The sound of the jet overhead startled him, and his first reaction was to dive aside and take cover. Somewhere in his semi-conscious meandering down the city streets he'd gotten caught up in a feeling of nostalgia. He took a breath and made a concentrated blink, focusing on his surroundings.
Almost two decades ago, it might have been Chechnya.
He'd be moving through the Caucasus with a group of boys not much older than he, and a few men, seeking out and engaging Russian soldiers on behalf of the Islamic government, but that was before he had learned enough to make his own decisions, after he'd gotten the black and green tattoo of an alert but resting wolf.
He still kept it, a coat of arms, he liked the design but had long since abandoned what it had stood for.
No, he decided, that's not where the sudden urge to defend himself had come from, perhaps it came from the Legion, yes, that was more recent. He had served with Honor and Fidelity, throwing the past behind him, hiding it behind the name he wished he'd had. Jonathan Alexander Krycek. The name had caused him some trouble with the application. There was no record of the individual, and Krycek wasn't even a real name. He'd explained, in stilted bits of Russian that the records were likely destroyed during the First Chechen War, and that seemed appeasement enough.
That's right, Operation Licorne, an attack by the enemy's air force, the explosion had seared his left eye closed when a peice of shrapnel had buried itself in the brim of his helmet, the still hot steel boiling away the skin in a jagged line as he and a "brother" had tried desperatly to get rid of the headgear. Miraculously, his eye had survived, if not worse for wear, the "brother" had not.
He shook his head clear of the memories with a bemused sigh, "The more things change..." If he'd been paying attention, he might have suppressed his Russian accent. Looking up, he read the numbers on the wall and found that he had arrived.
Favors had gotten him here, and favors needed to be repaid.
His right hand came to the door in front of him, and white scarred knuckles disturbed the silence with a sharp series of knocks. He stood off center from the door then, but close, so that the wide angle view afforded by a modern peep-hole wouldn't reveal his identity. He'd removed his piercings, and flattened his faux-hawk, but the man he'd come to see was cautious, and for a moment he worried that the Brown buttoned shirt and box parcel may not work as well as he'd hopped.
He gave his tongue an unnecessary twist, and knocked again, he could feel with his proximity to the door, the echo of foot falls behind it, heard the slight scratching of hands around the spy-glass in the door.
A two way speaker hidden in the door-frame gave a click, and he acted quickly on the opportunity. "I've got a parcel here for a Mister," he paused, the name would be difficult for an American to pronounce, "Ah, I'm sorry, I can't get this name right, Sear, Serebyr, Se-?" he stumbled through the name, feigning ignorance.
The door opened quickly, and the man beyond it grasped at the package. "Serebryannikov, Pyotr Serebryannikov, yes, that's me." The man didn't even try to hide it, it was almost insulting, and it showed as their eyes met for the first time.
"Of course you are."
Commercial suppressors were hard to get, especially in San Paro where the effluent had just recently hit maximum centrifugal acceleration, so it was little wonder why Pyotr Serebryannikov was confused by the sudden spray of cardboard and potato, moments before departing.
Jon turned from the door and walked away, a pneumatic cylinder pulling the door closed from the top of the frame.
"Of course you are."
(It's been a while, and the muse was a bit slow. I like the sound of RPing in this game though and finding a focused group of individuals would make it all the better, so I'm tossing my cards in, if you'll let me.)
Almost two decades ago, it might have been Chechnya.
He'd be moving through the Caucasus with a group of boys not much older than he, and a few men, seeking out and engaging Russian soldiers on behalf of the Islamic government, but that was before he had learned enough to make his own decisions, after he'd gotten the black and green tattoo of an alert but resting wolf.
He still kept it, a coat of arms, he liked the design but had long since abandoned what it had stood for.
No, he decided, that's not where the sudden urge to defend himself had come from, perhaps it came from the Legion, yes, that was more recent. He had served with Honor and Fidelity, throwing the past behind him, hiding it behind the name he wished he'd had. Jonathan Alexander Krycek. The name had caused him some trouble with the application. There was no record of the individual, and Krycek wasn't even a real name. He'd explained, in stilted bits of Russian that the records were likely destroyed during the First Chechen War, and that seemed appeasement enough.
That's right, Operation Licorne, an attack by the enemy's air force, the explosion had seared his left eye closed when a peice of shrapnel had buried itself in the brim of his helmet, the still hot steel boiling away the skin in a jagged line as he and a "brother" had tried desperatly to get rid of the headgear. Miraculously, his eye had survived, if not worse for wear, the "brother" had not.
He shook his head clear of the memories with a bemused sigh, "The more things change..." If he'd been paying attention, he might have suppressed his Russian accent. Looking up, he read the numbers on the wall and found that he had arrived.
Favors had gotten him here, and favors needed to be repaid.
His right hand came to the door in front of him, and white scarred knuckles disturbed the silence with a sharp series of knocks. He stood off center from the door then, but close, so that the wide angle view afforded by a modern peep-hole wouldn't reveal his identity. He'd removed his piercings, and flattened his faux-hawk, but the man he'd come to see was cautious, and for a moment he worried that the Brown buttoned shirt and box parcel may not work as well as he'd hopped.
He gave his tongue an unnecessary twist, and knocked again, he could feel with his proximity to the door, the echo of foot falls behind it, heard the slight scratching of hands around the spy-glass in the door.
A two way speaker hidden in the door-frame gave a click, and he acted quickly on the opportunity. "I've got a parcel here for a Mister," he paused, the name would be difficult for an American to pronounce, "Ah, I'm sorry, I can't get this name right, Sear, Serebyr, Se-?" he stumbled through the name, feigning ignorance.
The door opened quickly, and the man beyond it grasped at the package. "Serebryannikov, Pyotr Serebryannikov, yes, that's me." The man didn't even try to hide it, it was almost insulting, and it showed as their eyes met for the first time.
"Of course you are."
Commercial suppressors were hard to get, especially in San Paro where the effluent had just recently hit maximum centrifugal acceleration, so it was little wonder why Pyotr Serebryannikov was confused by the sudden spray of cardboard and potato, moments before departing.
Jon turned from the door and walked away, a pneumatic cylinder pulling the door closed from the top of the frame.
"Of course you are."
(It's been a while, and the muse was a bit slow. I like the sound of RPing in this game though and finding a focused group of individuals would make it all the better, so I'm tossing my cards in, if you'll let me.)
Last edited by Krycek on Mon Aug 02, 2010 11:51 pm; edited 1 time in total
