When the letter was delivered to him, Nicholai had first decided to ignore it and make it an integral part of his bunk's wall. With combat knife sticking right out of disturbed concrete and plaster, what wasn't there to like? The Russian surmised it was a fabulous design; his room mates? They were less inclined to talk about it.
But he had heeded the warning of the letter, if not out of curiosity alone. Driven into the hallways, tactical gear clinging to taught and twitching muscle, the Jackal stalked the halls, formed hunched over, eyes like daggers. Tight, drawn-out lips tossed a cigarette across flesh, only brightening it to a cherry-red every once in a while. And when he did, plumes of silver poured from his flaring nostrils.
He would see what this whole meeting was all about.
Gloved digits spread, Nicholai pushed against the double doors, causing the thick boards of wood to sway on their hinges. But it was there that he stayed, stuck frozen in the door frame. Eyes darted to the screen in front of him, then to the people mingling. Most of them were American.
Most of them he hated.
Blue eyes moved swiftly, trying to take up all the information at once. So many people. So many people he hated right here. And he had a knife. Lord, he had a knife and he just wanted to -
Then, a familiar form, broad shoulders and a clean-cut jaw line caught his eye. Nicholai took in the image and his teeth set, grinding together, turning the end of the cigarette to dust.
The next few moments were a blur. All he could hear was his own voice, pounding in his ears, tearing through his body like a poison.
"Вы больные сволочи! Вы предатели! Вы тупоумный капиталист! Вы ядовитые змейки! Подлые предатели! Я убью вас! Я закончу вас!" His throat cracked as he yelled and fingers went to the knife, catching it up and tearing it free of leather and nylon binding.
[ooc; Translaton: You are sick bastards! You are traitors! You are stupid capitalist! You are poisonous snakes! Mean traitors! I will kill you! I will finish you! ]