Ilya Stakhanov

Primary Armament: Soviet Works SrK-2, 10.9mm w/underslung 12 gauge Assault Rifle
Secondary Armament: Samoizny, GP-1411 PK Perov, 9.67mm Sidearm

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# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-14 00:03:37, as written by Ottoman

To be stationed on such a planet wasn't far above insulting, especially after such service as the man had seen in 67. Were he not such a new Soviet man, as uncouth as so many others managed to be, he might've taken offense. Instead the politruk satisfied himself with performing his duties as adequately as he could, proudly bearing the Order of the Red Banner on the breast of his olive tunic as he did.

Though he did nurse a deal of envy of his comrade, the commander, and her golden star – a star that would soon be his if he could help it.

Having been observing and familiarizing himself with his surroundings for some time, the Soviet couldn't help but be disgusted with the sheer decadence such a planet exuded... and if that wasn't enough, it seemed that almost every day, without fail, there was some sort of domestic incident at the establishment which he now approached.

Despite its unpleasant nature it seemed to be quite an attractive feature to some of his fellow Soviets, and surely, being such upstanding products of their socialist society, they would not mind it if their benevolent politruk spent one evening with them. After all, how could they hope to perform well if they didn't know each other?

"Stradsvuitye, tovarischi." He offered the greeting to the pair near the bar, disregarding their own conversation as Ilya crossed the interior of the place after a moment or two of silent observation. There was something going on here, something which he doubted was approved by the politburo's agenda. To be sure, if there was any who would know what was happening it was comrade Kharkoviere, but whether she would share it had yet to be seen.

With a glance to Kovodnik he spoke further, his hands clasped behind his back as he smiled, "Ya troost all es well, dtah?"

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-14 00:57:07, as written by Ottoman

Ilya replied to Kovodnik with a silent nod, examining what he could of the man as he spoke, waiting to hear what he had to say before looking to Svetlana. There certainly was something here that wasn't adding up, and if there was an imbalance that could be deemed counter-revolutionary then Ilya would be obligated to level it. With a sigh did the politruk reply, "... well. Let us hope the issue resahlves itselvf."

The less papers that Stakhanov would have to send off to his superiors, the happier he was.

"Spasiba, podpolkovnik Kharkoviere." The political officer smiled to his cousin as she offered him the hundred grams, though in his eyes one could read the fire. Why she would do such a thing or even dare surely spoke bounds of her self-confidence and bravery, but also of her ignorance. How he had almost been tossed out of academy for his drunkeness was a common point of issue with him, though he never raised it.

"No, nyet." He turned down the drink with a softly raised hand, redeployed from behind his back, and wondered himself on what point would the two grind on today. So often did she disregard her civic and martial duties as a Soviet, it was all he could do to keep from erupting sometimes. His retort to her last question came with a chuckle, looking over her shoulder to the other patrons in the bar as he spoke,

"Hah! I doubt dhere's any here without a bony ass." To be sure, if there was anything less pleasant than having to deal with counter-revolutionary banner it was ramming one's self into something that felt little better than a wall. "... but, I digress. We are here on business, dta?"

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-14 01:29:41, as written by Ottoman

The captain was rather quiet, a quality that Stakhanov was quick to take notice of, though perhaps he did it to add weight to his words when he did. Were that the case, Ilya mused, he was wiser than the politruk had initially figured him to be. The captain would break such a precedent as the man took the offered seat, removing his peaked cap and laying it by the crown on the bar before him, garnering a quick glance from the political officer.

The topic that he soon raised did jar him from whatever emotion and irritation his interaction with Svetlana produced. The thought that these mud-slinging pukes had managed to secure a vehicle of such a nature disturbing him, even if it was so inferior to the product of the people and workers.

“As we should always be,” mused Ilya, concealing his concern easily with his trained tongue, “to spread the revolution is our first and foremost duty.” Were it that the politburo remained ignorant of this development, which he doubted, they would surely be informed now. Such loyalty didn’t go unrewarded.

But soon enough he redirected his attention to his ‘superior’, even if she was outside of the party’s chain of command. Curious that he could destroy her if he wished, such power was he imbued with because of the simple insignia his uniform bore. “Simple,” came the word preceding his response.

“What kind of politruk would I be were it that I was a stranger?” He offered that soft, smug smile back to Svetlana, the one he so often used in his position. “I want to know my charge.” And which ones to shoot first.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-14 02:04:27, as written by Ottoman

A cocked eyebrow came in response to his cousin's sharp quip, the major looking to his cap's insignia for a moment before he responded. Such fire she had, surely something that he would be sure to use to his advantage in the coming days. Were it that she truly upset him it would be most pleasing to see this Hero of the Soviet Republic denounced. "The engineer takes care," spoke the party-member, "to inspect the foundation first, cousin." Officers were the bones of any unit's body, without their support they could crumble.

And what a convenient opportunity a vacuum in leadership could provide the man.

Already had it served him well on Kurdi; the Coalition assault on his position and its quick repulse, lead by the young and rising captain Lemonov, having proven to earn him the Order of the Red Banner. A shame that Lemonov was killed in the chaos of the counter-attack. To be sure he was a martyr of the cause, a true Soviet Man if there ever was one.

So for now Ilya waited, listening to the two's discussion as he did his best to ascertain the situation, idly pondering whether whatever illicit affair these two were dealing in extended up the chain of command. Oh, how sumptuous that could prove. To even think of it brought a devilish quality to his face; squinted became his eyes as a hinting smirk pressed slowly to his lips.

Stakhanov would keep his eyes on these two, oh yes. Such was precisely what he did as Kharkov rose from her seat to bark at her subordinates, garnering a sigh from the politruk. Perhaps he would speak with them as well, to garner a better understanding of the people's relationship with their officers would be a wise move. Perhaps their demise would prove in the masses' popular interests.

Perhaps.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-14 02:43:24, as written by Ottoman

The politruk was interrupted only moments before he was going to speak, to impart his own comment on the discussion of the Coalition, when Svetlana interjected. Apparently his commander wished to change the subject, and who was he to stand against such a wish? With a softer sigh did he put to rest the words he had so recently prepared to speak, waiting now for the conversation to take a new direction.

To be sure, his recent assignment to the unit gave him little room to talk, his actions on Kurdi being his first major experience, but he had a much greater wealth of service to draw on other than that... but he doubted his current company could appreciate the finer details of his service.

The whisperings between his comrades did bring more emphasis to his smile, offering a glance to the pathetic creature which had entered the bar – no doubt their verbal target – and musing mentally that he did deserve whatever criticism was being imparted. Writing books, was he? Certainly he lacked the tact to impart any great philosophy to paper, or relate so grand a tale as his own people could.

The other newcomer garnered a hint more attention from Ilya, who was still unfamiliar with the more bizarre elements that passed through the establishment, but he was content to stay seated with his comrades. The politruk wasn't one to act, but rather react. He let others do the work for him.

He just cleaned up the mess.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-15 02:31:11, as written by Ottoman

Ilya Stakhanov accompanied his comrade with a smirk, clad in his combat rig as the captain was, with his own SrK loaded and ready dangling from its sling over his shoulder. "Dak dochna." his response came from his lips, not from behind his kaska like some coward. There was nothing to fear on this abject shit-hole, as much as the others might've thought. No, as if to goad whatever meager force that the others addressed as God did he forgo such protection and instead bear his blue peaked cap upon his brow.

Ilya had to admit, it added a dashing air to his figure.

To be sure, the major allowed a spare finger to force the bolt back and slide a fresh round home in the chamber of his assault rifle, the fine piece of soviet engineering ready to kill at its master's whim. "At your discretion, tovarisch kapitan." With the IFV behind them, few could deny that the grey clad Scatterrans weren't imposing, the martial might of the Oriyak race embodied in just this small contingent.

"... dta."

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-15 02:52:07, as written by Ottoman

Ilya Stakhanov remained by the BTP for a moment, overseeing his comrade's disembarkation from the vehicle as the captain made his way to the bar's entrance. Someone had to make sure things went without a hitch, after all. But so too did the major notice the curious vehicle which soon approached the Soviet contingent's area of operation. Perhaps this was the thing that the Terrans had managed to secure, but if that was the case then they wouldn't be swinging it about like some drunk boy would his dick.

With a slight huff, the major's excuse of a chuckle, did he begin his own thoughts on the vehicle, hearing the captain's musings over the comms. With a shake of his head did he shoulder his SrK and comment, "Why sovrak cannot find big enough toy, I know not." Keeping the smirk on his face, he aimed the rifle at the PAC, simulating the kick of his rifle as he whispered, "Pew, pew, pew."

He was, as an officer, soon called away from such trivial matters, striding over to where the captain stood, Stakhanov silently waiting to see how they would proceed with such matters. The sovrak presence was undeniable, and the politruk couldn't help but admit the desire he harbored to witness their idiocy again. He needed a laugh after dealing with his cousin.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-15 03:12:20, as written by Ottoman

With a nod to the sergeant did the major speak, thanking him for the gesture even if it was forced. "Spasiba tovarisch." Now holding the rifle about its receiver in his right hand, freeing up his left for navigating through the throngs that seemed to constantly inhabit the establishment, he followed the captain into the den of hedonism. Like Kovodnik he refused to acknowledge their presence, though he did look the place over, taking in whatever possible threats that were present.

"... again we wind up here, captain, in this den of drink." Ilya mused as he approached him, smirk still remaining regardless of such unpleasant scenery as he tossed the weapon over his shoulder, the sling catching easily on his armor, "Were it that I didn't know you better, I'd think it were a pattern." A pattern indeed, drinking was so etched into Oriyak society that it was astounding to the man.

To think that such a destructive quality came natural to them... it must've been one of the reasons why they had not yet vanquished the Coalition.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-15 03:30:35, as written by Ottoman

The major was keen enough to keep on with the evening as it was, not even noticing the director's entrance as he milled about, though to hear his name across the air as it was sent a chill down his spine the likes of which the Kurdite winter would be rather envious of. Not only was it that the voice carried authority, commanded – nay, demanded – obedience, but, were it that his ears didn't deceive him, it was also its owner.

And she spoke his name.

His heels snapped together, his training from the academy taking over his body as he spun about to meet her, his feet squared up neatly at the end of the act. But even in this obligated act did he find himself even further compromised, for to look upon her form was to send his heart, a thing many thought missing, a flutter. Such beauty did the politruk behold before him, not just in body but also in mind, in spirit. "Stradsvuitye, tovarisch direktor!"

He rattled off the greeting quickly, a quick hand snapping a salute to accompany both his words and his stance of attention. Were it that she knew of how he felt, what fear would come over him, even more apprehension than already inhabited his breast concerning her dominating presence. "For... for what do I d-deserve the honor?" Ilya struggled to maintain his gaze, to keep his steel eyes from falling to her figure and its stunning garb as the clicking of her shoes assaulted his ears.

Surely his own combat armor looked rather drab in comparison, the only decoration the man bore was his blue cap and its scarlet band, the small enameled star pinned to its front. Few were individuals of such caliber to instill such fear in the politruk, but only one to inspire such devotion.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-15 03:52:43, as written by Ottoman

Graced soon was his face with her touch, a harsh touch but one all the same, and he couldn't help but swoon internally at the act. It couldn't have mattered less to Ilya that she drank, so great was her beauty and power. She left him, moving now to the captain as he was left there to stew on the act. The politruk noticed not the crash that soon came, Kovodnik on the floor as he mentally mused on what he just transpired.

She had touched him.

A long sigh emanated from the fanatical Oriyak, to be sure were it any of the men under his command, even some of those above him, who dared to commit such an act he would have them dealt with. But her... such was a compliment, at the least. Stakhanov soon turned to examine what the director now concerned herself with and, were he not so composed a Soviet, soon averted his eyes. So provocative a picture was it that he witnessed that he dared not elaborate on it, even in his mind.

To call the director bold would be an understatement, the cries of his comrade falling on deaf ears as the major stood by in awe, his good cheek flushed in emotion, both curious and apprehensive to see things unfold further.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-15 21:36:52, as written by Ottoman

Ilya Stakhanov had been enjoying a relaxing evening with his vice, puffing occasionally on his, by most standards, disgusting cigarettes, clad in his typical attire. The khaki uniform of the party guard accented harshly with the red and blue shoulderboards and the visor cap that rested by its crown on the booth's table. It seemed, however, as the evening progressed that the attitude in the bar took a turn for the worse, the Politruk deciding on two courses of action. Not only now did he stroke the grip of his revolver, but now he fished in his pocket for his notebook.

The politburo would be informed of such fiercely independent sentiment.

Were it that he were more human, Stakhanov might've respected it. To draw lines between these patrons gathered and his people's own socialist revolution and this popular movement was beyond him now. Ilya was beyond that now. All he saw was himself and the party. Not even his brother had stood in the way of that.

And neither would they as the quiet politruk scribbled down alien words in the darkness of the corner, smoke curling from his nostrils like some dormant drake, the sky-blue notebook pressed flat under-hand.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-15 22:25:58, as written by Ottoman

Ilya Stakhanov soon offered a sharp glance to the establishment at large, struck up from his evening's entertainment of scribbling away in his notebook by the comms piece in his ear. It was Kovodnik, no doubt, but what was he doing out here tonight? They had no patrol scheduled for tonight, damnit, he was here to enjoy himself away from the base... His cigarette dangled loosely from his lips, held merely by the traction provided by their dry surface, though soon he took it up in his left hand, sighing as he did.

He just hoped his cousin wouldn't show up.

"Solid copy," came the major's reply, waiting to close his booklet before continuing. "be warned, captain, there are several possible hostiles present in the establishment." Another sigh forced his breast to heave, the sky-blue booklet, embossed with the SPG insignia, forced into his breast pocket as he returned the cigarette to his mouth. Where the captain went, trouble followed, thus did the politruk draw his Borok revolver from its holster, popping its cylinder open to make sure that it was loaded.

As always, it was.

Sliding the bronzed cylinder back into place with a light click, Stakhanov glanced about the place again, his glare gracing several of the patrons' forms before coming to rest on his cap. Such a spartan cap it was, even if peaked bearing so little in the way of gaudy insignia. Such was how it should be, and such was as it was on his brow. Inaudible was the cocking of the weapon's hammer over the din of the place, the politruk leaned back in his seat as he awaited the captain to make his entrance.

"The Coalition?" He asked, curious as to the reason for their expedition.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-16 03:33:38, as written by Ottoman

"Hey!" Came the disgruntled cry from within the bar, the politruk not eager for his rest to be disturbed. Whatever God there was knew he didn't want to go back to base, not with the beast Kharkov there. "... keep down the fuckin' noise!" His complaint done, Ilya leaned back down to his rested position on the table, eager to be back to sleep.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-17 21:06:29, as written by Ottoman

It always seemed like he was left alone on the base to deal with Preskov and his unending bullshit when everyone else was conveniently absent. Again came the cons with being an officer, to bear the responsibility of seeing the party's agenda followed in such a pivotal sector as their glorious republic's armed forces... surely such honor didn't come without its detriments. Given the chance though, Ilya doubted that he would change anything. Not Vladimir, not Fedor, not Sascha.

Well. Perhaps drinking.

Always did the trails seem to lead back to this den of debauchery and drunkeness. Why it was his countrymen were so infatuated with the demon-drink he couldn't understand. Yes, it was a cultural issue, but if they were true Soviets, truly devoted to the cause, then they wouldn't let such a trivial manner stand in the way of spreading the revolution. For that was their duty, ensuring the enlightenment of their glorious society spread throughout the stars, free from oppression like the Coalition.

Alcohol was just another tool of the bourgeois to keep the masses fettered.

With a sigh did Major Stakhanov enter Gambit's, his khaki uniform accentuated with his red and blue insignia. Already was he fishing in one of his breast pockets for his package of cigarettes, eager to at least have some peace in the place, when his eyes drifted over a most curious scene; Kharkov and the Director seemed to be at odds, and there seemed little sport in the fight. A most convenient excuse to do something he'd longed to do for quite some time.

Leaving the breast pocket unbuttoned, Stakhanov's hand shot to the holster at his hip, drawing the revolver from its sheath as he rushed closer, sliding by patrons as he readied himself. Were it that Kharkov was in any shape to observe, she would see the bronzed mass-driver pointed in her direction, Ilya struggling to stifle a smile behind it.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-17 21:49:22, as written by Ottoman

The fight didn't seem to waver for his intervention, the two women still going strong as he struggled to maintain a bead on his commanding officer. But then, to think on the matter, Kharkov really wasn't his commanding officer. The bitch wasn't even part of his command structure. He was a red guardsman, a sentinel of the party. Though to say that the sight of a weapon on either party's part didn't unnerve him would be a lie. The Director's life was at stake.

His superior, his idol.

The thunderous crack of the soviet handcannon erupted into the air, the politruk doing his best to avoid the Director and whatever unfortunate end was fast approaching and send the round into his cousin. What Ilya couldn't see in his haste however, was that the round missed her, if only by a hair, flying quickly into the booth frame behind her, the cheap wood splintering like some demented flower blossom.

Moments after the fight seemed to be at an end did Stakhanov bother to return his gaze to Kharkov, too concerned with the woman which he so fervently worshiped. Tsarov had suffered quite the blow, Svetlana's knife having sliced quite the gash across her face. So fierce was the fire that burned in those steel eyes as he stared to Kharkov.

Was he to punish such counter-revolutionary behavior further or see to the Director?

With some apprehension did he set about the latter, the weapon not leaving his grasp as his boots carried him to her side, Ilya kneeling as he offered a hand forth. "Madam direktor... what can I do?" So odd seemed the words, Stakhanov doing his best to maintain both his dignity and propriety. As much as he might've wanted, he gave Kharkov not the slightest glance, too focused on the Director's state to care about shooting his cousin any daggers.

# Gambit's Bar, 2012-01-17 22:31:03, as written by Ottoman

The politruk couldn't fumble for his holster quickly enough, having to try twice to get the sidearm back into its place as he heard his name again. To hear here use it was such music, such delight, to the man's ears, but to see her so pained... some human element of the politruk that remained surfaced. Concern played across his features as he didn't bother securing the holster's flap, the gear big enough to accommodate the weapon without the extra precaution. "Dak dochna, director Tsarov, eto budet zdelano."

'Major, I'll need your authorization for medical evacuation.'

Yes... evacuation. Stakhanov barely looked to him in time to ready himself for the PDA, catching it with some effort, almost knocked off balance. Quickly did he set about the task, keying in what was needed between worried glances to the director. "Dak dochna..." He muttered the phrase repeatedly under his breath, sending the PDA back to Kovodnik with an unintelligible interjection, quickly swinging his vision back to Tsarov.

So pitiable was her state.

"... ahni na svyam putyi, director." With some apprehension did he decide to support her, an arm moving to cradle her upper body in an upright position, knowing her reputation. Little concern was paid to the sake of his uniform, blood on it was nothing new. If anything, she could take it out of him later, now there were more important things to attend to.

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a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Ottoman

Last seen at: Gambit's Bar

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