[ —39 year old male with severe wounds to the head and suspected internal bleeding en route from emergency landing. Patient is showing convulsions and severe hematemesis. BP 70 over 50 and rising. Pulse 120. ETA 15 minutes. — Copy. OR on standby. Blood type? — Unknown. — Copy. Pulling 5 units of O-.
Vasily reflexively grabs the edge of the stretcher to stabilize it as another pothole throws his body into the unyielding brace of the five-point harness that straps him into his seat beside the patient. 15 minutes. The cosmounaut's breathing, barely, wet jerky inhalations that crackle with his own blood—he may be DOA, though at least he doesn't seem to be conscious. It's Konstantin Veshnyakov, he'd realized when they took off the shards of the helmet to brace his spine with a cervical collar—the face is recognizable from the papers, even smeared with dark blood. It's almost unbelievable that his training should take him into a place this remote at the same time as a Hero of the Soviet Union descends from space, let alone that they should meet in the back of an ambulance—but that's as far as the thought gets him, at least while he's focused on making sure that man doesn't die.
The transfer once they pull into the carport of the Emergency Room is fast; as he hops out of the back of the ambulance and the driver trots around the side of it to help him unload their patient, they're greeted by a cluster of military men, some of them identifiably members of high command.
The trauma surgeons waiting for them at the loading dock don't seem to care. They muscle past, joining the two of them in lowering the stretcher and unlocking its wheels; his hands stay on the side rails as he and his partner and the three surgeons who came out to meet them rush the gurney down the hall to the operating room. They admit him, and for a moment he and Pavel stand staring at the twin doors without exchanging words, processing.
Pravda won't announce his death immediately if they lose him on the operating table—the only way to know when it happens is to stay. Vasiliy glances up at the wall clock—his shift is over in fifteen minutes, anyway. He excuses himself, bids Pavel goodnight, sits down on one of the chairs in the small waiting room outside of the OR and leans back, arms folded across his chest, closing his eyes as he drifts into shallow upright sleep to the sound of a woman's soft weeping a few chairs over.
The surgery and transfusion only last some three hours, judging by the position of the clock on the wall when the blue-gray double doors to the OR swing open and rouse him from his tenuous slumber; maybe Veshnyakov wasn't as bad-off as he had looked in the welter of his gore. Vasiliy gets up, jaw hinging with a yawn, and picks up the pace to walk astride one of the nurses. ]
How is he?
[ He lost a lot of blood but he'll pull through, he's told. It almost seemed like he was already recovering on the table. Vasiliy breathes a sigh of relief.
The nurses take Veshnyakov to a suite, one of the best rooms in the hospital, and get him hooked up to the requisite components of life support. A dextrose solution and plasma hang from the IV pole beside the bed; they run an oxygen line under his nose and hook it behind his ears. A few last checks, an injection of painkillers into the line, and they leave; he assures them he'll keep an eye on the man, though the guards posted at the door a few minutes after he entered seem to have similar at mind.
After the door shuts Vasiliy steps closer to the bed, cautious, as though his breathing might wake the man. He's almost unreal, his perfection in sharp contrast to the tangibility and mass of his body—even with every muscle in his face relaxed, he's handsome in a Yuri Gagarin sort of way, like someone brought a state poster to life. Real people don't look like that. He wonders what he'd look like, smiling for reporters after a successful landing.
None of the nurses even wiped the blood from around his mouth. A state hero deserves better treatment than that, for all he's done. Vasiliy walks to the bathroom and grabs a washcloth, wets it with warm water, carefully dabs away the crusted blood from his chin and lower lip before he returns to his chair. Veshnyakov deserves at least that much, getting mutilated for the good of his country.
He stays up for a little while longer, studying the rise and fall of the cosmonaut's chest, counting his respirations by second nature. At some point around 1 AM he feels satisfied enough that the man will pull through and leans back in the chair, legs stretched out, falling back asleep with practiced ease.
Vasiliy misses it, of course, when a few hours later the creature emerges in the darkness, studying him intently with eight eyes, watching his jugular vein, smelling him. More interest than a sick man would get, but not enough to mark him as viable prey. ]
[ There is something inside of Konstantin Veshnyakov.
He returns from the black void of space to breathe in this planet's familiar air — the air of his home, no matter how much he's run from it — and something else finds itself on a strange new world in return. They've swapped places, the alien and the cosmonaut. Now the entity, that nameless thing with its soft wet body, is the stranger in a world where it must stay in the safety of a suit. Now it's the one that can't exist without protection.
So many things happen around it now, so many strange things — commotion and voices and vibrations. Its host body is being moved and manipulated, connected to things, monitored by things. It doesn't understand. It stays hidden in the warm safety of a man's body, curling in on itself.
But it's hungry, so new and so hungry. It's a peculiar thing, led by cold instinct like an insect and yet capable of a deep intelligence; already it is learning. It's fed from a human, right after the crash. And now it knows it can feed from these beings, the ones that walk on two legs and have two big eyes and bleed so easily.
The space around it become calm and quiet again. There is only one human left nearby, now. The creature senses the movement as the human nears its host's mouth — it tenses, readying itself, hungry. But not just yet. Not until night is yawning open into early morning, and the other human being in the room goes still.
Then it comes. Up and out, slithering its way from a throat that convulses violently around it. Its host's body both resists and encourages its forced exit, its girth spreading even as it's still leaving him, and when it's coiled and dripping on the floor of the hospital room, it takes a moment to try and understand its surroundings — as much as it's capable of. Everything outside of the man's body is cold, hard, and strange against its soft, sensitive body.
Its cluster of small black eyes glitters as it turns its strange hooded head to face the human being sitting in the chair nearby. Excited, the creature chitters softly with its wet clicking sounds, making its way closer, rising up on itself like a snake. It takes in the movement of his chest, the flutter of vein beneath skin; its body shudders with awareness, and want.
......Something's strange. Wrong. The human being is... two things (or is it nothing?) some paradoxical, impossible state. An imitation of life? ....No. Not alive, not dead — like preserved flesh. Unappetising, and the creature recoils, its little round suction mouth twitching with displeasure, moisture dripping from beneath its row of sharp teeth. There's nothing to be gained from cracking through this human being's skull and worming its mouth into the soft flesh of his brain, tearing and snapping. It doesn't want to taste what's inside of him. What's inside of him is... wrong.
But it's still hungry. It slithers past the man, looking up towards the closed door. There are other humans out there, but... it can't get through the barrier. And it knows not to try to call too much attention to itself; it should wait for another opportunity to feed. So it returns to its limp and unmoving host, pushing past his lips and forcing its way back down into the safety of his belly.
Everything is still again. Konstantin sleeps, still passed out from the seizure the creature induced in him. For the moment, mercifully, he knows nothing. But a few hours later, when his eyelashes flutter and he's gazing groggily up at the ceiling, head pounding and throat slick with nausea, memory begins to flash behind his eyes as though he's absorbing it from someone else. As though he's only a visitor in his own mind — no, no, he's not the visitor. The thing is. The thing.... Horror and panic have him suddenly moving, trying to get up — grasping at the oxygen line connected to his face, uncomfortably aware of the pull against his arm, tethered to an IV. He's giving a cry out loud, chest heaving; he's trapped. (Not so far deep down, he's aware he's trapped in a room with something that, on some level, doesn't register as human. At least, not the right way. Not the way any human should feel.) ]
[ The man's yell jolts Vasiliy from his light slumber; within seconds he's at the bedside of the frantic cosmonaut, wrapping a hand around the sturdy wrist of the one pulling at the oxygen line. Sometimes this happens, he knows; sometimes patients come out of sedation and thrash, panicking as they orient themselves to the sudden change in environment. If he lost consciousness upon impact—it's hard to see how he wouldn't—he's gone from the endless blackness of the open steppes at night to confinement in a hospital room in an instant with no explanation. ]
Commander. Commander Veshnyakov. It's alright. You're alright. You're in the hospital. You had a crash landing and you were in surgery. It's okay. You're alright.
[ He speaks quickly but not frantically, keeping his tone level and confident to avoid adding to the hysteria of the moment—a practiced pattern he finds himself able to fall into even, it would seem, in the presence of a Hero of the Soviet Union. ]
[ It isn't like him to panic. To lose control of himself, his emotions, his thinking. Who and what he is... is always supposed to be in control of those things. He is a model, an example, carefully-maintained and proud; he is a—
'Commander'. Though the presence of the other man suddenly drawing nearer makes Konstantin's heart pound with a painful surge of adrenaline, that word spoken aloud catches hold of the cosmonaut even in the frantic pulse of this confused moment. He stares widely at the other man, listening to the words. An explanation, and one that makes sense, even as his mind is so desperately struggling to accept any of this as true.
'It's okay. You're alright.'
His mouth tips open to try and form some reply, but the smell and taste of blood is abruptly assaulting his senses, wet and coppery and aching. It comes up from the depths of himself, things bleeding from within, body fighting against its unwanted occupant. He gags, and dark wet bubbles up from his lips, which he sputters against, fingers tightening into the sterile white sheets beneath himself. ]
[ More hematemesis. Vasiliy's chest aches with sympathy as he lets go of the man's wrist in exchange for a gentle hold on his upper arm, briskly but carefully pulling him forward so he doesn't choke on his own bloody vomit after making it through an atmospheric re-entry and crash landing. He reaches for the dusky pink emesis basin on the side table and holds it over the white sheets with his free hand, reluctant to break contact until the man calms a little bit.
The blood that spatters down into the basin with every new retch is dark, not particularly oxygenated; that, at least, is a good sign, or perhaps more aptly the better of the two possibilities. ]
Easy. Slow breaths through your nose. [ The same thing he'd say to a civilian patient. ] You have internal bleeding from your crash. Blood is maybe still coming up. You're okay. I will get the doctor soon.
[ Konstantin lets himself be pulled forward, even as something in him flinches — muscles tight and rippling as though in quiet revolt of the gesture. Everything's wrong on the outside and on the inside, and despite the grueling and rewarding years of his extensive mental training, his body and mind feel under attack from both directions. (Inside, something is coiling tight and slick; the thing is restless. Outside, something that may only be an imitation of a man holds onto his arm and tells him to breathe.)
But he does. Breathes slowly, in through his nose like the stranger says. There are a couple of sporadic convulsions, spasms that rack through his frame and cause him to spit up blood, but they begin to die down, and he's left shuddering, leaned over.
Weakly, he closes his eyes, tries to find ground within himself. Make sense of what he can. When he opens them again, his chest isn't heaving on the cusp of panic, though he continues to shudder softly. ]
My co-pilot. Comrade Averchenko. Is he..... dead? Do you know? [ His voice is hoarse, and wet from blood. He isn't looking the man in the eyes, not just yet. For more than one reason, he has to avoid that for a little longer. ]
He was brought in critical condition in the other ambulance. The doctor can probably tell you more when he comes, but he was alive when he came into the operating room.
[ Vasiliy has the feeling he already knows the answer, having seen the man's brain glistening in the open air, but he doesn't share that piece of information, not when his patient is only just starting to calm down. Comrade Veshnyakov is in a fragile, tenuous state, still hovering on the edge of the panic attack he just came out of. He's not ready to hear that Averchenko is likely dead, not yet, though Vasiliy does at least withdraw the gentle touch of the hand on the cosmonaut's upper arm as he begins to catch his breath. ]
[ The information is there inside of him, like the remnants of a nightmare just after you wake up, sweat glistening at your brow, throat and eyes tight. He wants to wake up from his nightmares, wants all of the horrible things that should not be, to vanish. He knows Averchenko is probably dead, and it hurts the way few things ever have before. He was responsible for that man. He was responsible for everything.
Konstantin feels the careful touch at his arm retract, and there's some small, human moment he can't quite control where he longs for that contact again — a counter to the horror of the impossible knowledge he has of this man. Slowly, the cosmonaut looks up to him, finally taking in the stranger's face. A younger man than himself, noticeably so; Konstantin is nearing forty and there are good-natured wrinkles at the edges of his eyes, and grey at his temples. Charming features, he's been told. He can be trusted. ]
...Not too much, [ he replies, although it's because he's used to downplaying his own discomforts, to the point of pretending he doesn't have them at all. He swallows with a soft sound against the copper taste still lingering in his mouth, and licks his lips to clear the remaining blood.
He hesitates. Should he... reveal it? Beg for help? He's in a hospital now, he needs the thing out— ...or maybe there is no thing at all. Maybe he's lost his fucking mind.
Another thought comes in, fights against everything. He won't be allowed to retrieve his son if he's perceived to be insane, if he has some kind of meltdown. And his public image.... which may already become tarnished once he recovers the boy... He can't risk losing more than what he inevitably has. ]
Mostly dizzy. [ Konstantin's dark eyes flit to the chair in the room, and then stay there. Through something else's memory, he recalls the peculiar sensation of this man, but his own human senses struggle to translate it from the creature's enhanced ones. He does not like the way he involuntarily thinks about it in terms of taste, and tries to block out the feeling. ]
[ It's Vasiliy's turn to break eye contact, his own equally dark irises flitting to the side, as though he has anything to apologize for. Now that the man's regaining his bearings, he's clearly realizing that there's not really a logical explanation for why an EMT should be in one hospital room all night, at least not one that falls within the prescribed duties of Vasiliy's position. The reality's not particularly surprising, or at least he assumes it wouldn't be to someone like Veshnyakov.
He wanted to meet a Hero of the Soviet Union. A real cosmonaut, someone who went to the beyond and came back alive... even if only barely. And he was worried—it didn't sit well with him that someone who had given so much to his country should just be left unattended like any other patient. ]
Yes. My shift was over and they're short-staffed. I had nowhere else to be so I said I'd watch you.
[ He says it as though he was asked to, or as though in a more general sense it was brought up that someone should. In reality, he'd volunteered, but that's neither here nor there. ]
[ Through his own discomfort and uncertainty and alarm, something else bubbles up, and he looks back up to the younger man, watching him look away. In silence, Konstantin stares at him for a long moment, and then exhales quietly. No matter what he is.... feeling, what impossible information he is perhaps privy to (and what does it really mean? He can't be sure of anything); he must remember himself. He still does, through the horror of everything.
The small smile he offers is well-trained, but no less genuine. He does mean it, when it comes. It's just that he has to make it happen. He pretends that everything is the way it should be, for a moment or two, long enough that the warmth is able to spread to his eyes. He still shudders on occasion, in small ripples that he thinks he's able to conceal. ]
That was valiant of you. Thank you.
[ To stay even after his shift was complete, to go above and beyond his duty... it's admirable, of course it is, and Konstantin lets the praise come out that way. ]
[ Vasiliy meets the man's eyes as they warm and good-natured creases appear at their edges, as his laugh lines deepen. Even with blood staining his lower lip and the faint, lasting signs of nausea worn into his face, he's surreally handsome, sending a small thrill of warmth through his core. He tries not to linger on the thought; it's not very professional of him, even if he is, technically, off-duty.
(And maybe there's a part of him that fears the man will see right through the armor of his uncanny ability to don whatever mask he chooses, that he'll see the wonder and admiration and attraction, all of which are inappropriate for a provider to feel toward a patient even if he's probably accustomed to such a reception from just about everyone. Vasiliy doesn't want to be seen as someone so easily awed.) ]
Vasiliy Yegorovich. It is an honor to meet you, but I'm sorry we had to.
[An honour to meet him. Konstantin knows that choice of words well — usually expects them, even. They come with all of it. He's lost count of how many women and men have told him that it's an honour to meet him. Even children know.
And yet, in this moment, with so much unknown and every piece of him wanting nothing more than to scream, the words feel new again, perhaps more reminiscent of back when he was a younger man and hearing them freshly. How his heart swelled....!
The words are like a tether, something small but vastly meaningful, that matters in this moment. All of that he keeps to himself, keeps his composure, but he lets his smile spread a little, visibly, and nods. ]
The honour is mine, comrade. [ But the smile wavers with another roll of nausea, and he gives a little grunt, fingernails of one hand curling into his palm. ]
Sorry. My stomach — feels a bit sour. Do you have any water?
[ Vasiliy steps around the foot of the bed and reaches for the chart that hangs from it, scanning the nurse's instructions before he answers: NPO, 6 hours postop. He glances at the clock and back down at the written time of release from the OR; the cosmonaut is in luck. ]
Yes.
[ He steps over to the little bedside table and pours a cup, holding it out and waiting for the man to take it while eyeing the emesis basin that has remained on his lap. There's a decent chance that this will come back up again and he'd like to be ready for that eventuality; he'll have to say something to the call nurse about getting the poor man some antiemetics. He's never seen internal bleeding present like this before. ]
Drink very slowly, Comrade, or you'll trigger more vomiting.
[ Konstantin watches him move, sitting up very slowly, taking care not to move his body more than he has to. Some desperate little part of him almost wants to believe he has lost his mind — would it be better than the alternative? That what is happening to him is real? That something truly..... got into the craft?
Into him?]
Thank you.
[ He accepts the small cup politely and lifts it to his mouth, taking slow, cautious sips. It at first helps with the taste of blood and other things — bile, way deep down in his throat — though his stomach seems to shudder. His body knows something is deeply wrong, and before he can help it, he's suddenly gagging again, sputtering a mouthful of water, some dribbling down his chin and onto his clothing. Konstantin presses a hand quickly to his mouth, clamping it firm, voice muffled as he speaks, brow pinched in upset. The brief moment of recollecting himself — of being seen as Commander — is gone. ]
I'm sorry! I ca—
[ A violent dry-heave cuts off his own words, throat rolling with harsh movement as he leans over again, eyes wet from the abrupt pain of it. ]
[ Vasiliy's heart sinks a little—he'd been afraid this would happen, and it comes with a degree of guilt. Veshnyakov is a grown man able to gauge his own body's thresholds and determine what he can handle on his own, but it's still painful to watch the loss of control and the obvious distress that follows. ]
Don't apologize. Deep, slow breaths through your nose.
[ Vasiliy strides to the bathroom and quickly returns with a towel and a washcloth, which he holds as he waits for a break in the retching. ]
I think you're reacting to the anaesthetic, comrade. This happens sometimes.
[ He keeps his distance, giving the man more than a foot of space to keep from crowding him—but how he wants to reach out, to rest his hand between the shoulderblades sticking out of Veshnyakov's back and let the weight of his arm soothe him until the frantic heaving dies down. ]
[ It's his own fault, and he'd be quick to say such if he knew an ounce of guilt had crossed the younger man's mind. He shouldn't have even risked it, but it only continues to confirm the idea that this truly is reality.
(And so, what of this man? What he'd.... absorbed about him, from the horrible slithering thing inside of him? What does he do with this information?)
Konstantin nods carefully, breathing again — another bad spell, another breathing session. In and out, slow, and the gagging stops again, and he's left panting yet again, rubbing his burning eyes, opening them to see Vasiliy there with some things he's fetched. ]
Ahhhh. I'm all right, this time. I promise. [ He manages another smile, trying to seem humoured, good-natured. He's embarrassed for his behaviour before, and now too — coughing and convulsing and unable to keep a good handle on himself. It must be frightening, abhorrent to witness. He tries again to move past it, pretends he can. ]
How long until the effects of it wear off? The anaesthetic.
[ Vasiliy holds out the washcloth, dampened with a little warm water from the bathroom sink—for him to wipe the bloody vomit from his mouth with, an intention which goes unsaid. He gets the sense the man is feeling rather sheepish about it, though it's hardly any great stretch of intuition; few grown men ever react well to such a complete loss of control, especially in front of others. His rank, his status, the fact that he's a robust, healthy man used to being in a position of control—all of those things undoubtedly only exacerbate the burn of embarrassment for him. ]
Probably a few hours. I will tell the nurses you had a reaction to it so they don't use the same one again.
[ A beat. He's stepping a little bit out of his scope of practice, saying such a thing, but he feels compelled to grasp for some reassurance wherever he can find it: ]
It's dark. That's a good thing. If you were still bleeding it would be bright red from oxygenation.
[ Konstantin reaches for the cloth, pressing it to his mouth and letting it stay there, shoulders tensed upwards. He holds that wave of tension for a few moments, listening to the other man, and only after that much has been said does he finally relax his muscles again, slowly, carefully. Wiping his mouth is an equally carefully process, one he takes his time with — and perhaps it gives him some time to sit with his own shame, to not have to speak.
But he can't stay quiet forever, and finally removes the washcloth, setting it awkwardly down into the emesis basin. Head turning, chin lifting a little, he finally looks back up to Vasiliy. ]
Dark's good?
[ He does genuinely seem to focus on that, attention drawn to the assurance the other man is trying to give him. His mind's turning, trying to make sense of it — is the blood from the accident, then? Not from this thing squirming its way into him, doing whatever it's doing? (What will it do? Tear through him? Eat him from the inside out if it doesn't find food elsewhere?)
He swallows, trying to suppress the persistent feeling of nauseated horror. ]
I see. That is a relief.
[ Another pause of thought, an uncomfortable silence as he sits there with the smell of blood and his own sickness so pungent. There will be no more attempts for water, to be sure. He gives a faint smile, past the discomfort, past the horror, past the uncertainty of this peculiar man who has so diligently tried to take care of him. ]
You must be exhausted. If you need to leave, it's okay.
[ Vasiliy smiles rather sheepishly, and it's his turn to break eye contact. ]
Not really. I had time to sleep.
[ He's sure that working as an EMT would have taught him to sleep just about anywhere if he hadn't already known how to, but it's a skill he learned much earlier, within the yellow walls of the Lubyanka. When the Purge hit a fever pitch, one shift had bled into the next, confessions finally obtained so close to the beginning of his next shift that it had made more sense to simply sleep with his head down on his forearms in the interrogation room for the few hours he had.
And even if he hadn't slept... this is, admittedly, the one chance he'll have in life to meet a real cosmonaut, and probably also anyone awarded Hero of the Soviet Union. Regardless of the man's body's state of disrepair, it's quite an honor, and his very presence seems to extrude rays of warmth. He'd stay here forever if he could. ]
[ In truth, there's another part to his uneasiness — even if the... thing had not wanted to feed off of this man and whatever is wrong about him, Konstantin doesn't know if that fact may change. Should the entity become hungry enough, would it change its mind? Is it capable of such deliberate thought? Its connection to him is still in its stage of infancy. It is still very much a foreign thing to him, and right now.... he can't sense any of its thoughts, memories. Perhaps it is asleep, exhausted from the whole ordeal, healing itself deeply within him.
But it will wake again. And if hungry enough.... if this young man is the only other one in the room.... He must be careful. Must try to handle this situation.
He offers Vasiliy another smile, grateful for the man's dedication on the surface, and worried by it beneath. ]
Well, then. I suppose now we must wait for the doctors to decide what to do with me. [ Konstantin's smile brightens to his eyes with a little quirk of brow, amused. He lets himself be charming again, and hospitable, and gestures to the chair that Vasiliy was sitting in before, as though inviting him to make himself comfortable. ]
So why don't you tell me something about yourself? Anything.
The lying usually comes easily. A way of life, as it was before his death. But he hesitates now; he wants this interaction to be genuine, or as genuine as is realistically possible.
But he grasps at air, doesn't know what there is about him to share. He is—was—an instrument of the state; without that, what interests, what recreational activities are left? Only the barest biographical facts, which he lays out after a pause. ]
I am from Leningrad. I live in Moscow, but I'm training here to be a paramedic. I worked in the Party office until a few years ago and wanted to... do something more direct to help. [ A self-effacing smile: ] No medals.
[ It's something easy for him to default to — this business of asking people about themselves, of being amiable. Konstantin is accustomed to conversation; he's been well-groomed for it. He knows how to make people feel comfortable. How to fill in the awkward spaces of silence with bright smiles and questions about one's life, and when one comes out of a conversation with Konstantin, one feels good about it.
But there's something else to it. A curiosity that isn't only part of a comfortable mask, isn't just that place he has to default to so that he can keep himself together or else he'll lose himself completely in this moment after a crash to Earth and the realisation that something horrible has happened to him.
It's the first truly human moment he's had since that crash, since waking in a hospital room with his insides shuddering. It's the first human to ask questions to. (Is this man a human at all, he wonders?) If he isn't, then at least in this moment, Vasiliy Yegorovich feels like one. And perhaps it is very nice to hear a human speaking to him about their life. A small space in time in which Konstantin doesn't feel so alone. ]
Pah! Never mind medals, I'd say you've certainly been doing something direct to help. [ He smiles again with something almost a little playful as he carefully lifts the basin in his lap, and then makes a face. ] It's good you were here to greet me when I woke up. I'm sure everyone appreciates you helping me not to be sick all over myself. I know I—
[ He's interrupted by a sudden knock to the door — if it could even be called that. It's no one asking for entry; as soon as the thud sounds, the door opens in one swift movement, and two men come into the small room all at once, with the heavy thud of boots. All are dressed in military uniform, guns held firm. A third man enters next, introduces himself as the Colonel, and asks Commander Veshnyakov to come with them. He never looks at Vasiliy, only to Konstantin, and it's quite clear this is an order, not a request. He's informed that the military's doctors will see to him now, and he will be moved to a different facility.
There isn't even time to speak to Vasiliy again. Konstantin manages to glance over his shoulder at the younger man as he's ushered from the room, confused, dizzy. He asks the Colonel about Averchenko, and receives no answer.
They take him somewhere new, with bolted doors and armed guards, and he is subjected to test upon test. Hours pass by, and finally he's put in a holding area — the best they have to offer, Commander, they say. There is a separate sleeping room (one that can be walled off from the rest of the area at the touch of a button), a small table with two chairs, and little else. It is a large cage, but a cage nonetheless. He's informed that this is all normal, that they are trying to understand what went wrong with re-entry to Earth, that they want to make sure he fully recovers before they release him. They'll handle everything else.
A few days go by. He is subjected to more tests, and sleeps through the night, and wakes. His frustration grows, and the doctors (and scientists, he remarks; he is being observed by scientists) grow frustrated too, by his apparent lack of memory. One morning the stiff-backed Rigel comes to question him, and Konstantin feels a small surge of joy that he manages to rattle the man who leaves, complaining about him. But the sensation is short-lived, and he goes to sit back down on his bed for some time, staring down at the cold white floor. That's when he hears the door to his enclosure open again and looks up, expecting another scientist, or perhaps to be taken back to the medical rooms for more examinations.
What he sees is something completely unexpected, two guards leading in another man. The EMT from before. .....What? Konstantin's brows lift as he stands from the bed and moves to approach, face shifting into a rare display of genuine confusion as the man is ushered in and the door is then closed behind him. ]
[ They draw his blood over and over, until he's sure he has none left to give, until he feels hot and cold and clammy at the same time, then dump him in his cell, then interrogate him again under the guise of a conversation with a doctor. Repeat ad infinitum.
Maybe this is his punishment. The anticipation, the wait for the inevitable end. The real torture will undoubtedly start before too long - presented with life after death, the Soviet Union's curiosity will completely occlude the possibility in its mind that he truly may not have any explanation to give.
He tells them that, over and over, and he's sure his counterpart on the other side of the interrogation table—a man in a doctor's white coat named Rigel, though whether he's a doctor is anyone's guess—simply assumes he's gaming the system, working with an intimate knowledge of the complex machinations he's caught in. The hopelessness is overwhelming—Vasiliy knows, better than anyone in this compound, that nothing he could possibly say will matter. Nothing will divert the fate that has been set for him. Execution would be kind in a way that the KGB is not.
Instead he will be tortured, kept within a hair of death for as long as possible with synthetic reprieves spent with a mirror image of his own chekist self. They already know everything. The photograph on the party identification book pulled from the KGB archives sat living across from them as Rigel slid it across the table at their first meeting. The signatures on the confessions in the man's slim leather briefcase had matched the one Vasiliy tried to avoid offering.
Things change from the nascent routine after three nights in solitary confinement; one night Vasiliy is simply pulled from his cell without notice and escorted down the dim hall without being told where he's going (he would expect no less) until they at last make a sharp right at another numbered room. The guards lead him in, step back, and the door locks behind him as the cosmonaut rises from the bed across the floor, dressed in a similarly form-fitting white tee shirt (although there's more bulk to him to fill his out) and track pants. ]
Commander.
[ He'd been sure that this was it. He saw something he wasn't supposed to see when he was in orbit, and he'd suddenly outlived the Motherland's use for him, a fate not even a Hero of the Soviet Union is immune to. He'd wondered, in the nights since the man was dragged out of his hospital room minutes after retching up blood, whether they would wait for him to regain some of his strength before they started the torture, or if they'd risk killing him. It would depend on how valuable whatever intelligence he may have had was, and that was anyone's guess - even Konstantin Sergeyevich's.
Even whether or not he's been told anything at all about why he's here can't be determined with any certainty until Vasiliy asks; it's not uncommon for those who are unprisoned to lack even the slightest idea as to what it is the intelligence services want from them. (Although, interestingly, the men who took Veshnyakov were military, not KGB. It was his own ilk that had seized him at the end of his shift, in the darkness (the preference for operations at night had not, it would seem, changed over the past few decades), though this decidedly is not the Lubyanka, or structured like any other office of the intelligence services.) ]
I... [ Have they told him, does he know? Is he well? ] Are you alright?
[ This doesn't make sense. Why would the EMT be brought here...? Despite the nonchalant, even frivolous demeanour he's been using on the scientists here, pretending not to know certain things, to be uninterested by them... Konstantin is in truth a deeply observant man. All at once he is taking in many details (not that particular unsettling details are hidden much, here; the EMT is plainly wearing the same clothing he is — as though issued prison garb.)
Did they just bring him in? ...Or has he been kept in this place for these days since?
It's thrown a wrench in an already unknown situation, and he glances to the dark expanse of glass across the space, where he knows they're watching. Slowly, Konstantin's eyes return to the younger, the one he knows is no normal man. In the days since parting ways with him, Konstantin has only learned more about the ways he isn't, either.
And it will be nighttime soon. ]
I'm alright, [ he says, which is a lie that tastes strange against his own tongue. This man shouldn't be here, but he knows he must be careful with what he says. Still, it's all right to show some surprise, to ask questions; anyone would. ]
Have they been keeping you here too? [ Konstantin adjusts his stance a little, trying to seem more bewildered than unsettled. As though this is strange and that's all, and he even gives an exasperated sigh followed up by a smile. His arms fold across his chest, easy. ]
All this fuss for nothing. Do they think talking to the first responder in a prison cell might help jog my memory? [ It's all an act, for show; later, he'll find a way to lead Vasiliy to more private areas of the room. The bed, they can sit there maybe. Chat. Harder to hear exactly what's said, and if he controls his expressions enough, they'll think he's just making friendly chatter. ]
[ 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. ]
[ It's imperative that he keeps up this act, that they think he doesn't know of the creature. He pretends to be confused when they say he can't eat certain things, when they do certain tests, when there are always multiple armed guards escorting him to and from the medical rooms and to recreation, where he's allowed some "free" time (and is always watched). They're afraid of him, he knows. How could they not be? The thing seems to follow certain rules of its species, ways of functioning, at least. It's weak outside of him, soft and pliable. It's extremely sensitive to light; he doesn't think there is much danger of it surfacing outside of the darkness. But even so, there too many unknowns of this thing that came from the stars, despite what controlled studies the scientists desperately try to run. Everyone here tries not to look at him as if he's infected with some sickness they're afraid to contract (but he sees it in their faces, a quiet fear), and it's a mutual game played between the cosmonaut and his captors — don't let him know. Don't let them know that he already does.
What he does not have to pretend to be is sick, and startled. When he feels movement, or a nausea, or a coiling ache. His body rebels against its invader, its unwelcomed occupant. His stomach hurts, his chest; often he finds himself shuddering, coughing, flinching. Those things are not an act, and he knows they see them, too. Even now, it reacts in him to the brief surge of startle and alarm from seeing the EMT shoved into his container, no matter how well Konstantin is at controlling himself. His body still has its reactions, no matter how subtle, and perceived so easily by its sensitive inhabitant. He coughs suddenly, a stuttering thing, and instinctively places a hand to his abdomen.
Immediately after, he knows this will get their attention, and silently curses, but keeps his focus on Vasiliy. Pretending not to think anything of it. Indigestion, or a result of the stress he's suffered. That's all it is. His fingers curve slowly against the tight material of his shirt, before he lets his hand fall away. Inside him, a cluster of black eyes flutter. ]
Taken your blood? At least I'm not alone in being poked and prodded, but I'm surprised they've kept you here.
[ He frowns as he looks him over with an empathy he wears on his face, good-natured in his concern. Of course, Konstantin knows there is something deeply wrong with this man before him. (Do they know, too? They must. Why else would they keep Vasiliy? Do they think the cosmonaut's infected him somehow, being so close to him that night in the hospital? ....Were they watching, even then?) ]
Here, you must sit— rest a while. [ Konstantin reaches for the other man's shoulder, gentle but firm as he coaxes him towards the little table, where he'll move to sit across from him. He hesitates, knowing he should let his new companion know he's being watched (not knowing that Vasiliy already is aware to that fact), but... cautiously. Keep talking, like nothing's wrong. ]
Do you know how long before you can be discharged? I suppose they ran out of rooms, and needed us to share for awhile.
[ Vasiliy allows himself to be guided—even feels a sudden surge of warmth, of undeniable attraction behind the constant undercurrent of fear as the cosmonaut's hand envelopes his shoulder. Even his hands are picturesque: broad, masculine. He supposes it's probably not that unusual, registering that the other party in a dire situation is attractive. Some of it is probably just relief at the end of his stint in solitary confinement.]
They haven't said.
[ It goes without saying, of course, though Vasiliy says it anyway. It works to their advantage, keeping prisoners in the dark about every element of their lives. It had worked to his advantage. He doesn't ask the same question in return - he's not sure if Veshnyakov was given a false promise or no end date at all, but the kind thing is to avoid drawing his attention to the impossibility of leaving. ]
[ On his end of things, Konstantin allows himself to be open and warm and even intimate, even in such small gestures. The way his fingers spread over the other man's shoulder, palm warm, giving a gentle squeeze before he'll let it go — it comes almost as naturally to him as anything now, that tendency. It could easily be read as flirtatious, even if innocently so: the same sort of way he smiles and lets his eyes linger while doing it, or places his hand to the small of someone's back when guiding them. Small things, not inappropriate, only familiar. As though he's a friend, a comfort.
As he sits, he keeps his focus on Vasiliy Yegorovich, and gives an amused laugh in response to that, although there is nothing truly amusing about it. Time is running out, he thinks, with each day that passes. ]
They're so secretive around here. So serious. They keep trying to hypnotise me to see what's hidden in my mind, when there's nothing.
[ He folds both hands on the little table, leans forwards. ]
They didn't give you any instruction? You aren't supposed to question me? [ He smiles again. ] Do they just want us to make friends?
[ It would be fitting, wouldn’t it, for him to be repurposed in that way. He’s almost surprised that they haven’t asked him to interrogate this man; he is, after all, his usefulness to the state. When his utility ended, so too had his life, which is what he fears—knows—is happening here.
It’s best if the cosmonaut doesn’t know his fate, Vasiliy finds himself thinking again, though he gets the strong sense that Konstantin Sergeyevich isn’t as oblivious as he would seem, either. How could he be, having been privy to the innermost machinations of their country’s scientific programs, of the war being fought in propaganda? ]
I suppose so [, he says, though he barely finds it in himself to feign lightheartedness as his own torture looms closer. ] No instruction. [ Vasiliy smiles thinly. ] Not their style.
['Not their style', the other man says, like he knows, and it surprises Konstantin a little. He must be more aware of things than he'd initially realised — and he pauses, considers his own thoughts very carefully.
He's just as careful as he lets his gaze travel around the room, innocuous, lingering on random areas of the space as though innocently observing them. ]
Well, then. They could've provided more hospitable things for my guest, while you're here. There's hardly anything for me to offer you. [ He keeps looking around as though he's searching for something he can offer to the other man, before lifting a hand and giving a sigh. ]
And no decoration, either. Not even a single painting on these walls.
[ That remark is the segue for Konstantin to be able to look at said walls, turning his head purposefully around the room. It means that when he looks to the large square of black glass near them, the one he knows they are being observed from, hopefully it won't draw any odd attention. And when he's turning his head back to Vasiliy, he's giving him a stare all of a sudden to catch his gaze and hold it, before allowing a quick wink. Hopefully it's conveyed something important to him about that particular wall, that he'll understand. We're being watched. Perhaps that fact was always obvious, but Konstantin needs to make sure they both understand. It's of utmost importance. ]
[ The cosmonaut couldn't be more heavy-handed with the signalling if he tried, at least in the presence of a creature adapted to catch the slightest twitch of a single facial muscle, a blink too fast or too slow: like zebras on the savanna, their lives in Yezhov's—and Stalin's—Russia depended on their ability to read the whims of potential predators.
But even in his immense stress and the feeling of... separation from his own body that started days ago when they first pounded on his door, the way the cosmonaut makes direct, lasting eye contact with him the moment the back of his head is facing the glass and winks at him shakes him up a little more than it should. Even here, of all places, he is not immune to the man's charm. He looks great for someone who only crashed down to earth a few days ago, and he certainly doesn't have any of the loss of muscle tone that is to be expected of cosmonauts going on longer trips; if anything, the shirt they've given him is a size too small, which Vasiliy tries, mostly out of a sense of respect for the man, not to fixate on. He'll think about it later.
Veshnyakov's intention seems to be to indicate to him that it's one-way glass; Vasiliy, truth be told, had assumed as much by virtue of their confinement. Of course they're being surveilled. He blinks once, holding eye contact, deliberate. ]
I will close my eyes and imagine the best painting I can.
[ Vasiliy inclines his head in the direction of the dim alcove where two freshly made twin beds have been set up, one on either side of the doorless room, the clean-pressed sheets looking like something right out of a hospital. ]
I think we both count as guests, you're just the guest of honor. Do you mind if I invite myself to sit down?
[ There are probably listening devices here regardless of whether or not they're partly out of sight from the men behind the one-way glass—there's nowhere they can go to really have a conversation unless they're standing in front of a flushing toilet, but then their keepers will want to know why they're in the bathroom together when a toilet is being flushed. It's engineered to leave no possibility for even a modicum of privacy, but the beds are positioned in such a way to at least allow the illusion of it—they'll make it a little harder for their captors to read facial expressions, at least, and the constant feeling of being watched and the endless supply of adrenaline infusing every tissue in his body for days on end have left him exhausted. ]
[ It's difficult to tell exactly whether the other man understands — but something to the way he holds contact with Konstantin's gaze feels telling, not meeting the cosmonaut's attention with any trace of confusion or unease. It's something intentional, a small secret moment between them, eyes to eyes. It lasts for those few seconds, and then Konstantin is flowing just as easily to the next thing, a smile curving the corners of his mouth. ]
Please do. I'll join you there, so we can get to know one another a little better.
[ Nothing odd or suspicious to that! Konstantin's captors already know he's chatty; he's made sure to keep up that reputation. Making conversation, asking questions, amicable. Of course he's made sure to seem frustrated at times (which is certainly nothing feigned), but even that much is good-natured more than anything. Why is he being kept here? When will he leave? Sometimes he laughs as he asks them, or gives his eyes a playful roll.
He stands, and politely scoots his chair back under the table, heading over to one of the beds to sit down — body language comfortable, relaxed. He is trying very hard not to think about the fact that the sun is probably dropping as he speaks, and that Vasiliy Yegorovich is locked in this place with him. Maybe this time the creature will eat him. Maybe what happened last time was some strange fluke — a thing still learning about the world, sensing different blood types, forming preferences. Maybe a lot of things. (Maybe Vasiliy Yegorovich has something bad inside of him, too.) ]
I'm sorry for all of this. You probably wish you hadn't been working that night. Someone else could've found the banged-up spaceman instead. [ Another smile, and then something that's a way to find out a bit more information on Vasiliy. ] Your family must be worried.
[ Vasiliy laughs with genuine incredulity—he's even humble, like the New Soviet Man should be, saying that like he truly doesn't know what a momentous occasion it was for someone like him to meet a cosmonaut and a Hero of the Soviet Union under any circumstances. ]
Please, don't apologize. I'm happy to have met you. I never thought I would meet a real cosmonaut, though I am sorry it happened when I was on duty.
[ A bit of anguish still twists at the deepest pit of his chest cavity when family is brought up: when he's reminded that he has no family to mourn him, to wonder where he is. It's better this way, so that his parents won't suffer for the actions of their son a second time, but it also imbues this situation with an added degree of hopelessness. He'll die—if they let him leave—without anyone knowing he ever returned to begin with. ]
Your mother must be proud of you. Not many people can say they raised a cosmonaut.
[ His own mother had been proud of him, her chekist son who had gone from a six-year-old-boy working in a welding factory to a uniformed officer. He'd sent her a copy of a photograph of himself seated in uniform, knowing she'd treasure it; he'd watched the bare hand of his latest interrogator slide it across the table in his direction some seventy-plus years later. ]
['I'm happy to have met you,' he says, 'a real cosmonaut', and despite all of the lingering fears and horrors just beneath the surface, Konstantin feels a soft flutter of warmth. He remembers how diligently the younger man had stayed with him that first night, after the crash — an act of dedication. His eyes warm right along with that pleased flutter, deep browns softening, and the moment only lasts a heartbeat or two, but it was there. It helps. These days, he has to hold onto those small moments of warmth and hope and use them as fuel to keep going.
It's nice to talk to another human being again. It's nice to be looked at as though he is something special, and brave, and good. ]
I suppose both of us were in the right place at the right time.
[ Said with a bit of playfulness, a little wry, but no less warm, before it's his turn to pause for a moment, mouth easing back into a softer line. Not quite a frown, but thoughtful. In truth, he's deeply terrified that he may not see his mother again. ]
She must be worried. They'll have let her know that I'm in recovery, but they haven't let me contact her, personally. [ No matter if they're listening to this conversation; it's not hidden information. He hasn't been allowed to make any phone calls. ]
As soon as I'm released from here, I'm going to her. To Moscow, where she lives. And I may just take a vacation from the stars, for a while.
[ Another smile, one that only falters just slightly at the edges. He remembers the way it slithered, squirmed, that creature from the stars. Small and thin and fast, body able to squeeze and contort itself, pulsing wet down his throat, making it difficult to breathe — but not impossible, no. It wouldn't allow him to die.
Death would have been a mercy, and maybe some part of him wishes it would come. For now, it's step by step, and what he doesn't say is that there is a pitstop needed in Rostov first: recover his son from the orphanage there, then take him to his grandmother in Moscow. ]
[ It's disappointing to hear—but not surprising, not after the way he's been treated. This is what they do when you've outlived your usefulness, even if you're a Hero of the Soviet Union. It's not how things are supposed to be. It never should have been like this, Lenin never wanted it to be like this.
He's not sure that Konstantin's mother would have been told he was in recovery, truth be told: that the KGB and assorted state intelligence networks at play here would go to the effort necessary to craft such a mistruth to begin with. She was just probably told he died of unrelated causes shortly after landing and will be given a hero's funeral—but Vasiliy keeps that thought to himself. It wouldn't be kind and it wouldn't serve any purpose to share it.
Vasiliy suppresses a yawn—slowly, the massive spike of cortisol from his sudden relocation is tapering off, leaving a carved-out shell of a person in its shadow. He can't truly relax, not when he knows he'll be tortured before too long, but his body is unable to maintain such a heightened state indefinitely. ]
You work hard. You deserve to rest. Even if it would be better to not rest here. ...Moscow is a nice city. I liked it.
[ He may not fully believe his own words, padding the truth in something nicer, though for whose sake, he isn't certain. Perhaps more of that fuel he holds onto in order to be able to keep going. Underneath everything, Konstantin trusts nothing and no one here. Years of training and being privy to secrets have taught him many things; he's seen the inner workings, to some extent. Already he's preparing to have to take drastic action, if he must. For now, he'll wait, gather details and make his own observations of this place and what they want from him. They think he's harmless, perhaps a little arrogant and too reliant on his own charm. Let them keep thinking it.
He looks back over at the other man, and he isn't quite able to sense what the creature can, on this level. Not just yet; they're still too new to one another. But the thing is so sensitive, its body serving the purpose of adaptation, impossibly soft and pliable. It absorbs from the world around it like a sponge. It can perceive on a level no creature from Earth could. Perhaps even deep within the core of himself, it can feel Vasiliy, and some of those shifts within the man's state. The rise and fall of hormone, the swell of adrenaline, the sigh of exhaustion.
It moves, a little. Disturbed by Vasiliy's presence, maybe, or longing for the things it knows it can't take from him. Konstantin can feel it, and sits up a bit straighter, adjusting his position but perpetually uncomfortable, swallowing back against a wave of sudden nausea. ]
Speaking of resting — you should, if you need to. I'm sure it's been a long day for you.
[ He isn't trying to cut the other man's thoughts off, but he's worried by the thing's reaction to him, and him speaking. Perhaps if Vasiliy sleeps, it will settle down again, and then.... (And then what? What does he do? He doesn't have a plan for this.) ]
I'll be up for awhile, so I can keep watch. Make sure our hosts behave themselves.
[ Another teasing smile, but behind it — truths they both know. ]
[ He's grateful that his senior in rank (and, possibly, by a couple of years, though it's hard to tell with someone that attractive) has voiced that it's okay for him to rest—it would be unthinkable, at least to a lowly interrogator from Stalinist Russia, to allow himself to be so visibly casual and at ease in the presence of someone who outranks him and outaccomplishes him so greatly. He should really be standing in the commander's presence, and he would be, were it not for their shared status as captives of their own government.
He suspects that the real reason for his expected alertness is simply stress—how does a man relax when his fate is uncertain? He'd never seen anyone sleep soundly in the Lubyanka except for the bone-tired men on the right side of her heavy steel doors. Vasiliy slides his feet from his shoes, smiling rather meekly. ]
Thank you.
[ He slips under the neatly folded covers, though it's hard to feel at ease lying down under blankets a meter away from a Hero of the Soviet Union. Does he know that, Vasiliy wonders? How long until he knows the rest of it and his false (but pleasant) image of Vasiliy Yegorovich the First Responder is replaced by the unappetizing truth?
He lies still for quite some time, eyes closed and mind in a flurry of activity, before sleep somehow finds him, his body at last giving out, unable to keep itself alert a moment longer. He gets maybe four hours like that before his eyes snap open in the dark, coughs and the creak of the opposite mattress jarring him awake. At first he thinks the man's just got a cough, that he's sleeping more lightly than usual because of the sheer amount of stress he's under—but then the noises begin to take on an intensity that isn't right. ]
[ Throughout everything, there is that part of him that's happy to help. To be relied on — even by a near-stranger. He knows the other man must be anxious, worried, and there's some lingering thought in Konstantin — Does Vasiliy Yegorovich even know what's wrong with himself? Could it be that he's been infected with something, too? Perhaps he doesn't know. In one short experience, Konstantin's view of the world and everything that seemed logical has come crashing down in a blaze of fire and smoke and blood.
....He is responsible for him, in some way. He is in a room with a man that could die because of him, if the creature decides to feed from him this time. And this man is no felon, no prisoner; he's an EMT with kind eyes and a soft face. He doesn't want to hurt him. He's terrified to.
Maybe he can stay awake through the night. Mutter to himself (but really to their observers) about insomnia, restlessness. Maybe the creature won't emerge if his body is awake.
He tries, and he manages to keep himself awake for a few hours yet, but eventually he succumbs, and perhaps it wouldn't have mattered anyway. The creature releases something within his body that will knocks him out regardless — but the process is never easy. His body is racked with harsh coughs, and then it's thrashing as though with seizure, head snapped back, the veins in his neck pulsing. It contorts him like a man possessed, pupils blown out and swelling, eyes unnaturally black as a result. Every part of his body resists its unwelcomed occupant, but the creature manipulates him like a puppet.
Finally, his body falls limp again, unconscious. Only for a moment or two is he still, before it comes — uncoiling itself from the safety of his stomach and pushing up through his throat, out of his opened jaw. A mess of slime and saliva upon the cold concrete floor, a thing that's growing and lengthening from its own protective membrane, forming long arm appendages, dragging itself. It chitters quietly, black eyes scanning the room and locking onto the other bed, now occupied. Immediately it's displeased; it's already smelled this one, flinched from the odd scent of him... but it's hungry. Maybe if it examines him again.... His hormone levels have certainly been all over the place.
The creature stays low to the ground, uncertain, hungry, and nervous — slowly slithering towards that bed, peering up with glittering eyes. ]
[ Vasiliy throws on the bedside light as the coughing becomes hacking and retching—and stares with horror as he begins to convulse, body jerking and thrashing with tonic-clonic movements. Blood begins to ooze from his mouth, a resurgence of the internal bleeding, and within seconds as he prepares to leap up—something leaves his mouth, dark and leechlike, and slithers towards him, blossoming into a more complex shape as it moves. Some sort of monster. Alien. This is why they kept him.
By habit he reaches for the empty space on the bedside table where his gun should be, where it would be were he at home, the weapon still in his possession, and grasps air. There is no comfort to be found, no way to defend himself.
On the other side of the creature-occupied gulf between the two beds, the cosmonaut is unconscious, bleeding from the mouth, barely breathing. He hesitates, heart racing—then, in a moment of impulse, rises to stand on the bed and jumps over it, onto the floor, quickly dashing toward him. He stands on the far side of the bed, so that he can remain face-to-face with the creature as he places two fingers to the man's jugular vein, checking his pulse—slow but there, so much slower than his own. ]
[ The creature shirks immediately from the light that comes on, flinching and pressing itself even closer to the cold of the concrete floor beneath its soft, wet body. The sudden light is enough to stun it for a few moments, while Vasiliy's taking that jump over the bed and moving to Konstantin — an action that further seems to surprise the creature even as it turns itself around to face the man with a slimy squelch.
It stays there for a long moment or two, staring with too many eyes. It isn't used to this — to someone being in this particular room with it. ......And certainly not to someone moving to its host. What is the man doing? Touching its host, checking him. The creature lifts its strange hooded head and chitters loudly, angrily — very much the equivalent of an affronted cat hissing and spitting.
It's cautious, though. It remembers this man from before, of course, and the way he'd smelled — like something that shouldn't be. Like the imitation of meat, like something wrong; this human's body is frozen inbetween something inexplicable, and will neither rot nor thrive.
Slowly, the alien begins crawling towards the man again, skinny arm-like appendages hunched upwards, tense as it drags itself. Smelling the air — smelling him as it moves closer. ]
[ The thing chitters at him, mouthpiece clacking, the sort of noise a squirrel might make to accompany angry lashes of its tail. What it means in an extraterrestrial is anyone's guess, but he assumes, especially in conjunction with the flare of its cobra-like hood, that it's probably related to aggression.
There's not exactly much he can do as it approaches, staring at him with eight beady black eyes. The unconscious cosmonaut is his priority, and it is his duty, even if he is now in a test subject's tracksuit instead of an EMT's uniform, to help this man.
He keeps his eyes on the creature as he moves Konstantin Sergeyevich onto his side, bending his leg to bring one knee up to his abdomen. He'll stay on his side like this, and hopefully won't choke on his own vomit, but what he needs is help—even though Vasiliy has to remind himself in his frantic state that their minders almost certainly already know about the thing dwelling within him.
He doesn't think to cry out for help, truth be told; on an unconscious level, he knows it would be pointless. Nobody is coming for him—but possibly for Konstantin. It's not good for his brain for him to remain unconscious this long.
Vasiliy slowly, shakily inhales, then takes a step forward, and another, staring the creature in its eyes in the hopes that whatever species the thing is has a similar way of understanding dominance as dogs, as bears. ]
[ It watches as the human moves its host so deliberately, tail slowly swiping from side to side, tense and angry but confused through everything else. The other humans here have been feeding it; why would they give it this? This meal it can't eat? It can't understand, a creature meant for adaptation and finding little about this situation that it can learn from.
.....But there is always something to learn. The man who smells wrong is approaching, slow and careful, and the creature stares up at him, angry clicks and chitters coming to silence for a few lingering moments. Despite everything, it's curious, driven by that instinctual need to take in and absorb all the stimuli it can.
And so it stops its crawl, neither approaching nor backing away. Not for a long moment, because this human is unlike any others it's encountered so far and it's staring, staring..... lifting its head a bit more as though transfixed — childlike and alien in its lack of understanding. ]
[ The creature falls silent, its mouthparts growing still, and holds eye contact like something humanoid. It could be preparing to strike, or frozen in fear—it's impossible to tell. Possibly it's more intimidated by him than he of it, or maybe not. Maybe it's venomous.
It's irrelevant. He needs to get to that wall, to get someone before the cosmonaut on the other bed starts losing brain function. Vasiliy braces himself, tries not to think about thw fact that he's interacting with an alien from outer space, and who knows what pathogens he's been exposed to, and simply— takes another step into its space, waving his arms, making himself larger. ]
[ It's yet another first for the creature — seeing a human do these things, stepping towards it, arms held out and moving. Humans have shirked in fear from it, or aimed their weapons its way, but not this. Shouting words at it, things it can't understand but can feel the tone of, sharp and aggressive.
The alien is startled, the flaps of its hood rippling up and down, rapidly. At the same time it shrieks, fitful, and turns back around, slithering away from the man who smells so wrong, squirming as it wills its wet body quickly away. It wants to hide, and it crawls its way back up to the bed its host is lying unconscious on, quickly secreting more thick slime to coat itself with so that it doesn't damage its entrance back inside.
Its girth shifts and changes as it forces its way into the man's mouth and down his throat, working its glistening, snakelike form with a mixture of pumping and squirming, Konstantin's body thrashing with spasms as the invader keeps going — until only the tip of its thrashing tail is disappearing into his lips. The man's throat ripples with movement, and a few more convulsions have him violently shaking against the thin bed, but finally he'll go still again once the creature has settled somewhere deep within him. ]
[ Vasiliy doesn't consider himself squeamish—in fact, his lack of reaction to the indescribable gore that can be inflicted upon the human bodies he and his partners were tasked with saving has drawn attention in the past—but he watches first with amazement as the creature shapeshifts, then open-mouthed horror as it forces itself into the cosmonaut's body, jerking him around like a puppet.
It seems impossibly large to even fit down his throat without esophageal rupture, but to carry that thing in his stomach? He can't imagine. How has the poor man been eating? Is this why he was bleeding and vomiting? Was it trying to get out in the hospital room—was his body trying to get it out?
He'll process this later. Clad in a similar outfit to Veshnyakov's own, he rushes to the one way glass, slapping his palms against it repeatedly. ]
He needs help! He had a seizure and there's some kind of parasite in him and he's still unconscious! He needs to be taken to a hospital now or he will have brain damage! Help him!
[ The doors swing open, but the two guards stride briskly toward him, not Konstantin Sergeyevich. They ignore him. ]
-
[ It's explained to him. It won't be good for Commander Veshnyakov to know what's going on until they can get it out of him, to avoid causing undue stress. The penalty for a dissenting opinion goes unspoken: they know he was in the NKVD. They know he knows better than anyone.
The earliest light of dawn is coming in through the curtains when they return him to the glorified prison cell. Immediately he finds his way to Veshnyakov's bedside, counting his respirations as he approaches. And, with a sense of foreboding at the uncertainty of whether or not there will be any response to the stimuli at all, he touches the man's bulky arm and quietly speaks up. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
— Copy. OR on standby. Blood type?
— Unknown.
— Copy. Pulling 5 units of O-.
Vasily reflexively grabs the edge of the stretcher to stabilize it as another pothole throws his body into the unyielding brace of the five-point harness that straps him into his seat beside the patient. 15 minutes. The cosmounaut's breathing, barely, wet jerky inhalations that crackle with his own blood—he may be DOA, though at least he doesn't seem to be conscious. It's Konstantin Veshnyakov, he'd realized when they took off the shards of the helmet to brace his spine with a cervical collar—the face is recognizable from the papers, even smeared with dark blood. It's almost unbelievable that his training should take him into a place this remote at the same time as a Hero of the Soviet Union descends from space, let alone that they should meet in the back of an ambulance—but that's as far as the thought gets him, at least while he's focused on making sure that man doesn't die.
The transfer once they pull into the carport of the Emergency Room is fast; as he hops out of the back of the ambulance and the driver trots around the side of it to help him unload their patient, they're greeted by a cluster of military men, some of them identifiably members of high command.
The trauma surgeons waiting for them at the loading dock don't seem to care. They muscle past, joining the two of them in lowering the stretcher and unlocking its wheels; his hands stay on the side rails as he and his partner and the three surgeons who came out to meet them rush the gurney down the hall to the operating room. They admit him, and for a moment he and Pavel stand staring at the twin doors without exchanging words, processing.
Pravda won't announce his death immediately if they lose him on the operating table—the only way to know when it happens is to stay. Vasiliy glances up at the wall clock—his shift is over in fifteen minutes, anyway. He excuses himself, bids Pavel goodnight, sits down on one of the chairs in the small waiting room outside of the OR and leans back, arms folded across his chest, closing his eyes as he drifts into shallow upright sleep to the sound of a woman's soft weeping a few chairs over.
The surgery and transfusion only last some three hours, judging by the position of the clock on the wall when the blue-gray double doors to the OR swing open and rouse him from his tenuous slumber; maybe Veshnyakov wasn't as bad-off as he had looked in the welter of his gore. Vasiliy gets up, jaw hinging with a yawn, and picks up the pace to walk astride one of the nurses. ]
How is he?
[ He lost a lot of blood but he'll pull through, he's told. It almost seemed like he was already recovering on the table. Vasiliy breathes a sigh of relief.
The nurses take Veshnyakov to a suite, one of the best rooms in the hospital, and get him hooked up to the requisite components of life support. A dextrose solution and plasma hang from the IV pole beside the bed; they run an oxygen line under his nose and hook it behind his ears. A few last checks, an injection of painkillers into the line, and they leave; he assures them he'll keep an eye on the man, though the guards posted at the door a few minutes after he entered seem to have similar at mind.
After the door shuts Vasiliy steps closer to the bed, cautious, as though his breathing might wake the man. He's almost unreal, his perfection in sharp contrast to the tangibility and mass of his body—even with every muscle in his face relaxed, he's handsome in a Yuri Gagarin sort of way, like someone brought a state poster to life. Real people don't look like that. He wonders what he'd look like, smiling for reporters after a successful landing.
None of the nurses even wiped the blood from around his mouth. A state hero deserves better treatment than that, for all he's done. Vasiliy walks to the bathroom and grabs a washcloth, wets it with warm water, carefully dabs away the crusted blood from his chin and lower lip before he returns to his chair. Veshnyakov deserves at least that much, getting mutilated for the good of his country.
He stays up for a little while longer, studying the rise and fall of the cosmonaut's chest, counting his respirations by second nature. At some point around 1 AM he feels satisfied enough that the man will pull through and leans back in the chair, legs stretched out, falling back asleep with practiced ease.
Vasiliy misses it, of course, when a few hours later the creature emerges in the darkness, studying him intently with eight eyes, watching his jugular vein, smelling him. More interest than a sick man would get, but not enough to mark him as viable prey. ]
no subject
He returns from the black void of space to breathe in this planet's familiar air — the air of his home, no matter how much he's run from it — and something else finds itself on a strange new world in return. They've swapped places, the alien and the cosmonaut. Now the entity, that nameless thing with its soft wet body, is the stranger in a world where it must stay in the safety of a suit. Now it's the one that can't exist without protection.
So many things happen around it now, so many strange things — commotion and voices and vibrations. Its host body is being moved and manipulated, connected to things, monitored by things. It doesn't understand. It stays hidden in the warm safety of a man's body, curling in on itself.
But it's hungry, so new and so hungry. It's a peculiar thing, led by cold instinct like an insect and yet capable of a deep intelligence; already it is learning. It's fed from a human, right after the crash. And now it knows it can feed from these beings, the ones that walk on two legs and have two big eyes and bleed so easily.
The space around it become calm and quiet again. There is only one human left nearby, now. The creature senses the movement as the human nears its host's mouth — it tenses, readying itself, hungry. But not just yet. Not until night is yawning open into early morning, and the other human being in the room goes still.
Then it comes. Up and out, slithering its way from a throat that convulses violently around it. Its host's body both resists and encourages its forced exit, its girth spreading even as it's still leaving him, and when it's coiled and dripping on the floor of the hospital room, it takes a moment to try and understand its surroundings — as much as it's capable of. Everything outside of the man's body is cold, hard, and strange against its soft, sensitive body.
Its cluster of small black eyes glitters as it turns its strange hooded head to face the human being sitting in the chair nearby. Excited, the creature chitters softly with its wet clicking sounds, making its way closer, rising up on itself like a snake. It takes in the movement of his chest, the flutter of vein beneath skin; its body shudders with awareness, and want.
......Something's strange. Wrong. The human being is... two things (or is it nothing?) some paradoxical, impossible state. An imitation of life? ....No. Not alive, not dead — like preserved flesh. Unappetising, and the creature recoils, its little round suction mouth twitching with displeasure, moisture dripping from beneath its row of sharp teeth. There's nothing to be gained from cracking through this human being's skull and worming its mouth into the soft flesh of his brain, tearing and snapping. It doesn't want to taste what's inside of him. What's inside of him is... wrong.
But it's still hungry. It slithers past the man, looking up towards the closed door. There are other humans out there, but... it can't get through the barrier. And it knows not to try to call too much attention to itself; it should wait for another opportunity to feed. So it returns to its limp and unmoving host, pushing past his lips and forcing its way back down into the safety of his belly.
Everything is still again. Konstantin sleeps, still passed out from the seizure the creature induced in him. For the moment, mercifully, he knows nothing. But a few hours later, when his eyelashes flutter and he's gazing groggily up at the ceiling, head pounding and throat slick with nausea, memory begins to flash behind his eyes as though he's absorbing it from someone else. As though he's only a visitor in his own mind — no, no, he's not the visitor. The thing is. The thing.... Horror and panic have him suddenly moving, trying to get up — grasping at the oxygen line connected to his face, uncomfortably aware of the pull against his arm, tethered to an IV. He's giving a cry out loud, chest heaving; he's trapped. (Not so far deep down, he's aware he's trapped in a room with something that, on some level, doesn't register as human. At least, not the right way. Not the way any human should feel.) ]
no subject
Commander. Commander Veshnyakov. It's alright. You're alright. You're in the hospital. You had a crash landing and you were in surgery. It's okay. You're alright.
[ He speaks quickly but not frantically, keeping his tone level and confident to avoid adding to the hysteria of the moment—a practiced pattern he finds himself able to fall into even, it would seem, in the presence of a Hero of the Soviet Union. ]
no subject
'Commander'. Though the presence of the other man suddenly drawing nearer makes Konstantin's heart pound with a painful surge of adrenaline, that word spoken aloud catches hold of the cosmonaut even in the frantic pulse of this confused moment. He stares widely at the other man, listening to the words. An explanation, and one that makes sense, even as his mind is so desperately struggling to accept any of this as true.
'It's okay. You're alright.'
His mouth tips open to try and form some reply, but the smell and taste of blood is abruptly assaulting his senses, wet and coppery and aching. It comes up from the depths of himself, things bleeding from within, body fighting against its unwanted occupant. He gags, and dark wet bubbles up from his lips, which he sputters against, fingers tightening into the sterile white sheets beneath himself. ]
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The blood that spatters down into the basin with every new retch is dark, not particularly oxygenated; that, at least, is a good sign, or perhaps more aptly the better of the two possibilities. ]
Easy. Slow breaths through your nose. [ The same thing he'd say to a civilian patient. ] You have internal bleeding from your crash. Blood is maybe still coming up. You're okay. I will get the doctor soon.
no subject
But he does. Breathes slowly, in through his nose like the stranger says. There are a couple of sporadic convulsions, spasms that rack through his frame and cause him to spit up blood, but they begin to die down, and he's left shuddering, leaned over.
Weakly, he closes his eyes, tries to find ground within himself. Make sense of what he can. When he opens them again, his chest isn't heaving on the cusp of panic, though he continues to shudder softly. ]
My co-pilot. Comrade Averchenko. Is he..... dead? Do you know? [ His voice is hoarse, and wet from blood. He isn't looking the man in the eyes, not just yet. For more than one reason, he has to avoid that for a little longer. ]
no subject
[ Vasiliy has the feeling he already knows the answer, having seen the man's brain glistening in the open air, but he doesn't share that piece of information, not when his patient is only just starting to calm down. Comrade Veshnyakov is in a fragile, tenuous state, still hovering on the edge of the panic attack he just came out of. He's not ready to hear that Averchenko is likely dead, not yet, though Vasiliy does at least withdraw the gentle touch of the hand on the cosmonaut's upper arm as he begins to catch his breath. ]
Are you in pain?
no subject
Konstantin feels the careful touch at his arm retract, and there's some small, human moment he can't quite control where he longs for that contact again — a counter to the horror of the impossible knowledge he has of this man. Slowly, the cosmonaut looks up to him, finally taking in the stranger's face. A younger man than himself, noticeably so; Konstantin is nearing forty and there are good-natured wrinkles at the edges of his eyes, and grey at his temples. Charming features, he's been told. He can be trusted. ]
...Not too much, [ he replies, although it's because he's used to downplaying his own discomforts, to the point of pretending he doesn't have them at all. He swallows with a soft sound against the copper taste still lingering in his mouth, and licks his lips to clear the remaining blood.
He hesitates. Should he... reveal it? Beg for help? He's in a hospital now, he needs the thing out— ...or maybe there is no thing at all. Maybe he's lost his fucking mind.
Another thought comes in, fights against everything. He won't be allowed to retrieve his son if he's perceived to be insane, if he has some kind of meltdown. And his public image.... which may already become tarnished once he recovers the boy... He can't risk losing more than what he inevitably has. ]
Mostly dizzy. [ Konstantin's dark eyes flit to the chair in the room, and then stay there. Through something else's memory, he recalls the peculiar sensation of this man, but his own human senses struggle to translate it from the creature's enhanced ones. He does not like the way he involuntarily thinks about it in terms of taste, and tries to block out the feeling. ]
You were here all night?
no subject
He wanted to meet a Hero of the Soviet Union. A real cosmonaut, someone who went to the beyond and came back alive... even if only barely. And he was worried—it didn't sit well with him that someone who had given so much to his country should just be left unattended like any other patient. ]
Yes. My shift was over and they're short-staffed. I had nowhere else to be so I said I'd watch you.
[ He says it as though he was asked to, or as though in a more general sense it was brought up that someone should. In reality, he'd volunteered, but that's neither here nor there. ]
no subject
The small smile he offers is well-trained, but no less genuine. He does mean it, when it comes. It's just that he has to make it happen. He pretends that everything is the way it should be, for a moment or two, long enough that the warmth is able to spread to his eyes. He still shudders on occasion, in small ripples that he thinks he's able to conceal. ]
That was valiant of you. Thank you.
[ To stay even after his shift was complete, to go above and beyond his duty... it's admirable, of course it is, and Konstantin lets the praise come out that way. ]
What is your name?
no subject
(And maybe there's a part of him that fears the man will see right through the armor of his uncanny ability to don whatever mask he chooses, that he'll see the wonder and admiration and attraction, all of which are inappropriate for a provider to feel toward a patient even if he's probably accustomed to such a reception from just about everyone. Vasiliy doesn't want to be seen as someone so easily awed.) ]
Vasiliy Yegorovich. It is an honor to meet you, but I'm sorry we had to.
no subject
And yet, in this moment, with so much unknown and every piece of him wanting nothing more than to scream, the words feel new again, perhaps more reminiscent of back when he was a younger man and hearing them freshly. How his heart swelled....!
The words are like a tether, something small but vastly meaningful, that matters in this moment. All of that he keeps to himself, keeps his composure, but he lets his smile spread a little, visibly, and nods. ]
The honour is mine, comrade. [ But the smile wavers with another roll of nausea, and he gives a little grunt, fingernails of one hand curling into his palm. ]
Sorry. My stomach — feels a bit sour. Do you have any water?
no subject
Yes.
[ He steps over to the little bedside table and pours a cup, holding it out and waiting for the man to take it while eyeing the emesis basin that has remained on his lap. There's a decent chance that this will come back up again and he'd like to be ready for that eventuality; he'll have to say something to the call nurse about getting the poor man some antiemetics. He's never seen internal bleeding present like this before. ]
Drink very slowly, Comrade, or you'll trigger more vomiting.
no subject
Into him? ]
Thank you.
[ He accepts the small cup politely and lifts it to his mouth, taking slow, cautious sips. It at first helps with the taste of blood and other things — bile, way deep down in his throat — though his stomach seems to shudder. His body knows something is deeply wrong, and before he can help it, he's suddenly gagging again, sputtering a mouthful of water, some dribbling down his chin and onto his clothing. Konstantin presses a hand quickly to his mouth, clamping it firm, voice muffled as he speaks, brow pinched in upset. The brief moment of recollecting himself — of being seen as Commander — is gone. ]
I'm sorry! I ca—
[ A violent dry-heave cuts off his own words, throat rolling with harsh movement as he leans over again, eyes wet from the abrupt pain of it. ]
no subject
Don't apologize. Deep, slow breaths through your nose.
[ Vasiliy strides to the bathroom and quickly returns with a towel and a washcloth, which he holds as he waits for a break in the retching. ]
I think you're reacting to the anaesthetic, comrade. This happens sometimes.
[ He keeps his distance, giving the man more than a foot of space to keep from crowding him—but how he wants to reach out, to rest his hand between the shoulderblades sticking out of Veshnyakov's back and let the weight of his arm soothe him until the frantic heaving dies down. ]
no subject
(And so, what of this man? What he'd.... absorbed about him, from the horrible slithering thing inside of him? What does he do with this information?)
Konstantin nods carefully, breathing again — another bad spell, another breathing session. In and out, slow, and the gagging stops again, and he's left panting yet again, rubbing his burning eyes, opening them to see Vasiliy there with some things he's fetched. ]
Ahhhh. I'm all right, this time. I promise. [ He manages another smile, trying to seem humoured, good-natured. He's embarrassed for his behaviour before, and now too — coughing and convulsing and unable to keep a good handle on himself. It must be frightening, abhorrent to witness. He tries again to move past it, pretends he can. ]
How long until the effects of it wear off? The anaesthetic.
no subject
Probably a few hours. I will tell the nurses you had a reaction to it so they don't use the same one again.
[ A beat. He's stepping a little bit out of his scope of practice, saying such a thing, but he feels compelled to grasp for some reassurance wherever he can find it: ]
It's dark. That's a good thing. If you were still bleeding it would be bright red from oxygenation.
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But he can't stay quiet forever, and finally removes the washcloth, setting it awkwardly down into the emesis basin. Head turning, chin lifting a little, he finally looks back up to Vasiliy. ]
Dark's good?
[ He does genuinely seem to focus on that, attention drawn to the assurance the other man is trying to give him. His mind's turning, trying to make sense of it — is the blood from the accident, then? Not from this thing squirming its way into him, doing whatever it's doing? (What will it do? Tear through him? Eat him from the inside out if it doesn't find food elsewhere?)
He swallows, trying to suppress the persistent feeling of nauseated horror. ]
I see. That is a relief.
[ Another pause of thought, an uncomfortable silence as he sits there with the smell of blood and his own sickness so pungent. There will be no more attempts for water, to be sure. He gives a faint smile, past the discomfort, past the horror, past the uncertainty of this peculiar man who has so diligently tried to take care of him. ]
You must be exhausted. If you need to leave, it's okay.
no subject
Not really. I had time to sleep.
[ He's sure that working as an EMT would have taught him to sleep just about anywhere if he hadn't already known how to, but it's a skill he learned much earlier, within the yellow walls of the Lubyanka. When the Purge hit a fever pitch, one shift had bled into the next, confessions finally obtained so close to the beginning of his next shift that it had made more sense to simply sleep with his head down on his forearms in the interrogation room for the few hours he had.
And even if he hadn't slept... this is, admittedly, the one chance he'll have in life to meet a real cosmonaut, and probably also anyone awarded Hero of the Soviet Union. Regardless of the man's body's state of disrepair, it's quite an honor, and his very presence seems to extrude rays of warmth. He'd stay here forever if he could. ]
no subject
But it will wake again. And if hungry enough.... if this young man is the only other one in the room.... He must be careful. Must try to handle this situation.
He offers Vasiliy another smile, grateful for the man's dedication on the surface, and worried by it beneath. ]
Well, then. I suppose now we must wait for the doctors to decide what to do with me. [ Konstantin's smile brightens to his eyes with a little quirk of brow, amused. He lets himself be charming again, and hospitable, and gestures to the chair that Vasiliy was sitting in before, as though inviting him to make himself comfortable. ]
So why don't you tell me something about yourself? Anything.
no subject
The lying usually comes easily. A way of life, as it was before his death. But he hesitates now; he wants this interaction to be genuine, or as genuine as is realistically possible.
But he grasps at air, doesn't know what there is about him to share. He is—was—an instrument of the state; without that, what interests, what recreational activities are left? Only the barest biographical facts, which he lays out after a pause. ]
I am from Leningrad. I live in Moscow, but I'm training here to be a paramedic. I worked in the Party office until a few years ago and wanted to... do something more direct to help. [ A self-effacing smile: ] No medals.
no subject
But there's something else to it. A curiosity that isn't only part of a comfortable mask, isn't just that place he has to default to so that he can keep himself together or else he'll lose himself completely in this moment after a crash to Earth and the realisation that something horrible has happened to him.
It's the first truly human moment he's had since that crash, since waking in a hospital room with his insides shuddering. It's the first human to ask questions to. (Is this man a human at all, he wonders?) If he isn't, then at least in this moment, Vasiliy Yegorovich feels like one. And perhaps it is very nice to hear a human speaking to him about their life. A small space in time in which Konstantin doesn't feel so alone. ]
Pah! Never mind medals, I'd say you've certainly been doing something direct to help. [ He smiles again with something almost a little playful as he carefully lifts the basin in his lap, and then makes a face. ] It's good you were here to greet me when I woke up. I'm sure everyone appreciates you helping me not to be sick all over myself. I know I—
[ He's interrupted by a sudden knock to the door — if it could even be called that. It's no one asking for entry; as soon as the thud sounds, the door opens in one swift movement, and two men come into the small room all at once, with the heavy thud of boots. All are dressed in military uniform, guns held firm. A third man enters next, introduces himself as the Colonel, and asks Commander Veshnyakov to come with them. He never looks at Vasiliy, only to Konstantin, and it's quite clear this is an order, not a request. He's informed that the military's doctors will see to him now, and he will be moved to a different facility.
There isn't even time to speak to Vasiliy again. Konstantin manages to glance over his shoulder at the younger man as he's ushered from the room, confused, dizzy. He asks the Colonel about Averchenko, and receives no answer.
They take him somewhere new, with bolted doors and armed guards, and he is subjected to test upon test. Hours pass by, and finally he's put in a holding area — the best they have to offer, Commander, they say. There is a separate sleeping room (one that can be walled off from the rest of the area at the touch of a button), a small table with two chairs, and little else. It is a large cage, but a cage nonetheless. He's informed that this is all normal, that they are trying to understand what went wrong with re-entry to Earth, that they want to make sure he fully recovers before they release him. They'll handle everything else.
A few days go by. He is subjected to more tests, and sleeps through the night, and wakes. His frustration grows, and the doctors (and scientists, he remarks; he is being observed by scientists) grow frustrated too, by his apparent lack of memory. One morning the stiff-backed Rigel comes to question him, and Konstantin feels a small surge of joy that he manages to rattle the man who leaves, complaining about him. But the sensation is short-lived, and he goes to sit back down on his bed for some time, staring down at the cold white floor. That's when he hears the door to his enclosure open again and looks up, expecting another scientist, or perhaps to be taken back to the medical rooms for more examinations.
What he sees is something completely unexpected, two guards leading in another man. The EMT from before. .....What? Konstantin's brows lift as he stands from the bed and moves to approach, face shifting into a rare display of genuine confusion as the man is ushered in and the door is then closed behind him. ]
Vasiliy Yegorovich? What.....
no subject
Maybe this is his punishment. The anticipation, the wait for the inevitable end. The real torture will undoubtedly start before too long - presented with life after death, the Soviet Union's curiosity will completely occlude the possibility in its mind that he truly may not have any explanation to give.
He tells them that, over and over, and he's sure his counterpart on the other side of the interrogation table—a man in a doctor's white coat named Rigel, though whether he's a doctor is anyone's guess—simply assumes he's gaming the system, working with an intimate knowledge of the complex machinations he's caught in. The hopelessness is overwhelming—Vasiliy knows, better than anyone in this compound, that nothing he could possibly say will matter. Nothing will divert the fate that has been set for him. Execution would be kind in a way that the KGB is not.
Instead he will be tortured, kept within a hair of death for as long as possible with synthetic reprieves spent with a mirror image of his own chekist self. They already know everything. The photograph on the party identification book pulled from the KGB archives sat living across from them as Rigel slid it across the table at their first meeting. The signatures on the confessions in the man's slim leather briefcase had matched the one Vasiliy tried to avoid offering.
Things change from the nascent routine after three nights in solitary confinement; one night Vasiliy is simply pulled from his cell without notice and escorted down the dim hall without being told where he's going (he would expect no less) until they at last make a sharp right at another numbered room. The guards lead him in, step back, and the door locks behind him as the cosmonaut rises from the bed across the floor, dressed in a similarly form-fitting white tee shirt (although there's more bulk to him to fill his out) and track pants. ]
Commander.
[ He'd been sure that this was it. He saw something he wasn't supposed to see when he was in orbit, and he'd suddenly outlived the Motherland's use for him, a fate not even a Hero of the Soviet Union is immune to. He'd wondered, in the nights since the man was dragged out of his hospital room minutes after retching up blood, whether they would wait for him to regain some of his strength before they started the torture, or if they'd risk killing him. It would depend on how valuable whatever intelligence he may have had was, and that was anyone's guess - even Konstantin Sergeyevich's.
Even whether or not he's been told anything at all about why he's here can't be determined with any certainty until Vasiliy asks; it's not uncommon for those who are unprisoned to lack even the slightest idea as to what it is the intelligence services want from them. (Although, interestingly, the men who took Veshnyakov were military, not KGB. It was his own ilk that had seized him at the end of his shift, in the darkness (the preference for operations at night had not, it would seem, changed over the past few decades), though this decidedly is not the Lubyanka, or structured like any other office of the intelligence services.) ]
I... [ Have they told him, does he know? Is he well? ] Are you alright?
no subject
Did they just bring him in? ...Or has he been kept in this place for these days since?
It's thrown a wrench in an already unknown situation, and he glances to the dark expanse of glass across the space, where he knows they're watching. Slowly, Konstantin's eyes return to the younger, the one he knows is no normal man. In the days since parting ways with him, Konstantin has only learned more about the ways he isn't, either.
And it will be nighttime soon. ]
I'm alright, [ he says, which is a lie that tastes strange against his own tongue. This man shouldn't be here, but he knows he must be careful with what he says. Still, it's all right to show some surprise, to ask questions; anyone would. ]
Have they been keeping you here too? [ Konstantin adjusts his stance a little, trying to seem more bewildered than unsettled. As though this is strange and that's all, and he even gives an exasperated sigh followed up by a smile. His arms fold across his chest, easy. ]
All this fuss for nothing. Do they think talking to the first responder in a prison cell might help jog my memory? [ It's all an act, for show; later, he'll find a way to lead Vasiliy to more private areas of the room. The bed, they can sit there maybe. Chat. Harder to hear exactly what's said, and if he controls his expressions enough, they'll think he's just making friendly chatter. ]
Are you alright?
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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.
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What he does not have to pretend to be is sick, and startled. When he feels movement, or a nausea, or a coiling ache. His body rebels against its invader, its unwelcomed occupant. His stomach hurts, his chest; often he finds himself shuddering, coughing, flinching. Those things are not an act, and he knows they see them, too. Even now, it reacts in him to the brief surge of startle and alarm from seeing the EMT shoved into his container, no matter how well Konstantin is at controlling himself. His body still has its reactions, no matter how subtle, and perceived so easily by its sensitive inhabitant. He coughs suddenly, a stuttering thing, and instinctively places a hand to his abdomen.
Immediately after, he knows this will get their attention, and silently curses, but keeps his focus on Vasiliy. Pretending not to think anything of it. Indigestion, or a result of the stress he's suffered. That's all it is. His fingers curve slowly against the tight material of his shirt, before he lets his hand fall away. Inside him, a cluster of black eyes flutter. ]
Taken your blood? At least I'm not alone in being poked and prodded, but I'm surprised they've kept you here.
[ He frowns as he looks him over with an empathy he wears on his face, good-natured in his concern. Of course, Konstantin knows there is something deeply wrong with this man before him. (Do they know, too? They must. Why else would they keep Vasiliy? Do they think the cosmonaut's infected him somehow, being so close to him that night in the hospital? ....Were they watching, even then?) ]
Here, you must sit— rest a while. [ Konstantin reaches for the other man's shoulder, gentle but firm as he coaxes him towards the little table, where he'll move to sit across from him. He hesitates, knowing he should let his new companion know he's being watched (not knowing that Vasiliy already is aware to that fact), but... cautiously. Keep talking, like nothing's wrong. ]
Do you know how long before you can be discharged? I suppose they ran out of rooms, and needed us to share for awhile.
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They haven't said.
[ It goes without saying, of course, though Vasiliy says it anyway. It works to their advantage, keeping prisoners in the dark about every element of their lives. It had worked to his advantage. He doesn't ask the same question in return - he's not sure if Veshnyakov was given a false promise or no end date at all, but the kind thing is to avoid drawing his attention to the impossibility of leaving. ]
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As he sits, he keeps his focus on Vasiliy Yegorovich, and gives an amused laugh in response to that, although there is nothing truly amusing about it. Time is running out, he thinks, with each day that passes. ]
They're so secretive around here. So serious. They keep trying to hypnotise me to see what's hidden in my mind, when there's nothing.
[ He folds both hands on the little table, leans forwards. ]
They didn't give you any instruction? You aren't supposed to question me? [ He smiles again. ] Do they just want us to make friends?
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It’s best if the cosmonaut doesn’t know his fate, Vasiliy finds himself thinking again, though he gets the strong sense that Konstantin Sergeyevich isn’t as oblivious as he would seem, either. How could he be, having been privy to the innermost machinations of their country’s scientific programs, of the war being fought in propaganda? ]
I suppose so [, he says, though he barely finds it in himself to feign lightheartedness as his own torture looms closer. ] No instruction. [ Vasiliy smiles thinly. ] Not their style.
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He's just as careful as he lets his gaze travel around the room, innocuous, lingering on random areas of the space as though innocently observing them. ]
Well, then. They could've provided more hospitable things for my guest, while you're here. There's hardly anything for me to offer you. [ He keeps looking around as though he's searching for something he can offer to the other man, before lifting a hand and giving a sigh. ]
And no decoration, either. Not even a single painting on these walls.
[ That remark is the segue for Konstantin to be able to look at said walls, turning his head purposefully around the room. It means that when he looks to the large square of black glass near them, the one he knows they are being observed from, hopefully it won't draw any odd attention. And when he's turning his head back to Vasiliy, he's giving him a stare all of a sudden to catch his gaze and hold it, before allowing a quick wink. Hopefully it's conveyed something important to him about that particular wall, that he'll understand. We're being watched. Perhaps that fact was always obvious, but Konstantin needs to make sure they both understand. It's of utmost importance. ]
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But even in his immense stress and the feeling of... separation from his own body that started days ago when they first pounded on his door, the way the cosmonaut makes direct, lasting eye contact with him the moment the back of his head is facing the glass and winks at him shakes him up a little more than it should. Even here, of all places, he is not immune to the man's charm. He looks great for someone who only crashed down to earth a few days ago, and he certainly doesn't have any of the loss of muscle tone that is to be expected of cosmonauts going on longer trips; if anything, the shirt they've given him is a size too small, which Vasiliy tries, mostly out of a sense of respect for the man, not to fixate on. He'll think about it later.
Veshnyakov's intention seems to be to indicate to him that it's one-way glass; Vasiliy, truth be told, had assumed as much by virtue of their confinement. Of course they're being surveilled. He blinks once, holding eye contact, deliberate. ]
I will close my eyes and imagine the best painting I can.
[ Vasiliy inclines his head in the direction of the dim alcove where two freshly made twin beds have been set up, one on either side of the doorless room, the clean-pressed sheets looking like something right out of a hospital. ]
I think we both count as guests, you're just the guest of honor. Do you mind if I invite myself to sit down?
[ There are probably listening devices here regardless of whether or not they're partly out of sight from the men behind the one-way glass—there's nowhere they can go to really have a conversation unless they're standing in front of a flushing toilet, but then their keepers will want to know why they're in the bathroom together when a toilet is being flushed. It's engineered to leave no possibility for even a modicum of privacy, but the beds are positioned in such a way to at least allow the illusion of it—they'll make it a little harder for their captors to read facial expressions, at least, and the constant feeling of being watched and the endless supply of adrenaline infusing every tissue in his body for days on end have left him exhausted. ]
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Please do. I'll join you there, so we can get to know one another a little better.
[ Nothing odd or suspicious to that! Konstantin's captors already know he's chatty; he's made sure to keep up that reputation. Making conversation, asking questions, amicable. Of course he's made sure to seem frustrated at times (which is certainly nothing feigned), but even that much is good-natured more than anything. Why is he being kept here? When will he leave? Sometimes he laughs as he asks them, or gives his eyes a playful roll.
He stands, and politely scoots his chair back under the table, heading over to one of the beds to sit down — body language comfortable, relaxed. He is trying very hard not to think about the fact that the sun is probably dropping as he speaks, and that Vasiliy Yegorovich is locked in this place with him. Maybe this time the creature will eat him. Maybe what happened last time was some strange fluke — a thing still learning about the world, sensing different blood types, forming preferences. Maybe a lot of things. (Maybe Vasiliy Yegorovich has something bad inside of him, too.) ]
I'm sorry for all of this. You probably wish you hadn't been working that night. Someone else could've found the banged-up spaceman instead. [ Another smile, and then something that's a way to find out a bit more information on Vasiliy. ] Your family must be worried.
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Please, don't apologize. I'm happy to have met you. I never thought I would meet a real cosmonaut, though I am sorry it happened when I was on duty.
[ A bit of anguish still twists at the deepest pit of his chest cavity when family is brought up: when he's reminded that he has no family to mourn him, to wonder where he is. It's better this way, so that his parents won't suffer for the actions of their son a second time, but it also imbues this situation with an added degree of hopelessness. He'll die—if they let him leave—without anyone knowing he ever returned to begin with. ]
Your mother must be proud of you. Not many people can say they raised a cosmonaut.
[ His own mother had been proud of him, her chekist son who had gone from a six-year-old-boy working in a welding factory to a uniformed officer. He'd sent her a copy of a photograph of himself seated in uniform, knowing she'd treasure it; he'd watched the bare hand of his latest interrogator slide it across the table in his direction some seventy-plus years later. ]
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It's nice to talk to another human being again. It's nice to be looked at as though he is something special, and brave, and good. ]
I suppose both of us were in the right place at the right time.
[ Said with a bit of playfulness, a little wry, but no less warm, before it's his turn to pause for a moment, mouth easing back into a softer line. Not quite a frown, but thoughtful. In truth, he's deeply terrified that he may not see his mother again. ]
She must be worried. They'll have let her know that I'm in recovery, but they haven't let me contact her, personally. [ No matter if they're listening to this conversation; it's not hidden information. He hasn't been allowed to make any phone calls. ]
As soon as I'm released from here, I'm going to her. To Moscow, where she lives. And I may just take a vacation from the stars, for a while.
[ Another smile, one that only falters just slightly at the edges. He remembers the way it slithered, squirmed, that creature from the stars. Small and thin and fast, body able to squeeze and contort itself, pulsing wet down his throat, making it difficult to breathe — but not impossible, no. It wouldn't allow him to die.
Death would have been a mercy, and maybe some part of him wishes it would come. For now, it's step by step, and what he doesn't say is that there is a pitstop needed in Rostov first: recover his son from the orphanage there, then take him to his grandmother in Moscow. ]
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He's not sure that Konstantin's mother would have been told he was in recovery, truth be told: that the KGB and assorted state intelligence networks at play here would go to the effort necessary to craft such a mistruth to begin with. She was just probably told he died of unrelated causes shortly after landing and will be given a hero's funeral—but Vasiliy keeps that thought to himself. It wouldn't be kind and it wouldn't serve any purpose to share it.
Vasiliy suppresses a yawn—slowly, the massive spike of cortisol from his sudden relocation is tapering off, leaving a carved-out shell of a person in its shadow. He can't truly relax, not when he knows he'll be tortured before too long, but his body is unable to maintain such a heightened state indefinitely. ]
You work hard. You deserve to rest. Even if it would be better to not rest here. ...Moscow is a nice city. I liked it.
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He looks back over at the other man, and he isn't quite able to sense what the creature can, on this level. Not just yet; they're still too new to one another. But the thing is so sensitive, its body serving the purpose of adaptation, impossibly soft and pliable. It absorbs from the world around it like a sponge. It can perceive on a level no creature from Earth could. Perhaps even deep within the core of himself, it can feel Vasiliy, and some of those shifts within the man's state. The rise and fall of hormone, the swell of adrenaline, the sigh of exhaustion.
It moves, a little. Disturbed by Vasiliy's presence, maybe, or longing for the things it knows it can't take from him. Konstantin can feel it, and sits up a bit straighter, adjusting his position but perpetually uncomfortable, swallowing back against a wave of sudden nausea. ]
Speaking of resting — you should, if you need to. I'm sure it's been a long day for you.
[ He isn't trying to cut the other man's thoughts off, but he's worried by the thing's reaction to him, and him speaking. Perhaps if Vasiliy sleeps, it will settle down again, and then.... (And then what? What does he do? He doesn't have a plan for this.) ]
I'll be up for awhile, so I can keep watch. Make sure our hosts behave themselves.
[ Another teasing smile, but behind it — truths they both know. ]
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He suspects that the real reason for his expected alertness is simply stress—how does a man relax when his fate is uncertain? He'd never seen anyone sleep soundly in the Lubyanka except for the bone-tired men on the right side of her heavy steel doors. Vasiliy slides his feet from his shoes, smiling rather meekly. ]
Thank you.
[ He slips under the neatly folded covers, though it's hard to feel at ease lying down under blankets a meter away from a Hero of the Soviet Union. Does he know that, Vasiliy wonders? How long until he knows the rest of it and his false (but pleasant) image of Vasiliy Yegorovich the First Responder is replaced by the unappetizing truth?
He lies still for quite some time, eyes closed and mind in a flurry of activity, before sleep somehow finds him, his body at last giving out, unable to keep itself alert a moment longer. He gets maybe four hours like that before his eyes snap open in the dark, coughs and the creak of the opposite mattress jarring him awake. At first he thinks the man's just got a cough, that he's sleeping more lightly than usual because of the sheer amount of stress he's under—but then the noises begin to take on an intensity that isn't right. ]
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....He is responsible for him, in some way. He is in a room with a man that could die because of him, if the creature decides to feed from him this time. And this man is no felon, no prisoner; he's an EMT with kind eyes and a soft face. He doesn't want to hurt him. He's terrified to.
Maybe he can stay awake through the night. Mutter to himself (but really to their observers) about insomnia, restlessness. Maybe the creature won't emerge if his body is awake.
He tries, and he manages to keep himself awake for a few hours yet, but eventually he succumbs, and perhaps it wouldn't have mattered anyway. The creature releases something within his body that will knocks him out regardless — but the process is never easy. His body is racked with harsh coughs, and then it's thrashing as though with seizure, head snapped back, the veins in his neck pulsing. It contorts him like a man possessed, pupils blown out and swelling, eyes unnaturally black as a result. Every part of his body resists its unwelcomed occupant, but the creature manipulates him like a puppet.
Finally, his body falls limp again, unconscious. Only for a moment or two is he still, before it comes — uncoiling itself from the safety of his stomach and pushing up through his throat, out of his opened jaw. A mess of slime and saliva upon the cold concrete floor, a thing that's growing and lengthening from its own protective membrane, forming long arm appendages, dragging itself. It chitters quietly, black eyes scanning the room and locking onto the other bed, now occupied. Immediately it's displeased; it's already smelled this one, flinched from the odd scent of him... but it's hungry. Maybe if it examines him again.... His hormone levels have certainly been all over the place.
The creature stays low to the ground, uncertain, hungry, and nervous — slowly slithering towards that bed, peering up with glittering eyes. ]
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By habit he reaches for the empty space on the bedside table where his gun should be, where it would be were he at home, the weapon still in his possession, and grasps air. There is no comfort to be found, no way to defend himself.
On the other side of the creature-occupied gulf between the two beds, the cosmonaut is unconscious, bleeding from the mouth, barely breathing. He hesitates, heart racing—then, in a moment of impulse, rises to stand on the bed and jumps over it, onto the floor, quickly dashing toward him. He stands on the far side of the bed, so that he can remain face-to-face with the creature as he places two fingers to the man's jugular vein, checking his pulse—slow but there, so much slower than his own. ]
this icon is just Konstantin, always,
It stays there for a long moment or two, staring with too many eyes. It isn't used to this — to someone being in this particular room with it. ......And certainly not to someone moving to its host. What is the man doing? Touching its host, checking him. The creature lifts its strange hooded head and chitters loudly, angrily — very much the equivalent of an affronted cat hissing and spitting.
It's cautious, though. It remembers this man from before, of course, and the way he'd smelled — like something that shouldn't be. Like the imitation of meat, like something wrong; this human's body is frozen inbetween something inexplicable, and will neither rot nor thrive.
Slowly, the alien begins crawling towards the man again, skinny arm-like appendages hunched upwards, tense as it drags itself. Smelling the air — smelling him as it moves closer. ]
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There's not exactly much he can do as it approaches, staring at him with eight beady black eyes. The unconscious cosmonaut is his priority, and it is his duty, even if he is now in a test subject's tracksuit instead of an EMT's uniform, to help this man.
He keeps his eyes on the creature as he moves Konstantin Sergeyevich onto his side, bending his leg to bring one knee up to his abdomen. He'll stay on his side like this, and hopefully won't choke on his own vomit, but what he needs is help—even though Vasiliy has to remind himself in his frantic state that their minders almost certainly already know about the thing dwelling within him.
He doesn't think to cry out for help, truth be told; on an unconscious level, he knows it would be pointless. Nobody is coming for him—but possibly for Konstantin. It's not good for his brain for him to remain unconscious this long.
Vasiliy slowly, shakily inhales, then takes a step forward, and another, staring the creature in its eyes in the hopes that whatever species the thing is has a similar way of understanding dominance as dogs, as bears. ]
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.....But there is always something to learn. The man who smells wrong is approaching, slow and careful, and the creature stares up at him, angry clicks and chitters coming to silence for a few lingering moments. Despite everything, it's curious, driven by that instinctual need to take in and absorb all the stimuli it can.
And so it stops its crawl, neither approaching nor backing away. Not for a long moment, because this human is unlike any others it's encountered so far and it's staring, staring..... lifting its head a bit more as though transfixed — childlike and alien in its lack of understanding. ]
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It's irrelevant. He needs to get to that wall, to get someone before the cosmonaut on the other bed starts losing brain function. Vasiliy braces himself, tries not to think about thw fact that he's interacting with an alien from outer space, and who knows what pathogens he's been exposed to, and simply— takes another step into its space, waving his arms, making himself larger. ]
Back! Get back.
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The alien is startled, the flaps of its hood rippling up and down, rapidly. At the same time it shrieks, fitful, and turns back around, slithering away from the man who smells so wrong, squirming as it wills its wet body quickly away. It wants to hide, and it crawls its way back up to the bed its host is lying unconscious on, quickly secreting more thick slime to coat itself with so that it doesn't damage its entrance back inside.
Its girth shifts and changes as it forces its way into the man's mouth and down his throat, working its glistening, snakelike form with a mixture of pumping and squirming, Konstantin's body thrashing with spasms as the invader keeps going — until only the tip of its thrashing tail is disappearing into his lips. The man's throat ripples with movement, and a few more convulsions have him violently shaking against the thin bed, but finally he'll go still again once the creature has settled somewhere deep within him. ]
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It seems impossibly large to even fit down his throat without esophageal rupture, but to carry that thing in his stomach? He can't imagine. How has the poor man been eating? Is this why he was bleeding and vomiting? Was it trying to get out in the hospital room—was his body trying to get it out?
He'll process this later. Clad in a similar outfit to Veshnyakov's own, he rushes to the one way glass, slapping his palms against it repeatedly. ]
He needs help! He had a seizure and there's some kind of parasite in him and he's still unconscious! He needs to be taken to a hospital now or he will have brain damage! Help him!
[ The doors swing open, but the two guards stride briskly toward him, not Konstantin Sergeyevich. They ignore him. ]
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[ It's explained to him. It won't be good for Commander Veshnyakov to know what's going on until they can get it out of him, to avoid causing undue stress. The penalty for a dissenting opinion goes unspoken: they know he was in the NKVD. They know he knows better than anyone.
The earliest light of dawn is coming in through the curtains when they return him to the glorified prison cell. Immediately he finds his way to Veshnyakov's bedside, counting his respirations as he approaches. And, with a sense of foreboding at the uncertainty of whether or not there will be any response to the stimuli at all, he touches the man's bulky arm and quietly speaks up. ]
Konstantin Sergeyevich.