Galina's half-lidded gaze met the dark, dangerous eyes of the large, thickly muscled and blood-spattered man in the deep blue kimono, his gun lowered now, the wakizashi sheathed as he took her place, applying pressure to Souma's arm.
She smiled up at him, and let her outstretched hand fall back to the cushion of soft grasses where she lay.
Galina remembered Souma's Voice, Goemon, very, very well. Surely this must be his Fist, Daisuke. If they had ever met face-to-face, she could not recall (though such a great and imposing man would surely be stamped in the remembrance of most anyone whose path he crossed). Even so, she had heard enough of both Fist and Voice during her sojourn in Japan, and surely this could be no other.
Souma's bone-weary words, such as they were, were like the beacon of a lighthouse over storm-tossed seas, and warmed her soul like little else could. But it was enough for Galina in these moments, simply to know he no longer wished her dead. Truly, she did not expect Daisuke to bind her wounds or care for her, not with Souma bleeding out before his very eyes -
Galina heard the warning in Daisuke's voice, her Japanese sufficient at least to understand the gist of what he said as his dark eyes turned back to the path. She held her own breath in anticipation -
Nowhere in his most desolate nightmares, could Yury have imagined such a sight as greeted him now, carnage shattering all pretense of serenity and peace on this cultivated forest floor. Yury did not see the blue-clad bodies lying nearby, all his focus like a razor sharp pick for the three figures before him in this tiny grove. He pulled up short, stunned, blood draining from his face and all breath ripped away from his lungs as he took in the bright Spring-colored gaiety of roses and pinks that had been Galina's kimono, spattered now with crimson and gore. From where he stood, he could see the angry purple welt that spread angry tendrils along the side of her face, into her hair - but that was nothing compared to the crimson stains that ran like tiny streams across her chest, her back, and had seeped her life drop by precious drop into the ground.
That single gaze took in the two men beside her body, the large and heavily-muscled man who still held his pistol, and...
Even pale, bleeding and near unconscious, Yury would have recognized Takahiro Souma anywhere if, for no other reason, than his resemblance to his father. Galina had mentioned this once to him, how uncannily similar they seemed, father and son.
Of course, she had not exaggerated. Not even a little.
"What have you done?" Those English words, agonized and despairing, were not for the enormous, gun-wielding man behind Souma, but for Souma himself. Galina had been punished and exiled from her home, humiliated, shamed, and still she fought their father - and risked the further displeasure of the most dangerous man he had ever known - for this man's life, and for the life of his family.
And this? This was her due, all she had earned? Beaten and shot to death, by the very people she battled to preserve?
"Why? Damn you to hell!" he snarled, anguish and fury in equal measure lacing every word. The blood that covered Yury Demidov? None of it was his own. He could be fast enough if need be and swiftly raised the barrel of his pilfered pistol. "You will never know... Never know! Never be worthy of all she did - "
"Yury! Yury... Stop!" The sound of her voice was soft but insistent, brooking no argument and demanding all his attention, like the furious buzzing of a wasp. Galina could hear her brother's voice, unspeakable relief and absolute terror flooding her heart all at once. But she simply did not have the strength to turn, to meet his face. She did not need to see her brother. Galina heard the mortal intent in his voice like a clarion bell, knew in an instant what he intended - and what power she had left in her was channeled into those small words.
Amber eyes wide and disbelieving, the Cossack warrior lowered his pistol instantly, as if his sister's order held all the weight of a divine command. She was alive. Somehow, Galina still drew breath. Yury took a single step forward, the steady and uncompromising gaze of a soldier falling on the enormous, blood-spattered man steadying Takahiro Souma. He knew very well it was not the honorable son who truly stood between him and his sister, but this great warrior before him.
"Brother... " Galina whispered desperately to Souma, to Daisuke, to whoever might hear and understand. All the color was seeping from her world, even the verdant edges these soft grasses at her lips, all turning to greys as the sounds around her began to recede, to diminish, smothered beneath the stranglehold on consciousness she was swiftly losing. "Brother... My brother... Yury... Please... "
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As you will hon, I'm in no hurry. I still have two finals next week to prepare for, Tuesday and Wednesday of next week, as well as a short teaching project to finish and compile. Pretty busy at the moment too, so don't feel I'm breathing down your neck at all!
Whoever these monsters truly were, they were well-armed and ruthless beyond all reckoning, slaughtering anyone of the Takahiro clan or compound they found, man or woman, great or small.
A washerwoman... The young woman that bastard shot was not much more than a maid, and fleeing from the blue-garbed intruder at that. As Yury cleared that high garden wall, he had only a moment to take in the pale green of the cringing woman's kimono, cowering only feet from where he landed. Her small, calloused hands held up before her, a silent plea and a worthless shield - and entirely futile before a bullet.
Yury did not flinch as the hot spatter of her life's blood showered his face, speckled his clothes a foul crimson as the stench of iron and gunpowder struck him like a blow. This little woman whose name he would never know crumpled against the wall, somehow seeming even tinier and more fragile in death. A servant. She had been no one of any grand importance. It was of no matter that she worked for the Takahiro clan - she had likely hurt not a single soul in all her short life.
But innocence did not save her. And Yury saw his sister lying there, a ragged, slowly seeping hole in her lovely face, that matchless voice silenced forever...
The Winchester rifle already slung over his shoulder when he vaulted the wall, one of Yury's hands wrapped about the shashka's sheath, the other about the hilt as he pulled the blade loose, smoothly in one fluid, lethally graceful arc up and down over the intruder's wrist, slicing neatly through flesh and bone long before the man could react to the Cossack warrior seemingly dropped from the heavens above.
The intruder probably screamed, his forearm and hand and pistol dropping to the ground like not much more than a pruned branch. Yury only ever heard his own blood raging in his skull, thundering in his ears in perfect, throbbing time with his fury. The sweep of the shashka's blade returned in a split second, slashing several inches into the deep blue cloth of the shirt, opening ribs and pink flesh to the cool air. One more flash of silver and crimson in the Spring sunlight, and Yury laid his throat open, dropping the man next to his own fallen limb in seconds.
Yury did not stop, not even for a moment. Galina was still nowhere in sight, and nowhere near safe. One booted foot slammed down on the severed wrist at his feet, cooling gloved fingers releasing their grip on the Colt pistol. Yury's amber eyes were wide and wild with a noxious mixture of rage and gut-deep dread as he sprinted toward the one and only place he had yet to search but for the house itself, shashka and pilfered pistol in either hand as the lovingly tended and manicured groves of the furthest garden came into sight.
A washerwoman... The young woman that bastard shot was not much more than a maid, and fleeing from the blue-garbed intruder at that. As Yury cleared that high garden wall, he had only a moment to take in the pale green of the cringing woman's kimono, cowering only feet from where he landed. Her small, calloused hands held up before her, a silent plea and a worthless shield - and entirely futile before a bullet.
Yury did not flinch as the hot spatter of her life's blood showered his face, speckled his clothes a foul crimson as the stench of iron and gunpowder struck him like a blow. This little woman whose name he would never know crumpled against the wall, somehow seeming even tinier and more fragile in death. A servant. She had been no one of any grand importance. It was of no matter that she worked for the Takahiro clan - she had likely hurt not a single soul in all her short life.
But innocence did not save her. And Yury saw his sister lying there, a ragged, slowly seeping hole in her lovely face, that matchless voice silenced forever...
The Winchester rifle already slung over his shoulder when he vaulted the wall, one of Yury's hands wrapped about the shashka's sheath, the other about the hilt as he pulled the blade loose, smoothly in one fluid, lethally graceful arc up and down over the intruder's wrist, slicing neatly through flesh and bone long before the man could react to the Cossack warrior seemingly dropped from the heavens above.
The intruder probably screamed, his forearm and hand and pistol dropping to the ground like not much more than a pruned branch. Yury only ever heard his own blood raging in his skull, thundering in his ears in perfect, throbbing time with his fury. The sweep of the shashka's blade returned in a split second, slashing several inches into the deep blue cloth of the shirt, opening ribs and pink flesh to the cool air. One more flash of silver and crimson in the Spring sunlight, and Yury laid his throat open, dropping the man next to his own fallen limb in seconds.
Yury did not stop, not even for a moment. Galina was still nowhere in sight, and nowhere near safe. One booted foot slammed down on the severed wrist at his feet, cooling gloved fingers releasing their grip on the Colt pistol. Yury's amber eyes were wide and wild with a noxious mixture of rage and gut-deep dread as he sprinted toward the one and only place he had yet to search but for the house itself, shashka and pilfered pistol in either hand as the lovingly tended and manicured groves of the furthest garden came into sight.
Well I hope that happy face means 'unexpected' is a good thing 
The lesson being of course, don't piss off the Irish... Oh, and don't talk about Bree like she's an addle-brained idiot who's either thinking with her lady parts or trying to stay out of jail (or at least not within earshot! :)
The lesson being of course, don't piss off the Irish... Oh, and don't talk about Bree like she's an addle-brained idiot who's either thinking with her lady parts or trying to stay out of jail (or at least not within earshot! :)No, it was not too late. Not yet. She had simply let Souma's voice carry her like the warm waves of the Caribbean sea she had known once, a couple years ago. Galina had snuck from the old plantation house where she stayed, into the thick, green-scented night to the beach, all alone but for the full moon above. She let the waves lift her up that night while she watched the stars whirl overhead, and imagined this might be what it was like, to rest in a mother's arms.
And now, with Souma's words trickling and pooling into her thoughts, sea water into a tidal pool, Galina would never look to a mirror now, without a thought for the mother she had never known. This was a lovely gift he had given her - if, of course, she lived out the hour.
But this seemed unlikely at the moment, for either she or Souma. Several times during his tale, she had struggled to open her eyes, half-lidded and so unspeakably heavy as they were. Though he bound the deep cuts from her blade with the cloth of his obi, even to her fading sight he had grown far too pale, the timbre of his voice receding like the ebb tide. Her throat closed up, choked with a pain that had nothing to do with the rising bruises from Souma's fingers. She had not meant this for him. She had not meant any of this, for any of them.
Galina did not fancy herself the gentle heroine of Souma's tale. She was neither patient nor good, and she knew this very well. There would be no reward for her defiance of her father, or the subtle betrayals of faith and home and heart she had made for the sake of this one man. She had never looked for one, nor even imagined one could exist, and so she was not disappointed.
But now that Souma's story was ended, the cold came rushing back to her limbs like the howling winter wind. Galina was chilled. She shivered in the Spring sunshine, and wished more than anything in this world that she could see her Papa one more time. She had not been a good daughter. She had not even been a dutiful daughter, but there was nothing she would not give to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders again, to kiss his bearded cheek and hear his deep, booming laughter, the kind that resonated all the way to her toes when he hugged his little Night Wolf so very tightly, easily lifting her up off her feet and swinging her around 'til she was dizzy, as if she weighed no more than an autumn leaf.
A faint flicker of a smile gently upturned the corner of her lips. "Thank you... Souma... " she whispered, that matchless voice now only the wispy, ephemeral ghost of itself, that may not have made it further than the blades of grass before her lips. The fingers wrapped about the hilt of the kindjal she still clutched to her chest, tightened just a little more. A gift from her Papa who, somewhere in this world she knew, must love her still.
"Beautiful... " Her outstretched hand unfurled, fingertips reaching for Souma as she fought to open her eyes one more time. "Won't... Hurt you... "
Galina did not have the breath to return Souma's gift in full, but she could give what measure was still left to her. "Let me... Put pressure... Pressure... Your arm... While I still... Can... "
And now, with Souma's words trickling and pooling into her thoughts, sea water into a tidal pool, Galina would never look to a mirror now, without a thought for the mother she had never known. This was a lovely gift he had given her - if, of course, she lived out the hour.
But this seemed unlikely at the moment, for either she or Souma. Several times during his tale, she had struggled to open her eyes, half-lidded and so unspeakably heavy as they were. Though he bound the deep cuts from her blade with the cloth of his obi, even to her fading sight he had grown far too pale, the timbre of his voice receding like the ebb tide. Her throat closed up, choked with a pain that had nothing to do with the rising bruises from Souma's fingers. She had not meant this for him. She had not meant any of this, for any of them.
Galina did not fancy herself the gentle heroine of Souma's tale. She was neither patient nor good, and she knew this very well. There would be no reward for her defiance of her father, or the subtle betrayals of faith and home and heart she had made for the sake of this one man. She had never looked for one, nor even imagined one could exist, and so she was not disappointed.
But now that Souma's story was ended, the cold came rushing back to her limbs like the howling winter wind. Galina was chilled. She shivered in the Spring sunshine, and wished more than anything in this world that she could see her Papa one more time. She had not been a good daughter. She had not even been a dutiful daughter, but there was nothing she would not give to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders again, to kiss his bearded cheek and hear his deep, booming laughter, the kind that resonated all the way to her toes when he hugged his little Night Wolf so very tightly, easily lifting her up off her feet and swinging her around 'til she was dizzy, as if she weighed no more than an autumn leaf.
A faint flicker of a smile gently upturned the corner of her lips. "Thank you... Souma... " she whispered, that matchless voice now only the wispy, ephemeral ghost of itself, that may not have made it further than the blades of grass before her lips. The fingers wrapped about the hilt of the kindjal she still clutched to her chest, tightened just a little more. A gift from her Papa who, somewhere in this world she knew, must love her still.
"Beautiful... " Her outstretched hand unfurled, fingertips reaching for Souma as she fought to open her eyes one more time. "Won't... Hurt you... "
Galina did not have the breath to return Souma's gift in full, but she could give what measure was still left to her. "Let me... Put pressure... Pressure... Your arm... While I still... Can... "
"Royce, you must be out of your goddamned mind." Maybe it was the carpet over the office floor that masked the sound of her booted heels as she approached; or maybe it was the fact that Agent Tanner was so deeply sunk in his furious diatribe that he could not notice a thing beyond the cocksure replies of the green-eyed man before him.
No matter. Bree had heard quite enough. Her cold whisper of a voice, thick with barely concealed rage, cut through the air between them like a razor-sharp knife, and if she could have? The frigid gaze of her grey eyes would have pinned Tanner to the canvas walls of her faux-office like a butterfly to a board.
"Do you see any handcuffs on Mr. Sampson? Leg irons maybe?" She cocked one eyebrow as her arms fold over her chest, the fingers of one hand thrumming impatiently against her arm. The question was entirely rhetorical, and she wasn't waiting for a response from Tanner at least.
"No? Really? You're sure?" Bree glanced at Ethan for a moment, shrugged her shoulders as if she were helpless to find an answer herself before looking back at Tanner. "You know why? That's because he's not under arrest. He's not being detained here either. As a matter of fact, he's as much a free person as you and me and, if he wished, could walk right on out of here, right now. This very second. He is here entirely of his own volition, Royce."
And while this statement wasn't entirely true, Bree was on a roll and she wasn't really in a mood to cut Tanner any slack at the moment. Ethan needed to be here if, for no other reason in the world than to clear his name [or at least one of them], and get his life back. But damned if that was any of Tanner's business - any more than a whole bunch of other Bree-related issues that he apparently had decided was suddenly in his purview.
Somehow her voice never rose above the decibels needed to travel between this odd little threesome congregating outside her cubicle. "And for the record? No, I'm not screwing Ethan Sampson either. But the man I am currently sleeping with is due back in Richmond tomorrow evening, so if all goes well? I will definitely be getting lucky tomorrow night - at the very least, smiling wide by morning after. I'll keep you in the loop."
"And but for the aforementioned decided improvement in my sex life with the ex-Navy Seal turned banker? What in the hell do you think I could be blackmailed with? Crazy cat lady spinster here, remember?" Bree dropped her folded arms, opening them wide with another shrug. "Unless you think me and Riddick were somehow in the center of some international crime syndicate on my weekends off, holed up with my fuzzy slippers and a pint of Ben & Jerry's every weekend with our Netflix? No?"
Bree let out a long, frustrated sigh, rolling her eyes mightily as her arms fell to her sides. "I like you Royce, a lot. You're a great partner and probably one of the best agents I've ever worked with. But how about you give me just half of that respect. Oh, and kindly stay the hell out of my personal business."
Her grey eyes turned to Ethan now, shaking her head slowly, incredulously. "Let's go, they're ready for us in the conference room." She didn't wait for Ethan to rise or Tanner to speak before she turned to stalk away - and then whirled back around once more. "Bring the Werther's with you. No, not those... The whole bag, right there in the drawer. Yeah, I get the feeling this is the start of 'one of those days... '"
No matter. Bree had heard quite enough. Her cold whisper of a voice, thick with barely concealed rage, cut through the air between them like a razor-sharp knife, and if she could have? The frigid gaze of her grey eyes would have pinned Tanner to the canvas walls of her faux-office like a butterfly to a board.
"Do you see any handcuffs on Mr. Sampson? Leg irons maybe?" She cocked one eyebrow as her arms fold over her chest, the fingers of one hand thrumming impatiently against her arm. The question was entirely rhetorical, and she wasn't waiting for a response from Tanner at least.
"No? Really? You're sure?" Bree glanced at Ethan for a moment, shrugged her shoulders as if she were helpless to find an answer herself before looking back at Tanner. "You know why? That's because he's not under arrest. He's not being detained here either. As a matter of fact, he's as much a free person as you and me and, if he wished, could walk right on out of here, right now. This very second. He is here entirely of his own volition, Royce."
And while this statement wasn't entirely true, Bree was on a roll and she wasn't really in a mood to cut Tanner any slack at the moment. Ethan needed to be here if, for no other reason in the world than to clear his name [or at least one of them], and get his life back. But damned if that was any of Tanner's business - any more than a whole bunch of other Bree-related issues that he apparently had decided was suddenly in his purview.
Somehow her voice never rose above the decibels needed to travel between this odd little threesome congregating outside her cubicle. "And for the record? No, I'm not screwing Ethan Sampson either. But the man I am currently sleeping with is due back in Richmond tomorrow evening, so if all goes well? I will definitely be getting lucky tomorrow night - at the very least, smiling wide by morning after. I'll keep you in the loop."
"And but for the aforementioned decided improvement in my sex life with the ex-Navy Seal turned banker? What in the hell do you think I could be blackmailed with? Crazy cat lady spinster here, remember?" Bree dropped her folded arms, opening them wide with another shrug. "Unless you think me and Riddick were somehow in the center of some international crime syndicate on my weekends off, holed up with my fuzzy slippers and a pint of Ben & Jerry's every weekend with our Netflix? No?"
Bree let out a long, frustrated sigh, rolling her eyes mightily as her arms fell to her sides. "I like you Royce, a lot. You're a great partner and probably one of the best agents I've ever worked with. But how about you give me just half of that respect. Oh, and kindly stay the hell out of my personal business."
Her grey eyes turned to Ethan now, shaking her head slowly, incredulously. "Let's go, they're ready for us in the conference room." She didn't wait for Ethan to rise or Tanner to speak before she turned to stalk away - and then whirled back around once more. "Bring the Werther's with you. No, not those... The whole bag, right there in the drawer. Yeah, I get the feeling this is the start of 'one of those days... '"
Both of you, Heroes and Dot, are such wonderful writers that I would honestly - and happily - read a full novel written by either of you, authored singly or co-authored. Wonderful post! And poor sweet Deli - she doesn't even realize that Abby wants to damage control, that somebody else already "told on her."
And NICE Kuro!
I like you're .gif better, but no matter. That milestone is pretty kinda awesome! Yeah for EVERYBODY! You all are so amazing!
And NICE Kuro!
I like you're .gif better, but no matter. That milestone is pretty kinda awesome! Yeah for EVERYBODY! You all are so amazing!That would be wonderful Idle, and very much looking forward to when you get that chance, to sit and channel one of our silver foxes again 
Tonight, I'm afraid, is kinda another "not going to get anything fun accomplished" evening, but hopefully after tomorrow's test I'll have time to dig up more good times here and in other places too.
Cannot wait to see what that poor Newfie thinks of Bill's gentle, patient response Justric!
Tonight, I'm afraid, is kinda another "not going to get anything fun accomplished" evening, but hopefully after tomorrow's test I'll have time to dig up more good times here and in other places too.
Cannot wait to see what that poor Newfie thinks of Bill's gentle, patient response Justric!
If it wouldn't put you out too much, I'd like to put a small post in for Galina and/or Yury before Daisuke arrives, but I'm afraid I just won't get to it 'til tomorrow evening. Would that put you out too awful much, the wait? I just didn't realize until Sunday, just how overwhelmed I was going to be with this last paper and these two tests ><
HA! Yeah, I don't think either of them is in any kind of condition to do much of anything at all - they've managed to jack themselves up all kinds of thoroughly! 
Were you thinking this was a good point for the respective cavalries to arrive? I'd almost prefer that Daisuke arrive first though, so you could set the scene for some major league eyeballing like we talked about *grins* But if you'd rather otherwise? Of course I can work with that too - just don't want to foreshorten the fun ;)
Were you thinking this was a good point for the respective cavalries to arrive? I'd almost prefer that Daisuke arrive first though, so you could set the scene for some major league eyeballing like we talked about *grins* But if you'd rather otherwise? Of course I can work with that too - just don't want to foreshorten the fun ;)
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