Andrei focused on the battered body before him, noticing the way the throat seemed bulged and misshapen. The adam's apple looked almost distended, the larynx moved too easily, and was crushed, his fingers found, palpating it lightly.
He'd felt that same collapsed mechanism between his fingers many times.
As a mercenary, he never killed in anger. It wasn't an act of hatred, nor sharp and vicious violence, but one of quiet, deliberate brutality, in measured amounts, applied with the utmost care and tenderness.
Anger was a different matter. Anger was the polar opposite of mercenary cold.
By now, Isaev had leveled his breath and his mood once more. It was not difficult for him- in fact, it was the natural progession of his wicked temper.
Strange, he knew his comrades thought, for one so insouciant and carelessly winsome as Andrei Isaev to have such volatile chips of flint embedded in his psyche. And truth be told, they were few and far between, almost negligent.
But the cosmonaut had unwittingly struck one, swinging his indiscriminate hammer of Id. A trigger to ignite a tinder empire.
Andrei knew the nature of his rage intimately, but only in hindsight. It was transient, but hot blue in its intensity. It burned molten and without conscience for a brief and searing moment, and then, as suddenly, dissipated into ether like a flock of birds, more often than not leaving him wry and contrite, and others with hollowed expressions of wordless and unsettled astonishment.
Unfortunately, while the resolution was swift and complete, the cold rage was equally complete, and with nothing to temper him, he often acted on visceral impulse alone, with no mind for the carnage in that instant.
Andrei's lip curved into a contemptuous smile, at his own expense.
He did not want to engage Irinarhov's gaze until he had found a way to dismiss his lashing out. It was altogether too unstudied and raw to be rational. The man's dark eyes were seeking him, and he knew it, but he couldn't let them penetrate his own. He couldn't risk that the Captain would learn something even he didn't know.
The corpse, that was safer. No piercing eyes or amateur psychological assessments from Mister Teddy Torso.
Isaev pressed his lips together, concentrating on breaking the rigor of the mandibular tendons.
He forced the jaw apart with probing fingers, revealing the end of something fleshy, jammed down deep, into the throat.
Lo and behold, Irinarhov was right.
"There is something in here," affirmed Isaev, curiously. "Something...organic."
That did not bode well, he thought grimly, his mind absently recalling hints and moments, the many 'message-sendings' he'd casually observed in his Kipling-styled adolescence.
Andrei worked to free the object from the corpse's mouth. It was lodged tight, and had no apparent wish to give up the cozening stricture of the neck cavity.
no subject
He'd felt that same collapsed mechanism between his fingers many times.
As a mercenary, he never killed in anger. It wasn't an act of hatred, nor sharp and vicious violence, but one of quiet, deliberate brutality, in measured amounts, applied with the utmost care and tenderness.
Anger was a different matter. Anger was the polar opposite of mercenary cold.
By now, Isaev had leveled his breath and his mood once more. It was not difficult for him- in fact, it was the natural progession of his wicked temper.
Strange, he knew his comrades thought, for one so insouciant and carelessly winsome as Andrei Isaev to have such volatile chips of flint embedded in his psyche. And truth be told, they were few and far between, almost negligent.
But the cosmonaut had unwittingly struck one, swinging his indiscriminate hammer of Id. A trigger to ignite a tinder empire.
Andrei knew the nature of his rage intimately, but only in hindsight. It was transient, but hot blue in its intensity. It burned molten and without conscience for a brief and searing moment, and then, as suddenly, dissipated into ether like a flock of birds, more often than not leaving him wry and contrite, and others with hollowed expressions of wordless and unsettled astonishment.
Unfortunately, while the resolution was swift and complete, the cold rage was equally complete, and with nothing to temper him, he often acted on visceral impulse alone, with no mind for the carnage in that instant.
Andrei's lip curved into a contemptuous smile, at his own expense.
He did not want to engage Irinarhov's gaze until he had found a way to dismiss his lashing out. It was altogether too unstudied and raw to be rational. The man's dark eyes were seeking him, and he knew it, but he couldn't let them penetrate his own. He couldn't risk that the Captain would learn something even he didn't know.
The corpse, that was safer. No piercing eyes or amateur psychological assessments from Mister Teddy Torso.
Isaev pressed his lips together, concentrating on breaking the rigor of the mandibular tendons.
He forced the jaw apart with probing fingers, revealing the end of something fleshy, jammed down deep, into the throat.
Lo and behold, Irinarhov was right.
"There is something in here," affirmed Isaev, curiously. "Something...organic."
That did not bode well, he thought grimly, his mind absently recalling hints and moments, the many 'message-sendings' he'd casually observed in his Kipling-styled adolescence.
Andrei worked to free the object from the corpse's mouth. It was lodged tight, and had no apparent wish to give up the cozening stricture of the neck cavity.
(con't)