Nicholai Ginovaef (ginovaef) wrote in evilinresidence, @ 2008-07-14 23:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | nicholai |
Who: Nicholai SOLO, mentions of Sergei Vladimir
What: This is inside the mind of a maniac.
When: Evening
Rating: R, totally R.
He's been given a bunk and place to rest his head; he's been giving the comforts of the barracks that he's been craving for four, long years. The taste of mold lingers in the air and there is a familiar metal tinge to everything. And he swallows it all as a man like him should, inhales it deep into his lungs with the fresh smoke of a new cigarette. It fills him, consumes him.
And he loves it.
Nicholai lets his head fall back; let's it crash against the back wall as his eyes roll shut. He can feel the heaviness of the steel and brick all around him and he cannot help but to crack a smirk at this whole dilemma. He wants to mark his territory with blood and he wants to cut open the flesh of a former comrade, but someone has beat him to the chase. Someone has wounded HUNK without his permission and it makes Ginovaef's stomach twist into horrible knots. And all of this makes him think.
And he hates thinking.
He has that blade out; not the buck knife he's used to carrying or the combat knife that was issued to him too long ago. It's a knife that's custom, a knife that has two sides to it. It spins in his hand as his fingers rotate it. And it cuts through the air like butter; like it should. It's the only thing that's grounded in this horrible reality.
The blade has seen so much blood in its life; it has been through war, been through hell and back. It has tasted the blood of a man that Nicholai can actually say he admires more times than he can count and he's slightly jealous. This blade was the last thing that saw the Colonel's dying moments.
Ginovaef's knuckles turn white at the thought.
He has dealt with this knife before; he has had countless battles with the knife. He has parried it for hours, watched it as it moved swiftly through air with ease. He swallows thickly as his finger runs across the tip of the blade and he grunts as it pierces his skin.
Now he's the last one standing. Sergei would be proud.
His mind swims and soon, he's plunged into a memory.
He is fifteen; fifteen years old and still trying to learn English. Sergei has ordered his deployment to Rockfort and he follows, without question and without hesitation. But now, he's fighting his mentor, tagging his knife with his own, watching as the blade slides across equally sharp steel before they both release and spin out of each other's way. It's a dance - a tango. And Nicholai's a good follower.
"Nicholai," the voice is stern, but warm. It speaks his name in a thick accent and Nicholai stops, breathing in for a second. His blade is held at arms length as he watches his comrade move, the opened coat moving with his stride. For once, the coat is opened and the scarf is disheveled, revealing a crisp cut chest. There are scars there, scars from countless battles and Nicholai can't help but stare. He's never seen his Colonel like this.
"You're not paying attention." Nicholai doesn't even react until it's too late and he's on the floor with that blade spinning at his throat. Ginovaef squirms, heels digging into steel as he tries to dig his knife into Sergei's shoulder. But he's stopped by a bigger, stronger arm.
And a smirk and a laugh follows.
Nicholai snarls.
"You will learn one day, boy." Sergei's firm against him.
And Nicholai snaps from his memory as he realizes he is only seconds from losing his thumb. He stares absently at the gaping wound and lifts it to inspect the blood on it.
His Colonel is there now; deep in his blood.
He'll never stop haunting him.