Chapter Text
Gleb Vaganov was the perfect Russian subject. He was good and loyal, a hard worker, honest, and most of all he believed with all his heart in the cause he promoted. A face to put to the motion to encapsulate the new Russia. To interact with the public and quell any restlessness that the cold and sparse might encourage. Handsome enough to make up for the social skills that the man lacks, and a father closely involved in the revolution to boot.
Russia was his home, his strongest love — love strong enough to shut down any ideas about whether or not he was doing the right thing. He wants what is best for his homeland and believes that his orders will accomplish that.
He was the face the people saw when important announcements were made. Walking around helping others and always prepared to give a hopeful word on the present and future. A familiar sight to the people of Leningrad. Less a person and more a symbol of loyalty to his country.
Of course, such a powerful tool for propaganda must be kept on a tight enough leash to not go and get any ideas that may be revolutionary. His late father was an asset for that too. An emphasis on doing his father proud was usually more than enough to encourage him to do what is best for his country.
However, when he came back from hunting down Anastasia he had changed. Not quite disillusioned but no longer as blindly loyal as he was. Truly believing the girl he followed to be the Grand Duchess, but unable to follow in his father's stead.
It's a shame such an important puppet had these doubts. Despite the fact that anyone in a lesser position would be made an example of, Gleb Vaganov can't. A strong front must be put up so the citizens will not doubt their strength and unity.
The people know his face. Know him as loyal and honest. They trust his speech about the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanova and there is no need to outwardly punish a man for something that ostensibly never happened.
However, a face the people know coupled with a mind that has proved to be not blindly obedient is dangerous. Precautions must, naturally, be taken to ensure that that voice speaks only what Russia needs to hear.
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After his return, Gleb's life has been… better than he expected, honestly. There is still life, for one thing. He has returned to what he did before he ever had to think of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanova: paperwork, patrolling the streets, drinking tea at his favourite spot. And if he stays up late thinking of a girl he let get away threefold, that business is his own.
There was always risk in returning without his target or without a certain corpse floating in the Seine. Despite that, he couldn't flee. He has nowhere to go but back to Russia — his homeland, his beauty. No other place holds his heart. What is the point of deserting everything he knew for an uncertain nothing?
Gleb knows what traitors to his country deserve, and is forever thankful his loyalty proves him worthy of another chance. A slight demotion is a small price to pay for directly contradicting orders. It is because of this grace that he does not mind his new shadows. Pistols on their hips, following the now-weaponless Gleb around wherever he goes.
He does not check if they remain outside his dwelling after they follow him home at night — why would he? A good Russian does not sneak out of his home in the dark of the night and therefore needn't know whether or not there are guards outside.
The prickling on the back of his neck is simply the remaining winter cold. There is no need to turn around when the cause is immaterial. And there is nothing that means him harm and no reason to feel much like a mouse caught in a trap.
Farewell to the days of releasing people who he feels do not deserve the sentences they earn for crimes they needed to commit to live. No more situations of giving a warning instead of a punishment (like Anya, his traitorous mind supplies.)
He continues to speak to the people with the conviction he no longer retains. Promises of progress and betterment. His mouth tastes bitter with the lies and half-truths he has become increasingly skilled at. The eyes constantly on him has him speaking less. He minces his words, makes sure that his attendants’ hands never need to do more than hover over their guns.
An assumption he had — rather foolishly — made was that after time he would earn the trust back at least to be on his own again. Yet passing months become years with no less than one pair of eyes on him at all waking moments.
It is not all bad all the time. He's still alive. He still has his job. He still does his job well. He has access to a working telephone. He has food and lodging. He makes enough money to treat himself to his favourite type of tea semi-regularly. Sometimes he simply needs to remind himself that it could be worse.
It's not as though he could escape it if he wished. And he is okay with that because he is a good Russian.
(When he first realized he would never be without a second shadow he stopped eating. It was a… rash decision. He does not truly want to die — he had simply, foolishly, wished for an out. After the first full day, his guard brought food to his office and wouldn't let him leave until he had eaten it all. Gleb is… thankful. Death is not something he wants nor, it seems, to be something that his superiors wish for him either. He did not try anything else of the sort afterwards. It is not what he wants and it is not something a good and loyal Russian would do.)
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“Ah, Gleb Vaganov, sit. That was quite the speech.”
“Thank you, sir. Was there a reason you wished to see me?”
“Straight to the point. Due to the… strain that we as your superiors believe your most recent mission has put on you, we are going to be demoting you to a less… demanding position. Of course, many of your duties will be the same, but the more sensitive matters will be out of your hands.”
“..Of course, sir. Whatever is best for the cause.”
“We have also assigned you to have guards. You interact with the common people so often, we wouldn't want anyone getting any wrong ideas now, would we?”
“N-no sir.”
“Good man. That is all. Long life, comrade.”