Isaev’s threat only made the cosmonaut laugh. The boy perused his anger with lethal conviction, but it was nothing more than a game to the Fury. A game that he never grew tired of, lacking rules or the constraints of sanity. “Andrusha,” he taunted, “You make such horrible threats, and I thought we were beyond all of that. Do your worst if you must, and I will do the same.”
A few of the flame soldiers snickered, knowing that there would be no hope for the Ocelot lieutenant if their commander was truly intent on destroying him. Still, they remained aloof and at ease; the tone was still taunting, not deadly serious. Not yet.
“You,” he gestured toward Kassian, “have much better control over your temper than your young comrade. How unfortunate. I commend you.”
Isaev showed potential though, and he made a mental note of that. Pausing to gather his thoughts, he shut his eyes and pondered what to do next. Midnight role call, all units and patrols, as soon as the news reached Volgin. It was the only logical step to deduce who was missing in some vain attempt to identify the body.
And there was Krauss to deal with. The cowardly son of a bitch was probably lurking somewhere in the crowd. Let hum lurk, then. The Fury could not will himself to care about the dead body, not knowing that it was some soldier who simply happened to keep the wrong sort of company.
If Krauss killed him in some sick fetish game, all the better. It was becoming clearer and clearer that whoever he had been, he deserved it, at least in the cosmonaut’s twisted mind.
And in the next breath, Andrei Isaev insulted his mother, and the Fury opened his eyes.
His mother’s cross…
He realized then and there, standing among the ashes of the burned out greenhouse, that he could not recall what his mother looked like, no matter how hard he tried. Memories were vague and fleeting at best; birthdays and early mornings, bright and golden with sunlight and potential. All of his memories reached the same result: the fire, how it glowed white hot. He distinctly remembered watching the fire lick its way along the blue wallpaper in his bedroom as a child, the smell of burning wood and the heat, and he had shut his eyes so tightly and hid under the blankets, hoping to be spared. Begging with it. Pleading with it.
And when he opened them again, the doctors at the hospital spoke of how lucky he was to be alive, and in the next moment, that the house fire had killed his sisters, his father, and his mother, and he was an orphan, all alone in the world. Their lab coats rose up and up, until they became ghosts, hovering in the sterile room. Watching him with their terrible black eyes.
But he could not remember what his mother looked like. Whenever he tried to call the image to mind, it was always blurry and distorted, as though looking at an old photograph through a pitcher of water. Gradually, the picture recreated itself over the years in his mind, until the memory of his mother looked exactly like Voyevoda.
The Fury was dimly aware that he had drawn his flamethrower and had Isaev and Kassian well within striking distance as they examined the cadaver. Gradually, he realized that the Krasnogorje patrol had fallen into formation behind him, ready to kill the entire Ocelot squad on his orders.
The Major was talking, but he couldn’t make out the words through the feedback of static from mission control.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-01-20 07:39 pm (UTC)A few of the flame soldiers snickered, knowing that there would be no hope for the Ocelot lieutenant if their commander was truly intent on destroying him. Still, they remained aloof and at ease; the tone was still taunting, not deadly serious. Not yet.
“You,” he gestured toward Kassian, “have much better control over your temper than your young comrade. How unfortunate. I commend you.”
Isaev showed potential though, and he made a mental note of that. Pausing to gather his thoughts, he shut his eyes and pondered what to do next. Midnight role call, all units and patrols, as soon as the news reached Volgin. It was the only logical step to deduce who was missing in some vain attempt to identify the body.
And there was Krauss to deal with. The cowardly son of a bitch was probably lurking somewhere in the crowd. Let hum lurk, then. The Fury could not will himself to care about the dead body, not knowing that it was some soldier who simply happened to keep the wrong sort of company.
If Krauss killed him in some sick fetish game, all the better. It was becoming clearer and clearer that whoever he had been, he deserved it, at least in the cosmonaut’s twisted mind.
And in the next breath, Andrei Isaev insulted his mother, and the Fury opened his eyes.
His mother’s cross…
He realized then and there, standing among the ashes of the burned out greenhouse, that he could not recall what his mother looked like, no matter how hard he tried. Memories were vague and fleeting at best; birthdays and early mornings, bright and golden with sunlight and potential. All of his memories reached the same result: the fire, how it glowed white hot. He distinctly remembered watching the fire lick its way along the blue wallpaper in his bedroom as a child, the smell of burning wood and the heat, and he had shut his eyes so tightly and hid under the blankets, hoping to be spared. Begging with it. Pleading with it.
And when he opened them again, the doctors at the hospital spoke of how lucky he was to be alive, and in the next moment, that the house fire had killed his sisters, his father, and his mother, and he was an orphan, all alone in the world. Their lab coats rose up and up, until they became ghosts, hovering in the sterile room. Watching him with their terrible black eyes.
But he could not remember what his mother looked like. Whenever he tried to call the image to mind, it was always blurry and distorted, as though looking at an old photograph through a pitcher of water. Gradually, the picture recreated itself over the years in his mind, until the memory of his mother looked exactly like Voyevoda.
The Fury was dimly aware that he had drawn his flamethrower and had Isaev and Kassian well within striking distance as they examined the cadaver. Gradually, he realized that the Krasnogorje patrol had fallen into formation behind him, ready to kill the entire Ocelot squad on his orders.
The Major was talking, but he couldn’t make out the words through the feedback of static from mission control.