I figured out it would be ABOUT DAMN TIME to post a background story for the big Russian brute plaguing Hathian lately. So here it is, and I hope you like it. If not, feel free to criticise.

NB: Spoken text in Italics is words spoken in Russian.

Disclaimer: It is a LONG story, read at your own risk.

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He's sat at the bar. The big man with blue baggy eyes and slumped exhausted posture. Ordering a shot of vodka every few minutes and not talking to anyone, the only lone drinker in the messed up bar. A brawl the previous week had left the joint in shambles, proving itself deadly to a number of light bulbs, some tables, four stools and even the television set. This last item was the most sorely missed by the regulars of this place, who came anyways because booze was still well stocked on. It hung off a stand atop the bar as usual, with its screen shattered right through when some beer bottle was thrown and accidentally hit it. The large, round barman who had hair all over his skin with the exception of his scalp stood right under it, cleaning glasses and serving the drinks. He owned the place, and had brought in the next best thing to the beloved TV - an old radio set, now filling the airwaves with Slavic music and the occasional DJ banter.

The rest of the patrons were regular visitors, sat at the tables in groups of three or four. They laughed, talked and cheered, greatly contrasting with the lonely, graying brute at the counter - who seemed even older than the already plenty years he had survived for.

It is then that the music show on the radio ends, leaving the background of the bar to the jingle of the evening news. And like that jingle had magical powers, the noises of speech and laughter died down, replaced momentarily by shushes. Soon enough the only noise heard is that of the news reporter greeting them in Russian, and moving directly on to the first story. It was a follow up story on the evasion of a prisoner almost a week previously. The report recorded on site starts and the news person responsible for it introduces himself before moving on with the story.

"... the two and a half meter giant is still in deep hiding it would seem, since no news were received of his whereabouts yet. The escape was the most quiet in history, as the man simply was not found in the morning by the guards. The inmates have nicknamed him 'The Unlikely Ghost', as considering his wardrobe-like form it was hardly expected of him to slip through the bars and through the cracks under the doors. But that seems the only explanation so far, less the ability of walking through walls, as no signs of forced entry or exit were found after thorough inspection. The prisoner in question is the infamous Sergei Grigorovich Ivanov, arrested a month ago during a police raid of a suspicious warehouse. Said location was found to house over two hundred prisoners, predominantly female, chained or caged and left mostly naked like animals. Victims of routine tortures and rapes, as well as constant conditioning and training into forced obedience and slavery, naturally caused a sizable nation-wide response. Ivanov was said to be the one in charge of this internment camp, using a handful of thugs, who managed to evade arrest, to keep it under control. Suspected member of a large criminal organization dealing in slave-trade, Ivanov is believed to have knowledge of nearly all the operations of this band. An inside source reports the man refused to cooperate with the authorities by providing this information, even in exchange for leniency in court. He is now once again roaming freely on our streets, only three weeks after he was convicted and imprisoned. His criminal record is almost as large as him, found guilty on two hundred twenty three counts of false imprisonment, hundred ten counts of kidnapping, seventy six counts of aggravated sexual assault and torture, and more. The police advise caution and ask civilians to stay away from Ivanov, believed to be armed, dangerous and in the company of fellow criminals, and to call the authorities if a suspect matching the description given is seen in the neighborhood. This is all so far from..."

The only person who seemed disinterested was the big man at the counter, who only looked up at the radio set momentarily at the mention of the prisoner's full name. When the reporter moved on to less important news, the noise level in the bar gradually rose again as the men went back to their drinking and talking. Less laughter was heard for some time, while the patrons discussed the news in hushed voices. But it all went back to the routine laughing and drinking pretty soon after that.

Two hours later only two people who heard the report at the bar were still there - the barman and the blue-eyed old man downing the occasional shot of vodka. The only differences in these two people was that the former was more bored and tired, while the latter was more drunk. "Another," he requests of the bald tender.

"Haven't you had enough, (?)Grigoriy(?)?" the order will be replied to. The owner was somewhat worried about the man not making it home safely to come back the following day and buy more booze.
"Never enough... never," the brute who had made the bar his second home insists, sliding the empty shot glass towards the man.
"Alright, but this will be the last one I'm giving you," the barman replies through his thick beard as he refills the glass, having no clue how true his statement would prove to be.

The cold blue eyes of the patron glare up in response for a moment, before grunting his disapproval and eying the clear Stolichnaya in his glass. The sound of tires crunching to a stop on the still melting snow from the morning is heard outside as a car pulls up in front of the door. Shortly after the door is swung open, and a man so big he has to duck to slip through the door enters the joint. He wears a long black leather coat against the cold which filters inside, sending chills up the tender's spine. Whether they were of mere cold or also fear that an even bigger giant had entered his place of business however, he was not sure. The newcomer's face was mostly covered by a fedora he wore tilted forwards, and he eyes the four walls of the small bar. Only two small groups of people were left in the late hours of night and neither of which held any interest for the stranger, who then heads towards the counter. He sits down on the stool right next to the one the slightly smaller Grigoriy occupies. "Privet," he greets the tender before adding, "How much for a pint of Stoli?" The bald man blinks in some surprise, since most of his patrons drank vodka in shots or normal glasses. Recovering he will reply with a somewhat uncertain, "Three hundred rubles?" The newcomer nods his approval to the price and his fat lips can be seen smirking, like the number held a mystical meaning to him. "Give me two," was the reply given.

The tender knew better than to refuse the man his drinks, especially since he was already sliding out a small roll of cash to pay for them. The large glasses are filled with his Stoli and set in front of the stranger, managing to catch the attention of his neighbor, who watches in silent interest. The exact amount is placed on the counter by the bigger brute, like he had prepared his bills for this purchase. Then he will push one of the glasses over to Grigoriy, silently offering it to him as he lifts the other to his lips and sips. Only when he lifts his face to drink does the feeble lighting finally hit his face, showing it to be blue-eyed, rugged and covered in bruises and cuts no more than a week old. As the stranger sets his glass back down, Grigoriy looks at the offered booze and then at the barman. He'll down his last shot and grasp the bigger glass, lifting it to the generous giant in thanks. The bald owner of the place sighs and heads off to another part of the counter, as if washing the responsibility off his hands.

"Shitty day?" the deep rumble of a voice the newcomer had is heard asking.
"Shitty year," his neighbor corrects him with a snort, gulping at the offered vodka like it was air, his voice hoarser thanks to all the spirit trickling down his throat all day long.
"I know what you mean," the stranger retorts, truly knowing much more than he let on. "Trouble with the wife?" he asks with a slight smirk.
Grigoriy looks up at this, glaring at the man for throwing salt on his wound. "I don't know where she is, if that is considered trouble. She took my daughters with her, they left without a word," he decides to reply, guessing he owed him that much explanation for the drink.
"Slut," the brute informs, tilting his hat back a little before sipping more of his spirit. After a few short moments of silence he adds, "I know a thing or two about being abandoned. I'm an orphan."

Grigoriy sips some more of his vodka before looking up at the strangely talkative thug-like giant. He felt an odd feeling of familiarity with the stranger, so much so that he asks him to tell him more. The man in the coat will nod and clear his throat before starting his life story in short.

"Mother died in childbirth, Father dumped me in an orphanage and left. It was a tough place to grow up in, filled with bullying boys and gossiping girls. I am not sure which sex was worse. I was always big and always ugly. So naturally the girls picked on my looks while the boys ganged up on me to show they're stronger. Suffered beatings and snickering behind my back all day long, every day. I spent the first twelve years of my life like that, until, on my thirteenth birthday a new kid was brought to the orphanage, transferred from another that had been closed down. He was tiny, but his features handsome unlike mine, so his only problem were the bullies. I connected with the ten year old kid, since he had no prejudices and no interests in fighting me, and we became somewhat friendly. One day when we were out on a hike the bullies got to him, rolling him off a steep hill and causing him severe injuries in one of his legs. I found him laying there unable to move the hurt leg and carried him back to the carer. They took him to the hospital... but he was still left a gimp. Fact remains he was very thankful for my help and we became real close over the years. He was no fighter, but that mind of his was like clockwork, so we combined my brawls and his brains, keeping us both safe from the other kids. We became brothers by choice, since fate had failed us both. We're dear friends to this very day, my only true family since my only blood relative abandoned me."

Grigoriy listens to the whole story with some interest, feeling like the least he could do was acknowledge the man who offered him the drink and was keeping him company. But his story was not exactly cheery, not helping him feel any better at all. He'll nod at few times in understanding when the man in the hat end his narration and they both drink in silence for a while.

"Your wife and children did not abandon you willingly," the stranger will then inform Grigoriy, deciding it was time to end the charade.
"How would you know?" he is replied to with a disbelieving snort.

The giant reaches up to take off his hat and set it down on the counter next to his now empty glass, revealing the extent of his facial injuries which included a black eye and busted nose. He looks at Grigoriy with his broken face, which had never been much more appealing anyways and slips a big hand in his coat pocket. From the pocked he extracts a bunch of photographs which he sets down in front of his neighbor with, "Because I kidnapped and enslaved them myself."

Grigoriy blinks in surprise and shock at the man's statement, lowering his almost empty glass to examine the photos. Sure enough they depicted what the previously thought friendly stranger had stated. Some were of his wife being brutally raped by the blue-eyed man next to him. Others showed his two young daughters, 20 and 17 years of age, being raped by strangers he had never seen before. And the last few showed the three females chained by their wrists to the wall, sporting a great number of bleeding lashes on their whole body, evidently just having been whipped mercilessly. Grigoriy examines these pictures without even breathing, shocked into silence as his heart beats faster and tears trickle down his face. Then he sets them aside and growls at the man, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. But before he can get his balance, drunk as he was, the man grabs his almost empty glass and swings it to the side of his face. It shatters, coating his cheek in vodka and causing some deep cuts.

As Grigoriy tries not to stumble to the floor, the barman sighs seeing another fight seems to be about to continue tearing his place of business apart. The group of four people nearby stand up, approaching the counter like they wanted to interfere. The coated stranger hisses angrily at them bu they continue approaching. Until a gunshot is heard from outside. The loud noise is followed by a shattering of glass, a metallic ting and finally a loud resounding crash as the old chandelier decorating the centre of the bar drops to the floor. The nosy patrons stop dead in their tracks, looking from the 8 foot giant to the chandelier's remains on the ground between them and back, wondering what happened. Their unspoken question is answered when a small man pushes the door open and steps inside holding a Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum revolver in his right hand and a sleek black cane in his left one.

"Stay out of it," the gunman will command the nosy patrons before offering a smile and nod to his childhood friend. The man in the coat will nod back, smirking widely before turning his attention back to Grigoriy who was standing back up, bleeding from the right side of his face.

As the old man charges, the slaver braces for impact but is still thrown back on the floor. He grabs his opponents face and slams it down hard against the wooden floor, breaking his nose with a sickening cracking noise. As the group of people make their way back to their table, eyeing the huge gun in the newcomer's hand with fear, his friend throws Grigoriy off him and gets up. He starts swinging a flurry of kicks into the man's side, until a few cracks suggest he had broken a few ribs.

Grigoriy lay there, twisting and groaning in pain as the stranger mercilessly straddles him, swinging powerful fist after another towards the man's face. He only stopped when the man's face was so badly cut up, bruised and swelled that only his mother would have been able to recognise him. As Grigoriy lay there, groaning and crying with the stinging pain he asked, "Why? Why all this?"

The stranger rubs his knuckles with his palms, coating his hands in the opponent's blood like a deranged gladiator. He will grimace harshly at the man as he still does not recognise him. "Because I didn't like being abandoned, Father," he replies coldly.

Grigoriy blink his blackened eyelids in shock as the boy he had left in an orphanage so long ago with nothing but a letter and three hundred rubles. Suddenly, being offered a pint of vodka made complete sense and his son gets up off him.

"You just drank your money back - my debt to you is settled. Now it is time for you to settle your debt with me. You ruined my life - now I will take yours as payment," the son informs his father, lifting up his heavy boot above the broken face. And as he swings the sole of his boot down towards it, something that sounded like, "Sorry, Son," is heard to be muttered.

But it was too late for that in the big brute's books, and his boot slams down violently into his nose, pushing its bone up into the man's cranium. A sickening crunching noise is followed by a squishy one and Grigoriy moves no more. As the murderer looks down on his victim, the late night news jingle plays, shortly afterwards informing them all that numerous calls had been received by the police each informing them of a different location Sergei Grigorovich Ivanov was spotted. As the reporter mentions the area that same bar was located in, the gunman looks up at the murderer and simply states, "Time to go."

The felon grabs his hat and puts it on, slipping outside the bar very quickly for his size. His friend slides out a roll of cash which he throws towards the bartender before following outside with, "For the damages."

Both man will slip in the car that the killer had driven to get here, driving back off into the dark night. Silence reigns in the vehicle for a very long while, the driving murder fuming but gradually calming down again. When his eyes stop sprouting fire, his passenger finally breaks the awkward silence.

"Are you ready to go to America, Brother?" he asks, looking at him closely.
"If that is where the Brotherhood needs me, yes," the question is replied to.
"Sergei... are you okay?" the man asks again, tone softer and more concerned.
"Never better," the man named Sergei replies, offering his passenger a rather honest smile. He felt a great weight lifted from his stomach as finally revenge had been dealt.
The man smiles right back, knowing Sergei enough to know he was not lying and that is good enough for him. "How is your english?" he asks then, with a very fluent accent even though he was equally as Russian as the man next to him.
"Az goot az everr, bradzer," Sergei answers in a horribly twisted accent - just like usual.

As the two old friends headed towards a safehouse, they chatted and joked casually like they had been in the bar drinking and hanging out rather than killing. But Sergei will not make it to America until almost two years later, between the time it took to steal a fitting identity for him and waiting out for the heat to drop. So when he shows up in Hathian after he's bored and ready to stir some shit.

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