Ocelot nodded at his squad individually as they disembarked.
He wasn't much for sentimental gladhanding and backslapping, but they'd done well, and he did have an inexplicable fondness for them, despite his best intentions.
They seemed to be unusually pleased with themselves, which was never a good sign. He scowled. Either it was still the Raikov business, residually haunting him, or something entirely new and Ocelocentric.
Well. He'd unfortunately find out, sooner or later. Most likely sooner, by the way Charushkin's cheeks were glowing with cheer.
"Colonel Volgin says well done," he parroted, blithely, with a lift of his chin. He gave them the fingerguns. "And I appreciate you not fucking up."
He watched as a couple of the Ocelots unloaded the moaning, feverish scientist, and then ducked back into the Kamov, grinning wider, causing him to frown.
"Isaev," he muttered, snapping his head toward the smooth-faced Lieutenant. "What have you pediks done?"
Isaev was standing next to the sniper, his hands jammed into the deep pockets of his black field tunic.
"I didn't do anything, sir. Nor did Irinarhov. Or Charushkin. Or Bodokin. Or Naimushin."
Ocelot's lip curled into a sneer.
"I don't believe you."
"Really, sir. It was all Borishnakov."
"What was all Borishnakov?" muttered Ocelot, rubbing the tip of his gun against his forhead.
Isaev glanced at Irinarhov and shrugged, then pointed.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2006-11-29 06:53 am (UTC)He wasn't much for sentimental gladhanding and backslapping, but they'd done well, and he did have an inexplicable fondness for them, despite his best intentions.
They seemed to be unusually pleased with themselves, which was never a good sign. He scowled. Either it was still the Raikov business, residually haunting him, or something entirely new and Ocelocentric.
Well. He'd unfortunately find out, sooner or later. Most likely sooner, by the way Charushkin's cheeks were glowing with cheer.
"Colonel Volgin says well done," he parroted, blithely, with a lift of his chin. He gave them the fingerguns. "And I appreciate you not fucking up."
He watched as a couple of the Ocelots unloaded the moaning, feverish scientist, and then ducked back into the Kamov, grinning wider, causing him to frown.
"Isaev," he muttered, snapping his head toward the smooth-faced Lieutenant. "What have you pediks done?"
Isaev was standing next to the sniper, his hands jammed into the deep pockets of his black field tunic.
"I didn't do anything, sir. Nor did Irinarhov. Or Charushkin. Or Bodokin. Or Naimushin."
Ocelot's lip curled into a sneer.
"I don't believe you."
"Really, sir. It was all Borishnakov."
"What was all Borishnakov?" muttered Ocelot, rubbing the tip of his gun against his forhead.
Isaev glanced at Irinarhov and shrugged, then pointed.
"That."