1812 Overture [RL] [Ivan Braginski, Nicholas Angel]
[He hummed a song, as he walked down the London streets, pipe carefully hidden in the folds of his coat. It's so lovely to see it when it is not a bombed out wasteland, but now is not the time to be picky, yes? Not when there was a police officer out there who needed to learn his proper place. And, more importantly, to learn not to invade his things. Because Ivan's dreams are a safe place, while he is surrounded by war, and to have them trampled upon like snowfall in his wake? Is not to be done. Not even the Man of Steel can do that to him, let alone some officer out of his jurisdiction. Hah, jurisdiction. The humming gets louder as he goes. It doesn't seem to have words, but just a single one, repeated over and over again.]
KOLKOLKOLKOLKOL~
[Until he reaches where the recruits live, in the Metropolitan police force. And oh, how he'd love to smash their faces in, all of them, but he is busy, so busy at the moment, and so only has time for one. They don't stop him as he walks, and if they notice him, they quickly forget he was ever there. One of the perks of being a nation, yes? And if they did, they only mention the grazed bullet wound on his left arm, the still bleeding shoulder wounds from days ago, and the blood clotting in his hair, almost on his forehead. For he is at war, in another place and time, and he bears the wounds of all of them.]
[But enough of that, because the letters on the wall, clean and clear and organized, indicate that he has reached where he needs to be. And so he waits in front of the door, pipe hidden behind his back, and a smile on his face. It is not a smile a normal person would like seeing.]
KOLKOLKOLKOLKOL~
[Until he reaches where the recruits live, in the Metropolitan police force. And oh, how he'd love to smash their faces in, all of them, but he is busy, so busy at the moment, and so only has time for one. They don't stop him as he walks, and if they notice him, they quickly forget he was ever there. One of the perks of being a nation, yes? And if they did, they only mention the grazed bullet wound on his left arm, the still bleeding shoulder wounds from days ago, and the blood clotting in his hair, almost on his forehead. For he is at war, in another place and time, and he bears the wounds of all of them.]
[But enough of that, because the letters on the wall, clean and clear and organized, indicate that he has reached where he needs to be. And so he waits in front of the door, pipe hidden behind his back, and a smile on his face. It is not a smile a normal person would like seeing.]