(no subject)
Who: Mikhail Bakunin and John Marston.
Where: The North Wing.
When: Backdated to before the end of port.
What: In which Mikhail proves himself to be a douche, buuuut John (unintentionally) proves a bigger one.
Warnings: UHHHH swearing because I'm terrible at not including it, and character death.
As Mikhail stalked his way through the North Wing, he still had Perry's gun jammed out of his belt, only now it stuck up out of the front, like he was very awkwardly trying to compensate for something. The fact was, he didn't trust having a gun behind him any more. He wished he'd insisted and given Dawsey the damn thing because ever since he'd left the man's side, he found himself entertaining the possibility that Charlie Pace might appear behind him, take the gun, place it against the back of his head, and (after a nails on a chalkboard cry of "You all everybody") pull the trigger. It had become a burden. No, now, he told himself, as long as he didn't trip and shoot his dick off, he'd be fine.
On that note, he was definitely beginning to feel the absence of the looming figure of Perry Dawsey. Standing at just over 6'1", he wasn't exactly a dwarf himself, but whereas he'd felt that usual wave of cold, methodical calm before, he was nervous now. Hell, even if he'd never admit it, he was scared. Forty three years old and he was still probably capable of beating the teeth out of most guys half his age. One eye or two eyes, he posed a very real threat to people, and that was a little factoid he was pretty damn proud of. Still, Dawsey was huge. He was stronger than him, had proven to be faster than him, and for one of those surprising, rare moments in his life, Mikhail really wouldn't have minded the company. The whole, 'this place is my imagination' mantra had now become a hindrance rather than a comfort. If this wasn't real, then he was stuck in a personal nightmare, and that was somewhere he really didn't want to be. It washed away his machismo. His professionalism. He felt like a kid again for the first time in years, and it really wasn't a nice feeling.
But real or not, he had some direction now, didn't he? He was close. He was so close he could fucking taste it. He had stuck the key at a hard angle in his trouser pocket, so now every step he took, it jabbed sharply into the top of his thigh. It was a reminder. He wasn't about to forget it was there. He was going to find his warden, use that key, and get the hell out.
There was a loud crackle from his communicator. Not for the first time that night, he felt a crippling coldness rise up inside of him. He threw a wild glance over his shoulder and instantly regretted it. Predictably, there was something--- no, someone there. A tiny figure. His jaw set, and he whipped round to face whatever it was; his own gun trained forward with a sharp accuracy that... turned out to be completely inaccurate. He was staring at an empty corridor. After what felt like an age, the gun slowly lowered, and he shuffled backwards until he felt his shoulder press against a wall. Eyes flickering over to his communicator again, he let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The static had stopped.
...What's more, he was finally there.
Giving himself just long enough to man up, he held the communicator up high and began marching his way down the hall; eyes darting from each door, back over to his screen. He then stopped. Hesitated. Tucking the communicator into the crook of his arm, his hand disappeared into his pocket, and tracing his thumb over the now warm metal of the key, he determined, with an odd twitch in his chest, that yes, he'd found the right room.
"John?" he hissed, approaching the door. He waited a moment, then repeated, louder this time: "John? Are you there?" Pocketing his communicator, his hand curled up into a fist, which then hovered inches away from the wood. He didn't knock.
((OOC: To people I owe tags to. I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN YE. I'm just struggling with little time and a bad connection. I figured this was worth shitting out first. ASAP GUYS. Cross my heart.))
Where: The North Wing.
When: Backdated to before the end of port.
What: In which Mikhail proves himself to be a douche, buuuut John (unintentionally) proves a bigger one.
Warnings: UHHHH swearing because I'm terrible at not including it, and character death.
As Mikhail stalked his way through the North Wing, he still had Perry's gun jammed out of his belt, only now it stuck up out of the front, like he was very awkwardly trying to compensate for something. The fact was, he didn't trust having a gun behind him any more. He wished he'd insisted and given Dawsey the damn thing because ever since he'd left the man's side, he found himself entertaining the possibility that Charlie Pace might appear behind him, take the gun, place it against the back of his head, and (after a nails on a chalkboard cry of "You all everybody") pull the trigger. It had become a burden. No, now, he told himself, as long as he didn't trip and shoot his dick off, he'd be fine.
On that note, he was definitely beginning to feel the absence of the looming figure of Perry Dawsey. Standing at just over 6'1", he wasn't exactly a dwarf himself, but whereas he'd felt that usual wave of cold, methodical calm before, he was nervous now. Hell, even if he'd never admit it, he was scared. Forty three years old and he was still probably capable of beating the teeth out of most guys half his age. One eye or two eyes, he posed a very real threat to people, and that was a little factoid he was pretty damn proud of. Still, Dawsey was huge. He was stronger than him, had proven to be faster than him, and for one of those surprising, rare moments in his life, Mikhail really wouldn't have minded the company. The whole, 'this place is my imagination' mantra had now become a hindrance rather than a comfort. If this wasn't real, then he was stuck in a personal nightmare, and that was somewhere he really didn't want to be. It washed away his machismo. His professionalism. He felt like a kid again for the first time in years, and it really wasn't a nice feeling.
But real or not, he had some direction now, didn't he? He was close. He was so close he could fucking taste it. He had stuck the key at a hard angle in his trouser pocket, so now every step he took, it jabbed sharply into the top of his thigh. It was a reminder. He wasn't about to forget it was there. He was going to find his warden, use that key, and get the hell out.
There was a loud crackle from his communicator. Not for the first time that night, he felt a crippling coldness rise up inside of him. He threw a wild glance over his shoulder and instantly regretted it. Predictably, there was something--- no, someone there. A tiny figure. His jaw set, and he whipped round to face whatever it was; his own gun trained forward with a sharp accuracy that... turned out to be completely inaccurate. He was staring at an empty corridor. After what felt like an age, the gun slowly lowered, and he shuffled backwards until he felt his shoulder press against a wall. Eyes flickering over to his communicator again, he let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The static had stopped.
...What's more, he was finally there.
Giving himself just long enough to man up, he held the communicator up high and began marching his way down the hall; eyes darting from each door, back over to his screen. He then stopped. Hesitated. Tucking the communicator into the crook of his arm, his hand disappeared into his pocket, and tracing his thumb over the now warm metal of the key, he determined, with an odd twitch in his chest, that yes, he'd found the right room.
"John?" he hissed, approaching the door. He waited a moment, then repeated, louder this time: "John? Are you there?" Pocketing his communicator, his hand curled up into a fist, which then hovered inches away from the wood. He didn't knock.
((OOC: To people I owe tags to. I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN YE. I'm just struggling with little time and a bad connection. I figured this was worth shitting out first. ASAP GUYS. Cross my heart.))