Krokodil 1/?
Title: Krokodil
Rating: hard R, easily
Genre: drama, certainly.
Fandom: Bourne. But, uh, really, it's Karl Urban
Summary: Displeased with the Bourne debacle, Kirill's FSB superiors order to him to catch the Krokodil.
Warnings: graphic description of the results of krokodil use, violence, implied and off screen murder.
A/n: From today's Daily Urbine post. CPine has played no villains! D: What? FIX THAT NAO, CPINE! So I have, ah, sort of used a Stepfordian mirror!Jim. Kind of. Just play along, yes? Krokodil is essentially the cheapest version of heroin you can get and it's worse than meth in what it does to you (here's a safe-ish for brain article on krokodil, no pictures). And I seriously advise against googling krokodil any further. You cannot unsee.
Wastes of oxygen, all of them, Kirill thought as he slipped in the door. The flat was tiny. Not much more than a one-room with a kitchenette and a bathroom, and all the addicts were slouched on the couch, or sprawled on the floor like dolls. They didn't even notice his entrance, making it simple to tie up the scabrous lot of them.
He swept the room, searching for any clue that might help find the target of this investigation, finding only the refuse of a group of krokodil addicts - paint thinner, gas, codeine, and the other odds and ends that make up the drug, and a few syringes. A pile of match boxes, scraped of their phosphorous strikepads, sat near Kirill's feet, and few flies buzzed intermittently against the windowpanes overlooking the stupid little town he was currently in. Every sound and sight scratched at his nerves and increased his frustration. It's a relatively easy case, since you're still recovering from the Bourne case's car wreck. Catch him and bring him back - we'll take it from there.
Kirill didn't believe that for a second ; he'd been healed for months, and was going to find out who decided chasing after drug producers was a fine thing for a well trained FSB agent - one of the best in Russia - to be doing, and they were going to suffer.
The woman he was here to see began to shift, pulling him from his thoughts, coming out of her krokodil-induced haze. Her name was Anastasia Trotskova and he was hoping she could restart the increasingly cold trail. That is, if she remembered anything more than the recipe for krokodil and how to speak Russian, which was not necessarily a given.
She studied to room, as if seeing it for the first time, and jumped as much as her bonds allowed when she noticed him.
"I don't have the money," she blurted, eyes saucer-wide. "I - I will, but I don't have it yet."
Lifting an eyebrow, Kirill noted that the other addicts were still out and he stood. "I'm not here for money," he said curtly, striding toward her. "Where is Pavel Checkov?" he asked, picking her up as carefully as possible. The last thing he wanted was for part of her flesh to come off in his hands because he hadn't been careful enough. The one time it had happened had been too much and the feeling of his wet, gangrenous skin coming off in Kirill's hand had lingered for days.
"W-who?" Trotskova stuttered, radiating nerves as he placed her on the couch. "I don't know who that is."
"Where is Pavel Chekov?" Kirill repeated slowly, catching her eyes.
"I don't know who that is," she insisted, struggling against her bonds.
"I don't believe you," he said coolly. When Trotskova stayed quiet, Kirill stalked toward her, enjoying the way she ineffectually tried to escape his advances. "Where," he repeated as he knelt beside her, "is Pavel Chekov? Small blond man? Belongs to the Krokodil?" When her silence continued, he pulled out a pistol and nuzzled her temple with the long barrel of the silencer; he was pleased when her body stiffened with fear. "I know he was here two days ago. Where is he?"
She was fighting with herself for whatever reason, and Kirill watched her with cool, assessing eyes as the struggle went on. "Petrograd!" she gasped at last. "He said he was going to Petrograd!"
Kirill nodded and wondered what to do with her for a brief moment. He looked up and examined the others, still lost in their hazes from all appearances. He shrugged to himself and moved.
Next chapter: ( Trotskova's info was correct as it turned out, and Kirill could have caught Chekov if he had not been horribly delayed. )
Rating: hard R, easily
Genre: drama, certainly.
Fandom: Bourne. But, uh, really, it's Karl Urban
Summary: Displeased with the Bourne debacle, Kirill's FSB superiors order to him to catch the Krokodil.
Warnings: graphic description of the results of krokodil use, violence, implied and off screen murder.
A/n: From today's Daily Urbine post. CPine has played no villains! D: What? FIX THAT NAO, CPINE! So I have, ah, sort of used a Stepfordian mirror!Jim. Kind of. Just play along, yes? Krokodil is essentially the cheapest version of heroin you can get and it's worse than meth in what it does to you (here's a safe-ish for brain article on krokodil, no pictures). And I seriously advise against googling krokodil any further. You cannot unsee.
Wastes of oxygen, all of them, Kirill thought as he slipped in the door. The flat was tiny. Not much more than a one-room with a kitchenette and a bathroom, and all the addicts were slouched on the couch, or sprawled on the floor like dolls. They didn't even notice his entrance, making it simple to tie up the scabrous lot of them.
He swept the room, searching for any clue that might help find the target of this investigation, finding only the refuse of a group of krokodil addicts - paint thinner, gas, codeine, and the other odds and ends that make up the drug, and a few syringes. A pile of match boxes, scraped of their phosphorous strikepads, sat near Kirill's feet, and few flies buzzed intermittently against the windowpanes overlooking the stupid little town he was currently in. Every sound and sight scratched at his nerves and increased his frustration. It's a relatively easy case, since you're still recovering from the Bourne case's car wreck. Catch him and bring him back - we'll take it from there.
Kirill didn't believe that for a second ; he'd been healed for months, and was going to find out who decided chasing after drug producers was a fine thing for a well trained FSB agent - one of the best in Russia - to be doing, and they were going to suffer.
The woman he was here to see began to shift, pulling him from his thoughts, coming out of her krokodil-induced haze. Her name was Anastasia Trotskova and he was hoping she could restart the increasingly cold trail. That is, if she remembered anything more than the recipe for krokodil and how to speak Russian, which was not necessarily a given.
She studied to room, as if seeing it for the first time, and jumped as much as her bonds allowed when she noticed him.
"I don't have the money," she blurted, eyes saucer-wide. "I - I will, but I don't have it yet."
Lifting an eyebrow, Kirill noted that the other addicts were still out and he stood. "I'm not here for money," he said curtly, striding toward her. "Where is Pavel Checkov?" he asked, picking her up as carefully as possible. The last thing he wanted was for part of her flesh to come off in his hands because he hadn't been careful enough. The one time it had happened had been too much and the feeling of his wet, gangrenous skin coming off in Kirill's hand had lingered for days.
"W-who?" Trotskova stuttered, radiating nerves as he placed her on the couch. "I don't know who that is."
"Where is Pavel Chekov?" Kirill repeated slowly, catching her eyes.
"I don't know who that is," she insisted, struggling against her bonds.
"I don't believe you," he said coolly. When Trotskova stayed quiet, Kirill stalked toward her, enjoying the way she ineffectually tried to escape his advances. "Where," he repeated as he knelt beside her, "is Pavel Chekov? Small blond man? Belongs to the Krokodil?" When her silence continued, he pulled out a pistol and nuzzled her temple with the long barrel of the silencer; he was pleased when her body stiffened with fear. "I know he was here two days ago. Where is he?"
She was fighting with herself for whatever reason, and Kirill watched her with cool, assessing eyes as the struggle went on. "Petrograd!" she gasped at last. "He said he was going to Petrograd!"
Kirill nodded and wondered what to do with her for a brief moment. He looked up and examined the others, still lost in their hazes from all appearances. He shrugged to himself and moved.
Next chapter: ( Trotskova's info was correct as it turned out, and Kirill could have caught Chekov if he had not been horribly delayed. )