Dmitry stood alone in the silken darkness of the tank yard for a very long time. Time slowed, then stopped.
He watched Liadov and his companions leave, wide eyes and mouth agape, looking like an olive skinned fish that had been torn from its comfortable, watery home and thrust into an alternate reality where it was horribly difficult to move or breathe.
He flopped. He floundered. He failed.
An hour ago, he would have plunged a knife into the Operativnik’s back with depraved indulgence. He could still do it. He could open fire into the darkness and eliminate all three of them at once. But the riffle hung limp from its strap, and he didn’t start forward, didn’t reach for his knife in the shadows.
Instead, Deimos backed away from the shaft of light were Nika had kneeled before him. His soulless eyes flickered to the ground, and he stared blankly at the tarmac for a long while, a feral dog that sensed danger at the edge of a snare trap.
"You created your own Zone, your own Siberia, wire by wire, when you chose to be a butcher, and you pushed humanity away. Did you never realize, Dima, that when you killed those girls, you were killing yourself?"
He threw the Kalashnikov down because it was useless, turned, and ran as though the demons of hell were at his back, come to avenge every sin he committed against every nameless, faceless, wailing victim that he left in ruin.
Something, Captain called them, when he told the story. Tisiphone, his mind supplied as his heart raced and his boots pounded across the pavement. Avenger of murder.
Murder. Murderer.
"You deserved to be in Magadan. You don't deserve a second chance. But you've been given one, through circumstances beyond my influence. Much as it displeases me, I have no recourse."
Tisiphone had two sisters, but the names escaped Dmitry as he ran on and on. And together, they were the avengers of sins, pursued their targets to hell and back, drove them out of their minds. The Greeks knew them as Erinyes. It was a word he hung on to for it’s peculiarity, something that stayed with him because of the unusual sound and pronunciation.
"...you could go on to live a full and pleasant life in spite of your crimes. But you must let go of the idea that anyone but Dmitry is responsible for his own fate and self-loathing."
The Romans had a different, slightly more familiar name for the three sisters, though…
…there were lights on in the hovercraft hangar, he realized. Lights, brothers of his own, shelter from the storm that raged on in his mind. He reached the door at a dead run, feeling that his heart would burst in his chest…
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-10-11 04:27 pm (UTC)He watched Liadov and his companions leave, wide eyes and mouth agape, looking like an olive skinned fish that had been torn from its comfortable, watery home and thrust into an alternate reality where it was horribly difficult to move or breathe.
He flopped. He floundered. He failed.
An hour ago, he would have plunged a knife into the Operativnik’s back with depraved indulgence. He could still do it. He could open fire into the darkness and eliminate all three of them at once. But the riffle hung limp from its strap, and he didn’t start forward, didn’t reach for his knife in the shadows.
Instead, Deimos backed away from the shaft of light were Nika had kneeled before him. His soulless eyes flickered to the ground, and he stared blankly at the tarmac for a long while, a feral dog that sensed danger at the edge of a snare trap.
"You created your own Zone, your own Siberia, wire by wire, when you chose to be a butcher, and you pushed humanity away. Did you never realize, Dima, that when you killed those girls, you were killing yourself?"
He threw the Kalashnikov down because it was useless, turned, and ran as though the demons of hell were at his back, come to avenge every sin he committed against every nameless, faceless, wailing victim that he left in ruin.
Something, Captain called them, when he told the story. Tisiphone, his mind supplied as his heart raced and his boots pounded across the pavement. Avenger of murder.
Murder. Murderer.
"You deserved to be in Magadan. You don't deserve a second chance. But you've been given one, through circumstances beyond my influence. Much as it displeases me, I have no recourse."
Tisiphone had two sisters, but the names escaped Dmitry as he ran on and on. And together, they were the avengers of sins, pursued their targets to hell and back, drove them out of their minds. The Greeks knew them as Erinyes. It was a word he hung on to for it’s peculiarity, something that stayed with him because of the unusual sound and pronunciation.
"...you could go on to live a full and pleasant life in spite of your crimes. But you must let go of the idea that anyone but Dmitry is responsible for his own fate and self-loathing."
The Romans had a different, slightly more familiar name for the three sisters, though…
…there were lights on in the hovercraft hangar, he realized. Lights, brothers of his own, shelter from the storm that raged on in his mind. He reached the door at a dead run, feeling that his heart would burst in his chest…
…The Romans simply called them the Furies.