Red Army Blues - SCP Foundation

Leningrad, Russia, 1968

Tchaikovsky lay alone in bed. The sheets around him were a mess. He remained still, looking up at the ceiling fan. He watched it spin, faster and faster, like a helicopter's rotorblades. He stank. His beard desperately needed shaving. It seemed to take every ounce of strength in his body just to sit up. When he finally did, he approached the window, glancing through into the streets below.

He half-expected to find himself back in Huế. He almost swore he could hear the sounds of shelling and gunfire. But in front of him lay the cold streets of Leningrad. It was a strange feeling, like he needed to be somewhere else. The mundane life of a city street felt surreal in his mind. He lit up a cigarette, and sat down on the bed. A half-empty bottle of vodka was sitting on the table next to him. He grabbed the bottle and took a heavy swig.

How much time had passed? He could not remember. He kept seeing Veronin, engulfed in flaming napalm, dying painfully. He could recall Kestrov's face as he was forced to kill the man he looked up to. Veronin was gone, nothing could change that now. And yet that one thought persisted:

Why did it have to be him? Why am I alive?

Veronin was gone. Last he heard, Kestrov was on leave. After everything they had been through, it seemed a wonder he was still alive. But that left only him and Moloknya.

It seemed this was the end of Red Storm. GRU-P was probably just keeping him here until they figured out what they wanted to do with him.

Tchaikovsky took another swig of the Vodka when he heard someone knocking at the door. The noise seemed deafening in his ears. He just fell back onto the bed. Right now he did not feel like he could be bothered with anyone.

But the knocking persisted. Until finally he heard the door break open.

"UUUUgggghhh… leave me alone."

"Look at yourself," a woman's voice said. He internally cursed as he realized who was approaching him.

Of course it was Moloknya. She wasted no time entering and walking straight toward Tchaikovsky's hungover and unkempt form.

"Get up."

Tchaikovsky didn't move. Next thing he knew, her hands were grabbing him and dragging him off the bed. With all her might, Moloknya pulled Tchaikovsky toward the bathroom, shoving him inside and into the shower.

Then she turned it on. Tchaikovsky was stunned as he felt water running down his body. Before he even processed what was happening, the water was off and he was suddenly holding a set of dry clothes.

"Get changed, we're leaving."

"What?"

"You've spent enough time in here feeling sorry for yourself. I'm getting you out whether you like it or not. Put them on."

Moloknya stepped out of the bathroom and shut the door. Though he was very confused, he slowly began to put on the new clothes.

As he stepped out, Moloknya was waiting patiently at the door.

"Come on," she said.

"Where are we going?"

"Outside," she replied.

A taxi was already parked on the side of the road, which Moloknya quickly approached. She knocked on the window, which was quickly lowered, and handed a few rubles to the driver. She then motioned for Tchaikovsky to enter.

He took a seat in the cab, still visibly confused by what was happening.

"You've been sitting in that room for a week," Moloknya said. "I know this feels strange but it's for your own good."

The taxi stopped in front of a bar. Moloknya handed another wad of rubles to the driver before she stepped out.

"Come on," she said.

Tchaikovsky stepped out of the taxi and followed Moloknya inside.

The bar was a lively place. A lot of men in uniform were enjoying themselves. They took a seat at the counter.

"Anya!" The Bartender said with a smile. "What can I do for you?"

"Two vodkas," Moloknya replied. "The good stuff. And some borscht."

The bartender quickly poured two glasses before going to pass her order on.

"I guess you've been here before?" Tchaikovsky asked.

"My mother liked to bring me here," Moloknya replied. "Apparently it was even better before the siege."

"How is your mother doing?"

"She's good," Moloknya replied.

"You know, you've told me about your mother but you've never mentioned your father."

"There's not much to tell. He was a soldier. I was told he died fighting in the war."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

A server arrived with a bowl of borscht, which Moloknya quickly slid in front of Tchaikovsky.

"Eat,"

"What?"

"You need to eat something,"

Tchaikovsky slowly picked up his spoon and began dipping it into the borscht, though he remained quiet.

"Mother was never quite the same after the siege. She still has nightmares about it."

Two glasses were placed in front of them. A bottle of vodka was poured into each before being placed next to them.

"Enjoy," said the Bartender.

Moloknya quickly gulped a quarter of her glass.

"This is the real thing," she said. "If you're going to drink, at least drink something better than the military rations."

Tchaikovsky smiled. He slowly took a sip of his drink.

"To be honest," Tchaikovsky murmered. "I still see Veronin… no… worse. I see Kestrov. I see his face as he shot the man we all looked up to. All I can see is… pain. He didn't deserve that."

"None of us did," Moloknya replied.

"Why'd it have to be him? Why not me?"

"You know, my Mother used to wonder the same thing. You heard anything about Kestrov?"

"No," Tchaikovsky said. "They said he was on leave. I heard something about a physical exam."

"He went through a lot in Hue," Moloknya said. "More than most people could take in his position. The fact that he came out of that alive is proof of his strength."

Tchaikovsky took a spoonful of borscht.

"Oh wow, this is actually pretty good."

"You know what?" Moloknya said. "Let's have some fun."

Tchaikovsky was about to stammer out a "what?" Before Moloknya had climbed onto her stool and was standing on the counter. The strange moment had started to get attention from the other patrons.

"I'll sleep with anyone," Moloknya announced. "If they can outdrink me!"

Even the bartender froze at the scene.

"Ten shots of the strongest vodka this establishment can offer. If I fall, I'm yours. Anyone up for the challenge?"

A large man with a thick beard stepped forward, a large mug already in his hand. "I'll take you!" He yelled out.

Moloknya eagerly jumped off the counter and made her way to a table. The enthusiastic patrons began to surround them.

Tchaikovsky looked at the bartender, remembering how he seemed to know Moloknya.

"Is she always like this?"

"Oh trust me," the bartender said. "This is going to be good."

The bartender reached under the counter and grabbed a bottle. He quickly brought it over to the table where Moloknya was sitting across from her challenger.

Ten glasses were laid out in front of each of them. The bartender poured the vodka into each one.

"The rules are simple," the Bartender said as he put the cap onto his bottle. "You will take turns drinking one shot. When you finish one, you put your glass down. Your opponent will then take his or her shot. If either one falls, they lose."

The challenger smiled.

Moloknya reached for her first glass. She took one large gulp and downed the shot, before slamming the glass back onto the table.

The challenger laughed. "That's nothing," he said. He quickly took a swig of his glass, flipped it over, and slammed it with a dramatic flare.

The crowd erupted into cheering.

Moloknya reached for her second glass. She drank this one a bit more slowly, allowing everyone to watch as the clear liquid poured into her mouth.

Another glass on the table.

Tchaikovsky was starting to wonder what exactly was happening.

The Challenger gulped his second glass and slammed it onto the table. A smug grin was barely visible in his bushy beard.

Moloknya reached for her third glass. She lifted it up slowly, placing it to her lips and very gently allowing it flow out.

SLAM! Another glass down. Cheering from the crowd. It seemed Moloknya was starting to impress them.

The Challenger reached for his next glass. Putting it up to his mouth. He had to stop part way through and swallowed what had made it into his mouth. He sat for a moment, looking unsure.

"You can forfeit now if you want," Moloknya said.

The Challenger quickly put the glass to his mouth and forced himself to swallow the last bit. Another uproar from the crowd.

By now, the challenger was starting to look a bit tipsy. His body was wavering. His eyelids fluttered, but so far he kept his composure.

"You're going to have to do better than that," he said. "Is this really the strongest drink in here?"

"I can confirm that," the Bartender said.

Moloknya reached for her next glass. She was starting to lose count of how many they had gone through so far. She took one solid gulp and downed the whole thing.

The Challenger smiled as he reached for his glass, putting it up to his mouth. He managed to take a sip before he began to struggle. His trembling hand couldn't quite reach his mouth. Suddenly he fell out of his seat and onto the floor.

Tchaikovsky stared as he took in another spoonful of borscht.

"Is that the best we have?" Moloknya yelled out. "Come on, give me a real challenge!"

As the first challenger was taken away, a cocky young man stepped forward. "I'll take you," he said.

An eager response from the crowd.

The second challenger sat down across from Moloknya.

"This is going to be easy," he said. "Aren't you already drunk?"

"Me? Drunk?" Moloknya said with a smile. "You know what? Let's make this more interesting."

She turned her attention to the bartender. "Let's stop wasting time with shots. Bring out a few Bottles."

The new challenger's confidence was slipping, though he was obviously trying to hide it. The bartender arrived with a case containing six bottles.

"New rules," Moloknya said eagerly. "We each drink three of these."

The challenger looked astonished. He slowly reached for the first bottle. He shoved the neck into his mouth and started pouring it down his throat. Then he stopped.

Suddenly he spat out a small amount of his drink and began to cough.

"What is this stuff?" He yelled.

Moloknya reached for one of the bottles and yanked off the cork. She placed the neck into her own mouth. Within seconds, she was guzzling down the liquid.

Then she slammed the bottle down into the table.

"Thank you everyone," Moloknya said as she stood, just barely slurring. The crowd began exchanging money, having presumably been betting on the outcome.

Moloknya made her way back to the counter. She seemed pretty well-composed for someone who had been drinking so much. There was just some barely noticeable wobbling. Probably not ideal for combat but here, not many would notice.

"That was fun," Moloknya said as she planted herself into the stool next to Tchaikovsky. "How's the Borscht?"

"Really good," Tchaikovsky said.

"They make the best Borsch here. I don't know how they do it. I've tried, you know what happened?"

"What?"

Moloknya started laughing.

"What's so funny?"

She signaled to the bartender as he went back behind the counter.

"If it were anyone else I would have cut you off," the Bartender remarked. He poured a small glass for Moloknya.

Moloknya finally started to calm down. "I miss Kestrov," she said. "And Veronin."

"Kestrov's a good man. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him."

"How is that?" Moloknya said, slightly elongating her words. Her eyes were half-closed, like she was about to pass out at any moment.

Tchaikovsky paused as he collected his thoughts. "My… my brother was aboard K-122, under Kestrov's watch. He didn't make it."

"Kestrov did everything he could," Moloknya said.

"When I learned about it I was just looking for answers. Veronin thought my engineering skills would be useful so he offered me a position in GRU-P. That's of course when I met you."

"We've come a long way since then," Moloknya said. "I miss Kestrov already."

"I'm sure he's fine," Tchaikovsky said. "He's earned the rest."

"You think he's going to come back to us?" Moloknya asked.

"I hope so." Tchaikovsky responded. "But what does that mean for us?"

"I don't know," Moloknya said. "I guess we'll get some new people, or they'll replace us, maybe? That's Medved's decision."

At the mention of that name, Tchaikovsky immediately began thinking of what Captain Medved was probably doing at that moment. Probably at some fancy political gathering, trying to win favors from party members. He probably hadn't even given a thought towards the future of Red Storm in weeks. Or maybe he was busy with some other project he hoped might secure a promotion. Who could say?

"You know what really worries me?" Tchaikovsky muttered. "That we'll get separated. They'll just transfer us all out into other units. I don't want to lose you, or Kestrov. We lost enough already. Sometimes I feel like I never left Siberia. I can still hear the screams, I see the faces of dead men. Dead men I knew. And all the people we had to kill in Hue for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes I wonder if-"

Tchaikovsky turned toward Moloknya, whom he now realized had been conspicuously silent in the last few minutes. Now he saw why. She was sound asleep, her head resting on the counter, her arms placed as a makeshift pillow.

All that alcohol had finally taken effect.

"Quite a woman you have there," the bartender said as he approached.

"I guess you know each other?"

The bartender smiled. "Her mother practically lived out of here during the siege. I've known Anya since she was a baby. You're a lucky man to be her husband."

"Oh no," Tchaikovsky said. "We're not married."

"You're not?"

"No, definitely not. We… uh… work… together."

The Bartender smiled. "I see. Would you like me to call a taxi?"

"Yes," Tchaikovsky replied. "That would be great."

The bartender quickly turned around.

Tchaikovsky could hear Moloknya groaning as tried to wrap her arm around his shoulder.

"Come on," he muttered. "We're taking you back."

Moloknya groaned as she started to wake up. It took a moment to realize where she was- lying in a bed, under what felt like a crushingly heavy blanket. Her head was pounding. She felt like she could barely move.

She heard someone knocking at the door. At first she shut her eyes. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep.

"Moloknya?" a familiar voice called through. Though she recognized Tchaikovsky, she barely felt like she could move.

"She threw a pillow over her head, trying to block out the noise. Finally she heard the door open.

"Moloknya, how are you feeling?"

"Go away," Moloknya muttered.

Tchaikovsky approached the bed and took a seat next to Moloknya. She rolled over to face him.

He was looking cleaner today. He had evidently taken some time to trim his beard, making it look a lot neater. In his hands were too steaming cups.

"I brought you some coffee," Tchaikovsky said. He held one of them towards Moloknya.

She slowly sat up, her head still throbbing. Her hands grasped the cup and took a large sip.

"You drank a lot yesterday," Tchaikovsky said. "I can't imagine the hangover you must be experiencing."

"You have no idea what that stuff does to you," Moloknya said.

"What was that drink anyway?"

"My mother's secret recipe," Moloknya said, with a smile.

"I wanted to thank you for yesterday," Tchaikovsky continued. "For getting me out. It… it really helped."

Moloknya took another sip of her coffee.

"I do have some good news. I was just informed that Kestrov's been cleared for service. He's on his way back right now."

Even with the pain of her hangover, the knowledge of Kestrov's return was a small comfort to Moloknya.

"Is he still in charge?"

"No," Tchaikovsky said. "They're assigning someone new. I think they're still deciding."

Tchaikovsky stood. "Right now, you look like you could use the rest."

"What are you going to do?"

"There's a truck that's been having some engine problems. I was going to take a look at it. I'll come by to check on you later."

Moloknya nodded as Tchaikovsky stepped out of the room, gently shutting the door behind him. Moloknya carefully placed the cup on the table next to her before lying back down. She rolled over and shut her eyes, quickly drifting back to sleep.