[I'm sticking with you, cuz I'm made out of glue]
[Ocelot was on the prowl. He was searching for evidence that this "nexus" might be run by an external agency from the outside. While he was more than aware of the fact he had brought an end to The Philosophers, that didn't mean they hadn't anticipated their end. This entire ordeal may have been set in motion prior to his own defection, preparing
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For one, he now had a bad leg. And he had a reputation to manage. And that reputation for his cruel ferocity could not quite be maintained if he stood around, looking feeble on crutches. He knew enough that he could be terrifying in the tension of absence, which allowed him ample time to recover undisturbed and not have anyone else get the idea that he would be foolishly spelunking into any more tight spaces. Or let Ocelot triumph in some form again. Or mull over love lost and betrayal, right until his leg was snapped into a waiting bear trap.
Bad things came in threes, they say. Right?
The aging Soviet monster had been sauntering into his usual hole for exotic liquor, rarity and that it was free alone enough to risk being seeing hobbling downstairs, but today... today there were people here. In his formerly newfound sanctuary for interesting drink. He was hoping the commotion would have been coming from another room, but no, it was the exotic drink room. He was going to be seen clunking to the store room. And he recognized a few faces (Ocelot...!).
Be casual. Say nothing. Stagger to the storeroom, fill his battered messenger bag, don't look like a complete cripple, leave. Getting to the storeroom required going behind the bar, however. And there were people there, too. He was going to be seen, and damn it all if he wasted all that time limping for nothing.
Some days, he mentally grumbled as he clunked right inside, making it to the bar and the wall of liquor, in the game of being inconspicuous, it did not pay to be a hulking juggernaut.]
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[Isn't that the man she met before? The one who actually almost succeeded in hurting Helena?]
[Momentarily distracted from her somber thoughts, the woman rests her head in one hand as she continues to sit; watching the large soldier hobble.]
You look like hell. [Merely an observation!]
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Now, craning his head in the direction of a distinctly female voice, he paused, cocking a brow.
Ah yes. The witch. She might have been worth a little of his time.]
A fate that befalls even humanity's finest.
Drinking away your sorrow?
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[The woman's light blue eyes make their way back over to meet Volgin's own. She takes in his battered appearance; but stares as though looking at something much deeper than his mere physical appearance. Fortune then speaks once more- almost ominously;] ...Misfortune haunts you...
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It all did not follow him into the Nexus, interestingly enough.
Now, the latter part of her words... He narrowed his eye, just as he was wrenching the storage room open and about to disappear into it. He turned his gaze to his foot, then to her, puffing his breath:]
I do not need a fortune teller to know that.
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Just an observation. [Nonchalant, despite his sour attitude.] I know what it's like.
[The woman gestures the the doors he just pried open] Need help getting something? [It was rare that the woman took a moment out of her self-absorbed misery to offer assistance to anyone outside of the very small group of people that she still actually cares for in this world.]
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[The voice was a low growl as he clunked his impractically heavy self inside. Volgin was not going to take such a kind gesture, seemingly random, so quickly. That and he was a bitter old man. Bitter old men could help themselves. They did not need pity or sympathy.]
I do not need help.
[And into the realm of intoxicating vice, elaborate bottles advertising the same thing in all the myriad ways.
Ah, what to spoil himself with? Oh? Was that a D'Oliveira Verdelho 1890, mashed cleverly at the back on a high shelf? He had a bottle back at his exorbitant estate; he could remember breaking it out as he was entertaining a Kremlin contact then. Good year. What an antique now!
What no better time to tide his own sorrows over with it.
Which normally, he would have climbed up the shelves in a brief motion before anything broke and retrieved it. An impractical feat now.
He scowled at the thought of asking for assistance. Like an invalid.
... As he poked his head out:]
Witch, are you any good at climbing shelves?
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[The woman had just finished off her own bottle of wine when Volgin popped his head back out of the door. She smirked at the question; knowing that it must be a blow to his pride to ask for help now.]
[Plainly] That's not my name.
[Fortune herself is a woman with much pride. The queenly commander plans on waiting for the Russian to properly address her before she can be assed to move anywhere for him.]
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In, out. Anything else would make a scene, and some humility would be the best cover in the end.
Still, he looked around before he asked again:]
Fortune, are you any good at climbing shelves?
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I guess I can take a moment out of my busy schedule to help you out. [Taking her sweet time, because she's sure as hell not rushing for anyone right now, the woman strides over to head toward the storage room that Volgin was currently in.]
What did you have your eye on, exactly?
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[It was the most Volgin could say, as the smaller woman made her leisurely approach (which he wondered if he was being set up for show). Still, he gestured to a stark black bottle with a large, crude 1890 stenciled on it with the rest. It was peaking rather teasingly down at the both of them from the highest shelf, being out of even the giant's reach. And he had an impressive reach, he knew that much.]
That one, my dear.
[He then followed with a toothy smirk:]
I'll even catch you if you fall.
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[Oh well. If she falls, she falls. Knowing that something poses a threat to her safety is hardly a reason for Fortune to avoid doing it. At Volgin's words, the woman makes a short, almost-amused sound from within her throat.] Hnh.
-Out of concern for your expensive bottle, no doubt.
I'm touched nonetheless. [Said flatly, as she maneuvers around him to go grab hold of part of the wooden shelf. After testing it's ability to take her weight, the woman steadily begins to make her climb upward. Feel free to enjoy that view you get from down there, Volgin.]
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The view aside, Volgin calmly waited, adding:]
Good girl. I like the way you think.
That wine is over a hundred years old. You better hold tight to it.
[The shelves should have supported her weight easily enough. Volgin had been able to quickly scale them in the past, as long as he did not linger. Momentarily, lecherously, the giant's gaze flicked to the door. How easy it would have been to simply shut it and...
Too many people were around, anyway. His injury aside, this Fortune still was a potential of use beyond her body (and what a nice body it was). Still, the smirk and soft chuckle that might have escaped him were the ghosts of reminisced deeds and fantasies that were anything but angelic.]
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Hm. That's funny... The more you tell me about what I "better" do, the more I can feel my grip on it slipping...
[A subtle warning for him to watch his tone when addressing her. Fortune turns her head to peer down at Volgin from her position.] Getting down with this in my grasp may prove to be a problem. [She needs both hands to properly grip the shelf, after all.]
You might have to assist me after all. That is- if you can withstand my weight with that bad leg of yours, anyway.
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If you even joke about wasting it...
[Before priming himself, there was a low unintelligible rumble: Ancient bottles of wine before mouthy, peculiar women.]
Carrying you will be like lifting a baby.
[He softly set back his crutches to the slight pangs in his leg. As long as he wasn't going to stand on his good leg for hours, balancing himself on it to catch a frail tiny thing of a woman was cake.
He was Spetsnaz after all.]
Jump.
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