatre, which doesn't sound so bad.) Juxtaposing the well armed, well trained invading force with small town Americana makes these dimensions feel more immediate, and while we know now that Gorbachev was eager to end the Cold War more than anything, the title cards lay out the events leading to the invasion with frightening plausibility. The Soviet Union, emboldened by the collapse of NATO and finding the U.S. with few allies, joins with sympathetic governments in Mexico and Cuba to launch a full scale invasion abetted with nuclear strikes, placing the film, despite its domestic setting, as a clear endorsement of hawkish foreign policy. (The specifics of the film's scenario are somewhat surreal to consider in a modern context, given how views across the spectrum have shifted over time, but I'll refrain from digging too much into modern real world politics.)

The Colorado setting is key to the film's visual strategy. The heroes, when framed against the majesty of the wilderness, look to be in an ad for a national park , while when we're with the villains, their environs bring to mind the mountains of Afghanistan. In the third act, when a counterinsurgency specialist akin to Colonel Mathieu from The Battle of Algiers is introduced, the heroes find themselves framed in the same harsh desert landscape as things go south for them. John Milius is making clear parallels with the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, and as J. Hoberman points out in Make My Day, it's probably not a coincidence that "Wolverines" almost rhymes with "Mujahideen". Kevin Reynolds, who wrote the first draft of the screenplay, would push this dynamic further with The Beast of War, where we identify both with the othered Afghans and the technologically superior Soviet invading force, drawing parallels to the Vietnam War as well. Milius doesn't really push the latter idea as forcefully, although it's worth noting that the Soviets are seen mostly in the urban areas while being ambushed in the countryside. He also gives a rare moment of compassion to Ron O'Neal's Cuban colonel at the end, as if bonding with the heroes over a shared warrior's code despite being on opposite sides of the conflict.

When I'd first seen this movie a few years ago, I'd found it laughable and also kind of boring, but I'm now thinking my reaction was way off base. (On a related note, I've been using the extent to which my appreciation of certain movies has increased on recent rewatches as a measure of how long the pandemic has been going on. This is the most drastic case yet.) The most common complaint about the movie is that the likelihood of American teenagers successfully taking on the Soviet Army is far from plausible, but Milius is drawing clear parallels to successful real life defenses against better equipped and better trained forces. He also goes to some length to show them develop discipline and grow as a unit, an approach that he used behind the scenes as well, appointing Patrick Swayze as the leader of the other actors. (Swayze takes to the role well, embodying a kind of masculinity that goes well with Milius' warrior poet ideas.) There's a certain moment that I'd found unexpectedly cruel in my first viewing, but I think now the effect is pretty obviously intentional, at least from Reynold's original idea of the film as a Lord of the Flies scenario, confronting us with the ugliness of what happens when youths are forced into a life or death situation. The action is not directed stylishly or always with overt excitement, but I think it carries a real sense of strategy, shaped by Milius' knowledge of guerilla warfare. And the fact that it isn't too exciting also helps temper the film's jingoism. Milius treats the material with a certain romance, but he's also thoughtful about the consequences of war and the toll it takes on its participants.

Now is the movie dumb in certain ways? Yes, and one moment ("Aveeeenge me!") still plays quite laughably. Are its politics ones that I don't jive with? Yes, I'm not oblivious to the extent to which it plays as a paranoid right wing fantasy about sticking it to the Russkies, but I also think the movie is more thoughtful about those ideas and interrogates them with a bit more force than it's given credit for. I think it has in its young cast a number of nicely textured performances, and some very good ones from Ron O'Neal (speaking unsubtitled Spanish or Russian for the entire film) and Powers Boothe as a stranded Air Force pilot who bonds with one of the Wolverine girls. And I think it's rousingly scored by Basil Poledouris and bracingly directed by John Milius, who gives us images of startling impact and disarming poetry amidst the combat.