The Terror of Moscow

At the end of the alley, a large box truck sat on blocks, covered in old Soviet graffiti and rust. The Commander reached into the driver's compartment, used one of only 5 identical keys to turn the ignition, and waited for the receiving door to open. It opened quickly for being over two feet thick. The facade of the building hid one of the bunkers that party leaders could quickly get to in case of a nuclear attack. This one belonged to the KGB, and was only used to house the most important of political prisoners.

They made their way passed the guards to the elevator and descended. Sophia had a thousand questions, but knew better than to speak a word until they were deep underground beneath the lead plating. When it opened, Sophia gasped. Piotr Malenko, the director of the KGB, was waiting. She saluted and stood straight, fully aware her hemline had ridden up to reveal her smooth thighs and shaven sex. He glanced at her in appreciation, but his mouth was a grim line upon a deeply wrinkled and angular face.

"Comrade Commissar. This way." he said, returning the salute. She nodded, adjusted her hemline, and followed the second most powerful man (many would say, the real power of the Bloc) down a dimly lit hall to a gray metal door with a grated viewing window. "Tell me, Comrade. I've heard tales of how you can rally a man's spirits from the darkest depths of despair. That if they have a pulse you can bring a black heart back from oblivion. Is this true?" Sophia had to choose her words very, very carefully, or she would never make it out of this bunker alive.

"My admirers say many things." she replied, knowing that he detected the quiver in her voice. He nodded, reached out to give her a light pat on the ass, and continued.

"You are too humble, Comrade. It is said you saved the Bloc. The night the Stadt took Stalingrad." Sophia blushed. "It is said that our illustrious Premiere went from having a gun in his mouth to the heart of a bear after your "motivations". She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped. Malenko is not a man you lie to and live to tell the tale.

"Our Premiere was drunk and had shot three Generals already. He demanded that all officers from Stalingrad were to be brought to him so he could shoot them himself. I was... I was dragged out of bed naked but for my boots and marched through Red Square in the snow. I did not flinch when I was struck nor cry for my fate." Sophia told him, her blue eyes flashing defiantly.

"I walked up him, over the corpses of a dozen of my comrades, and stared into his bloodshot eyes. He started breathing heavy. The wind whipping my hair and snow fell upon my body, I tore the pistol from his hand and shot the men who had dragged me there." Malenko was silent, his brilliant mind conjuring the image in vivid detail.

"I handed him the pistol back, and said "This is a woman from Stalingrad. Take me, then take it back." He "****" me for hours, taking out all of his fears and frustrations on me, and when he was done it was my turn. I showed him the endurance of a Stalingrad girl, that I could take anything and come back for more. I smacked him when he started to cry in shame and took the brutal assfucking in return defiantly. The next day, he ordered the retaking of Stalingrad; and the newspapers dubbed me "The Terror of Moscow".

Malenko was silent for a moment. Finally, he took a breath, and nodded. "Then I think you can help us get some information." Sophia was snapped out of the memory.

"Me? I do my duty when I must execute someone, but I am not a torturer." She said. The horror stories she'd heard about what enemies of the state had endured rivaled anything the Stadtis might do. He nodded to the viewing window. Sophia stepped passed him and peered in. Her eyes went wide.

"Nothing we can do could be worse than what he's already endured. This Stadti surrendered to our men, screaming wildly, clawing at their coats and pointing into the darkness beyond the Iron Forest. We need to know about "that," Malenko said, pointing with a thick finger at the fresh branded scar, a full meter long and wide. It was in the shape of a cross with an eye above it.

"Is that..." Sophia gasped. It was something she'd only heard whispered tales by peasant soldiers from the far reaches of the Bloc.

"Yes. It's Rasputin's Cross."