Work Text:
The air in the glass-walled penthouse lounge smelled like the lingering scent of Sasha’s latest herbal experiment and the overwhelming, artificial scent of Bubblicious Strawberry Splash. Ilya was slumped in a velvet armchair, staring at his iPhone as if it were a bomb about to detonate.
On the screen, Shane Hollander was glowing. He looked healthy. He looked hydrated. He looked like a man who had never once considered the structural integrity of a Lada or the legality of wrestling an adolescent bear.
"I’m just saying, Ilya, if you don't book the tire swap by the first week of October, the shops get completely backed up," Shane said, his voice earnest and horrifyingly sensible. "And the tread depth on my all-seasons is already borderline. Safety first, right?"
Ilya’s jaw stopped mid-work. A large, pink bubble expanded from his lips, catching the reflection of the Moscow skyline before it popped with a wet, sticky thwack against his nose.
"You are talking about... tires," Ilya said, his voice a deadpan rasp. "You are using our limited time on this earth to discuss the rubber on your car."
"It’s not just rubber!" Shane countered, oblivious to the fact that he was currently killing Ilya’s soul. "And while I have you, did I tell you I found a new provider for my car insurance? I’m saving almost twenty dollars a month by bundling it with my renter's policy. It’s very practical."
Ilya didn't blink. He didn't even say goodbye. He simply tapped the red 'end call' button and let his phone slide onto the floor.
The room was silent for exactly three seconds.
"Did he just use the word 'bundle'?" Katya asked, lounging across a silk chaise with a glass of champagne that cost more than Shane’s insurance savings. She looked at Ilya with a predatory gleam. "Ilya, babe, you look like you’ve been lobotomized by a spreadsheet."
"He is a health hazard," Ilya stated, his eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling. "He fills me with murderous rage I haven't felt since my KHL days."
Pasha adjusted the collar of his sweater, crossing his legs at the knee. "He is remarkably consistent in his mediocrity. It’s almost a talent. A very boring, Canadian talent."
Ilya reached into the pocket of his neon tracksuit and pulled out a slightly crumpled $100 bill. He stood up, walked to the center of the room, and slammed it into a gold-rimmed Versace vase that was currently serving as a glorified trash can for Sasha's empty sunflower seed bags.
"What is that?" Dima grunted, not looking up from his phone where he was likely bribing a traffic cop.
"A tax," Ilya said, already unwrapping another piece of gum. "Every time the Canadian says something that makes me want to die of boredom, we pay the tax. When the jar is full, we buy him a personality."
"I have suggestions," Sasha piped up, staring intensely at the vase. "We could buy him a moss garden. It just... exists. Like a green cloud."
"No," Ilya snapped, his eyes narrowing as he thought about Shane’s sensible insurance bundle. "We are not buying him moss. We are buying him something that involves high-speed movement and the potential for international scandal."
Ilya looked at the lone $100 bill sitting at the bottom of the vase. "He still eats Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast," Ilya whispered, his voice trembling. "We are going to need a much bigger vase."
The "Boring" Jar was no longer a jar; it was a floor-to-ceiling Faberge-style crystal urn that Pasha had liberated from his father’s study under the guise of "cultural preservation" It sat in the center of the penthouse, filling at a rate that suggested Shane Hollander was personally trying to bankrupt the Russian Federation with his sheer adequacy.
Ilya sat on a kitchen counter, staring at his laptop with a look of profound betrayal. On the screen, Shane was beaming as he held up a stack of translucent plastic.
"Look at these, Ilya! They’re BPA-free, and the lids have a triple-seal vacuum lock," Shane explained, his voice full of a wholesome joy that made Ilya’s teeth ache. "They’re perfect for meal-prepping my chicken and brown rice for the week."
Ilya didn't say a word. He just leaned back and slammed a $100 bill into the urn without looking. Sasha, who was currently trying to see if he could "taste" the sound of the dishwasher, looked up with glazed eyes.
"He is a slave to the plastic, Ilya," Sasha whispered. "The Tupperware... it has no soul. It is a box for dead dreams. Put in another hundred. I can feel the vacuum seal sucking the oxygen from the room."
Later that week, while the group was in the back of Dima’s G-Wagon, which was currently jumping a median strip to avoid a "boring" red light, Shane was on a video call from a mall in Ottawa. Shane accidentally bumped into a mannequin wearing a sensible turtleneck.
"Oh, sorry, buddy," Shane muttered to the plastic figure, then flushed. "Oops. Sorry, Ilya, I thought he was a person."
The silence in the G-Wagon was absolute. Katya stopped mid-eyeshadow application, her gaze fixed on the screen.
"Ilya, make it two hundred," Katya commanded, her voice dripping with couture-grade venom. "He is apologizing to a mannequin. A mannequin that is wearing a sweater and shorts. He has the social awareness of a golden retriever with a head injury. It is a fashion crime. It is a human crime."
By Thursday, the jar was half-full. Shane had reached a new peak of Canadian safety.
"Ilya, I saw those photos you posted of you doing parkour on the skyscraper," Shane said, looking genuinely stressed. "Did you even wear SPF 50? The UV reflection off the glass at that height is 20% stronger. You’re going to get a premature wrinkle, and then how will you be the 'Face of the League'?"
Ilya aggressively unwrapped a piece of Bubblicious Strawberry Splash, the scent of artificial sugar exploding in the room. He shoved three pieces into his mouth.
"I am made of vodka and spite, Shane," Ilya rasped into the phone. "The sun does not burn me, it is afraid of me. Also, I am currently putting a $500 bill in the jar for that sentence. You are a 'Safety First' poster come to life."
The final straw occurred at 3:00 AM Moscow time. Ilya was vibrating with enough caffeine and nicotine to power a small village, wanting to FaceTime Shane for "aggressive emotional support".
"I can’t, Ilya," Shane yawned, looking devastatingly handsome in his "sensible" flannel pajamas. "I really need my eight hours of restorative sleep before the morning skate. Consistency is key to a long career, you know?"
Ilya screamed into a silk pillow. Across the room, Pasha looked up from his iPad, where he was currently ghost-writing a diplomatic incident to clear their latest speeding tickets.
"He just chose 'restorative sleep' over your jawline, Ilya," Pasha noted, adjusting his cashmere collar. "That is a state-level insult. It is an act of treason against the concept of romance."
Ilya stood up, walked to the Urn, and dumped an entire roll of $100 bills into it. He turned to the Moscow Six, his eyes cold and unblinking.
"The jar is full," Ilya announced, "Dima, get the car. We are going to buy him a personality. And a sense of ‘interesting’. The Canadian is officially out of chances."
Dima’s private garage was a cavernous concrete sanctuary that smelled like high-octane gasoline, expensive leather, and the faint, citrusy tang of Sasha’s "revitalization IV". In the center, under a single, flickering industrial spotlight, sat the Boring Urn, overflowing with roughly $25,000 in crumpled hundreds and various European currencies.
Ilya was perched on the hood of a matte-black Porsche Cayenne, wearing a neon-blue tracksuit and holding a liter bottle of suspicious clear liquid. He was methodically unwrapping a fresh pack of gum, his jaw working with the grim determination of a man preparing for a shootout.
"The funds are secured," Ilya stated, his voice a deadpan rasp. "Now, we decide how to destroy the Canadian’s sense of security. He told me today that he ‘enjoys the structural integrity of a well-paved road.’ I almost threw my phone into the Moskva River."
"We buy him a tank," Dima grunted, "A T-14 Armata. I will remove the brakes and the GPS. He will learn the rhythm of the enemy by force."
"Too bulky," Katya drawled, adjusting her designer combat boots while checking her reflection in the Porsche’s spoiler. "It’s not chic. I want him to have a solid gold AK-47. It is the architectural equivalent of wearing a Rolex over your glove. If he is going to be boring, he should at least be dangerous and fashionable."
Sasha was currently lying upside down on a stack of tires, staring at a spot on the wall three inches above Ilya's head. "I have a contact in Siberia. We buy him a bear, but we feed it only vodka so it is as unhinged as we are. Or... we send him a psychotropic moss garden. It will whisper to him about the decline of the West while he sleeps."
"I am out of diplomatic immunity cards for the week," Pasha sighed, adjusting his cashmere sweater. "I had to explain to a British diplomat why Sasha was trying to sell 'the hearts of the fallen angels’ at a gala. However, if we label the shipment as a 'Sensitive Cultural Artifact,' I can get almost anything into Montreal."
Svetlana clicked her tongue, opening a Notes document titled Legal Defenses for Vandalism of National Monuments. "I have already forged the permits. We just need the asset. Ilya, what is the verdict?"
Ilya blew a bubble the size of a grapefruit, let it pop with a wet, sticky sound against his nose, and stood up.
"We are getting an XM42-M Flamethrower," Ilya announced, "And a Wolf-Dog. The fighting one from the underground rings in Khimki. I will name him Vanya, and he will teach the Canadian the true meaning of violence. Also, Shane needs a friend."
"A wolf and fire," Katya smirked, grabbing her bag. "It’s a bit dramatic. I love it."
"He will have to acknowledge it," Ilya whispered, looking into the bottom of the empty gum wrapper. "He will look at the fire, and he will look at the beast, and he will finally stop talking about his bundled car insurance. Dima, prepare for high-speed canine transport."
"We’re so going to jail," Pasha whispered, but he reached into his bag for the diplomatic seals anyway.
The logistics were handled in a high-speed blur of 200km/h turns.
Svetlana sat in the passenger seat, her iPad glowing with the blue light of international forgery. "I have updated the cargo manifest," she said calmly, not looking up as Dima ignored a red light. "The wolf is no longer an underground fighting asset, he is now a 'Certified Emotional Support Predator' for a high-ranking cultural diplomat. If Canadian customs touch him, it is officially an act of treason."
In the back, Sasha was currently upside down, his sneakers resting on the headliner while he meticulously stuffed a small silken pouch into the wolf-dog's heavy collar. "It is a blend of Siberian moss and psychotropic herbs I synthesized in the sink," Sasha murmured, his eyes glazed and staring at the floor mats. "It will help the beast see the fourth dimension. He will protect Shane from the ghosts of his own boring decisions."
"He’s not a beast, Sashka, he’s an aesthetic," Katya snapped, perfectly applying a wing of eyeliner as the SUV banked forty-five degrees. She looked at the XM42-M Flamethrower resting in a velvet-lined crate at Ilya’s feet. "Ilyusha, babe, the custom paint job is perfect. The Montreal Voyageurs blue really makes the trigger assembly pop. It’s the architectural equivalent of a threat."
Ilya didn't respond. He was seated on the rear bench, his tracksuit rustling. He was staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over a text to Shane Hollander.
Ilya: Are you still thinking about your "tire swap," Canadian?
Shane: Ilya, it’s 4:00 AM. And yes, safety is important. Why?
Ilya: I am sending you a soul. It arrives in twenty-four hours. Try not to cry and whine like a little golden retriever.
The vehicle skidded onto the private docks in a cloud of tire smoke and sea salt. Pasha stood by the idling cargo plane, flashing a diplomatic ID that Svetlana had "updated" twenty minutes prior.
"I am definitely going to jail," Pasha whispered as the crate containing a 120-pound wolf and a tactical weapon was hoisted into the hold.
"You are going to be a legend, Pashka. Quit acting like this is the first time you broke an international law," Ilya countered, blowing a pink bubble the size of a human head. "Now, get the plane in the air. We have a Canadian to emotionally devastate."
Shane Hollander’s Montreal condo was a monument to the sensible life. The air was filtered, the floors were a neutral, inoffensive beige, and his organic kale-and-whey smoothie was currently sitting in a BPA-free glass on a coaster that was perfectly centered on the coffee table. Shane was currently reading a digital manual on how to optimize the lifespan of his new dishwasher.
The silence was the perfect, peaceful quiet until the heavy oak door was nearly kicked off its hinges by a rhythmic, aggressive pounding.
Shane opened the door to find two men who looked like they belonged in a very high-budget, very scary Russian action movie. They were wearing charcoal-grey suits that cost more than Shane’s car and were currently wheeling a massive, breathing shipping crate into his foyer.
"Sign here, Hollander," one of the men said, his voice a gravelly rasp. He handed Shane a gold-plated stylus and a document that bore the official seal of the Russian Ministry of Culture.
"I... I didn't order anything from Russia," Shane stammered, his heart thudding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs.
"Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov ordered," the man replied, as if that explained the fact that the crate was currently growling. "He said you are too safe. He said to tell you that 'beige is the color of a coward's soul'."
As the men left without another word, Shane stood alone in his foyer, staring at the crate. A small, embossed stationery note was taped to the side. It was heavy, expensive cardstock.
Stop being a pussy. Love, the King of Moscow.
Shane’s hand shook as he pulled the latch.
The first thing to emerge was a massive, wet nose. Vanya, a 120-pound Siberian wolf-dog hybrid that was roughly 40% fluff and 60% pure, unadulterated spite, stepped out of the box. He was wearing a custom-tailored Montreal Voyageurs jersey with 'HOLLANDER' on the back.
Vanya looked around the pristine, tidy condo, locked eyes with Shane, and immediately lifted a leg to pee on the sensible, high-pile beige rug.
"No! No, Vanya, that’s—that’s silk!" Shane shrieked, but the wolf-dog just gave a long, judgmental huff and proceeded to trot toward the kitchen, his claws clicking like the hammers of a gun against the hardwood.
Shane looked back into the crate. At the bottom sat a sleek, velvet-lined briefcase. He clicked the latches open to reveal an XM42-M Flamethrower, custom-painted in a shimmering Voyageurs blue with gold-leaf accents. Engraved along the barrel in a sharp, blocky script were the words: FOR THE NEXT TIME YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT THE HUMIDITY.
Shane let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. He looked at the wolf-dog currently trying to open his BPA-free Tupperware with its teeth, and then at the tactical weapon in his hands.
Shane’s FaceTime call screamed into the silence of the Moscow penthouse. Ilya, who was currently sprawled out on the couch vertically, didn't even look at the screen before swiping to answer.
On the screen, Shane Hollander looked like he was having a medical emergency. He was breathless, his face pale , and his hair, usually so shiny and perfect, was standing up in several directions. In the background of the Montreal condo, Vanya the wolf-dog was methodically shredding a BPA-free Tupperware container into a sea of disappointment.
"Ilya," Shane gasped, holding the custom-painted XM42-M Flamethrower in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other. "Why is there a tactical weapon in my kitchen?! And why—Ilya, please tell me that’s not a literal WOLF on my sofa!"
"He is not a wolf, Shane. He is a Siberian Forest Spirit," Ilya said, his voice a deadpan rasp. "The paperwork says he is a 'Peace Hound,' but that is a lie for the border guards. He is there to eat your Tupperware. The fire is so you stop talking about 'layering' for the winter. Use it. Burn something, Hollander. Start with your car insurance papers."
"You can't just send people apex predators as a 'personality' upgrade!" Shane shrieked, jumping as Vanya let out a long, judgmental huff and began marinating a throw pillow with drool. "This is a state-level insult! I have a flamethrower in a residential building, Ilya!"
"It says 'Property of the King' on the side, Shane. Don't be a pussy," Ilya countered, popping another piece of gum into his mouth.
In the background, Katya lounged across a silk chaise, checking her reflection in a bronze base. "Tell the golden retriever to find the beat and stop crying," she drawled, "The beige rug was tacky anyway. Vanya is doing him a favor by destroying it."
Sasha, draping himself across Ilya’s shoulder, squinted at the screen. "Ilya. Does the Canadian have five fingers or is that just the UV reflection? His aura is very... insurance-flavored."
"Ilya, I’m serious!" Shane said, though his voice was starting to lose its edge of terror, replaced by a shaky laugh of pure exhaustion. "I have to find a high-protein diet for this thing. I actually just looked up a spreadsheet of the most cost-effective local butchers..."
Ilya’s face twitched. He looked at the Boring Jar and then back at the screen.
"You are making a spreadsheet... for the wolf," Ilya whispered.
"Well, it's efficient!" Shane defended. "And I need to check if my renter's policy covers 'unprovoked fire damage' or 'wolf-related structural failure'..."
Ilya hung up.
The air in the Moscow penthouse smelled of $400-an-ounce candles. Ilya was sprawled on a rug, his limbs splayed out like a starfish that had given up on the ocean.
His phone lit up with a notification.
Ilya swiped the screen. The photo was remarkably crisp. There was Shane asleep on his sofa. Vanya, the Siberian Peace Hound, was curled up at his feet, 120 pounds of pure-bred Forest Spirit currently occupying the space where Shane’s dignity used to live.
But the background was what caused the collective psychological breakdown of the room. The custom-painted XM42-M Flamethrower, a "tactical weapon" intended for the destruction of insurance papers, was standing in the corner. Hanging from its barrel, looking remarkably consistent in its mediocrity, was a beige Patagonia fleece vest.
"It’s a coat rack," Ilya whispered. "He is using an instrument of war to hold his 'practical layering'."
"Ilya, babe, his footwear in the corner is an insult to my bloodline," Katya shrieked, her voice echoing off the gold-leafed ceiling. "The vest is the architectural equivalent of a surrender flag."
Sasha leaned closer, squinting at the screen. "The vest has no soul, Ilya. But the dog... the dog is glowing. He has accepted the Canadian as part of the Fibonacci sequence."
A text message flickered at the top of the photo:
Shane: Vanya needs a lot of space to exercise and run around. I looked up a spreadsheet of the most animal friendly parks near me. Also, do you think the flamethrower is safe to keep near the curtains? The manual was a bit vague about 'incidental indoor ignition'.
Ilya’s jaw stopped mid-work. A pink bubble expanded from his lips until it almost touched his nose before popping with a wet, sticky thwack. His face twitched, his brain feeling like it was currently a potato that was left in the sun for too long.
He stood up, adjusted his Adidas trackpants, and walked over to the mahogany table. He picked up a fresh, empty crystal jar.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Ilya pulled a $500 bill from his pocket and dropped it into the glass.
He turned to Dima, who was already jangling the keys to the Porsche.
"Dima, get the car," Ilya commanded, blowing a fresh bubble. "We are buying him a submarine."
BONUS SCENE:
The Russian Embassy, Washington D.C.
Office of Ambassador Andrei Sokolov
10:15 AM
The office smelled of mahogany polish, stale cigar smoke, and the terrifying silence of bureaucratic disappointment. Ambassador Andrei Sokolov sat behind a desk that was large enough to land a helicopter on, staring at a single sheet of paper with the kind of intensity usually reserved for declarations of war.
Pasha sat opposite him. He was wearing a cream-colored Loro Piana turtleneck and was checking his cuticles. He looked relaxed. He looked like a man who had never seen a budget in his life, let alone decimated one.
"Pavel," the Ambassador said, his voice low and dangerous.
"Father," Pasha replied, offering a polite, diplomatic nod. "You’re looking well. The stress lines on your forehead are... distinguished. Very statesmenlike."
"Do not compliment my wrinkles while I am holding this invoice," the Ambassador snapped, slamming the paper onto the leather desk blotter. "I am looking at the quarterly review for the Embassy’s Cultural Discretionary Fund. This fund is intended for the Bolshoi Ballet touring costs. It is for art exhibitions. It is for sending a choir of orphans to perform in Idaho."
"And we do all those things," Pasha soothed, crossing his legs. "We are very charitable."
"Pavel," Andrei rubbed his temples. "Why is there a line item for eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars labeled 'Baltic Marine Heritage Acquisition'?"
Pasha didn’t blink. "It is an interactive history exhibit, Papa. Immersive education. Very trendy right now."
"It is a submarine," the Ambassador whispered, the reality of the sentence seemingly struggling to leave his throat. "My naval attaché called me at 6:00 AM. He said the Baltic Fleet is missing a decommissioned Project 877 Paltus, a Kilo-class diesel-electric attack submarine, and that it is currently being towed toward the St. Lawrence Seaway under a diplomatic flag."
"Technically, it is not missing," Pasha corrected gently. "It is merely... reallocated. It was rusting in Kronstadt. It was an eyesore. I simply gave it a new purpose. It is an act of environmental charity, really."
The Ambassador stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the D.C. skyline, praying for a meteor to strike the building. "You bought a Soviet attack submarine with the ballet money."
"I bought a piece of history," Pasha insisted, adjusting his cuffs. "It is for a specific cultural exchange program involving a high-profile Canadian national. We felt that the subject in question lacks an appreciation for the crushing pressure of Soviet engineering. He thinks 'pressure' is parallel parking his SUV. We intend to show him the reality of depth."
"Is this about the hockey player?" the Ambassador asked, not turning around. "The one Ilya Grigoryevich is obsessed with terrorizing?"
"We prefer the term 'aggressive mentorship'," Pasha said.
"And you think," Andrei turned back, his face a mask of exhaustion, "that giving a Canadian civilian a sixty-meter-long underwater warship is... mentorship?"
"The vessel has been demilitarized!" Pasha said, sounding offended. "Mostly. The torpedo tubes are welded shut. Or... stuck. I forget which. But the point is, Papa, the Canadian loves 'safety.' He loves 'checklists.' Do you know how many checklists are required to operate a diesel submarine? Thousands. He will be in heaven. He will spend the next three years trying to optimize the ballast tanks. It keeps him occupied. It keeps him off the streets."
"It keeps him under the streets, Pasha! It is a submarine!"
"It is a mobile museum!" Pasha countered, standing up and using his best debating-society voice. "Think of the optics. A symbol of the Cold War, now repurposed for friendship. We park it in the Old Port of Montreal. We put a plaque on it. 'From Russia, With Love and Diesel Fumes.' It is poetic. It is post-modern."
Andrei stared at his son. He thought about the phone calls he would have to make. He thought about the paperwork. He thought about the fact that if he said 'no,' Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov might decide to buy an aircraft carrier next week just to prove a point.
"Is it currently armed?" the Ambassador asked, his voice defeated.
"Sasha checked it." Pasha shrugged. "He found some old flares and a crate of canned beef from 1989. He ate the beef. He is fine. So, no. It is safe."
The Ambassador sighed, a long, rattling sound that seemed to deflate his entire body. He sat back down, picked up his gold fountain pen, and signed the bottom of the invoice.
"Get it out of the shipping lanes," Andrei grumbled, not looking up. "And if the Canadian accidentally sinks a ferry, I am revoking your diplomatic passport and sending you to work in a beet field in Krasnodar."
"He won't sink anything," Pasha smiled, picking up the paper and sliding it into his leather portfolio. "He is very responsible. He will probably wax the hull."
Pasha turned to leave, his hand on the heavy brass doorknob.
"Pavel?"
"Yes, Father?"
"Does Ilya actually believe this... 'Shane' person will keep the submarine?"
Pasha paused, a small, terrifying smirk playing on his lips. "Ilya does not care if he keeps it, Papa. He just wants to see the look on the Canadian's face when he realizes that 'checking the tire pressure' is no longer his biggest problem. Also, Katya wants to host a rave in the torpedo room next Thursday."
Andrei put his head in his hands. "Get out."
"Love you, Papa."