Dinastiya Tested // 3rd Book of the Takaryev Trilogy

Chapter 2

November 9th, 2016. I wake up to find that Trump now runs the country. 

I'm still shaking. 

Welcome to real-life Persson dystopia madness. 

I now have to pretend I'm straight for the next 4 years. 

Artem, still stuck in that cursed cell, was beginning to wonder, his brain asking questions one after another- a volley of questions and their precarious half-answers. 

Where even was he? How long would he be here? Where, again, was here? Furthermore, where was Ravil? Was he even...alive? Artem shuddered as an image of Ravil's corpse, blown apart, reached his mind. No, he couldn't be, he couldn't...

Artem shut his eyes and shook the image out of his head. Now was not the time. Besides, there was no way Ravil could be dead. Still, a terrible, sickening feeling lurked in Artem's chest. What if Ravil really was...? No. Ravil was alive. He had to be. 

A distraction was provided when the cell door opened. A man, about Myron Izmaylov's age, entered the room with gleaming brown eyes and dark hair cut close. Rectangular glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. 

Artem met his gaze with cold blue eyes. 

"Privyet, Prime Minister," said the man. "Did Ravil teach you to survive this?" 

Artem furrowed his brow, but said nothing. 

"Hm? No? Well, that's fine," said the man, half-laughing. "Just goes to make my job easier. Let's get acquainted, shall we? Name's Paramon. Sorry I'm late- how long have you been here? Three days? More? Hah! My calendar must be off." 

"Tell me where Ravil is," Artem demanded, blue eyes flashing.

"Oh, don't worry, he's here too," Paramon said. 

A certain hope flickered in Artem's mind. He almost smiled. 

Paramon continued, however. "Bomb nearly killed him, though. He's all burnt up, missing a leg. A nasty concussion, too. Listen, Artem. Or actually, doesn't he call you Tëma? Anyways- listen. Here's the policy. You do what we say." 

"Or?" Artem challenged.

"Tëma, I thought you were smarter than this!" Paramon scoffed and rolled his eyes. "If you don't do what we say, we torture Ravil. Or kill him. It all depends. But regardless- you get the idea." 

"I'd rather you kill me instead," Artem grumbled. 

"Yeah, yeah, that's obvious," Paramon said. "We're not killing you. Not yet, anyways. Ravil's the only one on the table for that, I'm afraid. Has he screwed you yet?" 

"Shut up," Artem snarled. 

"Is he a top or a bottom?" Paramon pressed. 

"Zatknis!" Artem shouted. 

Paramon lunged forward and punched Artem in the ribs, sending him reeling and gasping for breath. His brown eyes gleamed with finality as he spoke: "Don't you dare raise your voice against me, Prime Minister," 

Artem shrank, his own gaze smoldering with indignation. "What the hell do you want from me, anyways?" 

Paramon cocked his head, his glasses catching the shine of the ceiling lights. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Oh, not much." 

Artem scowled, clenching his fists. 

Paramon must've noticed. "Don't even think about attacking me. Do you really want me to stick a knife between Ravil's ribs?" 

Artem flinched. 

Paramon took a step forward so that his piercing stare was only inches away. He placed a hand beneath Artem's chin. "Do you?" 

Artem tilted his head away from Paramon. "No." 

Paramon took a step back. "Good! You're learning!" 

"Just wait until I get out of here," Artem threatened. "You'll be the one with a knife between your ribs, you bastard."

Paramon laughed, pivoting on his heels. "Poor, poor Tëma. Your father might've been a KGB spy in his youth, but you'll never be even half of the man he was. It's really a shame, don't you think?"

Artem glared at him. 

"Kak zhal, kak zhal," Paramon shook his head. "Well, see you soon, Tëma." He departed from the room with a wicked smirk.