Taras pushed open the door to the surveillance room.
He didn't knock. Knocking would imply that he expected someone to be there, that he had a purpose for going in, or something to say. If the station was manned, he would have to have a better explanation than it just being a case of the new guy getting confused, heading to the wrong door, or not understanding surveillance procedures.
The room was dark inside, save for the lights on the control boards. No one at the station.
Taras slipped into the room before he turned out the light, finding the lock on the door behind him by touch, sliding it home.
He breathed out, closing his eyes, letting his shoulders slump against the door.
It was warm inside the room, almost unpleasantly so. Machine noises whirred and spun and hummed away steadily. He reached for the light.
The room was small, barely big enough for a person to sit at the desk, to turn in his chair and change the tape. Another door stood at the end of the room. Behind it was an even smaller room, used for storing the tapes, each one carefully labeled.
Taras was sure that they were all there, even if some of them were blank.
He stepped forward, leaning down to press his hand against the seat. It felt no warmer than the rest of the room. That was good.
He turned to the log, which was affixed to a clipboard on the wall. According to the times and signatures, someone had been in here much earlier, to change the tapes and set the recording for Barshov's room. Then he'd left. No one had been present to hear anything, and judging from the previous day's records, no one would be back to check on the equipment for hours.
Taras breathed out, leaning back and running his hands over his dark hair. Skin pulled at his knuckles, sticky with dried blood.
He'd gotten lucky, or Isaev had. Fucking prick, keeping him out of the fucking loop.
Taras moved to the controls, which were clearly marked, though he had to spend a few moments figuring them out.
As far as he could tell, the tape to Barshov's room was brand new, which would make it easy to switch. Clean and simple, no one the wiser. No loose confessions about Ilarion's mother, which were bad enough. The words that Barshov had spoken implicating Ilarion were worse.
He scowled.
Taras moved to stop the tape then hesitated. His hand hovered mid-air for a moment, then he hit the switch he thought would activate the audio feed. Just to make sure he had the right one.
Static crackled the speakers with a sudden bleat of noise, too loud. Quickly, he turned down the volume, gritting his teeth. He waited for several seconds, but couldn't hear anything, so he turned the volume back up again, until he could hear low murmurings of sound.
Voices. The pitch and cadence of Ilarion's were unmistakable. Taras had heard that voice in his dreams.
The other voice, he recognized as Barshov, though stronger and more forceful than he would have expected. The dancer had come to, then, and didn't sound happy about it.
He knew Ilarion could take care of himself, but there was still part of him that bristled automatically, an instinctive and gut reaction.
Taras leaned forward to listen, careful not to touch anything. At his sides, his hands tightened into fists.
no subject
He didn't knock. Knocking would imply that he expected someone to be there, that he had a purpose for going in, or something to say. If the station was manned, he would have to have a better explanation than it just being a case of the new guy getting confused, heading to the wrong door, or not understanding surveillance procedures.
The room was dark inside, save for the lights on the control boards. No one at the station.
Taras slipped into the room before he turned out the light, finding the lock on the door behind him by touch, sliding it home.
He breathed out, closing his eyes, letting his shoulders slump against the door.
It was warm inside the room, almost unpleasantly so. Machine noises whirred and spun and hummed away steadily. He reached for the light.
The room was small, barely big enough for a person to sit at the desk, to turn in his chair and change the tape. Another door stood at the end of the room. Behind it was an even smaller room, used for storing the tapes, each one carefully labeled.
Taras was sure that they were all there, even if some of them were blank.
He stepped forward, leaning down to press his hand against the seat. It felt no warmer than the rest of the room. That was good.
He turned to the log, which was affixed to a clipboard on the wall. According to the times and signatures, someone had been in here much earlier, to change the tapes and set the recording for Barshov's room. Then he'd left. No one had been present to hear anything, and judging from the previous day's records, no one would be back to check on the equipment for hours.
Taras breathed out, leaning back and running his hands over his dark hair. Skin pulled at his knuckles, sticky with dried blood.
He'd gotten lucky, or Isaev had. Fucking prick, keeping him out of the fucking loop.
Taras moved to the controls, which were clearly marked, though he had to spend a few moments figuring them out.
As far as he could tell, the tape to Barshov's room was brand new, which would make it easy to switch. Clean and simple, no one the wiser. No loose confessions about Ilarion's mother, which were bad enough. The words that Barshov had spoken implicating Ilarion were worse.
He scowled.
Taras moved to stop the tape then hesitated. His hand hovered mid-air for a moment, then he hit the switch he thought would activate the audio feed. Just to make sure he had the right one.
Static crackled the speakers with a sudden bleat of noise, too loud. Quickly, he turned down the volume, gritting his teeth. He waited for several seconds, but couldn't hear anything, so he turned the volume back up again, until he could hear low murmurings of sound.
Voices. The pitch and cadence of Ilarion's were unmistakable. Taras had heard that voice in his dreams.
The other voice, he recognized as Barshov, though stronger and more forceful than he would have expected. The dancer had come to, then, and didn't sound happy about it.
He knew Ilarion could take care of himself, but there was still part of him that bristled automatically, an instinctive and gut reaction.
Taras leaned forward to listen, careful not to touch anything. At his sides, his hands tightened into fists.