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The night before the gargantuan Red Army is due to flow west and south to repel and then flood and drown Germany and its allies in Soviet flesh and blood, the officers stationed in Moscow enjoy the revelries held in honour of the Motherland. Evading the greater mass of his friends and comrades, one dodges out of the Kremlin, meeting up with his particular friend in a quiet park. The sound of celebration is duller there, although the hysterical whoops and yells and tears accompanying anticipation of the human sacrifice to come on the morrow, can still be heard, deranging the peace and the joyous song of the birds.
A strong hand clamps round an upper arm, digging strong fingers into thick cloth. “You aren't going. They already have two million men to waste. They don't need one more.”
“I am, Vitya. It's my duty. If everyone thought like that, instead of two million, we'd have none.”
“They're sending you to die, and if you return alive, woe to you. Can't you see that?”
“...It doesn't matter. I'm part of the army. So is my father. And all my brothers, uncles and nephews. And I have an important job to do. I can't desert because some turncoat Bulgarian has a conspiracy theory in his head. Besides, I'll be in the command centre, not a tank. You don't need to worry.” Yuri, wearing a grey lieutenant general’s uniform, turns away from his glowering friend, back towards the crenellated walls of the red fortress that is the heart of the city.
The hand holding onto him intensifies its grip, turning a hand into a vice. “You were born into a death cult, and I'm going to save you from it, and yourself. I am not going to bury what's left of you. I refuse."
The grip becomes painful, eliciting a squawk from its victim, who turns back to face his friend, his left arm coming up to free his beleaguered right. But it's too late, he's already changing, shrinking.
Letting go, Viktor pounces, a scuffling sort of dance erupting across the soil beneath the trees as he struggles to contain his friend without hurting him or getting his own fingers snipped off. Eventually he has the grey parrot in hand, promptly stuffing it into the golden cage he was standing in front of all this time. It's small, far too small, but it's for transport.
“There, hate me all you like now. You'll thank me one day.” He says to the furious animal hissing at him from behind the bars.
‘Bastard!’ Shrieks the bird, in a metallic voice.
“Yes, yes. I know I am, but what are you?” snorting a laugh, the ‘turncoat Bulgarian’ approaches a small, fast horse, attaches the cage to it, and swings himself up and on. “The Army will be fine without you, Yura. It's all over for the Reich.” And with that he digs his heels into his horse's belly, and sets off at a gallop eastwards.