there's a creeping doubt rollin' up my spine CLOSED - FOR NATASHA / DARKNESS HELD ITS BREATH / CW FOR YEZHOVSHCHINA, TORTURE, AND EXECUTION FLASHBACKS
[ Everything in him screams Turn and run. Vasiliy's heart races in his ribcage until sweat soaks the armpits and spine of his uniform shirt despite the chill air, every step forward a struggle against the added resistance of the basic human desire to survive. He breathes in the smell of dust and mildew and earth that characterizes subterranean spaces and he's there again, the stiff soles of his jackboots echoing off the cement bowels of the Lubyanka, dropping to his knees on the cold hard floor of an execution chamber four years later. The sight of the revolver he holds out before him shakes madly with the tremors of the hand around its grip; his left remains motionless only because it's anchored by a tight grasp on the damp nylon strap of his EMS kit bag.
But he moves forward at a brisk pace anyway, dark irises scanning the dim space ahead of them. He's already a dead man. The missing ones aren't, and his own icy terror and the visceral shame of the stranger beside him bearing witness to the complete breakdown of control over his own body is nothing compared to this. ]
darlin', where are you now? (gonna find you down in a wishin' well) OTA CAPTIVES / YOUR FRIENDS WHEN THINGS GET ROUGH / CW FOR TORTURE AND VOMITING [ Dread tightens his throat and chills his skin as his worst suspicions are confirmed: judging by the blood, the instruments, this is a mass casualty event.
Torture.
He crosses through the doorway, hand finding the zipper at the top of his kit bag.
And then he sees the steel bars and looks in on neighbors and political prisoners and enemies of the state and vomits on the cement as the Lubyanka engulfs him.
Get up. You have to get up. Get up, you coward, now. Vision swimming, Vasiliy dares to lift his head and stare into the bars as the hard floor chills his palms and knees. It's the first necessary link in the chain of events that follow - he stares at the hideous welter of human bodies and rises to his feet with the unsteady gracelessness of a newborn calf. His mind begins to reflexively sift them into categories of severity. He staggers toward the worst of them, opens his mouth, speaks with his own inflection, the 1930s dripping from words he only has the presence of mind to speak in Russian. ]
ยซ You're okay. I've got you. Help's here. ยป
with my own blood in my mouth OTA / WILDCARD! [ Once he's aboveground, Vasiliy wastes no time in doing his best to prepare a relief area for the immediate - hands out shock blankets, tosses orders to any uninjured parties that pass by around his third cigarette of the hour, marks his slew of patients with the appropriate triage designations. It's possible that he orders your character to bring the wounded water, scrounge for supplies, etc, a stark contrast from the softspoken and withdrawn man they may have met earlier. Whether they disregard, agree to help, or react poorly to the sudden authority he's assumed is, of course, dependent on the individual. ]
vasiliy yegorovich ardankin | original character
CLOSED - FOR NATASHA / DARKNESS HELD ITS BREATH / CW FOR YEZHOVSHCHINA, TORTURE, AND EXECUTION FLASHBACKS
[ Everything in him screams Turn and run. Vasiliy's heart races in his ribcage until sweat soaks the armpits and spine of his uniform shirt despite the chill air, every step forward a struggle against the added resistance of the basic human desire to survive. He breathes in the smell of dust and mildew and earth that characterizes subterranean spaces and he's there again, the stiff soles of his jackboots echoing off the cement bowels of the Lubyanka, dropping to his knees on the cold hard floor of an execution chamber four years later. The sight of the revolver he holds out before him shakes madly with the tremors of the hand around its grip; his left remains motionless only because it's anchored by a tight grasp on the damp nylon strap of his EMS kit bag.
But he moves forward at a brisk pace anyway, dark irises scanning the dim space ahead of them. He's already a dead man. The missing ones aren't, and his own icy terror and the visceral shame of the stranger beside him bearing witness to the complete breakdown of control over his own body is nothing compared to this. ]
darlin', where are you now? (gonna find you down in a wishin' well)
OTA CAPTIVES / YOUR FRIENDS WHEN THINGS GET ROUGH / CW FOR TORTURE AND VOMITING
[ Dread tightens his throat and chills his skin as his worst suspicions are confirmed: judging by the blood, the instruments, this is a mass casualty event.
Torture.
He crosses through the doorway, hand finding the zipper at the top of his kit bag.
And then he sees the steel bars and looks in on neighbors and political prisoners and enemies of the state and vomits on the cement as the Lubyanka engulfs him.
Get up. You have to get up. Get up, you coward, now. Vision swimming, Vasiliy dares to lift his head and stare into the bars as the hard floor chills his palms and knees. It's the first necessary link in the chain of events that follow - he stares at the hideous welter of human bodies and rises to his feet with the unsteady gracelessness of a newborn calf. His mind begins to reflexively sift them into categories of severity. He staggers toward the worst of them, opens his mouth, speaks with his own inflection, the 1930s dripping from words he only has the presence of mind to speak in Russian. ]
ยซ You're okay. I've got you. Help's here. ยป
with my own blood in my mouth
OTA / WILDCARD!
[ Once he's aboveground, Vasiliy wastes no time in doing his best to prepare a relief area for the immediate - hands out shock blankets, tosses orders to any uninjured parties that pass by around his third cigarette of the hour, marks his slew of patients with the appropriate triage designations. It's possible that he orders your character to bring the wounded water, scrounge for supplies, etc, a stark contrast from the softspoken and withdrawn man they may have met earlier. Whether they disregard, agree to help, or react poorly to the sudden authority he's assumed is, of course, dependent on the individual. ]