"Get the lizard!" he snapped in Russian to Raikov, a confirmation of the order better not snoot him off. His voice was quivering ever so slightly from the "salt" in his wounds. "Get the lizard!"
One of the Soviet's dim memories of boyhood followed the end of the First War, where in the pall of devastation and the haze of Revolution hung the murmurs of the horrors of what he eventually learned was called mustard gas. He had not seen any gasses during the Second War, from where he was, but he knew better than to trust the tongue flapping and paper signing of a bunch of idealist diplomats, and he knew especially better than to trust a fucking Nazi.
This must have been what a gassing felt like (something he quietly applied to some of his prisoners in the past, just to watch them foam and writhe in their interesting death throes -- Alexander Glazunov's Concert Waltz No. 2 set to confiscated soman nerve gas). Volgin howled, but it was agonized, pressing the limits of his pain threshold, as corroding waste burned against his nerves and the exposed meat, marring his already scarred body further. Filth stained into his blood, creeping through his veins like a slow, black fire. His lungs burned with his tearing eyes. It was hurting him to breathe. It was getting difficult to breathe. He never knew an Earthly agony like this, and a terrible resolve boiled within him that this would be the last time he would let that disgusting creature smear its vomit on him again.
But, the Russian could channel pain. He earned his rank, he earned his reputation, and he would not betray his soldierly pedigree and blood so easily; he could channel pain well. He steered his addled, battered body at the frog-monster, electrical arcs flowing across him as he charged again, the current unhindered by his sorry physical state. It was getting harder to control his massive form but, with the distance, came a sort of relief as the pain waned with it. Blood trailed in the snow, and each ragged contraction of his chest heaved tangy flecks. He was not sure if the gasping rattle that accompanied each stride was his.
His hands were bloody, and some of his fingers had been sheared to the bone, but he found himself not caring. His world was that Venusaur's bloated body steaming, open, in the cold.
no subject
better not snoot him off. His voice was quivering ever so slightly from the "salt" in his wounds. "Get the lizard!"One of the Soviet's dim memories of boyhood followed the end of the First War, where in the pall of devastation and the haze of Revolution hung the murmurs of the horrors of what he eventually learned was called mustard gas. He had not seen any gasses during the Second War, from where he was, but he knew better than to trust the tongue flapping and paper signing of a bunch of idealist diplomats, and he knew especially better than to trust a fucking Nazi.
This must have been what a gassing felt like (something he quietly applied to some of his prisoners in the past, just to watch them foam and writhe in their interesting death throes -- Alexander Glazunov's Concert Waltz No. 2 set to confiscated soman nerve gas). Volgin howled, but it was agonized, pressing the limits of his pain threshold, as corroding waste burned against his nerves and the exposed meat, marring his already scarred body further. Filth stained into his blood, creeping through his veins like a slow, black fire. His lungs burned with his tearing eyes. It was hurting him to breathe. It was getting difficult to breathe. He never knew an Earthly agony like this, and a terrible resolve boiled within him that this would be the last time he would let that disgusting creature smear its vomit on him again.
But, the Russian could channel pain. He earned his rank, he earned his reputation, and he would not betray his soldierly pedigree and blood so easily; he could channel pain well. He steered his addled, battered body at the frog-monster, electrical arcs flowing across him as he charged again, the current unhindered by his sorry physical state. It was getting harder to control his massive form but, with the distance, came a sort of relief as the pain waned with it. Blood trailed in the snow, and each ragged contraction of his chest heaved tangy flecks. He was not sure if the gasping rattle that accompanied each stride was his.
His hands were bloody, and some of his fingers had been sheared to the bone, but he found himself not caring. His world was that Venusaur's bloated body steaming, open, in the cold.