The Moscow Files
A N A T O L Y
Anatoly lets out a loud groan as the dial tone finally rings out from his phone, throwing his head onto the desk with more force than he intends. The collision is painful, but it is nothing compared to the almighty earache he now has after being chewed out over the airwaves for nearly fifteen minutes. He can’t understand her anger. The rations he dropped off a week ago should have been enough to last a normal person for at least a month, but apparently she isn’t a normal person. In fact, no, Anatoly knows she is not a normal person. He has always marvelled at the way in which she can make any person feel roughly three feet tall with just a few choice words but now that he is at the receiving end of her fury, he is not as enthralled. In fact, he is beginning to wonder why he puts up with Nastasya Konstantinova’s sharp tongue at all.
Anatoly isn’t entirely sure how or when he turned into his girlfriend’s personal security detail, but he sure as he knows that she’s pissed off that she hasn’t been around since Wednesday. Not that it is his fault — he has a life of his own to live; a job to keep, a poorly mama to look after and a slightly overweight golden retriever to feed. He has far more in his life than Nastasya to deal with. Granted, he told her not to leave the house unless he was there to ensure she was safe, but it just wasn’t rational to think that he can arrive to her every beck and call.
Besides, what could she possibly want to leave the house for? After all, air strikes are becoming more and more common and it just isn’t safe on the streets anymore. He has tried to warn her of the consequences of wandering the streets alone, even as a couple. The media might cover them up and pretend that they don’t exist, but the body count rises with each passing day and honestly, Anatoly isn’t too sure how much longer it will be until somebody leaks the stories to the press and once the public is made aware, the A.R.C will have a whole lot more to deal with than a simple string of murders.
His phone glows softly in the half-light of the office, the new message icon flashing softly in the corner. Nastasya. Already. Anatoly curses aloud, swiping at the nearest mini-mountain of paperwork covering his desk. It scatters like the snow falling heavily by the grimy window — the only source of light into the dingy office — and floats to the floor, coating the carpet in the off-white flakes of reports that probably should have been filed weeks ago. He watches them fall before groaning loudly and pulling himself reluctantly from his chair. Anatoly does not know what is wrong — before bodies started appearing like blemishes on the streets of Moscow, he would have prided himself on being one of the most level-headed men in the department. Lately, however, he has begun to wonder if that pride has been misplaced.
Then again, it isn’t like anybody is around to see him lose control. Not anybody that matters, anyway — only Ilya.
Ilya Petrov is, for all intents and purposes of the word, an absolute monster — this is why he will not mind that Anatoly has seemingly lost control, for he is the very incarnation of carnage. Anatoly knows this of his partner. Hell, Anatoly has seen this. He knows of the dubious extracurricular activities that Ilya partakes in when he is not at work, he knows the men that he chooses to keep company with. Ilya is a die-cast nationalist with a penchant for inflicting pain, and anybody who does not believe in Mother Russia is an instant target — an enemy of the state that should be tortured until they see through Ilya’s own personal brand of rose-tinted glasses. Anatoly has watched Ilya beat protestors of the current regime into bloody messes on the floor, demoralised enough to stay in line. Yes, Ilya Petrov wins his battles through fear, through manipulation and through sheer brute force.
Even Anatoly is wary of Ilya, and the pair have worked together for almost six years.
“Nastasya again?” Ilya asked, making an attempt to flash a sympathetic smile in Anatoly’s direction. Instead, he appears as a snake waiting to pounce. Suppressing a shudder, Anatoly nods as he collects a sheaf of loose paper from underneath his desk. “You really need to let her go, my friend. She's a disaster waiting to happen?”
“I told her I’d get her more supplies. She’s ran out and needs a bodyguard.” Anatoly jabs a thumb in the direction of the window. “Streets aren’t exactly safe at the moment.”
Ilya snorts in response, lighting up a cigarette. “So let her go herself. We’re not supposed to run hand-and-foot after our women; they’re supposed to do that for us. Women aren’t around for us to idolise, my friend. You’re doing this relationship thing all wrong.”
“Maybe I am,” Anatoly mutters, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the alluring scent of nicotine washed over his system. Ilya knows that he is trying to quit, but that doesn't stop him from stinking up the office by lighting at least ten cigarettes per shift. “Maybe I actually care about my relationship. I feel sorry for your wife.”
“Ulyana doesn’t know how good she has it.” Ilya replies lazily, “and she’ll continue to do as I say if she knows what’s good for her. At least tell me the sex is good?”
“None of your business,” Anatoly shoots back. Ilya rolls his eyes, flicking the ash from the edge of his cigarette into a dirty plate on the edge of his desk. Anatoly can already feel the uncomfortable itching between his fingers; he wants nothing more than to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes and give up on the foolish notion that he will ever be able to survive without nicotine. With everything going on, surely he owes it to himself to try and calm down in whatever way possible? Shaking his head, he grabs his phone from his desk and his jacket from the edge of his chair.
“I’m going out. If you manage to get anywhere with the actual work you’re supposed to be doing, call me. I have my cell.”
Ilya nodded toward the door, sly smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Anatoly knows that right now, Ilya is thinking of thousands of insults he can throw in the direction of his partner. Bracing himself, he pulls the door shut — but not quickly enough to drown out the mocking threat that spills from Ilya’s mouth.
“Run along, Anatoly. She could be next, after all.”
Anatoly isn’t entirely sure how or when he turned into his girlfriend’s personal security detail, but he sure as he knows that she’s pissed off that she hasn’t been around since Wednesday. Not that it is his fault — he has a life of his own to live; a job to keep, a poorly mama to look after and a slightly overweight golden retriever to feed. He has far more in his life than Nastasya to deal with. Granted, he told her not to leave the house unless he was there to ensure she was safe, but it just wasn’t rational to think that he can arrive to her every beck and call.
Besides, what could she possibly want to leave the house for? After all, air strikes are becoming more and more common and it just isn’t safe on the streets anymore. He has tried to warn her of the consequences of wandering the streets alone, even as a couple. The media might cover them up and pretend that they don’t exist, but the body count rises with each passing day and honestly, Anatoly isn’t too sure how much longer it will be until somebody leaks the stories to the press and once the public is made aware, the A.R.C will have a whole lot more to deal with than a simple string of murders.
His phone glows softly in the half-light of the office, the new message icon flashing softly in the corner. Nastasya. Already. Anatoly curses aloud, swiping at the nearest mini-mountain of paperwork covering his desk. It scatters like the snow falling heavily by the grimy window — the only source of light into the dingy office — and floats to the floor, coating the carpet in the off-white flakes of reports that probably should have been filed weeks ago. He watches them fall before groaning loudly and pulling himself reluctantly from his chair. Anatoly does not know what is wrong — before bodies started appearing like blemishes on the streets of Moscow, he would have prided himself on being one of the most level-headed men in the department. Lately, however, he has begun to wonder if that pride has been misplaced.
Then again, it isn’t like anybody is around to see him lose control. Not anybody that matters, anyway — only Ilya.
Ilya Petrov is, for all intents and purposes of the word, an absolute monster — this is why he will not mind that Anatoly has seemingly lost control, for he is the very incarnation of carnage. Anatoly knows this of his partner. Hell, Anatoly has seen this. He knows of the dubious extracurricular activities that Ilya partakes in when he is not at work, he knows the men that he chooses to keep company with. Ilya is a die-cast nationalist with a penchant for inflicting pain, and anybody who does not believe in Mother Russia is an instant target — an enemy of the state that should be tortured until they see through Ilya’s own personal brand of rose-tinted glasses. Anatoly has watched Ilya beat protestors of the current regime into bloody messes on the floor, demoralised enough to stay in line. Yes, Ilya Petrov wins his battles through fear, through manipulation and through sheer brute force.
Even Anatoly is wary of Ilya, and the pair have worked together for almost six years.
“Nastasya again?” Ilya asked, making an attempt to flash a sympathetic smile in Anatoly’s direction. Instead, he appears as a snake waiting to pounce. Suppressing a shudder, Anatoly nods as he collects a sheaf of loose paper from underneath his desk. “You really need to let her go, my friend. She's a disaster waiting to happen?”
“I told her I’d get her more supplies. She’s ran out and needs a bodyguard.” Anatoly jabs a thumb in the direction of the window. “Streets aren’t exactly safe at the moment.”
Ilya snorts in response, lighting up a cigarette. “So let her go herself. We’re not supposed to run hand-and-foot after our women; they’re supposed to do that for us. Women aren’t around for us to idolise, my friend. You’re doing this relationship thing all wrong.”
“Maybe I am,” Anatoly mutters, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the alluring scent of nicotine washed over his system. Ilya knows that he is trying to quit, but that doesn't stop him from stinking up the office by lighting at least ten cigarettes per shift. “Maybe I actually care about my relationship. I feel sorry for your wife.”
“Ulyana doesn’t know how good she has it.” Ilya replies lazily, “and she’ll continue to do as I say if she knows what’s good for her. At least tell me the sex is good?”
“None of your business,” Anatoly shoots back. Ilya rolls his eyes, flicking the ash from the edge of his cigarette into a dirty plate on the edge of his desk. Anatoly can already feel the uncomfortable itching between his fingers; he wants nothing more than to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes and give up on the foolish notion that he will ever be able to survive without nicotine. With everything going on, surely he owes it to himself to try and calm down in whatever way possible? Shaking his head, he grabs his phone from his desk and his jacket from the edge of his chair.
“I’m going out. If you manage to get anywhere with the actual work you’re supposed to be doing, call me. I have my cell.”
Ilya nodded toward the door, sly smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Anatoly knows that right now, Ilya is thinking of thousands of insults he can throw in the direction of his partner. Bracing himself, he pulls the door shut — but not quickly enough to drown out the mocking threat that spills from Ilya’s mouth.
“Run along, Anatoly. She could be next, after all.”