Ocelot watched Irinarhov regain his ground, unflinching, stepping forward without hesitation.
A scowl gripped the Major's features. He was deeply unimpressed with the Fury's passive-aggressive strike. That would have to be addressed, remedied to everyone's satisfaction.
"If you're not interested in being part of the solution, maybe you should run along," he said, sneering. "And let us clean up the mess."
He kept his glacial blue gaze leveled at the Fury.
But it was Isaev who drew his immediate attention.
The lieutenant's back went stiff and stark beneath his striped telnyashka, broad shoulders peaking taut.
Ocelot caught a glimpse of Isaev's eyes as he raised his head. Narrowed, intense.
It was an expression Ocelot didn't like to see on him unless he was executing a deliberate mission.
"Touch Kasya again, and you won't live to regret it," Isaev said, in a low, even tone.
"Save it for wetwork, Isaev," Ocelot snapped, coolly, stepping forward. His eyes avoided the corpse.
Isaev's eyes were fixed on the Fury, or rather, on the faceless visage of smoked glass.
"I jack off on your mother's cross, cosmonaut."
A soft slap of solid flesh, as Ocelot pistol-checked him lightly, lingeringly, across the jaw.
"I said," Ocelot said quietly, frowning. "Leave it, Lieutenant."
Isaev's head snapped responsively to the side, hair wrapping over his eyes. It was more instinct to avoid the impact than the actual force of the blow.
When he righted himself a second later, he was breathing evenly, face a mask of neutral chagrin.
"Pardon me, Major," he said, calmly.
The bisque of his cheek had gone briefly white and red from the slap of the barrel, fading now back into nothing.
Ocelot felt a momentary pang of distaste. He didn't like sending messages like that to his own men, but occasionally it was the only recourse. Like willful animals, soldiers like his needed to be kept in line.
Lt. Isaev's specialty, while inarguably useful, required that he not be allowed to escalate physically in any loaded altercation.
Fortunately, his general nature made these kinds of occasions an anomaly, but Ocelot was determined to nip them in the bud when they reared their little non-sequitur hydra heads.
Ocelot turned toward the Fury, frowing, crossing his arms.
"The Lieutenant's anger is justified, although he speaks out of turn." He paused, tilting his head. "Keep your distance from my sniper, and all of my men. Or we'll have ourselves a real problem. Volgin will be here soon, however. Perhaps you'd like to deal with him."
He paused, smirking.
"Vladislaus."
He turned back to Isaev, no residual anger in his tone.
"The mouth," he said, indicating it with his gun. "Look inside."
Andrei obliged, fingers working open the faceless maw, carefully avoiding the eyes of the assembled.
"What were you thinking to find, Captain?"
His tone was modulated, measured and set. Almost pleasant once more.
no subject
A scowl gripped the Major's features. He was deeply unimpressed with the Fury's passive-aggressive strike. That would have to be addressed, remedied to everyone's satisfaction.
"If you're not interested in being part of the solution, maybe you should run along," he said, sneering. "And let us clean up the mess."
He kept his glacial blue gaze leveled at the Fury.
But it was Isaev who drew his immediate attention.
The lieutenant's back went stiff and stark beneath his striped telnyashka, broad shoulders peaking taut.
Ocelot caught a glimpse of Isaev's eyes as he raised his head. Narrowed, intense.
It was an expression Ocelot didn't like to see on him unless he was executing a deliberate mission.
"Touch Kasya again, and you won't live to regret it," Isaev said, in a low, even tone.
"Save it for wetwork, Isaev," Ocelot snapped, coolly, stepping forward. His eyes avoided the corpse.
Isaev's eyes were fixed on the Fury, or rather, on the faceless visage of smoked glass.
"I jack off on your mother's cross, cosmonaut."
A soft slap of solid flesh, as Ocelot pistol-checked him lightly, lingeringly, across the jaw.
"I said," Ocelot said quietly, frowning. "Leave it, Lieutenant."
Isaev's head snapped responsively to the side, hair wrapping over his eyes. It was more instinct to avoid the impact than the actual force of the blow.
When he righted himself a second later, he was breathing evenly, face a mask of neutral chagrin.
"Pardon me, Major," he said, calmly.
The bisque of his cheek had gone briefly white and red from the slap of the barrel, fading now back into nothing.
Ocelot felt a momentary pang of distaste. He didn't like sending messages like that to his own men, but occasionally it was the only recourse. Like willful animals, soldiers like his needed to be kept in line.
Lt. Isaev's specialty, while inarguably useful, required that he not be allowed to escalate physically in any loaded altercation.
Fortunately, his general nature made these kinds of occasions an anomaly, but Ocelot was determined to nip them in the bud when they reared their little non-sequitur hydra heads.
Ocelot turned toward the Fury, frowing, crossing his arms.
"The Lieutenant's anger is justified, although he speaks out of turn." He paused, tilting his head. "Keep your distance from my sniper, and all of my men. Or we'll have ourselves a real problem. Volgin will be here soon, however. Perhaps you'd like to deal with him."
He paused, smirking.
"Vladislaus."
He turned back to Isaev, no residual anger in his tone.
"The mouth," he said, indicating it with his gun. "Look inside."
Andrei obliged, fingers working open the faceless maw, carefully avoiding the eyes of the assembled.
"What were you thinking to find, Captain?"
His tone was modulated, measured and set. Almost pleasant once more.