Resnik's Rather Neat Living Space

Not much to tell about this one window, two room apartment. The living area is furnished with a single couch, overstuffed (unmatching) chair, no television; the dining room blends with the room, also sparsely littered with furniture. A white, small round table with two bar stools sits next to the only window in the room, which casts it light onto a stainless steel kitchen and bar.

A dividing wall with a set of doors in the center separates the bedroom from all the rest. In the middle of the room is an enormous king bed, covered in a multitude of blankets and comforters, nothing at all as neat as the rest of the apartment. The covers are of a riot of colour, bright blues and brilliant oranges, yellow and indigo vying for attention in an otherwise lackluster room.

The walk-in closet is filled with practically nothing.

There is a small television located on the wall across from the bathroom, which is itself orderly and plain. A white walk-in shower, with stainless steel shower heads circling the rather large , glass enclosed space, is against the far wall, a white marble vanity taking up most of the rest of the room. A tiny closet for sundries and towels is located behind the door.

No pictures adorn the walls, no plants sit in corners, nothing out of place or messy. The temperature is cold, and it is an apartment almost sterile in the vacancy of its contents.

Shuffling around the Chechen, the woman unlocks her unmarked door and drags him inside the cool, uninspiring room. The door is closed and locked behind them, and she urges him to the center of the room. A blued switchblade suddenly flicks open from nowhere, sliding through the ropes binding him, cutting free his ragged wrists. She snicks it closed, whereupon she simply leaves him, heading for the bedroom and stripping out of her boots as she walked.

It was odd, that this woman was so certain he wouldn't attempt to flee, but hell, what was it to her if he did?

She rustles around in her room for a bit, and a few seconds later, she returns with something she knows he is happy to see: an ax, well kept and equally sharp. He would want this, and she is inclined to give it to him - what was she going to do with it? - but she wanted something from him first.

Drogomir allows himself a rare distraction as the woman pulls him from the laboratory room and into her own. That other woman, the one that was talking to the crazy scientist, there was something off about her. Perhaps she would provide an opportunity for him to escape. Even the thought of the prospect was dull at this point. A nagging feeling in the back of his head told the Chechen that if that stray thought turned out to be true, it was probably a ruse for the scientist to get a giggle out of yet another failed escape attempt.

Dwelling on the inevitable, the assassin hardly notices when the woman cuts his bonds. Without thought, he rubs absently at his bloody wrists. Eliska had been correct; the Chechen didn't even look toward the door. He didn't care what he was doing in this room; he didn't care what the woman was planning on doing with him. It was all so inconsequential, it almost made him laugh. His head remained down, but his pale eyes flicked around the room, taking in its sterility through locks of thick greasy hair. Its contents, and lack-thereof, didn't surprise him in the slightest. It was as empty of real content as him.

As Eliska reemerged from the next room, Drogomir finally lifts his head, brushing his fingers through his black hair to clear his sight. He blinks as he spots his ax in the woman's hands. He thought it had been lost in the fiery blaze, his only companion. His teeth clench, pulling his scars tight across his face. He tries to pull back that sudden sprig of emotion, knowing that it would not only give the woman leverage over him, but it could also rouse much more dangerous beasts bound deep inside him. However, when his eyes meet hers, it's clear that he didn't completely succeed. He loathed himself for that. He knew this woman well enough to know she wanted something. She cared nothing for sentiment, and she sure as hell wouldn't do something just to be "kind". And now she could see he wanted that finely honed blade, probably more than life itself, right now.

"What are we doing here, hmm?" His voice was hoarse, more so than usual. It emphasized how sickly underweight he really was. The darkness under his eyes, the hollows under his cheeks, he was more than just one foot in the grave. "Let's not waste time dancing." He arches an eyebrow and smiles humorlessly, eyes gleaming with a predatory light.

Ah. There is was. Emotion. He hated it, the feeling, and she could tell he hated even more knowing she saw it. Her fingers curled around the shaft of the ax, gripping it slightly before uncurling her calloused hand, repeating the process in a rhythmic fashion, almost an unconscious motion that continued until she sighed through barely parted lips.

He is thin and malnourished and incredibly close to death even now, but it didn’t matter. There is a fire in him she’d seen before, and there is a pull to it she can’t ignore. It is an itch she can’t help but scratch; she wants to prod him into it. Perhaps it something familiar to her, this feeling, but she can’t remember the last time she actually thought about it. He is different from her old Jap partner, the arrogant narcissist that routinely caused her more problems than the fucking devil, and this difference interested her.

She isn’t intrigued.  

He is available.

Her cool blue eyes took him in, met his gaze, and she knew, knew from experience, that he was a dangerous man, but she has met many dangerous men. He wants something, and so does she, so the dangerous part of him is tamed.

Most likely not for long.

She approaches him, then enters his personal space, so close they are almost touching. Her eyes flit to the scar on his face, the one over his lips, and then her fingers begin to trace the outline she sees, trailing over his lower lip, down his chin. This isn’t a lover’s touch, nor does it seem in any way intimate; it is a touch devoid of anything other than cold curiosity. At the same time, the hand clutching his ax slowly slides the weapon into his fingers, oddly giving him what he wanted just as she spoke aloud her request.

”This one. Tell me.”

Drogomir stood stock still as the woman approached, ax in hand.  His only movement was the narrowing of his eyes as she reached out to run her hand along his head.  Every muscle in his body was wound so tight, it was amazing they didn't simply snap.  She can feel his cheek twitch under her fingers and his pale gaze bores into hers with a feral intensity.  One wrong slip of her hand and he would be on her.

The focus of his gaze changes as Eliska speaks, and his fingers slowly close around the haft of his ax.  People did not ask questions of the assassin's past.  "When I was young, the Red Army marched across my people's land, razing the towns and leaving nothing but destruction and death in their wake."  His hoarse voice made his native language sound almost gutteral.  "I was captured by a unit of these jackals, to be marched along as their entertainment while they destroyed my people.  For some reason, one officer had brought his family with him on the campaign.  Apparently, rape and murder were suitable acts for women and children to view."  His words were thick with disgust, but his voice remained strangely neutral and unfeeling.  "The officer's son took an interest in me; we were of similar age.  The boy was cruel, and enjoyed tripping me while we marched, or feeding my meager rations to the dogs in front of me."

As he told his story, Drogomir completely removed the ax from Eliska's fingers.  Slowly, he began to slide it up between them, until the tip of its blade was just below the arch of the woman's ribcage.  He didn't touch her with it, and, quite possibly, he had moved slow enough that she may not have noticed its new, more threatening, location.  "One day, the officer's son decided I was too pretty.  Perhaps one of his sister's told him I was more handsome than he.  He called four soldiers over, one for each of my limbs, and had them hold me down in the early spring mud.  He found a stick, end ragged from being ripped from a limb.  With a gleeful smile, he took that stick in his chubby pink hand and dug it into my face."  His free hand slide up between them, and he drug it lightly along the woman's face, starting not where she had first placed her own hand, but from her forehead down toward her eye.  "From here...to here." His fingers drug down her jaw, then he traced vertically over her lip.  "And here. He left my eye, so I could see his work."

His hand dropped, and he pressed the tip of his ax against the woman's skin.  "He was more merciful than me when I escaped."  Was there a hint of a threat in that statement?  It was impossible to tell, his voice was utterly emotionless, and his eyes revealed nothing.

This is the most he has spoken since she'd met him. It was oddly a...well, a thing she wanted to hear. His voice, she knew the sounds of neutrality that always dripped from his lips, but there was something else in his words that gave her pause. He had been tortured, so what? At the hands of a child? No big deal. But the part about his homeland...that part he'd shown the greatest disgust for. There is a hatred underneath it all,she is almost certain. No man can be dead inside, no man can live off nothing. There is still something worming its way around his heart, and it showed - ever so slightly - when he speaks of himself.

The ax is on her.

He has a choice.

She has already made hers.

She leans into the ax, the movement barely noticeable aside from the pressure now placed on the sharp edge. The long, scarred fingers of her right hand move to his waist, and slowly, deliberately, she runs them under his untucked shirt, gliding them along pale, cool skin until she reaches a scar, thick and knotted, cutting across his chest. She allows her fingers to follow the curve of it, but her eyes, they do not wander. They hold his grey gaze, that flat stare, and they finally show a bit of light, a curiosity born of boredom and desire, though a desire for what is entirely up for debate.

"And this?

She is pushing her luck, she knows it, but doesn't want to back down. He is being accommodating, and she wants to push him past that point, wants to see if he will continue his explanations, or lash out, or perhaps simply leave. The choice is entirely up to him, of course. Thus far, he had chosen to remain, had chosen to stay, even though his beloved ax was now in his hand. He could have walked away, but he is still standing not a hair's breadth away, and some part of her wants to know why

She was close, so very close. And she had even done Drogomir the kindness of leaning directly onto his ax, all the while placing her hand in a position that he could lock down with hardly an effort. She was either foolish or overconfident, or both. Perhaps she was suicidal... The Chechen cared not why the woman had placed herself in such a compromised position, only that she had. He pushes in just a little further with the ax, just enough that a tiny trickle of blood should begin to wander down her stomach. The assassin continues to hold her gaze, allowing her fingers to wander where they will.

"That is from a man who thought he could sneak into my prison cell and cut my throat while I slept in my bunk." He arches an eyebrow behind his mat of hair. "He very nearly succeeded. I later forced him to swallow a razor blade and watched as it tore him apart from the inside..." At his last word, he acts. With a swiftness born of repetition, he pulls the ax down diagonally, pressing with enough force to open the woman all the way to her organs. At the bottom of his pull, he whips the weapon up for a backhand slash across the woman's face, the motion blindingly fast. If the woman reacted too slowly, more than just her skull would be opened to the world. The was the Chechen's craft, and his skill with the blade could not be denied.

[[OOC-feel free to negate at any point during his actions]]

They weren't so terribly different, no matter the outward appearances, although to be fair, they both looked like hell. His words brought back a sudden memory of a back alley and a scuffle that resulted in her chest being opened up like a can of tuna. Why that would hit her so hard now, she wasn't ready to speculate on, particularly since her new friend had decided to pounce. Finally.

She whips away from him, her preternatural speed dancing her out of harm's way, though not enough to get away unscathed. His upswing misses my a hair, and instead of throwing a punch his way, she simply side-steps, backs away only a foot or so, still well within range of his deadly ax. The only thing that had saved her was her reaction time; she'd felt more than seen his move, felt the pressure increase just that much more, and it told her all she needed to know. She is now to his side, a single step between them, and as though nothing had happened, she reaches out to point to another scar, this one on his shoulder.

"This one."

A small line of red was running down her stomach, and her free hand smeared it away, leaving a painted swath of scarlet over her milky skin.


[[*insert scar here* if there isn't one on his shoulder. I couldn't remember and I am lazy. Sorry.]]

It was starting to break him, this constant inadequacy. He had not been this helpless since he was a child. He always held the upper hand. His speed was always superior, his acrobatics above any foe. And now, not one, but at least three people had easily controlled him. His life had been devoted to becoming quicker and more clever than the most worthy adversary. All for nothing. Nothing. He didn't bother to turn and face the woman that had evaded his viper-fast strike. Instead, her stared blankly ahead at the empty space where she had stood a split second prior, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly. His hand holding the ax dropped and he held his beloved weapon loosely.

"I am responsible for that one. That same Red Army brat thought it would be amusing to have a hammer and sickle tattooed into my skin. I rid myself of it by rubbing my shoulder against the bark of whatever tree I was tied against every night, until the skin was a shredded wreck."

He glanced sideways through his greasy locks at the woman. "Is there a point to this?"

There was less fight in him now. It confused her. Her mind can;t wrap around the thought of being beaten down, or being upset over loss. Did it matter, in the grand scheme, if she felt poorly because of some situation she found herself in?

No.

So why did he fucking bother?

His words caused her head to tilt, as though pondering on something particularly important, but in actuality, it was a gesture she'd picked up from her father years ago, a gesture that meant "I'm curious, do go on". Her assassin friend wouldn't know that, which was made obvious by his last remark.

She slides towards him then, snaking around his back, touching him lightly with the fingertips of one hand, their cold caress halting at another scar.

"Always a point."

She reverts back to her native tongue until she realizes what she'd said. Tracing over the scar beneath his shirt, she answers in English.

"Do you like the kill, or is it thing you just do?"

He stiffens once more at her approach, and even further at her touch. This touching, caressing, it was unexpected and not entirely welcome. The ax in his hand twitches, but he doesn't raise it. If he was going to have a chance, she had to be so much closer. Her question was odd to him.

"Do you imagine I like it?" The barest hint of curiosity touched his voice. If she could probe, well, then so could he. Though he imagined he would be about as successful with the attempt as he had been at removing her face.

She hals directly behind him, her fingers still splayed out over his back, tracing a scar. His words caused her to frown; imagine it? Maybe. He is ready for another strike, and another blow, yet here he is, standing, straining against a barrier he has placed upon himself. Choice, again. He can choose to leave, choose to attack, yet he chooses to remain. That interests her.

She steps closer, so that her body rides up against his.

"I think some part of that boy, it remains. That boy that killed his master."

She leans in, her lips beside his ear.

"That boy killed to be free. For revenge. I don't think that boy is dead."

Was she trying to seduce him? He wasn't quite sure. In any event, she was so close that surely she couldn't evade a strike. Was the part of him that killed that Soviet boy dead? Could any part of a man truly just die? Did it even matter? Likely not. Drogomir wasn't one for deep philosophical considerations. Upon feeling her lips against his ear, the Chechen acts, slamming his head sideways to attempt to catch her jaw and jabbing and elbow back sharply.

He spins into her, taking that same arm that had elbowed her and jabbing his palm up under her chin, if it was still there. Something had to hit. It had to hit.

There it is. That last resort thing he goes to, the attack. She had been expecting it, but allowed her jaw to be rocked and the elbow to connect, albeit slightly less as she moved just far enough back for the blow to catch her, but not knock the wind from her. The joint scrapes over the thin wound left by his ax, causing an inadvertent hiss to escape her parted lips.

The palm however...the hand she catches.

By reflex alone, her fingers snatch the sticking palm from the air, holding it just below her face, one now red from contact with his own. She must have bitten her lip in the first exchange, and bright red ran from the cut down her chin. Her grip is that of a vise, strong enough to break bone, and she doesn't see to be releasing it any time soon.

She stares at him, no move to retaliate, and doesn't let go his wrist. She stands there, bleeding from two points now, and all she can think of is how that cold part of her is saying to just walk away, that this is going nowhere. But another part, some small part that she rarely listens to, tell her to stay.

"I'm one of your stories now."

They were close, faces inches apart as she holds his wrist. His lips curl back to reveal pale teeth as his pale eyes bore into hers. His ear rang from the solid contact he had made with her face. He had hit her. Not hard, not enough to do real damage, but it was something. He pulls his wrist away with just enough force to determine her strength, and pushes his body forward, hoping to force her back a step.

"Dead men tell no tales, or so I hear." He is so close, she can feel his breath on her face. He pushes back again, hoping to drive her another step back. "In any case, you aren't dead yet. You are not a story until your last breath is given up." He twists his hand around, pitting the strength of his arm against that of her wrist. But the ax continues to hang at his side, unused, small droplets of blood spattering the floor under it.

She licks her lips, feeling the sting as her tongue traces over the split in her lower lip, before ever so slightly smiling at him. She moves with him taking that first step back, be retains her hold on his arm. Then the second step came, and once more, she moves with him, suddenly pliable aside from his hand.

Her grip is undeniable. It would take a crowbar and ten men to release its hold.

He is close enough now that she can see every detail of his face, and those pale eyes that always seem so lifeless appeared to have some life in them after all. She leans forward as he speaks, feeling his breath on her lips. The brawler knows the ax is still there, knows it can be brought back into play, but it remains at his side yet a little while longer.

"Are you trying to make me one of your stories?

His eyebrow comes up with her question, pulling the scars tight across his face. Finally, he raises his ax, but slowly, not to attack. He places its edge against the woman's temple, utterly confident that she won't move away. She lived on the edge, always on the point of utter ruin. ...and it thrilled her. It was an interesting contrast to most of his previous victims. They cried, they soiled themselves, they offered their children in exchange for their own filthy lives. It was disgusting, really.

"You have not yet left a scar worth remembering." His lips twist up briefly. His words could have been a challenge, or a simple statement. His voice gave no hint as to his prerogative. His eyes, however, shone with a feral intensity.

He was in the dance now, finally engaged; she could see that much from his eyes. They are no longer their flat, dull pale; now they had a sheen of wildness to them, and it caused her lips to twitch into the smallest of smiles regardless of her intentions. The ax...it was both unimportant and a problem. Should he decide to use it - which he may very well attempt to do - she would need everything she had just to dodge. Or at least drop.

His words caused that faint smile to fall, and with a steady pull, she drug him closer, her lips nearly on his, a burning light behind her ice-blue eyes. Her fingers once again crawled under his shirt to find the scar she had sewn up, the wound she'd given him on their first encounter.

"Would you like to remember it?"

That ax...it could be her undoing, though she did still have his wrist, in a grip that just wasn't letting go. Should push come to shove - quite literally - she could use that against him. There was a bloom of want pouring through her, but that want was a mixture of too many tings for her to process. She knows spilling blood might sate some of it, it usually did, but she isn't sure if that would be all that was needed. There is an ache in her for some sort of release, that wild part of her that tells her to do what she wants, take what she wants, and to hell with anyone who tries to stop her.

His nostrils flare as she pulls him yet closer, as though he could smell the desire on her. Unexpectedly, he turns his head to the side, glancing down where her hand reached under his shirt. He chuckled quietly; she can feel the rumble through her hand.

"It seems to me, Chernobyl, that you want very much for me to remember it." His eyes slide back around to her gaze. "And why might that be?" He was still pushing, the wall was not far away, and he wanted her locked against it. He was also curious as to whether she would allow herself to be pushed against it.

There is a lust for blood, among other things, hanging in the air between them. Her cold eyes are narrowed, but the pupils have become so dilated the normally blue orbs seem nearly black. At the feel of his laugh, her fingers tense, fingernails digging short furrows into his pale, marred skin.

”You are odd. I would enjoy knowing someone so odd remembers what I did.”

She allows herself to be pushed back, until her booted foot catches the wall behind her, propped low, near the floor, but pushing back slightly, creating a solid barrier to his efforts. She still has a grip on his wrist, and her attention is diverted slightly to the ax, but her eyes are on his, and as close as they are, there is little space for her to close before her lips find the corner of his mouth, her entire body tense, waiting for the inevitable strike to come.

Well, wasn't that interesting. He had somewhat expected the woman to do something like this, but her lips touching his was still somehow a surprise. She can feel him stiffen, then relax and turn into the kiss. She could not have been expecting it. Or so he hoped. With a deft motion, he twists his hand, forcing her wrist in such a way that she had to release his hand. Using the motion to press himself closer to her, he slides his now free hand behind her head, twining his fingers into her hair. For a moment, he parts his lips, sighing deeper into the kiss.

With an abrupt twist, he yanks her head back, intense gaze matching hers and his lips turning back to reveal a snarl. He twists his ax and swipes the blade against her throat, opening it wide if she doesn't somehow find a way to pull away.

((OOC-Stop him whenever you think she would react and disregard the rest of the post.))

He was responding.

It was...different than she had expected.

She'd been waiting for a hit, a slice, a cut, but instead there were lips returning the half-kiss she'd given him out of curiosity. His arm twists, and with that simple motion, she is forced to release her grip, and her advantage. Then there are fingers snaking their way into her long mane, and she allows the kiss to deepen long enough to feel those fingers tighten.

Her reaction is as violent as it is abrupt.

Both of her hands now free, she has time to register the snarl on his face before she slams both palms into his midsection with the full force of her strength, a sort of power that could break bones like tinder-twigs. At the same time, she leans back as far as she can against the wall, and with the act of pushing him away, she misses her head coming off by only a fraction.

The blade cuts its way across her neck, leaving a thin, long red line drawn into her flesh. It beings to weep crimson almost immediately, and one hand raises to meet it, smearing red down her white skin. She simply stands, staring at him, eyes never leaving his as a smile - small, feral, and dark - ghosts over her lips.

"You want to stop? You want this to stop? There is the door."

She raises her hand to her lip, still bloody from his first retaliation. Scarlet is mingled as her fingers run over her lips, and she tastes a coppery, bitter flavour for yet another time.

The hint of a smile remains.


((Feel free to react to the blow and negate any further part of the post.))

He saw the blow coming, her palms striking out. But now was not the time to shy away. Maybe, just maybe if he kept the pressure, he could end this. Instead of dancing away from the blow, he pushes in, the arc of his blade lancing through the air.

Once again, the assassin is met with failure. Hard, abrupt, painful, failure. She managed to make contact with his torso before his ax made contact with her throat. His blade bit, yes, but he knew from the instant it made contact that it wasn't deep enough. With an inhuman force, she propels him back, his fingers ripping through her hair and at least one rib cracking, and maybe even fracturing, under the heavy force. He stumbles back, shaking the hair from his hand. His breath catches in his throat and very consciously, he forces himself to slowly breathe in, then out, reacting very little as bone scrapes against bone.

His eyes had never left the woman. She was too dangerous to ignore. His gamble had not paid off and now he was at a serious disadvantage, even with his weapon being the only sharpened object in the room. But the woman's words revealed that she still didn't quite understand him. Stop? Stop what? What was this? The Chechen slowly straightens, eye twitching as the loose bones shifted. He ignores her question. He could stay here; he could leave. Either way, the results would be the same. Drogomir held no allusions about escape. The mad scientist was crazy, but he was not clumsy. "What do you hope to gain from this?" He gestures around the room with his ax. "You will let a crazed man dictate your path. And you toy with his Chechen prisoner to amuse yourself." He chuckles quietly, brushing his hair away from his eyes. "It is pathetic."

She could feel a hot wet seeping down her neck, and one hand reached up to wipe away a bit of the flow. He was hurt - just from the feel of the contact she'd made told her as much - but he was putting up a good show. This man, he was made from steel and cold and a past that made hers seem peachy, but he still clung to life, whatever good it did for him.

His words cause one white eyebrow to raise, her face passive but her eyes still glowing.

"Dictate my path'. He pays me...no, the checkered man, pays me. Money is good no matter the hands it comes from."

DId it matter to her, that she was now a part of some radical group? Not particularly. They promised power and money, the sort of power that doesn't buy politicians but buys blows in the ring. That sort of power made her both cold and wet, her body wanting it more than she could say. But what did she hope to gain from their little interlude?

Nothing.

There is nothing to gain.

The Ukrainian doesn't move from her spot on the wall, instead choosing to motion with her crimson cover hand to the door.

"Either fuck me or fight me or leave. No one is stopping you but me, and I don't care."

She was entirely serious. No one had told her to keep him other than the mad man, but she didn't take orders from him; the checkered man told her what he needed, and he didn't need the assassin. So she'd brought him here, to have one last meeting, one last foray into the dark they both shared, but all she'd gotten was this. And he called her pathetic.

The brawler moves off the wall finally, most of her front bloodied red, and strides towards him with seeming purpose before gliding straight past him, stripping out of her once-multicoloured bra and allowing it to drop to the floor. She turns to face him slightly, no emotion on an otherwise remarkably beautiful, cold face.

"I do what I want. I wanted you, for whatever I could get."

There was no maudlin tone, no whisper of some lover waiting to be heartbroken. It was a statement of fact, one delivered just as coolly as anything else she'd said to him. Her hand slides along her stomach, smearing the rivulets of blood he left for her, and her eyes find his.

"And now you'll leave to carry one whatever fucking existence you can carve out of this pathetic world, won't you? Work job to job?" She makes a tch sound between her teeth. "Stupid little Chechen man. Go play in whatever fucking world will have you. Pretend you're free."

A strange sound emanates from the Chechen, a deep guttural laugh.  He hardly glances at the woman's exposed body, his dull eyes sliding back to her face without pause. "Ah but I am, little Chernobyl."  He slides his blade along his pant leg, leaving a glistening stripe of her blood on the stained fabric.  "And now I will go and kill this crazy man.  Or he will kill me."

He turns away and strides toward the door, footsteps deathly silent.  Just before he reaches it, he turns to look back over his narrow shoulder.  "And if I live, perhaps one day I will find you.  In some dark alley as you reel from whatever drug you last snorted or injected, I will fight you, then I will kill you, and then, perhaps, I will fuck your corpse."  He lifts the edge of his shirt to display the scar she had contributed to his body.  "I never forget to repay such a gift."  His eyes glisten with... something and without hesitation, he turns the handle, pushes the door open, and glides out of the room, a shadow blending into the darkness.

--->Stein's Lab

<-----Stein's Lab

Drogomir bumped along on Eliska's shoulder, using what little strength he had left to keep from crying out with every step. His pale eyes focus long enough to recognize the room he was being humped through. It seemed as though it had been days since he had last been here. Another step and his thoughts dissolve into a flash of agony. A moment more and he is unceremoniously dumped on a soft, fluffy technicolor nightmare. He immediately closes his eyes against the unwelcome cacophony, trying not to focus on the fact that his shoulders felt fluff and his legs felt...nothing.

His father's voice floats to the forefront of his mind. "Quit trying so hard, my boy. Just let go and feel it." His hard, calloused hand closes around Drogomir's smaller, softer grasp, and his warm breath, smelling of clove, whispers in his ear. "The blade knows your desire. All you have to do is release."

Drogomir turns his head to look into the crinkled eyes of the man he adored. "Show me?" he asked as heavy flakes of snow fell between their gazes.

Through the heavy mustachios, a broad, well used smile creeps into view. "Now watch close, my boy. One day you will have to show your son this secret." The older man turns and pulls a plain, but functional, ax from the trunk of a nearby tree. The haft rests gently in his hand as he steps up to the line carved in the frozen turf. With a wink at his son, he turns and effortlessly flings the blade. Before it hits its target, he had turned back to Drogomir, bushy eyebrows raised inquisitively.

"You barely even looked at it!" The boy was bouncing from side to side excitedly.

The man smiled once more and gestured at the smaller weapon grasped tightly in the boy's hand. "Your turn."

Drogomir smiled with the enthusiasm of youth and sidled up to the line. He looked over his shoulder to his father, who stood with arms crossed. At his nod, he turned back around and gazed long and hard at the black "x" scrawled on the bark of a tree ten yards away. He bites his lip in concentration, then rears back and slings the blade. It hurtles, end over end through the icy air.

With a resounding thunk, it lands square between the bright green eyes of a young girl. Tears stream down her rosy cheeks, leaving glistening tracks in their wake. A rivulet of red joins them, dripping off her petite nose in a steady trickle. "Why?" Her small voice echos through the forest, which closes in around them. Drogomir looks around wildly, tears stinging his own eyes, but his father is nowhere to be found. A cold wind lifts the little girl's fair hair and makes it dance around her once pretty face. "Why?" The question rests heavily in the new found darkness.

Drogomir swallows hard, backing away. "The blade..." he mumbles, tripping over an exposed root and landing hard on the loam. The little girl had followed him, and now stood over his trembling body. "...it...it knows. I didn't...I didn't..."

"You did!" The girl's voice turns into a harpy's snarl. Her voice made a mockery of his father's words. "The blade knows your desire!"

In the bed resembling a bad LSD trip, the Chechen shivers violently, and a single tear slides down his gaunt, dirty cheek.

She dresses and receives a phone call from Check.

------> Stein's Lab

<------ Stein's Lab

He wasn't a heavy man by any means, but his inability to at least hobble next to her made the situation awkward and fumbling. She'd gained them entry to the room with a stretched out hand and a booted kick to the metal door, sending it flinging inward and bouncing back. The Ukrainian caught it with the same foot, hoisting the man through the entrance and dragging him to her bedroom.

Dumping him onto her technicolor bed, she takes a moment to wander over the options for this broken man; he could die, he could live, but did it really matter to her? The checkered scientist had called her to take care of this man, but she wasn't sure really what she could do, aside from making him more comfortable. And that was always on her priority list, to make sure someone who'd tried to kill her more than once was happy and content. Or at least a little less in pain.

The blonde stalks into her bathroom and retrieves a bottle of highly potent and slightly illegal narcotics meant to dull extreme pain, but she was fairly certain the mad scientist had given them to her as a experiment in drug addiction. Whatever. Exiting the bathroom, she slides the pill bottle across the nightstand before meandering back out to the kitchen; she needed a glass of water, though she wasn't too sure that he could swallow at this point. Regardless, she pulls down a tumbler and fills it with tap water, returning to his side in time to see him shiver from more than just physical agony.

She sits softly on the bed beside him, water glass in hand, watching him for a moment more; he was different, in no few ways, and that had drawn her in to some extent. Now, she was saddled with a dying man again and it irked her to no end.

Then a tear makes a clean track through his dirty face.

Leaning down, she feathers her lips over that salty streak, closing her eyes for a moment before sitting back up.

And then she slaps him.

It was hard enough to wake just about any individual, but not so forceful that it would break anything else. She reaches for the bottle and twists off the lid, dumping out two of the pills. "Wake up, Chechen. Time to feel better." Settling the white, unmarked container onto the uncluttered nightstand, she waits - pills and glass in hand - for the man to come back round to the living.

He awoke with a suddenness that ripped him from his other consciousness with incredible violence. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving. If he had full function of his extremities, he may have been on his feet. In any event, his hand instinctively went to where he expected her wrist. Snatching thin air, Drogomir tries to sit up, only to have the intense pain in his ribs push him back down into the technicolor blankets. Finally, after a long moment of top-half flailing, he calms, eyes rolling around until they find the Ukranian woman. Oh. Her again. He sighs inwardly at this seemingly neverending situation. Obviously unaware of his previous lapse, he blinks blankly at her, though a hint of the pain from his dream is still visible behind that thousand yard stare. In an exceptionally rural dialect, the Chechen speaks in quiet Russian. "And so here we are...again."

Well, yay, he was awake. Watching him flail about for a moment or two, the Ukrainian keeps her features passive until he settles back and gives her that stare just just come to love. Shoving the pills practically under his nose, she sets the glass of water in his hand, releasing it when she feels him take hold.

"Yes, here we are again."

Reverting to Russian as well, she can't help but think maybe she should just let him die. Might be easier on him in the long run. While she waits for him to take the meds, she allows a small frown to touch her lips.

"I should say that you should have run, but I know better."

The English rolls off her tongue with an accent that is soft but cold; from what she could tell, he wold never be one to leave a job unfinished.

The Chechen narrows his eyes, taking the glass but not the pills. He waits a long while after her last words fade, then reaches out with the glass to the edge of the bed, turns his hand, and pours the contents on the floor. He smiles flatly, without humor. "I prefer to maintain what little feeling I do have at the moment."

He manages to prop himself up on his elbows, gasping in pain as he does so. "So why did they abandon me to you and not just leave me there to die, or just kill me? It's apparent you have no idea how to heal me."

Rolling her eyes at his dramatics, she sets the pills back on the desk and watches him struggle to sit up. If he wanted to stay in pain, then by all means, she would let him do as he liked. Eyes wandering down his broke frame, she frowns to herself as he asks his question.

"No idea. They seem to keep things around to play with."

She shrugs.

"If you would like better, I'll give you a knife and you can finish it here." Her blue eyes look him over again, this time focusing on his legs. "I'll just tell the checkered one you fell on it."



((Sorry for the bad post. Having to use my phone again.))

Finally, after an intense struggle, the Chechen surrenders to gravity and sinks back into the technicolor fluffiness. At the woman's words, he lifts his ax a few centimeters off the bed, chuckling painfully, then lets it drop. "I have had many opportunities to be cowardly." He looks down over his worthless legs. "Some situations worse than this, sadly enough."

He looks around the room. Since there was nowhere to go, he might as well attempt to amuse himself. He gestures toward the woman. "Why do you try so hard to kill yourself, but pull back from the brink at the last moment, over and over and over again?"

At least he was finally resigning himself to the situation. Good. That meant she wouldn't have to try and keep up with him at all. Reaching down while listening to his words, she begins unlacing his boots, pulling them off his numb feet while responding.

"Maybe I'm bored. Maybe I'm tired. Does it matter?"


[[Poor post again. Should have a computer back in a few days.]]

Drogomir curls his fingers around the soft, furry fabric and stares at the nondescript ceiling. "No, I suppose it does not."

He glances down at the woman as she removes his boots and grimaces as dirty off-white socks with one big toe poking through a sizable hole appear. It had been quite some time since the Chechen had taken a shower or even had an opportunity to wash. It certainly hadn't been at the top of his captors' list of things to do while they toted him across Europe. It wasn't the dirtiest he had ever been, not by a long shot, even with the dried blood, mud, and other things clinging to his clothes and skin. He had once been made to kneel while no less than ten Russian soldiers pissed in his face. It was over a month before he had a chance to rid himself of that stink...