Invasion (Russia/America) 24/?? (Part 2)
anonymous
July 6 2010, 07:47:59 UTC
Minutes past and he gasped for air, falling back on his rear. His back hit the wall, and he clutched his chest, trying to ease the throbbing pain away.
Fuck…fuck why is it so bad tonight?? Sweat dripped from his hairline and past his temples and neck. Why the fuck is it so hot in here??
Raising a hand to his forehead, his skin felt feverish to the touch.
This…it can’t be the rat poison. I didn’t ingest enough…it takes a lot of poison to really affect me… Swallowing the lump back down his throat, he pressed his head to the cold wall, relishing the soothing cool touch. Then…if I’m feverish…and it isn’t from the poison or illness…
Wincing, he opened his eyes and pulled out a few disposable tissues from beneath the sink, wiping his face clean.
…Wildfires. Picking himself up from the wall, he returned to his knees and flushed the toilet. Always those damn wildfires…
Standing, he crossed the room and leaned against the sink, turning the water on without care, as Russia had made sure the water in the supply tanks were all replenished. Cupping his hands under the thin stream, he let the frigid water pool in his hands for a moment before raising it to his face. The sudden cooling sensation felt like heaven on his skin. But the as it faded away, the wildfire-driven fever raged on.
…With the way things are now I’ll probably be like this for a month…maybe even two…
Turning the water off, he straightened and stepped away.
Gotta get some sleep…
Frowning, he exited the lavatory and started making his way down the hall when the sounds of clinking pipes came from the opposite end of the train. Turning around, America stared down the hall, finding the tiny door to the storage compartment wide open. Eyes narrowing, he turned away from the door to his room and started down the hall. The clinking of pipes continued to sound in the silent railcar. Creeping forward, his footsteps were silent, thanks to his bare feet.
As the storage room door slowly came into view, dark splotches on the floor appeared. America crouched and pressed his fingers to the stains. Withdrawing his hand, his fingertips came away stained in fresh crimson. Alarm rising in his already throbbing chest, he raised himself back to his feet and peered inside the storage room. A middle-aged man stood directly under the tank, one hand pressed to the opening, the other sliding something inside. Water dripped down his arms, soaking his old, frayed clothing. His hair was tangled and matted with dried blood. Something metallic covered the back of his neck, all sharp and glistening in the light of the single candle that sat on the floor behind him.
It’s him. America glared, feeling anger flooding his chest. He’s the one that contaminated the tanks?!
“Hey!”
The man gasped, spun on his heel and aimed a double-barreled shotgun at America’s chest in the span of three seconds.
…Holy shit.
America slowly held his hands up to show he was unarmed.
Water poured from the uncovered opening in the water tank, spilling across the floor.
“Ты что-нибудь видел??”* The man demanded in a low, but harsh tone.
America stared and tried remembering any ounce of Russian he could while decoding what the man just said.
The man didn’t give America the chance to complete his mental translation.
“Что ты видел?”* The man growled, his fingers clenching on the gun and tightened on the trigger.
“Just calm the fuck down.” America demanded, unable to make out any of the Russian language. “And take your finger off that trigger.”
The man didn’t move and only repeated himself again, this time speaking far slower, making sure to stretch the words out in order for America to make sense of it.
“…Oh.” America tried keeping the glare from twisting his face into a scowl. “I saw enough.”
Fuck…fuck why is it so bad tonight?? Sweat dripped from his hairline and past his temples and neck. Why the fuck is it so hot in here??
Raising a hand to his forehead, his skin felt feverish to the touch.
This…it can’t be the rat poison. I didn’t ingest enough…it takes a lot of poison to really affect me… Swallowing the lump back down his throat, he pressed his head to the cold wall, relishing the soothing cool touch. Then…if I’m feverish…and it isn’t from the poison or illness…
Wincing, he opened his eyes and pulled out a few disposable tissues from beneath the sink, wiping his face clean.
…Wildfires. Picking himself up from the wall, he returned to his knees and flushed the toilet. Always those damn wildfires…
Standing, he crossed the room and leaned against the sink, turning the water on without care, as Russia had made sure the water in the supply tanks were all replenished. Cupping his hands under the thin stream, he let the frigid water pool in his hands for a moment before raising it to his face. The sudden cooling sensation felt like heaven on his skin. But the as it faded away, the wildfire-driven fever raged on.
…With the way things are now I’ll probably be like this for a month…maybe even two…
Turning the water off, he straightened and stepped away.
Gotta get some sleep…
Frowning, he exited the lavatory and started making his way down the hall when the sounds of clinking pipes came from the opposite end of the train. Turning around, America stared down the hall, finding the tiny door to the storage compartment wide open. Eyes narrowing, he turned away from the door to his room and started down the hall. The clinking of pipes continued to sound in the silent railcar. Creeping forward, his footsteps were silent, thanks to his bare feet.
As the storage room door slowly came into view, dark splotches on the floor appeared. America crouched and pressed his fingers to the stains. Withdrawing his hand, his fingertips came away stained in fresh crimson. Alarm rising in his already throbbing chest, he raised himself back to his feet and peered inside the storage room. A middle-aged man stood directly under the tank, one hand pressed to the opening, the other sliding something inside. Water dripped down his arms, soaking his old, frayed clothing. His hair was tangled and matted with dried blood. Something metallic covered the back of his neck, all sharp and glistening in the light of the single candle that sat on the floor behind him.
It’s him. America glared, feeling anger flooding his chest. He’s the one that contaminated the tanks?!
“Hey!”
The man gasped, spun on his heel and aimed a double-barreled shotgun at America’s chest in the span of three seconds.
…Holy shit.
America slowly held his hands up to show he was unarmed.
Water poured from the uncovered opening in the water tank, spilling across the floor.
“Ты что-нибудь видел??”* The man demanded in a low, but harsh tone.
America stared and tried remembering any ounce of Russian he could while decoding what the man just said.
The man didn’t give America the chance to complete his mental translation.
“Что ты видел?”* The man growled, his fingers clenching on the gun and tightened on the trigger.
“Just calm the fuck down.” America demanded, unable to make out any of the Russian language. “And take your finger off that trigger.”
The man didn’t move and only repeated himself again, this time speaking far slower, making sure to stretch the words out in order for America to make sense of it.
“…Oh.” America tried keeping the glare from twisting his face into a scowl. “I saw enough.”
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