(Untitled)

[patchyatbest]

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/

Comments

Sorry this took so long, Amy. Your post was so big, it intimidated me :c

[deusexmechanic]

Unlike Mikhail, Harper had adjusted to the barge in record time, upon first arrial. It was just another big spaceship, as far as he was concerned, nothing he hadn't seen plenty of times before. So, with the coming of the latest flood, all the difference it made to Harper was that it was a bit of a break in the routine. So little attention pay to did he to the comings and goings of other inmates and wardens, that the weird groundskeeper of the flood hadn't even registered as a new face to him.

So, the moment it had all ended? He'd resumed his usual schedule, wake up, check journal, heckle inmate, work on various personal projects, then go to the engine room and submerse himself in the work he loved and keep the other staff working there from ruining it.

He was on route to the engine room, in fact, when he cheerfully breezed past Mikhail. If the presence of the other man registered with him as anything more than a neutral observation, then it didn't show on his face.

PERMISSION TO GODMOD GRANTED. And if by post, you mean penis, then that's okay. :c

[patchyatbest]

Head still resting on the door frame, Mikhail turned his neck so that the right side of his face was pressed against the surface, leaving his left eye with a much wider scope. Feeling his impatience growing, he heard his stomach give an angry groan and tried to remember when he'd last eaten, but instantly lost the train of thought as he saw Harper making his way down the corridor. He sucked in a breath. It was like a bolt from beyond - the man couldn't have been more than five foot six. A vague smile tugged at the sides of his mouth. Picture of sobriety or not, five foot six he could deal with.

He waited till he could see the back of Harper's head, before seizing him by the neck. In one harsh, practiced movement, he twisted him backwards and half-dragged, half-lifted him into the cabin. When they were inside, Mikhail kicked a foot out to close the door behind him. With a quick glance, he noted that he clearly hadn't kicked hard enough; the door was slowly inching open once more. It didn't matter, he assured himself. His attention

[deusexmechanic]

Harper barely had time to get out a yelp of objection before he found himself being dragged backwards into Mikhail's Cabin. He flailed one arm out madly in an attempt to disentangle the inmates arm, but to no avail. The world spun, as he was dumped disorientingly into the Russian's room, he heard the bang of foot against wood as the other man kicked the door shut roughly, before managing to focus his attention back in front of him, on what was going on.

"You have ten seconds to talk, or I swear to you I will break your neck right now."

Harper swallowed, as he felt the inmate's fingers press onto his throat. His eyes flicked to the door, and Harper decided that the only wise move right now was to stall until he could find a way to run, "Wait! Wait!" He hadn't really planned what he was going to say at this point, so Harper just went with the first thing he could think of, "Don't you mean you'll break my neck in ten seconds?"

Great. Being a picky little jerk about the semantics of his future spinal injury, that was an awesome

[patchyatbest]

Mikhail didn't reply immediately, but given that his grip loosened just long enough for him to swing an elbow at Harper's jaw, it was safe to say that the comment didn't go down too well. He then shifted his weight entirely, awkwardly pivoting so that he stood face to face with the shorter man; Harper's back now pressed against the nearest wall.

"Keep your voice low," Mikhail said evenly; each word delivered in a slow, precise manner, as if he was either practicing his pronunciation, or talking to a child. "I won't ask you again." The crazy look in his eye seemed to be begging Harper to call his bluff, and man did he do the crazy look well. Having run his hands over his head a few too many times, his hair was now plastered up in a manner that would have made David Lynch proud, there was that ever-present whiff of alcohol on his breath, and he still had his collection of pre-barge injuries adding that little bit of character to his grizzled face. Frankly, he looked like someone you'd find in an alley way, or at best, a bad pirate