He said nothing, reaching for his gun and letting it spin on his careless hand, waiting to see if the Fury would actually deign to answer the Captain's very good question, the one he always assumed it was futile to ask.
Perhaps assumptions came too quickly. He idly appraised Irinarhov with a frown of satisfaction.
He had a kind of jaded sentience that worked to his advantage. Knew when to shut up, but broke that rule when he felt like it, and Adam could hardly begrudge that, even when it seemed contrary to subordination.
As he often did when studying the motivations of his elders, Ocelot found himself wondering why one man could go through hell and have his mind snap like a twig, whereas another could emerge relatively unscathed- functionally, at least.
He couldn't vouch for Irinarhov's emotional psyche, but his service was exemplary. His hands didn't fucking shake when he held his rifle, he didn't need pills to steady so he could sight. He might not have lit up the squad with his sunny disposition the first day of his assignment, but clearly he'd fallen in line without much friction.
Ocelot liked his unquestioning loyalty when it was called for, but he was equally pleased by the idea that the Captain was not a mindless automaton. If his experience told him something was unwise, he would in all likelyhood broach the subject, regardless of Ocelot's mood at the time.
His spontaneous adress of the hovering, glowering spaceman had proven that much.
Ocelot glanced at the Captain.
"Glad you went into ground forces, aren't you?" he remarked, obliquely, puntuating this with a snort.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-01-14 11:23 am (UTC)He said nothing, reaching for his gun and letting it spin on his careless hand, waiting to see if the Fury would actually deign to answer the Captain's very good question, the one he always assumed it was futile to ask.
Perhaps assumptions came too quickly. He idly appraised Irinarhov with a frown of satisfaction.
He had a kind of jaded sentience that worked to his advantage. Knew when to shut up, but broke that rule when he felt like it, and Adam could hardly begrudge that, even when it seemed contrary to subordination.
As he often did when studying the motivations of his elders, Ocelot found himself wondering why one man could go through hell and have his mind snap like a twig, whereas another could emerge relatively unscathed- functionally, at least.
He couldn't vouch for Irinarhov's emotional psyche, but his service was exemplary. His hands didn't fucking shake when he held his rifle, he didn't need pills to steady so he could sight. He might not have lit up the squad with his sunny disposition the first day of his assignment, but clearly he'd fallen in line without much friction.
Ocelot liked his unquestioning loyalty when it was called for, but he was equally pleased by the idea that the Captain was not a mindless automaton. If his experience told him something was unwise, he would in all likelyhood broach the subject, regardless of Ocelot's mood at the time.
His spontaneous adress of the hovering, glowering spaceman had proven that much.
Ocelot glanced at the Captain.
"Glad you went into ground forces, aren't you?" he remarked, obliquely, puntuating this with a snort.