Revenant [February 24, 1964 11:25 pm]
Apr. 29th, 2008 10:53 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
zabytsya.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
groznyj_gradDavid was getting restless.
He had always been quick to heal from injury or recover from illness, even as a child, rarely sick longer than a couple of days at the most. He'd broken his leg in high school, tibia snap, bad fall on the football field, and was out for six weeks, then another six weeks of PT and he was good as new, even better.
It had been three days since he'd been brought in from the cold, poisoned. Suffering from exposure and hypothermia and other things, and now, he felt almost like normal. Maybe a little more tired, but that could just as easily have been attributed to being stuck in the infirmary with little exercise.
Three days.
He'd been able to keep up the amnesia ruse, and so far, the nurse hadn't found his tactical knife hidden between the mattress and bedframe. No one had come to haul him away for interrogation under suspicion of being an American spy.
So far so good, as they said, but David knew it wouldn't last.
He brushed a hand over his dark hair, which was cut in a simple soldier's crop, universal military. It wouldn't give him away, not like the thousand other things that could cause him to slip up - an idiom he didn't know, a joke, a concept. He might know the language and speak it with his father's muscovite accent, but that didn't make him Soviet.
David Petrovich Kerensky bled red, white and blue.
His time was running out, the mission had gone wrong, and now he was pretty sure the CIA had given up on him, sent the self-terminate signal to his CODEC, cut him free like a kite on a string.
He'd gotten caught in a tree branch, disavowed.
Thing was, if he didn't have the mission, he didn't have anything.
So mission it still was. He needed to come up with a plan of action, find Snake, figure out what to do about the Boss, stay alive, and get out of Russia, somehow.
David sighed, and lay back in the infirmary bed.
He supposed he had better get started on that.
He had always been quick to heal from injury or recover from illness, even as a child, rarely sick longer than a couple of days at the most. He'd broken his leg in high school, tibia snap, bad fall on the football field, and was out for six weeks, then another six weeks of PT and he was good as new, even better.
It had been three days since he'd been brought in from the cold, poisoned. Suffering from exposure and hypothermia and other things, and now, he felt almost like normal. Maybe a little more tired, but that could just as easily have been attributed to being stuck in the infirmary with little exercise.
Three days.
He'd been able to keep up the amnesia ruse, and so far, the nurse hadn't found his tactical knife hidden between the mattress and bedframe. No one had come to haul him away for interrogation under suspicion of being an American spy.
So far so good, as they said, but David knew it wouldn't last.
He brushed a hand over his dark hair, which was cut in a simple soldier's crop, universal military. It wouldn't give him away, not like the thousand other things that could cause him to slip up - an idiom he didn't know, a joke, a concept. He might know the language and speak it with his father's muscovite accent, but that didn't make him Soviet.
David Petrovich Kerensky bled red, white and blue.
His time was running out, the mission had gone wrong, and now he was pretty sure the CIA had given up on him, sent the self-terminate signal to his CODEC, cut him free like a kite on a string.
He'd gotten caught in a tree branch, disavowed.
Thing was, if he didn't have the mission, he didn't have anything.
So mission it still was. He needed to come up with a plan of action, find Snake, figure out what to do about the Boss, stay alive, and get out of Russia, somehow.
David sighed, and lay back in the infirmary bed.
He supposed he had better get started on that.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-05-04 09:01 pm (UTC)David took the bag and looked inside, cautiously at first, finding of all things, cookies. Small round cookies, golden brown and crisp, smelling faintly of ginger and molasses.
He blinked, realizing belatedly that his look had turned unguarded, the corners of his broad, expressive mouth pulled into a wide smile. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled like that, making him look younger.
David pulled a cookie out of the bag. His mother used to make the same kind.
He decided that if Lydia pulled a Saint Bernard puppy out of her purse next, David would just give up and confess everything, since they already seemed to know it.
The cookie melted in his mouth like sugar. "That's great. It was very thoughtful of you to bring them."
He passed the bag to Rakitin.
"Here, comrade. Try one. They taste like they're fresh from the oven."
David looked back at Lydia, and smiled at her again.
"Your husband's a lucky man, to have a pretty wife who cooks as well as you do."