The Lion of the East
DG
 
(I'm thinking about making having Russian sections or making it pure English)
(Some of the wonky English is intentional, I'm trying to make the characters sound foreign when they talk, and avoid exclusively English phrases or idioms. They're supposed to be speaking Russian after all.)
 	
	Chapter 1:
First came the planes, then fell the bombs, then rattled the city. But Lev first felt the rattling, then looked out and saw the falling bombs, then noticed the dimming roar of planes on their way to being long gone.
The city shook in a violent manner, as thunder ripped its roots from the earth. Some shouting could be heard from the people, but mostly they were either dead, deaf, or drunk, or not caring anymore. Soon enough, there will be the sound of sirens wailing, the sound of mothers crying, the sound of rubble falling as buildings became more and more tense with their lack of support.
Lev tended not to notice events until they reached the end of the chain. It was a side effect of his strong spirit, and a rusty liver. He was not too old, but after having been pelted from all sides by metal and mud, at an age when he should not have been, he needed the strongest spirits he could get his hands on.
One would surely notice the sirens before anything, but the city couldn't afford more. Either the power was out, and the power was often out, as the city and its residents were poor. Or, they would keep getting knocked down by sympathizers to the Enemy.
The Enemy was traitorous, malicious, venomous. They were much more common now that the war is coming closer and closer to this little town. But war did not excite the beaten man like it used to. For the previous war, he jumped up with a newfound confidence, the kind of confidence that ladies would call handsome, and veterans such as Lev himself would come to call stupid.
It was by chance that one such sympathizer came to knock, a few gentle but swift knocks, on his door. He also knocked on a few others as well, because he had forgotten the room number. This spy was not known to anyone but him, and the poor man only knew because, during one of his more sober nights (and with the ongoing shortage his nights were getting progressively more sober), he had caught the man in the middle of one of his malicious acts.
The man, known to several in the city as Dmitry, stood at the door as it opened, with an anxious man standing behind it. He thought he was there to kill him. The man said, “Hello, Lev. I was wondering if you had seen anything suspicious a few days back. I was unsure if I really had, and until now I was nervous to tell anyone.” And he knew now. The situation was obvious and calming. He knew the trickster before him.
Dmitry had spotted him spotting him that night before, probably from the light of the cigar, or maybe from his eyes. He wanted to know if Lev really had noticed him though.
However, for the spy to stand here and kill him immediately would have drawn so much more attention. But now, after some silence, both had this suspicion, someone might end up dead in this room today. Lev owned a nagant revolver, given to him by a good neighbor who had fled to the east. He also had his spirit, and his spirits. The nagant, however, was tucked in a drawer by his bed, and so he did the next best thing: He invited Dmitry inside.
One stepped in nervously, the other stood nervously. A battle had begun. Dmitry cannot kill me without proof, Lev thought, he must not arouse suspicion, and I must stall him.
“I am afraid, my friend, that my memory is blurry. Have a drink with me, and I might remember,” said the host, “If what you say is true, then we have a serious discussion coming up.”
Both men were tense. Dmitry did not take off his jacket, and he wouldn't bother asking him. Instead he invited the man to his balcony, while he went into his bedroom. “I must find my cigarettes! I know I have a stash somewhere,” he said, but he had no stash. In fact, he was running low.
What Lev had in his bedroom was far more valuable, and slightly less dangerous than nicotine. A dull gray double action Nagant revolver. It was skinny, fiddly, and old, with 7 slots in the cylinder to hold 7.62x38mmR cartridges. The gun was gas-sealed, meaning the cylinder would be pushed forward to close the gap between it and the barrel, unlike many other revolver designs. The cylinder was also locked in place, and empty shells had to be ejected using in attached rod, then then manually reloaded through a loading gate. The grip was splintered wood wrapped with a cloth. He kept putting off replacing the grip, because it seemed much to hard to do.
The drawer opened with a low, scratchy creak, and the dark treasure was revealed. He took the gun, wearily, and stood with it in his hand for a moment. He weighed it for a short time, adjusting his hand and fingers, trying to find a comfortable fit. He checked that it was loaded, which it was, and into his pants' pocket it went, as did the pack of cigarettes that had been in his worn out jacket the entire time.
“Where should I sit?” rang out Dmitry's voice, it seemed distant yet eerily close. He snapped from his trance, and replied with the balcony. “I already have some bottles and glasses there!” He needed to hide the gun.
Dmitry went onto the balcony. The spy stepped around the small table, and sat opposite the chair that he had occupied before the grand interruption. With his view to the door, he patted the left side of his jacket with his left hand, making sure that his gun, a Luger P08, was still holstered. Of course it couldn't really have gone anywhere, but nonetheless, it was a comforting action.
The gun was his only souvenir from Germany, and dangerous to own, as revealing it betray him instantly. Nonetheless, he needed something to remind himself of his loyalties. It was a curious piece of German, or rather Austrian, engineering, being a recoil operated pistol using a jointed arm instead of a slide, moving backwards and upwards. The handgun fired 9x19mm Parabellum rounds, and its magazine, tucked in the grip, held 8 of them. There was one additional round in the chamber.
Through the window, Lev saw Dmitry's actions, and guessed where his weapon was hidden. He could kill him, very quickly, because the poor man was stupid. He was good at hiding, but now that he is exposed he turned stupid. He was nervous, and waiting for an opportunity that would not arise. Were he a smart spy, Lev would be dead. Or perhaps not, he thought.
Maybe Dmitry was not stupid. Maybe he had a conscience. He did not know whether Lev had seen him or not, he only had a hunch. And he did not want to kill on a hunch.
It did not matter, he decided. Both were equal in war. One of them was going to die, and Dmitry had made his mistake, and showed him his heart. He was going to shoot it.
He stepped onto the balcony, and resumed his spot. Both men were silent as drinks were poured into the glasses.
Finally Dmitry chimed, “This is war is a great burden to us.”
“Why do you say that?” Lev agreed, but felt like inquiring.
“It's not right, all the killing.” Was this irony, was this trickery, or was it guilt?
“We must defend our motherland,” He stressed that it was theirs, but between them, it was only his.
“I don't doubt that you are brave, courageous, loyal, but I still do not like war at all (но мне просто не нравится вой-на). Who are you, to play god, Lev?”
“God?! Ha! I'm no god! I killed people, yes but I was not playing god. Or maybe I was, I was, but then, so were they. And on a field where everyone is God, then no one really is.”
(Бог?! Ха! Я не Бог! Я убивал людей, да, но я не играл Бога. Ну… допустим что я был, тогда, они тоже были. И когда на поле все играют Бога, тогда никто не он.)
There was a pause, Lev looked at Dmitry, Dmitry looked down. The adversaries sat in solemn silence, as they drank their drinks.
“Do you smoke? I want to take one.” Lev took out his pack of cigarettes, all while inconspicuously pulling his nagant and placing it on his lap.
Finally Dmitry looked up. “About last night-”
“Not yet, Dima, I'm still thinking.” He was stalling.
“We have to-”
“We have to do nothing but sit here and drink.”
“I think it is very-”
“You started talking about war. Let's talk about my war.” He was stern. Dmitry was sweating. He felt numb. He started fidgeting with his jacket.
“If you'll excuse me-”
“Do you know what I miss about the war? Mind you I don't miss much, or I wouldn't be trying to forget. But in all this political commotion, in all this, some things are harder to spot. In my time, when I was a young Russian idiot on the front, the one thing I miss, the only thing, was the clarity-”
“-clarity, Lev? I hear people speak of confusion, of chaos, madness, maybe some moments of peace, but tense still!”
“you do not understand, a soldier’s clarity! Dima, on that front, there were all the things you described, and by god (господи) I don't miss them, but there was this one thing. You knew who the enemy was. When someone was shooting at you, you may not know where it comes from, but you know WHO it comes from.”
Dmitry grew tense, nervous at these words. He fidgeted with his jacket some more.
“Now, as a mere peasant, I can look at the doubt of some people’s faces, I cannot tell where their loyalties lie.”
Dmitry twitched.
BANG!  BANG!  BANG!
Three shots, from his nagant, erupted from under the table. The sound echoed in the fresh air. Dmitry gasped from the piercing in his gut. He leapt, or rather fell, from his chair onto his bleeding stomach, His right hand reaching into the left side in his jacket.
Lev jumped up and rushed to end him. He aimed for his head, but his arm shook and he fired rather clumsily.
BANG!
The fourth shot went into Dmitry’s neck, and his whole body seemed to spasm.
BANG!
Lev winced and crouched, for this new shot was not his own. It came from within the jacket of Dmitry. Immediately after, Lev noticed the sound of something shattered falling down. The rogue bullet went through a vase of his, and into the wall (Or it shattered the glass sliding door and entered his room).
Dmitry was dead and so was the innocence of this town.


	Chapter 2:
A dark serenity set in. It will take a short time for police officers to arrive, and they will arrive definitely nervous, for Lev was not usually a man fond of killing.
In the time between, though, he went inside to grab a blanket and cover the body that Dmitry once inhabited. He found his religious tendencies wanting to creep back into his mind, but they were contesting with the so called wisdom the war had brought him.
On his table inside, he saw a small bit of cheese. And though he was not a man to usually eat breakfast, he found himself hungry this morning. He put the cheese in his mouth, but found that it was hard. And it was not cheese. he spit it out.
Before setting the blanket on the cooling body, he glanced once more at the hole in Dmitry's jacket that wasn't bleeding. He did not want to look much longer at what used to be a man, but he kneeled over, and uncovered the jacket to find a dead hand holding a live gun. It was a luger, a German officer's gun, or so he believed. His suspicions were confirmed for the final time. 
After the short time had passed, the door to his apartment had been knocked on for the second time this morning. It was a cruder, stronger, more urgent series of knocks, and it came from the policeman, who belonged to the criminal office.
This policeman was named Daniil Sharapov, and he was a friend of his. The first time Sharapov met him he had closed arms. Over time he had opened his arms to the man. Today, he came in with closed arms.
“You know Lev, with a war behind us, it isn't very wise to be shooting anything as loud as that,” said the officer. “Everyone is nervous. It took a lot of explaining from me to not send a whole squad after you. I know you wouldn't-”
“There's a dead man on my balcony, Dany.”
Sharapov shut up, his eyes widened in surprise, his head rocked back as he was stupefied.
“Sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Lev, I have to arrest you!”
“No, because this man is spy.”
“And can you prove that?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged.
Sharapov stepped in, without asking, and rushed towards the balcony. He paused, looked back, and stared at Lev, who seemed so calm about this. Perhaps he wasn't so on the inside. He quickly walked back towards him, and motioned for him to lead. They stepped towards the balcony. There lay a blanket with a lump under it.
Once the blanket was removed, both men were hit with the sight before feeling a faint smell. The corpse that Dmitry once inhabitant lay there, where it fell. It was alive mere moments ago, but now it seemed so empty, not even sleeping. Simply gone.
The only tampering had been with his jacket, which was opened, and the luger lay there in the open, still grasped by spindly, dead fingers.
The policeman studied the body, both emotionless. Despite the bombing much earlier, all seemed to quiet down. Bombs were common now but this was not anymore. All that could be heard were the occasional bugs, and the more occasional exhale from the two out of three men on the balcony.
“Lev, what do you have to say?”
“Do you not want to call some doctors?”
“He's clearly dead, and they're on their way. What do you have to say?”
“He was a spy, he wanted to kill me. I killed him first.”
“Did he shoot you?”
“He wanted to.”
“You're avoiding the damn question.”
“You see that gun?”
“Lev, I swear-”
“It's a German gun.”
Sharapov noticed it was clutching a handgun, but wasn't familiar with its make.
“Are you certain?”
Lev let out a sigh with his head bowed down.
“They call it a luger. Nine millimeter. It has got a very unique shape, as you can see,” he bent down to pick it up, but heard a grunt from his tense friend signaling 'no'. “Okay, okay. But I have not seen this gun anywhere in Russia. Except, at the hands of the men who were shooting at me, all those years ago.”
Sharapov seemed strained. “I trust you, Lev. I can't help but trust you. But all this, and you, is coming with me to the station.”
“I know,” he nodded.
More policemen came into Lev's room, and they were busy with finding evidence, mapping the scene, whatever it is they did. He hadn't much in there, but he hoped they wouldn't harm that which he did. They waited until the dead man was carted away to the hospital, although he won't be spending to much time there. Then Lev came with Sharapov to his office, their only souvenir being the two nemeses, the Luger and the Nagant.
The ride to the police station was solemn. 


Chapter 3:
Pyotr had no favorites, only second favorites. His chair in his office, was nice but could have been more comfortable. His parents, taught him all they could but they knew little themselves. His position, while respected, still put him under the authority of others. Pyotr’s favorite things are found in his dreams; his ambitions. Despite this, he felt very pleased at the moment.
He had finished his paperwork, and the caviar had been restocked.
Working at the heart of the Motherland definitely had its perks, and he Pyotr hated having to leave, but unfortunately, he was low enough in the chain so that he did not have the ability to bark orders from miles away; he had to go there and bark directly. He was a sort of scout for Stalin.
Nonetheless, today he was calm. The war may look bad, but he had faith. The Germans' push is nothing to fear, he thought. The first push always leads to a short stumble. Soon the full might of the Soviet Union will push back, as the bigger men tend to do when shoved by a scrawny fascist. They'll be drowned in a sea of communism.
He was sitting back comfortably in his cushioned chair, about to put his boots on the table, when there came a knock on the door to his office. Two uniform knocks, each soft but not too soft. He quickly leaned forward and put his boot down, so that there was a light thud on the hardwood floor.
“Come in,” he said, although he didn't have to. If anyone managed to get this far, it means what they have is important, and they would have come in anyway. What he said was a courtesy. The door opened, and in came a tall, rather fat man, with a fat, wrinkly face, and a moustache that seemed to cover his lips. This man's name was Fedorov, and he simply came to give Pyotr yet another folder.
The timing was uniform. Fedorov would come in, hand over a folder to Pyotr, make small talk, and leave.
“Here you are, sir. They're ordering another trip for you.” His voice was deep and course. And with that he started to leave, without the small talk.
“Fedorov, you seem quiet today. Is something wrong?” His  voice was lighter, and calmer. He didn't particularly care, but anything bothering him could be a detriment to the system.
“I am in a rush I suppose,” he replied, “my son is sick.”
“Is it serious?”
“No, I don't think so. But he says he hurts all over, and I worry.”
“Don't worry, we all catch something. Your son is a strong Russian man, and nothing short of a bear can take us down. Focus on your work.”
“Or a tiger.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” With that he finally left, shutting the door behind him.
Pyotr, without blinking, looked down at the new folder on his desk.
Or a tiger. Now what could that mean? He shook it out of his head. It was some odd idiom probably.
He opened the folder and gazed at its contents. The first visible paper was a letter. Orders for Pyotr. He'd received the same letter many times, with slight differentiations. He skimmed through it and it was about how he expected it to go. Conscription. He was to go and arrange recruiting centers, or knock on doors and enlist them personally. The second paper was a list. Destinations, times, officers with whom he would meet. They will give him an empty office, then give him the names, then he will give them to the red army.
The room was quiet, save for the constant ticking of the clock. Every now and then there would be shout outside, maybe a lady yelling at her husband, or the occasional rev of an engine.
He scanned some of the names, and within the list found the name {INSERT CITY NAME HERE}. “Interesting,” he thought, “that I should happen upon my old friend again.”
With that the room fell silent once more, except for the ticking of the clock.

Chapter 4:
“It is definitely a German gun,” said Sharapov, stepping into the barren room, which served as his office. “I've never seen anything like it.”
“I have,” Lev told him, sitting down across the empty desk.
“But this isn't necessarily proof. I just had a chat, and many would pick these up and keep them as souvenirs.”
“Do they walk into others' homes and get ready to shoot their host as well?”
“We can't know what he was doing, because he's dead.”
“He died when he defected.”
“We don't know he defected.”
“Then wait.”
“For what, Lev?!”
Sharapov glared at him, still standing, then decided to walk towards his desk so that he could sit down as well. When he found a comfortable position on his chair, Lev spoke again.
“I saw him last night, my friend, and I know you are my friend, and I wish you would believe me.” Lev re-situated himself in his chair. “I saw him, and he messing around with the pole there, outside my building, where the alarm is. He had some tools with him. And this morning, there were the bombs. There was no alarm. I noticed that, and I promise I wasn't drunk. I know you blame it on that, but it was not!”