His tone turned bitter again, his dark eyes narrowed enough to drill holes in Ippolit soul. Dmitry hesitated, unsure if it was genuine foolish curiosity, or an insult disguised as the former.
He recalled the tall, graceful blonde on that very first day. Too pretty, too frightened. His fear was palpable and delicious.
There were few words in the beginning, only brief impersonal exchanges, fumbling, mumbled orders and secrecy.
And then one day, he thought to ask the man for his name. Iosef Obruchnikov. Also born in Moscow, but from a very different world than Dmitry.
He looked down for a moment, then back up at Polya, pushing away from the metal crate. “No, it’s not. If you --”
The flame soldier stopped suddenly, and became aware of something he had forgotten entirely, up until that moment. Thoughtfully, he pulled something from the pocket of his jumpsuit and turned it over in his hands. He held his breath as he opened the lid of the brass compass.
The black needle wobbled, and settled across the middle of the N. It was pointing due north.
“Listen. You’ll probably take this the wrong way, but I’ve got to say it now. If I were the murderer you’re hunting, you’d be my next victim. You fit the profile. You’re vulnerable. And you fucking wander off from your bodyguards and meet strange men in strange places.”
Deimos traced his fingers over the engraved phoenix on the top of the compass, but did not look up.
“And if I were the murderer… eliminating you would eliminate any risk of getting caught. But I’m not the murderer. Just a murderer.”
Finally, his gaze flickered back to Polya. "You should be more careful."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-01-14 06:21 am (UTC)His tone turned bitter again, his dark eyes narrowed enough to drill holes in Ippolit soul. Dmitry hesitated, unsure if it was genuine foolish curiosity, or an insult disguised as the former.
He recalled the tall, graceful blonde on that very first day. Too pretty, too frightened. His fear was palpable and delicious.
There were few words in the beginning, only brief impersonal exchanges, fumbling, mumbled orders and secrecy.
And then one day, he thought to ask the man for his name. Iosef Obruchnikov. Also born in Moscow, but from a very different world than Dmitry.
He looked down for a moment, then back up at Polya, pushing away from the metal crate. “No, it’s not. If you --”
The flame soldier stopped suddenly, and became aware of something he had forgotten entirely, up until that moment. Thoughtfully, he pulled something from the pocket of his jumpsuit and turned it over in his hands. He held his breath as he opened the lid of the brass compass.
The black needle wobbled, and settled across the middle of the N. It was pointing due north.
“Listen. You’ll probably take this the wrong way, but I’ve got to say it now. If I were the murderer you’re hunting, you’d be my next victim. You fit the profile. You’re vulnerable. And you fucking wander off from your bodyguards and meet strange men in strange places.”
Deimos traced his fingers over the engraved phoenix on the top of the compass, but did not look up.
“And if I were the murderer… eliminating you would eliminate any risk of getting caught. But I’m not the murderer. Just a murderer.”
Finally, his gaze flickered back to Polya. "You should be more careful."