[ It's a game that Vasiliy recognizes immediately—how could he not, having lived through the duration of the Great Purge?
Still, there is valuable information disclosed even in this pantomime of a genuine conversation: Konstantin Sergeyevich is being kept here because he does not remember, a fact that sends a cold chill down Vasiliy's back and knots his stomach. Eventually they'll beat a memory out of him, even if it's a fabricated one—does he know that? Does he recognize what a dangerous place to be in it is, having no information to give?
They want information on how a national embarrassment happened. If the Americans know, if their stealth planes picked up on the unplanned descent, this man will be discovered to be a Wrecker and killed for it, or imprisoned if he's less lucky. He'll confess whether he wrote the confession or not. It makes him sick, thinking about the way a Hero of the Soviet Union's been discarded; truly, there is no end to it, is there? He was replaceable, one in a box of tin soldiers waiting to be molten into something useful; a cosmonaut, less so.
Perhaps it's a mercy that he doesn't seem to realize what the future holds for him. Vasiliy decides not to say anything, even if they do have a moment out of earshot; it's better for him not to feel the betrayal until his last minutes of existence. It is what he wishes had happened to him.
Vasiliy tries to compose himself, willing what conscious thought he can muster into the act. He's not alright, of course. He's spent the past three days virtually catatonic, sleepless, alternating between paralyzing fear and soul-crushing despair and a feeling that this was always inevitable. At least they've allowed him his cigarettes.
Eyes as dark as wet mink flit down to the cement floor; he lets out a quiet, self-effacing huff. ]
no subject
Still, there is valuable information disclosed even in this pantomime of a genuine conversation: Konstantin Sergeyevich is being kept here because he does not remember, a fact that sends a cold chill down Vasiliy's back and knots his stomach. Eventually they'll beat a memory out of him, even if it's a fabricated one—does he know that? Does he recognize what a dangerous place to be in it is, having no information to give?
They want information on how a national embarrassment happened. If the Americans know, if their stealth planes picked up on the unplanned descent, this man will be discovered to be a Wrecker and killed for it, or imprisoned if he's less lucky. He'll confess whether he wrote the confession or not. It makes him sick, thinking about the way a Hero of the Soviet Union's been discarded; truly, there is no end to it, is there? He was replaceable, one in a box of tin soldiers waiting to be molten into something useful; a cosmonaut, less so.
Perhaps it's a mercy that he doesn't seem to realize what the future holds for him. Vasiliy decides not to say anything, even if they do have a moment out of earshot; it's better for him not to feel the betrayal until his last minutes of existence. It is what he wishes had happened to him.
Vasiliy tries to compose himself, willing what conscious thought he can muster into the act. He's not alright, of course. He's spent the past three days virtually catatonic, sleepless, alternating between paralyzing fear and soul-crushing despair and a feeling that this was always inevitable. At least they've allowed him his cigarettes.
Eyes as dark as wet mink flit down to the cement floor; he lets out a quiet, self-effacing huff. ]
I'm okay. They have drawn a lot of blood.