'A Throne of Bayonets' (Russia, 18th August 1991 TL)

;)

More to come at the weekend... I'd write it faster but after work I'm shagged most of the time and just want to mooch about infront of the telly.
 
I imagine the whole NWO Speech might not have come to the same fruition in this TL as it did IRL (being as it was Sept 11 1991) but I imagine there are conspiracies and theories surrounding the brutal and violent collapse of the Soviet Union, the War in Europe and the fracturing of the Evil Empire. I looked into Bush beating out Clinton but figured that Bush's Foreign Policy focus would be double ITTL and that would mean that again 'the economy stupid' wins out. There was a lot of conspiracy theories about the UN though after the end of the cold war... the whole 'black helicopters' thing and so on. Corto might be bluffing, or he might be a serious believer... SpecOps folk see the oddest shit.

typical period nuttiness

The "economy stupid" won because the Soviet Union collapsed peacefully and the Cold War was over. If there's a Second Soviet Civil War that goes nuclear, several NATO member states are invaded, and Eastern Europe in flames then I find it hard to believe that things could be stable enough by November '92 for that campaign strategy to work. Would Clinton even be the nominee?

Despite this quibble, excellent timeline. Very well written and enjoyable.
 
Abandoning this at this point. Consider it an afternoon or two of good ideas that didn't really lead anywhere in the longterm.

That's sad to hear. Well, rest assured that what you did write was already a fine work and that should you write something in the future I will likely read it.
 
I meant this line of story. Consider Gorby's death the start point of any future expedition, but our little drive to Odessa to be a detour from the actual substance of the material.

That said... my thoughts are in warmer climes at the moment ;)
 
Actually reading it back... it can all stay in. I'll just have to jump the action somewhere else. I've ran Odessa into the ground for the immediate time being. I think we need to see what else is going on ... :D
 
Posledniy Geroy (Last Hero) - Kino

(a Throne of Bayonets sequel/prequel between parts 2 and 3... gone but not forgotten, there might be more of this eh? Written as part of a writing competition where you had to use mixed media - so the title of this piece is the song that inspired it. Music here and lyrics/translation here)

--0400 Moscow Time, 08.01.2005


Sergeant Nikolai Petrovich Goncharov (retired.) took a swig of the vodka, sat at the table and sighed. These winters in Kaluga were enough to drive a man to madness. He rattled around the apartment like a loose pea whilst his wife Darya was at work and then when she was around he got under her feet.


He twisted his fingers so the shot-glass between them span like a top for a moment as he looked across the table at the empty seat. Darya wouldn't be home for another… His mind wandered as the Minsk in the corner cut in with it's irritating buzz. The compressor whirred. A sigh escaped his lips and he looked at the clock. He hated the night shifts when she was at the factory. Up in the middle of the night again and drinking. At least with the decency to do so indoors he thought to himself, but still that was like pissing with your pants on. Still made a fucking mess, and was none the prettier to look at.


Nikolai stood up, walked over to the sink, a journey of five paces. He poured a glass of the bitter water and took a sip, washing his mouth out. He looked at the framed photos on the counter top, that sickly colour. Him and Oleksandr Mykhaylovych. Kosyrin was holding the camera of course. Bastard never was in the photos, but he was the best with the contraption too, so it made some sense. One of him and Darya from when they were first stepping out. That was just after the war. After Saratov, when he felt like an icicle.


She'd picked him up and sorted him out, for all his faults. He smoked less these days. And drank a little less too. God knows what she saw in him, but he thanked God she saw it. Another picture from the past. The wedding. That was already three years ago, and still no little Nikita to follow him. He wondered if it was the war. That certainly helped him not to sleep. Didn't help with a job these days either. Every man in the Soviet Union seemed to be the damn veteran of some war if he could get an erection.


All those hungry eyed kids of 10 were twenty one now. Who would bother with a relic like him when he could get one of those motivated little bastards. He took another sip of the bitter water and then poured the rest out in the sink. Fuck it. Even vodka was better than this.


He glanced at the clock. Four thirty. Ruminating again. Better not to. He poured another shot of vodka and then downed it cleanly. Better. No. Not really. When he was alone he hated it. When she was there, he drove her mad and they argued to the point that he hated it. And he couldn't sleep. What a life. What a place to live. Perhaps he should just walk out and watch the sun rise. Take the pistol with him and put everyone out of the misery his nonsense inflicted on them all. It was getting that way. No job. No social life. No money. No kids. Just torturing the woman that he loved.


There was a knock at the door. All the hairs stood on his neck. Darya wasn't home for another two hours. Minimum. Who the fuck was there at this hour?


He went to the bedroom on light feet, opened the second drawer by the bed. Took out his Makarov service revolver. Slipped it behind his back and went to the door. Peered out the peephole into the hallway.


Nobody there.


Hearing things now?


He sighed, relaxed and then went back to the bedroom to return the gun.


Another knock.


He raised his voice, panelky be damned. "Which Suka knocks on my door at this hour? You're going to find yourself missing a couple of teeth when I'm through with you!"


He stormed through the corridor as he spoke so that by the time he swung open the door he was just yelling 'you!' to be confronted with the grinning face of Oleksandr Mykhaylovych.


"Good morning to you, our last hero!"


Nikolai blinked a moment, shook his head in bemusement then realised what day it was.


"You! You, sovok, mudak, fucker! Bothering your old boss at this hour in the morning! Can't afford a motel so come to crawl into my warm apartment like a cockroach?"


"I missed you too, you grumpy bastard. I still remember you not wanting to share that bench."


"I'm not sharing my bench either now!"


"Well that's fine because I spoke with Darya and she said that you wouldn't mind to sleep on the floor."


"Bastard, I should poke your eye out!"


"So try me? I learnt from the best..."


The initial fury of Nikolai had gradually diminished, until by the time that he was promising to poke out the eye, he was starting to laugh.


"So. The car made the journey."


"Of course, and next year you will come to Odessa?"


"I have to now, don't I?"


"Everything is a choice, in our glorious Soviet nation."


"Funny fucker."


"I like to think so. Anyway, I've got some bags in the car. Help me get them up?"


"Sure… Let me just stow this…" He lifted the pistol.


"Damn, you never stopped looking over your shoulder. I'll be back up in a moment…"


Nikolai walked into the bedroom. He slipped the pistol away and as he did, the phone vibrated on the bedside table. He walked over and picked it up, but the call finished before he could answer. He looked at the number. Darya. Probably calling to remind him Oleksandr Mykhaylovych was coming. He shrugged, texted quickly 'He's already here' then tossed the phone on the bed.


He had work to do. No time to see the sunrise and play the fool with his pistol. And for now no need to go where he didn't want. His friend waited for him.
 
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