Post by Aleksandr "Vlad" Nevsky on Feb 14, 2010 4:21:04 GMT
Time: 0900 Hours
Location: Soviet Military Complex
The process of one’s senses coming back after a long night of drinking is a long and painful ordeal. At first, you just lay there, unable to do anything but think about the pounding of your skull. Then, you summon up enough willpower to think straight, maybe twitch your fingers and toes a bit to make sure you are not somehow paralyzed. Next, you may sit up, feeling each muscle, tendon, and ligament in your body somehow pain you each time you move. Then there comes the wondering. What had you done the prior night? Why were you out cold? Did you simply fall asleep, or did something cause your consciousness to fly from your mind?
As Aleksandr Nevsky woke from his drunken slumber, he found himself in a rather peculiar spot. His cheek had been pressed against a cold stone floor, grime sticking to his face as he rose. Nevsky was in a prison cell. There was only one solid wall in the cell, with a small barred window set high up in the grey stone. One the other three sides were iron bars, glinting dully in the greasy light let in by the window. He looked to be the only one held in the jail house, save a youngish looking Ryadovi acting as a guard. Aleksandr had been stripped down to his long underwear and woolen socks, his warm felt Valenki boots and Junior Lieutenant’s uniform gone. He lifted a dirty hand to his face and felt puffy flesh on his left cheek and blood crusted around his nose. Aleks cursed as he realized that he must have done something the prior night, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He had obviously been punched in the face two or three times, and his splitting head screamed hangover.
Nevsky rose slowly, spots forming in front of his eyes. His toe accidentally kicked a pebble across the cell, drawing the attention of the guard. The private had the look of a fresh soldier, none of the lines of a combat-hardened soldier creasing his smooth face. “I see you are moving, drunkard! Heard you had a hell of a night, comrade!” The guard said mockingly, drawing closer to Nevsky’s cell. Aleksandr grew agitated at the boy, his look shooting daggers. “I am Junior Lieutenant Aleksandr Nevsky, and I demand to know what has been done with my clothes, Ryadovi.” The private laughed. “You are no longer. And you will be lucky to ever see a pair of those warm little felt boots again. Look in the corner, there is your new uniform.” Nevsky was stunned by the comment, drifting his vision to the corner of his cell. Sure enough, there was a neat pile of folded cloth.
Aleksandr kneeled down by the pile and picked up the brown Gymnasterka tunic of enlisted men. The shoulder boards were bordered in the red of the infantry, and the single star designated the rank of Starshina. A pair of matching trousers and a pilotka cap was also included, along with a pair of beaten black leather boots. “What the hell are these!?” Aleksandr bellowed, his voice growing higher with anger. “Your new uniform, comrade Starshina. You are not an officer anymore.” It suddenly clicked within Aleks’ mind. He had been demoted. He was a stinking enlisted man. He let out a spew of curses as he realized what ill he had fallen into. The guard piped up. “Get your clothes on, comrade. The Kapitan wanted to see you when you woke.”
Aleks donned the Starshina’s uniform and cap, feeling deceitfully out of place. Ryadovi laughed at him, but the angered Starshina did nothing but look coolly at the private. Something bad would happen to the young soldier. Yes, something very bad. Perhaps drowning in a lake after a long night of drinking? Nevsky thought of what would happen to the private as he was handcuffed and led out of the stinking jailhouse and into a long hallway. From there a burlap bag was pulled over his head and he was led around some corners, but Nevsky was nearly sure that they had just retraced their steps to confuse him.
When the bag was finally pulled from his head he was in a large room that stank of boiled cabbage. A formidable looking desk was situated in the middle of the room, covered with a Soviet flag. An officer sat behind it, the only thing setting him apart from the average infantry officer was the gavel in his hand. “Aleksandr Nevsky of the Red Army, born in Siberia, veteran of the Winter War, and proven commander. You have hereby been sentenced to demotion from Junior Lieutenant to Starshina for the act of drunkenness while on duty and fighting with a fellow Red Army soldier.”The officer spoke, slamming his wooden hammer down on the flag-covered desk. “Your proficiency with command is the only thing that has saved you from being completely stripped of your rank. Your officer’s benefits, including uniform and rations, are forfeited for an enlisted man’s. Any further offence will have you put down to Ryadovi and placed in a Penal company. Starshina Nevsky, you are hereby dismissed. Please report to the armory for the rest of your uniform and your new weapons.” Before Aleks could speak for himself the sack was once again forced over his head and he was led back out of the room.
The guards were a bit rougher on him this time. He heard a door open and suddenly he was shoved through the air, hitting a short concrete stairway before blindly tumbling into the coldness of snow. Someone freed his hands, and then the Starshina heard the door slam. Nevsky shivered as the cold seeped through his Gymnasterka, numbing his bones as his bare hands removed the burlap sack from his head. He thought of discarding it, but instead he tucked it in his pocket to be made into an extra scarf. As he stuffed the bag into his trousers a deep voice with an East Asian accent sounded from behind him. “Aleksandr, I was worried about you. For a while I thought they had sent you to the firing squad. Starshina, eh?”
Aleksandr smiled as he recognized Serzhant Cringu, the burly soldier from one of Russia’s far eastern provinces. Cringu had been with Aleks since the Winter War, where he had become his partner and one of the Starshina’s only close friends. “You know that they aren’t using firing squads anymore. Ammunition conservation. It’s death by hanging now.” Aleks said slyly, straightening his collar before turning around to face Cringu. “They told me to report to the armory to get my Mosin and the rest of my kit. Shall we go?” Aleksandr said in mock cheerfulness. “No. Not yet. Breakfast is still being served, if you want some.” The newly demoted soldier agreed, and the pair walked across to the mess hall.
Cringu and Nevsky were served a thin beet soup thickened by a handful of shredded cabbage with a small hunk of black bread on the side. Along with that they were supplied a mess cup filled with a weak tea, which Cringu spiced with the shavings of an orange peel that he produced from his tunic. As they ate, Cringu looked up at Aleks. “Welcome to the life of an enlisted man, comrade Nevsky.” Nevsky smiled deceitfully. “I think I can get used to it.”
Location: Soviet Military Complex
The process of one’s senses coming back after a long night of drinking is a long and painful ordeal. At first, you just lay there, unable to do anything but think about the pounding of your skull. Then, you summon up enough willpower to think straight, maybe twitch your fingers and toes a bit to make sure you are not somehow paralyzed. Next, you may sit up, feeling each muscle, tendon, and ligament in your body somehow pain you each time you move. Then there comes the wondering. What had you done the prior night? Why were you out cold? Did you simply fall asleep, or did something cause your consciousness to fly from your mind?
As Aleksandr Nevsky woke from his drunken slumber, he found himself in a rather peculiar spot. His cheek had been pressed against a cold stone floor, grime sticking to his face as he rose. Nevsky was in a prison cell. There was only one solid wall in the cell, with a small barred window set high up in the grey stone. One the other three sides were iron bars, glinting dully in the greasy light let in by the window. He looked to be the only one held in the jail house, save a youngish looking Ryadovi acting as a guard. Aleksandr had been stripped down to his long underwear and woolen socks, his warm felt Valenki boots and Junior Lieutenant’s uniform gone. He lifted a dirty hand to his face and felt puffy flesh on his left cheek and blood crusted around his nose. Aleks cursed as he realized that he must have done something the prior night, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He had obviously been punched in the face two or three times, and his splitting head screamed hangover.
Nevsky rose slowly, spots forming in front of his eyes. His toe accidentally kicked a pebble across the cell, drawing the attention of the guard. The private had the look of a fresh soldier, none of the lines of a combat-hardened soldier creasing his smooth face. “I see you are moving, drunkard! Heard you had a hell of a night, comrade!” The guard said mockingly, drawing closer to Nevsky’s cell. Aleksandr grew agitated at the boy, his look shooting daggers. “I am Junior Lieutenant Aleksandr Nevsky, and I demand to know what has been done with my clothes, Ryadovi.” The private laughed. “You are no longer. And you will be lucky to ever see a pair of those warm little felt boots again. Look in the corner, there is your new uniform.” Nevsky was stunned by the comment, drifting his vision to the corner of his cell. Sure enough, there was a neat pile of folded cloth.
Aleksandr kneeled down by the pile and picked up the brown Gymnasterka tunic of enlisted men. The shoulder boards were bordered in the red of the infantry, and the single star designated the rank of Starshina. A pair of matching trousers and a pilotka cap was also included, along with a pair of beaten black leather boots. “What the hell are these!?” Aleksandr bellowed, his voice growing higher with anger. “Your new uniform, comrade Starshina. You are not an officer anymore.” It suddenly clicked within Aleks’ mind. He had been demoted. He was a stinking enlisted man. He let out a spew of curses as he realized what ill he had fallen into. The guard piped up. “Get your clothes on, comrade. The Kapitan wanted to see you when you woke.”
Aleks donned the Starshina’s uniform and cap, feeling deceitfully out of place. Ryadovi laughed at him, but the angered Starshina did nothing but look coolly at the private. Something bad would happen to the young soldier. Yes, something very bad. Perhaps drowning in a lake after a long night of drinking? Nevsky thought of what would happen to the private as he was handcuffed and led out of the stinking jailhouse and into a long hallway. From there a burlap bag was pulled over his head and he was led around some corners, but Nevsky was nearly sure that they had just retraced their steps to confuse him.
When the bag was finally pulled from his head he was in a large room that stank of boiled cabbage. A formidable looking desk was situated in the middle of the room, covered with a Soviet flag. An officer sat behind it, the only thing setting him apart from the average infantry officer was the gavel in his hand. “Aleksandr Nevsky of the Red Army, born in Siberia, veteran of the Winter War, and proven commander. You have hereby been sentenced to demotion from Junior Lieutenant to Starshina for the act of drunkenness while on duty and fighting with a fellow Red Army soldier.”The officer spoke, slamming his wooden hammer down on the flag-covered desk. “Your proficiency with command is the only thing that has saved you from being completely stripped of your rank. Your officer’s benefits, including uniform and rations, are forfeited for an enlisted man’s. Any further offence will have you put down to Ryadovi and placed in a Penal company. Starshina Nevsky, you are hereby dismissed. Please report to the armory for the rest of your uniform and your new weapons.” Before Aleks could speak for himself the sack was once again forced over his head and he was led back out of the room.
The guards were a bit rougher on him this time. He heard a door open and suddenly he was shoved through the air, hitting a short concrete stairway before blindly tumbling into the coldness of snow. Someone freed his hands, and then the Starshina heard the door slam. Nevsky shivered as the cold seeped through his Gymnasterka, numbing his bones as his bare hands removed the burlap sack from his head. He thought of discarding it, but instead he tucked it in his pocket to be made into an extra scarf. As he stuffed the bag into his trousers a deep voice with an East Asian accent sounded from behind him. “Aleksandr, I was worried about you. For a while I thought they had sent you to the firing squad. Starshina, eh?”
Aleksandr smiled as he recognized Serzhant Cringu, the burly soldier from one of Russia’s far eastern provinces. Cringu had been with Aleks since the Winter War, where he had become his partner and one of the Starshina’s only close friends. “You know that they aren’t using firing squads anymore. Ammunition conservation. It’s death by hanging now.” Aleks said slyly, straightening his collar before turning around to face Cringu. “They told me to report to the armory to get my Mosin and the rest of my kit. Shall we go?” Aleksandr said in mock cheerfulness. “No. Not yet. Breakfast is still being served, if you want some.” The newly demoted soldier agreed, and the pair walked across to the mess hall.
Cringu and Nevsky were served a thin beet soup thickened by a handful of shredded cabbage with a small hunk of black bread on the side. Along with that they were supplied a mess cup filled with a weak tea, which Cringu spiced with the shavings of an orange peel that he produced from his tunic. As they ate, Cringu looked up at Aleks. “Welcome to the life of an enlisted man, comrade Nevsky.” Nevsky smiled deceitfully. “I think I can get used to it.”
