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queen-kassiopeia-the-5th · 1 month ago

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So. I've just finished readimg all of the cosmere books, so here are some of my (personal) opinions. Let me know yours!

Favorite Book(s):

1. The Final Empire - Got me into the cosmere (even though Elnatris was the first Sanderson book I ever read)

2. Words of Radiance - Favorite Stormlight book

3. Tress of the Emerald Sea

Least favorite Book(s):

Rythm of War

Favorite Novella:

Edgedancer

Least Favorite Novella:

Mistborn the Secret History. A little too disjointed writing for my liking.

Favorite Character(s):

1. Kelsier - He got me inveated in the Final Empire in the first place. I also don't think his actions during that book are wrong. In my opinion, a drastic change of social norms and millenia of abuse and exploitation can only happen only thrpugh complete obliteration. I never understood how him targeting and killing nobles, complete and utter selfish villians who never chnaged their ways (we see them keeping the same patterns that kept them in power in A Well of Assention and Hero of Ages, and even still in Era 2). Him being a "con man" is also not really how I see it. His actions inspired they drive needed for Skaa and Vin to fight, both agains tge Rold Ruler and Ruin. He also kept on fighting and helping from the afterlife.

He (and all Scadrians) are being fashined into villians, as Thaidakar, even though the Ghostbloods protect Scadriel, where Harmony really couldn't. In mnay cases I agree with his idiologies, and if I had his powers, I too would strike down amyone in my way and thpse who threated those I care about. Also him suddently not caring for Marsh, when in Final Empire we saw they had a straine dyet loving brotherly relationship... But he will always live as Kelsier Final Empire in my mind and I love him.

2. Wayne!!!

3. Dalinar - Yes, parts of his actions annoy me, but he's the sort of character I gravitate towards. Also the ending of Oathbringer is *chefs kiss*. [For those asking, I love Kaladin, and want to give him the world, but he's a tad too idealistic for me, and our moral compasses don't align. I love his development and goign through all his struggles and uplifting those around him, but I disaagree with some of his actions, he's too clean cut for me]

Honorable mention - Hoid!!! He doesn't show up too much, but he's a delight when he's on page. So glad he inserted himself into the plot of Stormlight so we can see his full powers.

Powers I'd Most like to Have:

Allomancy. I work with metals on the daily (material science engeneer). I'd take only one sort of allomancy or feruchemy, too. Maybe only pewter, for an energy boost during the day, or a coppermind. Don't want to bond a Spren as fun as it sounds. My moral compass doesn't seem to align with amy of them, and I don't want the guild of killing one in breaking an oath. Also I'm not altruistic enough to be a Radiant. But yeah, all magic systems are cool and it's hard to pick only one that I'd want [*cough* *cough* Hemallurgy *cough*]

World I'd Most like to Live In:

Scadriel post catacendre and maybe Sel, now that the Reod is undone.

Group of People I'd like to Hang Out With:

The Wax and Wayne gang! Get me all the Kandra, Steris, Marasi, Allik, Renette and her wife. We're getting wasted! (And Steris has hangover cures in her handbag, and probably a grande launcher, just in case).

I'd love to listen to Hoid telling stories, actually, and do some shananigans with him.

As much as I love the crew in Mistborn Era 1 and Bridge Four, I'm a little too intimidated to hang out with either of them. But I think I'd have a blast with Rock.

Favorite non Human Race:

Kandra

Best Worldbuilding:

Stormlight Archive

Best Book Ending:

Hero of Ages.

Honorable mentions - Oathbringer, Sunlit Man.

Best Companions:

Aviars

#cosmere reading #cosmere #cosmere opinions #stormlight archive #mistborn #mistborn era 1 #mistborn era 2 #elnatris #brandon sanderson #warbreaker #tress of the emerald sea #the sunlit man #edgedancer #cremposting #arcanum unbounded #wax and wayne #kelsier

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dorminchu · 2 years ago

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Sorrow

This functions as a sort of “pilot episode” for Chapter(s) V & VI of Insult to Injury, but it can also be read independently. Hopefully it turned out okay.

Fandom: No Time to Die

Genre: Crime/Drama

Rating: T

Warning: Brief strong violence, childhood trauma

Summary: There could be no peace without the threat of repercussions. The cruelest man could not bear losing his family, his homestead.

Eleven years spent in the care of various dyetskiye doma. A childhood left in the hands of the state provided clothes that never fit, a meagre education. Runaways rounded up, to be pumped full of sedatives, came back wide-eyed and unfamiliar. The older kids became enforcers.

The instructors commented on his good manners. He spoke when spoken to. He sat with his back to walls during meals, or at-rest, always with a door in-sight. He was smaller for his age and his face accentuated a boyish appearance he could not outgrow. A passing interest in floriology turned into the convoluted process of leaving messages in bouquets, which his classmates called “thoughtful,” first, then “sure, just like a serial killer” when pressed for acceptance.

After weeks of brooding over his copy of Medicinal plants and their use, 1977, borrowed indefinitely from the school library, he kept running into complications. Cultural disparities between symbolism and colour. Maintenance costs. And a level of ingenuity lost on those who attended the funeral, and saw only hydrangeas. Little more than a private joke, beyond the scope of his current ambition.

The children with living parents and clean clothes would point him out to each other. Or avoid eye contact when he looked over. No sense making friends with one of the kids from dyet-domovskii.

To avoid becoming a target, he had to make himself useful. Indifference was just another form of death. He did not go out of his way to cause trouble. Indifference was just a slower form of death.

Quietly transferred into the Suvorov Military School in Kazan. Comfortable with a rifle, behind a school desk. He talked so infrequently, concern with the medical staff that he had suffered some kind of developmental disorder during his adolescence. But without the constant threat from other kids, he was a diligent student. A decent marksman. He made acquaintances with some of the other boys, though preferred to work alone given the choice.

ii.

The year he would turn eighteen, a military recruiter came to their school looking for potential takers. He had a lame eye and spoke with a foreign accent, and introduced himself as Ziffer. After the briefing, the other boys commented to themselves on the smell of his cologne, his well-tailored suit.

Vadim stuck around to have a word. The man's handshake was languid. No doubt the only service he saw was from behind a desk.

“I understand you grew up in Moscow?”

“He transferred here in 1990,” said the instructor quickly. “Before that, he was in internat.”

“I see,” said the man. Vadim glanced out the window briefly to escape the look on Ziffer’s face. But the man’s voice was calm and understanding in a way he could not anticipate in the same way as a physical blow. “You’re interested in enlistment?”

Vadim stared at him. Men like Ziffer were very good at telling you whatever you wanted to hear. An illusion of friendship compensated for their end-goal. Somewhere down the line, each soldier outlived his purpose in one way or another. You died a hero for your country or in disgrace, but became a statistic all the same.

Vadim had no answer to give. Ziffer smiled. “You’ll be surprised what doors can open for you. That is, if your heart is not still set on vocational school. It’s better to stick to what is realistic, if you can.”

“The FSB.” The words were out of Vadim's mouth before he could think twice.

Ziffer met the instructor’s eyes briefly. Their understanding was lost on Vadim. “I’ll tell you what. I can put you in contact with an associate of mine if you are serious.”

iii.

The job took eight days by train. A chaperone posing as his uncle, accompanied him to negate outside interference. He received several odd looks through customs, but he let the chaperone do most of the talking anyway. He’d be staying in a hotel on the other side of the lake. Through the window he had a clear line of sight across Lake Altaussee.

Suitcase at the foot of his bed contained a CSA vz. 58 Carbine with a side-folding stock. In the closet—white parka, snow pants and black boots. Bulletproof vest to be worn over his shirt. In a carved oak box, a porcelain mask, intricately painted.

Vadim took the time to assemble and disassemble the rifle. Everything was in working order. He glanced briefly at the mask. A woman’s face upturned in a smile. It wouldn’t protect him from the elements. Craftmanship he’d only ever seen approximated in print.

Hours later, looking into the eyes of a woman who was already dead. The smell of stale bile and bleach permeated his senses. She did not plead for her life. She reclined on the couch and waited with a tired smile for him to finish what the alcohol could not.

The daughter was the only outlier. That day, she lost nothing but her innocence. In its place, an unwillingness to surrender. A good, easy life that did not require such capacity for violence suddenly realised. The look in her eyes imprinted onto his memory long after he left her standing before the front door, ajar.

It was a miserable hour’s walk around the lake. His jaw throbbed. As soon as he was in a secure location he disposed of the mask and set to treating his wound. The girl was a decent shot for a civilian. Shatterhand and Gruber had neglected to inform him there was an outlier.

Still, she hadn’t seen his face. That was his insurance.

iv.

By May that same year, Vadim was due to report to the local military commissariat, or voyenkomat, for assessment for military service. The list of summons came from every school and employer in the area. The number of applicants was not ideal, and Vadim never questioned his prioritised acceptance.

There were only a small number of professional non-commissioned officers (NCOs), as most were conscripts themselves meant prepare them for section commanders' and platoon sergeants'. The NCOs in turn were supplemented by praporshchik warrant officers, positions created in the 1960s to support the increased variety of skills required for modern weapons.

The Soviet Army's officer-to-soldier ratio was top-heavy in an effort to compensate for the military manpower base’s lower education and absence of professional NCOs. After World War II there had been a great expansion of officer education. Officers now were the product of four-to-five-year higher military colleges. Newly commissioned officers received only three days off per month. Morale amongst young officers was lacking.

There was talk of reform for the Russian military forces throughout the duration of his enlistment as well as afterward. A lack of success in the Afghan War reflected on the professional credibility of the Soviet armed forces. Several links with the Communist Party saddled the military with the inference of political corruption and incompetence. Glasnost only served to compromise the reputation of the military further. And so on, so forth. It was a seemingly endless amount of problems and a lack of manpower and coherence to resolve matters cleanly.

Vadim had seen enough during his conscription to solidify his tenet. He remained dependable and precise. An officer by twenty-four. He wasn't a prodigy, or prone to substance abuse. Reforming the military from the inside could take a lifetime or more.

So he fell back on contract work, whenever possible. Ziffer still had a handful of clients.

His last mission with the FSB was a matter of national security. He was approached discreetly by an informant, Zorin.

Gostan Safin, a former officer of the FSB who specialised in toxicology and eventually went on to form his own pharmaceutical institute under the guise of government-funded research.

Originally limited to state-sponsored biological weapon programs, after the fall of the USSR and under the threat of glasnost, their priorities shifted to meet the changing political climate. Ziffer and Gostan disappeared from the public eye.

A series of chemical attacks in Lithuania. The same components could be traced back from production in the same pharmaceutical facility on the Kuril Islands. Gostan had outlived his purpose. Now he must be eliminated for the sake of national security.

Vadim’s motive in this assignment had little to do with national security. He tracked down the target living in a small, well-kept house in Severo-Kurilsk. The man opened the door was in his late-forties and about as tall as Vadim himself. Strong posture that had declined slightly with age. “You must excuse me. I was tending the garden.” There was no dirt under his nails. Self-sufficient. Unassuming. A sharpness behind the eyes belied the lack of warmth in his voice. “Why don’t you come in, it’s too cold to stand out and talk.” He looked at Vadim’s uniform, paused. “You’re young for a senior officer. Have they shortened the training period? Or are they desperate enough to import junior officers into high-ranking positions?”

Still, Vadim said nothing.

Gostan excused himself to the kitchen for a moment. Vadim was studying the bookcase, the furniture, floorboards. His attention shifted to the kitchen window. He had come alone. There was a man in plainclothes on the other side of the road, dressed for the weather.

Gostan reappeared with a tea set, to which Vadim declined. “Your parents must be proud.”

“They’re dead,” said Vadim. “That’s what the vospitateli always told me.”

Gostan’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Seems like you’ve done well for yourself.”

Vadim tensed. “I know you are an expatriate named Gostan Safin. You worked in the FSB’s Criminalistics Institute for twenty years. You’ve.”

He stopped just before the table. A photograph of a man and woman. Two boys and a girl. The woman had his eyes. The same expression. After twenty four years of speculation, a name to a face. His voice faltered, without permission. Jaw set.

Gostan said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Vadim flinched in-place. Blinking. “What?”

As he turned, Gostan was looking at him as if for the first time. Their eyes met; just a trick of the light. “You must have confused me for someone else. I hate to waste your time. Let me show you the garden, at least?”

The kettle left neglected.

The garden was just a patch of earth frozen over. A few industrial canisters of insecticide that hadn’t been in-use since the 1970s, preserved under tarp. They circled back around to the house. “If there’s anything else you would like to ask, I have nothing but time.”

The man in uniform was waiting by the front door. Vadim met his eyes briefly.

Gostan’s hand moved suddenly. In the same moment Vadim drew the silenced PB pistol from his hip and fired twice. The FSB officer fell dead. Gostan struck him between the shoulder blades, then again across the face in a slashing motion.

An animal in the shape of a boy now grown into a man. The same capacity for violence. Vadim drove his elbow into Gostan’s face. The frailer body jolted with the blow, staggered back with blood streaming down his face.

Vadim recovered the pistol. Shot twice before understanding the mistake too late. A dull pain spreading across his skin from the point of contact.

He began to cough. Retching on nothing. He collapsed into himself. The frozen earth did not open up and swallow him whole. He convulsed at the mercy of his ailing body. Denied the mercy of an easy death, clawing blindly without a destination in mind.

In the end, Zorin’s men collected him well before the authorities. They took him to a private hospital by helicopter, made sure he was stabilized. The medical records stated a bad case of food poisoning.

Vadim suffered for weeks. Lesions his face, down his abdomen, arms. Interior damage—dioxin poisoning. Peripheral neuropathy. Liver damage. After dedicating his life to serve his country, his reward was to suffer in a hospital bed until his body finally failed him.

Perhaps Ziffer saw something in him all those years ago, even if he himself did not. It was always going to come to this.

By some cruel twist of fate, Zorin had volunteered to transplant the necessary organs by way of a willing donor. Now, each day, he woke to a sky without purpose. He had no family or friends, nor piety. He did not speak a word to anyone.

Weeks passed into months before he was able to dress on his own.

During this time, Gostan and the operative were declared dead. The official story put out was that Gostan suffered a stroke. The other man had committed suicide. The facility in the Kuril Islands was seized by the FSB while Vadim was quietly discharged on account of his injuries.

Then, one morning he was informed he had a visitor. Actually, the man was looking for Lyutsifer Safin.

“Says he knows you personally.”

“You're mistaken,” said Vadim. “I don’t know anyone with that name.”

"Safin, is it?"

Vadim turned his head to the best of his ability. This man, he had never met before in his life clearly was under the opposite impression. “I assumed we would be introduced under different circumstances. But, this isn’t the end of the world.” He took a seat beside the bed. “The nurse tells me you are exceptionally strong-willed.”

Vadim said nothing.

“You may not recognize me. I’ve been watching out for you, ever since you took the job for Mister Le Chiffre. Now, Zorin insisted you were a lost cause, but I was very curious as to what you would do left to your own devices. It seemed a waste not to afford you the chance to prove yourself.”

Vadim lacked the strength to force him away. Grab a weapon. Do anything but lay there and wish for something sharp.

Vadim’s breath rattled out of him, involuntary response. Mourning the strength he lacked.

“The tricky part, if you can believe this, it was actually getting the right mask. I thought you would be a little more interested in its significance. Perhaps not. It’s an interesting myth, if you have the time to listen.”

As a captive audience, he could only lay there while this stranger amused himself with the sound of his own voice. A perversion of culture, serving as justification for a convoluted mission beyond reason. Cruelty for its own sake, provided no kinship with the mythos, no sudden moment of inspiration.

A cold, solid object slipped into his palm, the lithe hand squeezing around his own stronger than at first glance. “If you should ever consider independent work in the future, we’d be more than happy to take on a man of your skillset. I hope you make a swift recovery.”

The epiphany came to him after his new contact left. The ring cold in his palm. The surgeries paid for in someone else’s blood. Here was a means of leaving oneself behind in a more permeable way than an obituary. The only way to protect humanity from itself was to become the lesser evil. Sacrificing his military career to a moment of weakness—an opportunity for reinvention, whether intentional or otherwise, in the palm of his hand.

vi.

Even when he had recovered enough to be discharged, he was not the same man. Defecting to one of the most infamous yet well-concealed crime organisations in the world—at twenty six, he was the youngest of the group and answered to the name Lyutsifer by no choice of his own.

Operatives came and went with the encroachment of MI6. Each quarter at the Cadenza in Rome Safin sat beside the husband of the mark. Safin could not look him in the eye. He mourned a woman whom had never seen his face. The child left in her absence had grown into a pitiable misanthrope. A nameless, faceless target to be forgotten like any other, that could no longer be dismissed.

Now, each January, he made a visit to Döbling Cemetery and paid his respects with a different bouquet. Purple lilac — mourning — and white clover — think of me. White roses — devotion, silence, reverence for the dead. Peonies and stargazer lilies — for sympathy. Blue delphinium for dignity. Statice for remembrance. This year, blue hydrangeas — regret, a want of forgiveness — and white chrysanthemums — a token of grief. Bereavement and comfort.

He dressed in civilian clothes, wore a balaclava. The elements no longer an inconvenience but a crippling reminder of what he once took for granted. The local residents caught a glimpse of the pitted skin around his eyes, his hushed voice. Once again, they did not see the bigger picture.

After the lease expired on her grave, she gave up the right to an individual headstone. For ten years, Safin came and went unaccompanied until today. A man stood before the gravestone. Even before he turned, there was no question of his identity.

“Maddie?” White turned, glanced at the bouquet. A fleeting moment of realization passed over his face and was subdued just as quickly. “No, of course not. Last time she visited on her own, she was still going to Oxford—well, they were never close to begin with.” With a brief shake of his head he offered Safin a small, tense smile. “It’s a kind gesture. I’ll walk with you to the entrance.”

The snow crunched beneath their boots. Safin scanned the tree-line for an indication of a shadow. After so many years of solitude, he’d grown complacent enough to slip by as an anonymous enigma. Arrogant enough to attend the same meetings with this man.

“Back in the 80s,” said White, “I used to deal with a man named Gostan Safin. He was in the FSB’s Criminalistics Department and specialised in poisons. We cut him a deal to get out of country before the fall of the Soviet Union.” He paused. “The last I heard from him was at his funeral in 2004, the same year we elected a new operative. He also worked in the FSB. Border security.” Safin stopped pace. “And that facility, in the Kuril Islands? Blofeld took it over in the end. Now MI6’s new SIS thinks he’s got this Heracles weapon under control. All someone has to do is collect our medical records, take the DNA—and we’re done for. Can you imagine? It would be a power vacuum the likes of which—oh, hell, I shouldn’t go on.”

There could be no peace without the threat of repercussions. The cruelest man could not bear losing his family, his homestead. Without the need for gunfire or typical poisons, Heracles was much more efficient.

White glanced over at him. Chuckled without any humour. “Just between us, Lucifer, I’ve never enjoyed holding grudges. The marriage was failing. When you get far enough up the ladder, the higher-ups will let you know their opinion in more intimate ways than firing you.” Safin stood there in the cold, cycling air into his lungs, wheezing on the exhale. “A job is a job, that’s all in the past. We work for the same man now. But, as a father—you’ve pulled my daughter into something she had no right to know about. That, I cannot forgive so easily.”

Safin didn’t need to speak. He turned slightly. Under the gloomy light of winter, White’s age became apparent despite his prior mask of stoicism. “You spared her life once. I cannot protect her indefinitely.”

The moment decided by his finger idle on the trigger. A level of compartmentalization, which Swann had cultivated and White had mastered over a lifetime. Indebted by a fleeting act of mercy.

“You have my word.”

White smiled. “That is your insurance.”

a/n: Title comes from listening to the Pink Floyd track Sorrow a whole bunch while editing. The name Vadim is incidentally given to one of Safin's brothers in the newspaper article from the film. The correlation wasn't planned, I just liked the flow of Vadim Gostanovich, but it's pretty serendipitous, eh?

#winter solstice writing event #longest night stories #nttd #lyutsifer safin #mr. white #ernst stavro blofeld #gostan safin #crime drama #canon divergent au #taking wild liberties with a handful of safin's lines from the film #sorry I'm late!#lost my mind editing this

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