Kassian turned, and gestured for the woman to precede him. "Let's go."
As they walked back to the lab, he glanced at her again.
The woman's hair was short and dark, but cut unevenly, and spiked out in different directions. Her eyes were large; doll's eyes in a delicate doll face, like the broken porcelain countenance of a child's toy he'd found once, in the ruins of Stalingrad, back during the war.
At the time, it had been a salient reminder that mere months before, Stalingrad had been a city of everyday people with everyday lives, and a child had once clutched her precious, expensive plaything in the very building he'd nested in, oblivious of what was to come.
The woman seemed young, probably younger than Isaev and Imanov. More like Charushkin's age, he thought.
She had threatened them, but now he read it more as bravado, the defiance of a cat who fluffed its fur to appear larger and more threatening at the approach of a dog.
"You always need to be armed," he told her in an undertone.
Kassian didn't know why he felt compelled to tell a member of the very unit that threatened his charges that she should carry more weaponry.
Because she was a woman, perhaps. Because she'd been frightened.
"No matter the circumstance. There's a killer out there. You know that, don't you?"
Yes, she knew that, Kassian thought after a moment. He remembered her from the night the greenhouse exploded. She'd been the one to haul the shell-shocked Major Krauss back to her commander.
Perhaps she wasn't as vulnerable as all that, then, but still, he wondered.
As they slipped through the outbuilding's outer door and into the small antechamber, Kassian reached out to put a hand on the inner door, to pause her.
He turned his head to meet her gaze, carefully.
"Do they hurt you?" he asked, quietly, dark eyes intent, brow pulled low by a frown. "Flame Patrol."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-06-13 02:12 am (UTC)Kassian turned, and gestured for the woman to precede him. "Let's go."
As they walked back to the lab, he glanced at her again.
The woman's hair was short and dark, but cut unevenly, and spiked out in different directions. Her eyes were large; doll's eyes in a delicate doll face, like the broken porcelain countenance of a child's toy he'd found once, in the ruins of Stalingrad, back during the war.
At the time, it had been a salient reminder that mere months before, Stalingrad had been a city of everyday people with everyday lives, and a child had once clutched her precious, expensive plaything in the very building he'd nested in, oblivious of what was to come.
The woman seemed young, probably younger than Isaev and Imanov. More like Charushkin's age, he thought.
She had threatened them, but now he read it more as bravado, the defiance of a cat who fluffed its fur to appear larger and more threatening at the approach of a dog.
"You always need to be armed," he told her in an undertone.
Kassian didn't know why he felt compelled to tell a member of the very unit that threatened his charges that she should carry more weaponry.
Because she was a woman, perhaps. Because she'd been frightened.
"No matter the circumstance. There's a killer out there. You know that, don't you?"
Yes, she knew that, Kassian thought after a moment. He remembered her from the night the greenhouse exploded. She'd been the one to haul the shell-shocked Major Krauss back to her commander.
Perhaps she wasn't as vulnerable as all that, then, but still, he wondered.
As they slipped through the outbuilding's outer door and into the small antechamber, Kassian reached out to put a hand on the inner door, to pause her.
He turned his head to meet her gaze, carefully.
"Do they hurt you?" he asked, quietly, dark eyes intent, brow pulled low by a frown. "Flame Patrol."