(no subject)
Who: Mikhail Bakunin, Seamus Harper, Desmond Hume and eventually Sam Tyler.
What: In which a tipsy Ukrainian loses it, a tiny American aims for ballsacks, a no-longer-bearded Scotsman goes Rambo and an occasionally hypocritical Englishman gets to play Sheriff.
Where: The second floor corridor/Mikhail's cabin.
When: BACKDATED TO LIKE... MONDAY/TUESDAY? Fairly early.
Warnings: EXTREME SLOWNESS ON MY PART, violence, and idk, swearing?
"...Я так много забыл об Афганистане," Mikhail repeated; a calloused finger tracing across the scrawled words for a third and final time. He'd forgotten more than Afghanistan, he mused, bitterly. He'd forgotten everything. Setting the paper aside again with exaggerated care, he pressed his hands hard against his forehead, sliding his thumbs across to rub at his temples. Not only was he still obviously very dead, but his entire identity had faded in an instant and now that he had it again, he was at a complete loss on what he was supposed to do. How the hell was he supposed to judge what was real and what wasn't anymore?
After a long, contemplative silence, he stood up and finished off the vodka, feeling a sudden rush of panic as he stopped to glance at the empty bottle. The panic then made its natural transition straight into anger, and it was only when he found himself staring at the broken glass on the floor that he realized he must have thrown the bottle at the wall. He even caught himself worrying about cleaning the shards up before remembering that none of it was real. The room he was in and everything in it was gone. Locke had blown it up. It no longer existed. He no longer existed--- or... well, he must on some level or else... but that was the point, and---
Mikhail frowned. He'd resorted to drinking and now he couldn't think straight. He couldn't say he was surprised.
It wasn't long before he lurched out into the corridor; his hands shooting out to rest on the opposite wall for balance. After two deep, steadying breaths, he turned and pulled at the door till it was only fractionally open, then lightly rested his forehead against the cool frame. His vision was swimming a little, but that wasn't going to stop him. He could hold his liquor. He knew the blur would fade. Granted, he probably should have waited a little longer to sober up, (understatement) but as long as he could stand, he was pretty sure he could carry out whatever needed to be done. Hell, if anything, the alcohol would help.
On some level, he knew his plan (if he could really call it that) was a terrible idea. The problem was, of course, that he didn't care. He needed answers, and right now, this was the best way he could figure on getting them. If he had to kill someone to get them, so be it. If he genuinely died in the process, even better. And who said he was even drunk? Maybe it was just his brain's way of justifying his rapidly failing cerebral functions as everything that was him blipped out of existence; the end of his dying dream.
He shoved a hand deep into one of the pockets of the DHARMA jumpsuit he'd resorted to wearing, withdrew it, patted another pocket down from the outside, and then repeated the process a few times, alternating sides. So he was making like he was trying to find his key. The perfect subterfuge, maybe not, but he didn't want to just stand there as he waited for someone to pass.
((OOC: SORRY THIS WAS SO GODDAMN LATE GUYS. AMY'S COLD APPEARS TO BE THE FLU, SO LOL, THIS POST MIGHT BE COMPLETELY INCOHERENT, IDK. FML. Also, I know it's just about flood time now, but if you wanna have some backdated MAN FUCK THIS SHIP journal posts? GO GO GO. NOW. DO IT. DES? I demand a crazy post. FOR REFERENCE: It's gonna end with Mikhail in zero looking pretty beat up/unconscious. Boo. :c))
What: In which a tipsy Ukrainian loses it, a tiny American aims for ballsacks, a no-longer-bearded Scotsman goes Rambo and an occasionally hypocritical Englishman gets to play Sheriff.
Where: The second floor corridor/Mikhail's cabin.
When: BACKDATED TO LIKE... MONDAY/TUESDAY? Fairly early.
Warnings: EXTREME SLOWNESS ON MY PART, violence, and idk, swearing?
"...Я так много забыл об Афганистане," Mikhail repeated; a calloused finger tracing across the scrawled words for a third and final time. He'd forgotten more than Afghanistan, he mused, bitterly. He'd forgotten everything. Setting the paper aside again with exaggerated care, he pressed his hands hard against his forehead, sliding his thumbs across to rub at his temples. Not only was he still obviously very dead, but his entire identity had faded in an instant and now that he had it again, he was at a complete loss on what he was supposed to do. How the hell was he supposed to judge what was real and what wasn't anymore?
After a long, contemplative silence, he stood up and finished off the vodka, feeling a sudden rush of panic as he stopped to glance at the empty bottle. The panic then made its natural transition straight into anger, and it was only when he found himself staring at the broken glass on the floor that he realized he must have thrown the bottle at the wall. He even caught himself worrying about cleaning the shards up before remembering that none of it was real. The room he was in and everything in it was gone. Locke had blown it up. It no longer existed. He no longer existed--- or... well, he must on some level or else... but that was the point, and---
Mikhail frowned. He'd resorted to drinking and now he couldn't think straight. He couldn't say he was surprised.
It wasn't long before he lurched out into the corridor; his hands shooting out to rest on the opposite wall for balance. After two deep, steadying breaths, he turned and pulled at the door till it was only fractionally open, then lightly rested his forehead against the cool frame. His vision was swimming a little, but that wasn't going to stop him. He could hold his liquor. He knew the blur would fade. Granted, he probably should have waited a little longer to sober up, (understatement) but as long as he could stand, he was pretty sure he could carry out whatever needed to be done. Hell, if anything, the alcohol would help.
On some level, he knew his plan (if he could really call it that) was a terrible idea. The problem was, of course, that he didn't care. He needed answers, and right now, this was the best way he could figure on getting them. If he had to kill someone to get them, so be it. If he genuinely died in the process, even better. And who said he was even drunk? Maybe it was just his brain's way of justifying his rapidly failing cerebral functions as everything that was him blipped out of existence; the end of his dying dream.
He shoved a hand deep into one of the pockets of the DHARMA jumpsuit he'd resorted to wearing, withdrew it, patted another pocket down from the outside, and then repeated the process a few times, alternating sides. So he was making like he was trying to find his key. The perfect subterfuge, maybe not, but he didn't want to just stand there as he waited for someone to pass.
((OOC: SORRY THIS WAS SO GODDAMN LATE GUYS. AMY'S COLD APPEARS TO BE THE FLU, SO LOL, THIS POST MIGHT BE COMPLETELY INCOHERENT, IDK. FML. Also, I know it's just about flood time now, but if you wanna have some backdated MAN FUCK THIS SHIP journal posts? GO GO GO. NOW. DO IT. DES? I demand a crazy post. FOR REFERENCE: It's gonna end with Mikhail in zero looking pretty beat up/unconscious. Boo. :c))