no subject

MOSCOW, RUSSIA — 1937

"Comrade Sapozhnikov." Ignoring the deep ache rooted in the muscles of his shoulders, Vasiliy casts a sympathetic smile in the direction of the dead-faced man half-slumped over the interrogation table as he walks toward it, shutting the door gently behind himself (or as gently as one can shut a metal door). "I'm Comrade Ardankin."

The subject eyes the gun holstered at his waist; he responds to the shift of his gaze with a quiet, self-effacing laugh, undoing the snap keeping the holster closed with his thumb. "Sorry. I'm used to wearing it. I don't think I've actually used it since it was given to me, but it looks sharp." He draws the revolver slowly at about the same time he puts one leg up on the far corner of the table, comfortably resting half his weight on its surface as he begins to dismantle the weapon on his thigh. He silently pushes the ejector rod upwards and sideways without looking over at the man who is undoubtedly looking at him, then pulls the base pin and releases the cylinder, sliding it and all seven of its bullets across the table, followed by the frame and its pieces. Sapozhnikov watches him as though he's insane.

"It's not a test. I just don't like it digging into my hip when I sit and I'd like for us to speak as equals for a few moments." They're not, of course. Sapozhnikov doesn't bring up that point. Vasiliy makes a point of sighing, then moves to a lower perch on the chair opposite his subject's, scooting forward to make eye contact. "Comrade, I'm here because there are things all of us must do for the greater good. I am here because our country needs me to be here. It is icy on the walk from my apartment, I believe I am contracting a chest cold, and I have not slept in—" He glances down at his watch, an unremarkable thing with a bad scratch dividing the glass face. "—thirty-four hours. But I do this because my country has asked it of me, and there is honor in doing so. Generally speaking, from what I've read of your party background, it seems as though you've done the same."

The first spark of life glimmers in the man's eyes. "I have. This is what I've been saying, this is what I have been trying to tell anyone who will listen to me. My party record is impeccable, Comrade."

They're getting somewhere. His past's on the table now; granted, the pretyped confession remains folded neatly in the pocket of Vasiliy's jacket. He smiles at the man in a pitying sort of way. "It's very good. Not impeccable, but very good. Now. Your duty as a member of the Communist Party is to be honest in your shortcomings. How else can you improve? And that's why we're here."

It's not. They need more names.

"If you cooperate, Comrade, I can reward you for your honesty. Things will be much easier if you simply confess to the offenses that have been reported to us." That much is true; this first meeting is the easiest his stay will get. He's got a few hours to talk Sapozhnikov into signing before they make him sign. "They're lighter crimes than most of what we see here. Then you can work, you can better yourself. This does not have to be a violent experience, not at all. I, personally, would prefer it not to be."

He means that much in earnest.