[February 19, 1964, 6:15 am]
Jul. 13th, 2007 08:06 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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groznyj_gradMatvei was late for breakfast.
The mess hall buzzed with whispered conversation. Another corpse. Another body.
The one that had been his friend, and explained the quiet of the bunk below his from last night.
He hadn't taken the news well, although he had acted to perfection. Didn't cry, didn't avert his eyes when Ilya delivered the news somberly, Andrei's hand on his shoulder. Didn't say much when a few well-meaning rankmates asked him if he wanted to crash with them to not have to be alone.
Matvei had grieved too much in his lifetime, and he no longer wanted to. He felt sick and tired of it, and had hardly slept, his mind ticking. Options, plans.
He'd avoided facing his friends again, and he could tell they understood: he didn't want to hear it again, didn't want their looks of pity. He needed some time alone, as much as they worried for his health.
Ha.
Matvei found himself with a tray and nowhere to sit. The hall was almost full, and he didn't want to sit with the Ocelots. He wanted to be alone.
The table at the north-east of the kitchens had several spare seat, and several dark uniforms.
Sergei's death had driven away Matvei's usual sense of propriety and he sat himself down unapologetically at the MENT table, and glared at his food, as though it was all its fault that he didn't feel the slightest bit hungry, ignoring how obviously he clashed with the ranks sitting down nearby.
The mess hall buzzed with whispered conversation. Another corpse. Another body.
The one that had been his friend, and explained the quiet of the bunk below his from last night.
He hadn't taken the news well, although he had acted to perfection. Didn't cry, didn't avert his eyes when Ilya delivered the news somberly, Andrei's hand on his shoulder. Didn't say much when a few well-meaning rankmates asked him if he wanted to crash with them to not have to be alone.
Matvei had grieved too much in his lifetime, and he no longer wanted to. He felt sick and tired of it, and had hardly slept, his mind ticking. Options, plans.
He'd avoided facing his friends again, and he could tell they understood: he didn't want to hear it again, didn't want their looks of pity. He needed some time alone, as much as they worried for his health.
Ha.
Matvei found himself with a tray and nowhere to sit. The hall was almost full, and he didn't want to sit with the Ocelots. He wanted to be alone.
The table at the north-east of the kitchens had several spare seat, and several dark uniforms.
Sergei's death had driven away Matvei's usual sense of propriety and he sat himself down unapologetically at the MENT table, and glared at his food, as though it was all its fault that he didn't feel the slightest bit hungry, ignoring how obviously he clashed with the ranks sitting down nearby.
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Date: 2007-07-15 06:22 am (UTC)Angry, except Iapetus, who was casually indifferent as usual, and tending to his plate of food.
Two had set watching through the course of their meal, more concerned with Liadov than the food on their plates. Twice, Phobos had pilfered from Deimos’ tray without notice.
Io nudged his dark haired comrade when he saw that Nika was on the move. “Now?”
“Not now.” the other replied, skewering a potato with bitter malice. “Too many witnesses. It will go nice and slow. Plenty of time for suffering.”
At the end of the table, Iapetus glared at the pair. “You have no idea what sort of hell the Fury will bring down upon you if you harm that Operativnik.”
Deimos only shrugged, flashing a sadistic, feral smile to Nika as he passed.