Ocelot took the bullet and closed his palm around it.
It was warm. Even through the kid leather of his gloves, he could feel it. A little more heat, a little more power. and Volgin could have discharged it. It was one of his favorite parlor tricks, using the conduits in his gloves to fire off live shells as he held them between his fingers.
Impressive, but inaccurate.
Although not as much accuracy was needed, with five shots coming off at once.
Ocelot had been riled over Krauss and thoughts of the Cuban question, but his concern turned abruptly toward more localized matters when he noticed the Colonel making love to Ivan's brass nameplate like a schoolgirl drawing hearts in the margins in of her history book.
That had unsettled him, shot his mind back to the night before, and how he could have used that nameplate to remind him who he was dealing with and what kind of trouble he was imagineering for himself by being a randy young bastard.
But nothing had quite prepared him for Volgin's graciously blithe offer to let him vivisect and snuff his own comrades.
Despite his love of guns, Ocelot had no great love of torture. It hardly seemed sporting, and it always made him queasy. He attended when required. Only Ivan got exemptions from the most cherished part of Volgin's work. Ocelot always wondered why, if the Colonel was so enamored of his own freakish abilities and punishing fists.
Volgin claimed it was an acquired taste.
"Give me a year," he said, in his oddly fond way. "I'll make a Russian out of you yet."
By Russian, of course, the Colonel meant sadist, but the Colonel rarely considered encompassing conceptual words like that unless that unless they were taught to him by Raikov.
The Major always had his shapely nose in some book or another, when it wasn't being dragged off behind his cock like the rest of his body, like an old woman with a bear on a leash.
Ocelot managed a smirk.
"Thank you, Colonel, but I trust you to deal with Krauss and Granin in your inimitable way. Provided, of course, that there actually is anything going on."
There was always the possibility, however slight, that Krauss' perfidy didn't extend to dreams of taking over Groznyj Grad.
But Ocelot doubted it, with well-worn skepticism.
"The Fatherland will always find it's match in the Motherland, Colonel, and her sons."
no subject
It was warm. Even through the kid leather of his gloves, he could feel it. A little more heat, a little more power. and Volgin could have discharged it. It was one of his favorite parlor tricks, using the conduits in his gloves to fire off live shells as he held them between his fingers.
Impressive, but inaccurate.
Although not as much accuracy was needed, with five shots coming off at once.
Ocelot had been riled over Krauss and thoughts of the Cuban question, but his concern turned abruptly toward more localized matters when he noticed the Colonel making love to Ivan's brass nameplate like a schoolgirl drawing hearts in the margins in of her history book.
That had unsettled him, shot his mind back to the night before, and how he could have used that nameplate to remind him who he was dealing with and what kind of trouble he was imagineering for himself by being a randy young bastard.
But nothing had quite prepared him for Volgin's graciously blithe offer to let him vivisect and snuff his own comrades.
Despite his love of guns, Ocelot had no great love of torture. It hardly seemed sporting, and it always made him queasy. He attended when required. Only Ivan got exemptions from the most cherished part of Volgin's work. Ocelot always wondered why, if the Colonel was so enamored of his own freakish abilities and punishing fists.
Volgin claimed it was an acquired taste.
"Give me a year," he said, in his oddly fond way. "I'll make a Russian out of you yet."
By Russian, of course, the Colonel meant sadist, but the Colonel rarely considered encompassing conceptual words like that unless that unless they were taught to him by Raikov.
The Major always had his shapely nose in some book or another, when it wasn't being dragged off behind his cock like the rest of his body, like an old woman with a bear on a leash.
Ocelot managed a smirk.
"Thank you, Colonel, but I trust you to deal with Krauss and Granin in your inimitable way. Provided, of course, that there actually is anything going on."
There was always the possibility, however slight, that Krauss' perfidy didn't extend to dreams of taking over Groznyj Grad.
But Ocelot doubted it, with well-worn skepticism.
"The Fatherland will always find it's match in the Motherland, Colonel, and her sons."