This is turning out to be my longest chapter in parts yet. :V
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Kärkkäinen Residence, Kärkkäinen Collective Farm
Gorbatovka, Svetlogorsky District, West Baltic Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Night, October 13, 1986
Violett Immergarten. An odd name if he ever heard one. An East German migrant like many of the tens of thousands who came to the West Baltic, Violet was not exactly an odd sight in the West Baltic, as Iiro told Nikolai. What was odd was her being on his collective farm. While Iiro was normally pretty compliant with worker assignments from Kaliningrad (most of whom were Russians), hers came directly from Moscow, a suspicious assignment that was best left unchecked.
Seated at the dinner table, Boyarov felt a bit ill at ease sitting in front of the girl, much less in Iiro's home. Watching her take off her gloves with her teeth, the former policeman was astounded as he saw gleaming metal underneath. A chromed, bony skeleton where flesh and blood were supposed to be, her prosthetic hands had a Victorian-style, science fiction feel to it. It was almost fascinating to look at, although, his interests were tempered by the idea that acquiring such advanced technology would have certainly required the loss of fully-functioning limbs.[1]
"I'm sorry," he spoke to Violett, trying not to stare at her titanium hands, "where did you get these?"
Strangely, the girl did not appear offended, much less feel anything at all. Looking at her hands, she answered almost robotically, "from the Albertina's bioengineering department. I'm not sure how they were able to build this. It's fairly crude in operation, though."
"I thought the Kaliningrad State University was a humanities-based college," Boyarov queried, "since when did it delve into engineering?"
"For quite some time, actually," Iiro commented, "started out as a Pedagogical Institute in the late 40s to 60s, and then shortly after its promotion to a university, it got its first engineering and science faculties. There's just a lot of students here, though getting in is quite hard if you're from outside the West Baltic."[2]
Frowning a bit, the policeman remarked, "I can see why..."
It was not hard to see why he was sent here, after everything he did...
"Now then," Iiro offered the two to dig in, "shall we? The cook makes the best meatballs."
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Front Gate, Kärkkäinen Collective Farm
Gorbatovka, Svetlogorsky District, West Baltic Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Night, October 13, 1986
Pacing out towards the entrance to the farm, Nikolai tried to put his thoughts together in order. Amidst the deluge of information poured by the enthusiastic collective director, his impression of the young Violett struck him as a mystery. He did not get much out of their meeting that night, but at the very least, he got to know a little of her life with Pajari.
"So, how did you manage to play the kantele," he recalled asking her, "I'd think trying to play it with prosthetic hands would be... difficult."
"I don't," was her answer, the image of her rubbing her hands in concealed anxiety flashing before him, "I use a synthesizer instead."
"A synthesizer," he queried, raising his eyebrow.
"A modified Polivoks analogue synthesizer," she answered, "I recorded the notes played from the kantele into the synthesizer with Mr Pajari's help. He would play the note in increasing steps, and I'll have it linked to each specific key. I may not be able to strum, but I can still configure a score with the synthesizer. That way, he could teach me how to play songs without worrying about my technique. I felt it was cheating, but he didn't seem to mind."
Looking up at the bright moonlight, Boyarov felt a deep melancholy sinking in. He was quite a naughty boy when he was young, and often paid little attention in his father's music lessons. As he grew up, he felt scorn over his father's attempts to impress his skills on him, the son disdaining the humble life of a poet for the exciting thrill of crime-busting and delivering justice. It was also a career with dangerous implications, where a simple phrase over natural beauty could be seen as an attempt to hearken to the pre-communist past. It was such trumped-up charges that resulted in his father's arrest, and Nikolai was specifically given the task to prove his loyalty to the state, at the risk of joining him in god-knows-where.
Bowing his head as he tried to withhold his tears, he tried hard to put that scene away from his mind. The eyes of his broken father, the quiver in his voice... He could not take the strain anymore. In the end, Nikolai scorned everything that had transpired in his life. His betrayal of his father, his shattered dreams as a policeman, the infectious corruption of the agency he had tried his best to work in... In the end, it all came down to nothing, all because he tried to be nosy and expose the Militsiya's shady work to the equally corrupt Politburo.
"You were right, father..." he uttered, weeping in vain, "you were right..."
"Penny for your thoughts, Nikolai Utrovich?"
Rubbing his tears out of his eyes instinctively, Nikolai could see Iiro at the door, giving a slightly sorry smile at his predicament. Giving a sad chuckle, the former policeman remarked, "you saw?"
Shrugging, Iiro answered, "everyone here has secrets, Boyarov. It's not my business to probe. Sorry if we wasted your time. Truth be told, we really have no idea where Mr Pajari went. He was getting along so well with the collective kids until he just went up and left. He left a note apologizing for any inconvenience he may have caused, but he never told us where he went."
"Yea, Violett told us earlier," Nikolai relented, "you really think she knew?"
"She was the closest to Pajari, so I assumed she would," Iiro admitted, "guess I was wrong. Again, sorry for wasting your time."
"No..." Nikolai went, "I should be the one to apologize. You've had to entertain a weepy stranger all day, not me."
"True," Iiro quipped with a smile, "but it's quite refreshing to meet new people. Why don't you stick around? Maybe he left some clues, or might still be around town? Or did you have anything on to attend to?"
Stroking his chin, Nikolai did not feel too sure about troubling him. But ultimately, the rent at the Baltic Sun finally convinced him. Putting on a brave front, he answered, "no, nothing at all. I'd be happy to. If you need help, I'm game."
"Great," uttered the director with a large grin, "because I really do need more help~."
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Music Hall, Kärkkäinen Collective Farm
Gorbatovka, Svetlogorsky District, West Baltic Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Morning, October 17, 1986
Day 5, and still no clue to Pajari's whereabouts. While Nikolai had spent the time looking for Aamu in town, no one seemed to have any idea who or where he was. Perhaps, he feared, that the elderly poet was no longer around. But even then, even a grave marker would suffice as some closure, even if he had dreaded that outcome.
Leaning on the side of the wall as he listened to Violett singing along with the kids, Nikolai could not help but feel drawn in. Her Russian was fine, if choppy due to her accent, and her Finnish was passable at best. But she seemed to have taken the time to get the lyrics right, playing on her synthesizer with her metallic arms. The more he thought about her, the more tempted he felt to find out more. A cripple would not simply come to the West Baltic to get a special prosthesis.
"What the hell happened to her," he grumbled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Curious," Iiro dropped in, stepping beside the policeman, to his surprise, "why not ask her?"
"Don't be silly," Nikolai refused, "that's private. It's not polite to ask such things."
"Well, you are... or were, a policeman," Iiro remarked, "don't you find it the least bit fishy?"
Grimacing a bit, Boyarov did sense something amiss with the girl. The arms seemed too advanced to be given to just any person, so what made her stand out? Pulling his hair back, he grumbled, "does everyone in this damn town have secrets?"
"You'd be surprised," Iiro admitted, toning down his joking demeanour, "the kind of people here? They all have something to hide."
Iiro's change of expression was... unexpected. For some reason, the director had dropped his tomfoolery for a moment, leaning against the wall beside him. Looking up at the ceiling, he seemed deep in thought, his mind swirling in reminiscence outside Nikolai's ear.
"Svetlogorsk, the town built on the ruins of a German spa retreat," Iiro said, "everything here is built on lies. The town, the West Baltic... Sometimes, it's hard to tell what is the truth. But sometimes, the best way to obtain the truth is to ask honestly. That's what makes us different from the Muscovites. We revel in the truth exposing our lies. If you speak sincerely, then the truth will open up."
Squirming a bit at his words, Nikolai queried awkwardly, "that sounds a lot like dating advice to me."
Bursting out in laughter again, the strange director declared, "it probably is. I can't really tell, myself!"
With Violett and the farm kids eyes fixed on the hapless lad, Nikolai could only wonder what mess had he just gotten into...
OOC Notes:
- Probably a leap of faith, trying to put prosthetic technology somewhat ahead of its time. If anyone wants to correct me, let me know.
- OTL's Kaliningrad State University (or currently, the Immanuel Kant Baltic Federal University), otherwise known as TTL's Immanuel Kant State University of Kyonigsberg. OTL, the university is heavily focused on humanities, and lacked an engineering faculty. Here, due to the influx of migrants (voluntary and involuntary) into the West Baltic, an engineering faculty has been founded which last to TTL's present. Its beginnings as a Pedagogical Institute is IOTL, though, from 1948 to 1967.
Cast: