Isaev studied the body without speaking for a long moment, willfully dissociating his mind from the carnage of what he was viewing.
Several things raised red flags, and not intuitive ones. Experiential ones.
The Fury, though he spoke in rash outrage, wasn't far wrong with his guess.
Beside him, Kassian observed the corpse with an almost poetic solemnity. Unflappable and stoic, in all things, though Isaev could read his brooding better now- there was a detached and careless sympathy as well. The mark of a man who knew how to separate himself from what happened around him, yet still regret that it did.
Isaev was keenly aware of the scarf around his neck when he looked at Irinarhov, who looked far more somber in black, lacking the crimson accessory. Almost like a weary priest.
The sniper's neck was bare, slightly rough with shadow, his adam's apple curving from his throat like a masculine jetty in a single wave.
It was preferable to look at that. Unfortunately, his eyes were inexorably drawn back to the broken doll.
Cindercoats, he thought. Another fairy tale crushed by the grim and gritty reality of Sovetskayja.
"Lt. Isaev." Major Ocelot was standing off to one side, body angled away, twirling his guns almost pathologically, regarding the charred and contorted corpse with an oblique look of repulsed disdain.
"Major," he acknowledged, dutiful but apprehensive.
"...Your take."
Andrei kept his eyes on the body.
"She was dead before the fire," he said, flatly. "And probably before the explosion."
From where he stood, that was all he could say with any certainty. Any more would be speculation.
The Major didn't ask how he knew, and Isaev hadn't expected him to, though he could have told him in detail.
When he looked up, Ocelot's eyes were fixed on him with a solar intensity.
"Andrei," he said, pointedly. No more than that.
Isaev nodded reluctantly.
"Yes, Major," he said.
While Ocelot had extended him the pithy diplomacy of demanding his assessment without mentioning how Isaev came by his considerable unsavory expertise, he wouldn't allow him to feign ignorance of forensics. Though he'd never used it against him, the Major knew his dossier all too well.
Most of it could be easily explained through his tradecraft. Bare handed assassins learned a lot about coverage, staging, telltale signs of killing methods. They learned about rigor and tensile strength. And he'd certainly taken a good deal of forensics in his tracking instruction.
He knelt down beside the covered and smoking remains, then realized he was barehanded.
"Captain," he said quietly, without meeting the sniper's eyes. "Can I have your gloves?"
Irinarhov obliged without hesitation, and Isaev could see him in his peripheral vision, the action automatic and unquestioning, as he stripped them off and laid them carefully across Andrei's palm.
"Spashiba Kasya," he murmured, letting his brows lower over his eyes as he pulled them on.
They were slightly snug, but well worn enough to span his larger hands.
He nodded perfunctorily to Lieutenant Io, picking up the edge of his field jacket and lifting it from the corpse.
The shape barely resembled a human as much as a deformed and blackened starfish. A dead spider, on its back.
He leaned over, gingerly scanning for any signs of trauma or residual tissue.
no subject
Several things raised red flags, and not intuitive ones. Experiential ones.
The Fury, though he spoke in rash outrage, wasn't far wrong with his guess.
Beside him, Kassian observed the corpse with an almost poetic solemnity. Unflappable and stoic, in all things, though Isaev could read his brooding better now- there was a detached and careless sympathy as well. The mark of a man who knew how to separate himself from what happened around him, yet still regret that it did.
Isaev was keenly aware of the scarf around his neck when he looked at Irinarhov, who looked far more somber in black, lacking the crimson accessory. Almost like a weary priest.
The sniper's neck was bare, slightly rough with shadow, his adam's apple curving from his throat like a masculine jetty in a single wave.
It was preferable to look at that. Unfortunately, his eyes were inexorably drawn back to the broken doll.
Cindercoats, he thought. Another fairy tale crushed by the grim and gritty reality of Sovetskayja.
"Lt. Isaev." Major Ocelot was standing off to one side, body angled away, twirling his guns almost pathologically, regarding the charred and contorted corpse with an oblique look of repulsed disdain.
"Major," he acknowledged, dutiful but apprehensive.
"...Your take."
Andrei kept his eyes on the body.
"She was dead before the fire," he said, flatly. "And probably before the explosion."
From where he stood, that was all he could say with any certainty. Any more would be speculation.
The Major didn't ask how he knew, and Isaev hadn't expected him to, though he could have told him in detail.
When he looked up, Ocelot's eyes were fixed on him with a solar intensity.
"Andrei," he said, pointedly. No more than that.
Isaev nodded reluctantly.
"Yes, Major," he said.
While Ocelot had extended him the pithy diplomacy of demanding his assessment without mentioning how Isaev came by his considerable unsavory expertise, he wouldn't allow him to feign ignorance of forensics. Though he'd never used it against him, the Major knew his dossier all too well.
Most of it could be easily explained through his tradecraft. Bare handed assassins learned a lot about coverage, staging, telltale signs of killing methods. They learned about rigor and tensile strength. And he'd certainly taken a good deal of forensics in his tracking instruction.
He knelt down beside the covered and smoking remains, then realized he was barehanded.
"Captain," he said quietly, without meeting the sniper's eyes. "Can I have your gloves?"
Irinarhov obliged without hesitation, and Isaev could see him in his peripheral vision, the action automatic and unquestioning, as he stripped them off and laid them carefully across Andrei's palm.
"Spashiba Kasya," he murmured, letting his brows lower over his eyes as he pulled them on.
They were slightly snug, but well worn enough to span his larger hands.
He nodded perfunctorily to Lieutenant Io, picking up the edge of his field jacket and lifting it from the corpse.
The shape barely resembled a human as much as a deformed and blackened starfish. A dead spider, on its back.
He leaned over, gingerly scanning for any signs of trauma or residual tissue.