Third Person - Complete

A Problem

The day was a sunny and bright outside, the thermostat on the wall reading a hot 32C despite being the middle of September. A light breeze blew from the east, ruffling the flags and banners outside. The thin glass of the window would shudder now and then when a particularly strong gust struck the front of the building.

Stepan sat in the chair, facing the desk and the window, a cigarette in his hand as he waited for the Stasi official to arrive and start to question him.

Two weeks. For two weeks he had been in a small one room apartment, with a communal kitchen and laundry room. His routine had been to wash his uniform, sit around in his underwear until it was done. Get his underwear, then wash his sheets with his uniform, go to bed, and wait in the morning. Two weeks of watching the thick scabs on his face get smaller, of going to the doctor to get the wounds checked.

The left side of his face sagged slightly. The doctor had told him it was nerve damage and the muscle being sliced clean through, that it would get better in time or he would get used to it.

Stepan took another drag off his cigarette and flicked the ashes in the ashtray.

Sergeant Moritz had told him that the nicotine in the cigarettes would help ease the slight nagging pain in his face. Painkillers were reserved in the Soviet Union for actual injuries, worse injuries than "minor facial lacerations" like Stepan had suffered.

Two weeks of meals at the commissary.

Two weeks of being confined to a few buildings.

Two weeks of sitting around doing nothing.

Two weeks since Chernobog and his Demons had vanished into the bowels of the Stasi headquarters right in Dresden.

The door opened and closed behind Stepan and he felt a chill in the room. The man that came around the corner was a short man, with a narrow face and piercing eyes. He moved around the desk and sat down, staring at Stepan for a long moment.

"By all means, Comrade, finish your cigarette," The man said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a folder, laying it on the blotter in front of him. "I will simply examine the file, refresh my mind as to why we are here."

"Thank you, comrade," Stepan said, without pulling his attention from the window.

A pigeon landed on the ledge, strutting around for a moment before defecating and taking wing again. The clocked ticked behind him. The Stasi officer hmm'd and nodded to himself as he turned the pages and kept reading.

It was a few minutes after Stepan had put out the cigarette before the man said anything.

"Do you know why you are here, Sergeant Solokov?" The man asked.

It still felt weird, his promotion. There hadn't been any ceremony, merely a Colonel coming by the hospital while Stepan was waiting to have some of the stitches removed, handing Stepan a single piece of paper with some rank, and walking away.

It had been as hollow as Stepan had felt since the day two weeks ago that Chernobog had torn off a man's face with one hand.

"I assume it has to do with my part in capturing the Americans," Stepan guessed.

The man nodded. "We have taken reports, listened to the testimony of your fellow Spetsnaz and Comrade Captain Lobanov. Now we have a few questions," The man gave him a serious look. "I do not need to remind you about being truthful to the First Chief Directorate, comrade."

So the man wasn't part of the Stasi, but rather part of the KGB.

"Yes, Comrade," Stepan answered, feeling goosebumps rise up on his skin. The First Chief/Main Directorate was responsible for the same type of things that the CIA was responsible for in America and around the world.