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[zimoivolk]

Winter Remnants

@ficlelis

The objective was not difficult to find. Not with her habit of attending literature readings by prominent Indian professors. 

The locale for the current reading was full of excess. Female noncombatants in shining fabric and clutches, men in suits and graspable nooses, as if so content to strut the ballroom with a length of fabric synched so tightly around their throats. The women were no better, so constantly adorned with chains and jewels, little thought given to how simple it would be for a hostile to fist a hand in the shining extent and jerk, a simple snap.

Just more evidence that Volke was immersed in a world that he yet failed to understand in any meaningful way.

Not that such evidence didn’t forever abound, though Volke was not so incapable as to be distracted by his own lacks. Instead he narrowed the area of his scope, closing in on the objective as she stepped from a cab a street over.

The objective had company for the evident, a large man stepping beside her as they made for a side alley that turned to the left, spanning through the midst of the buildings, until it let out on the event’s brightly lit block.

Volke debated, always disliked to terminate a target within reach of a non-combatant. Seemed messy, imprecise.

He did not have to worry, for the man darted back to the vehicle a moment later, the objective’s shadow protruding from the inner midst of the alley. Volke wasted no more time, saw that she must be standing just beyond the back corner of the building, and fired. The bullet passed easily through the two layers of brick, if inescapably skewed. An adjustment Volke had evidently accurately prepared for, as a moment later the shadow shifted, and the objective fell forward, a dark hole tucked up against her hairline.

Not so accurate as his father would have been, but Volke have never really expected to emulate that talents of such a man.

More thoughts that were largely unnecessary. Volke shouldered his fireman and left his nest, an unseen retreat the new objective.

[zimoivolk]

Necessary Return

These walls were known. Every mark was terrible and familiar, an essence in the very air that Volke detested, that forced frigid unease in his chest, a bitter despair.

Was hard to ignore, to refuse, when in the cold depths of his first existence, where obedience was that only state of safety, and even then only so variably.

Volke had to pause, to let lessen the furious pace of his heart. Was difficult when below him operatives murmured and paced the hall. The disinterest in every stride, the manner of their walk, every aspect was so difficult to forget, to ignore. Harder yet to imagine his father in this dreaded place, in such proximity to the ice and chair-.

No. He would not think on it. Now was not the time, and so very far from the place.

-

Had once been in this place, kneeling and bound, assaulted by a constant dirge of noise and light.

Just to hear again that terrible noise forced a vague timid drip in his blood, one that Volke could barely repress, drawing the distinction of his new existence around him like a shroud, a barrier. Was necessary, and so less effective than he wished, as he slipped within the area, the stretch of his cloth mask hiding whatever unease that would surely be visible.

Volke approached the objective, blade out, though more for his own ease of mind than a desire to inspire fear. He was not even so sure the objective would notice his nearness, had no idea how long the man had existed here in the midst of such noise.

[zimoivolk]

Winter Wilds

@under-the-programming

The snow seems almost different in this land. Less...dominion-like, maybe.

Still the whiteness falls heavily, bright and unsullied as the flakes are thrust along by the insistence of winter wind. Few things disturb the pale expanse below are, mostly just fallen limbs, those that were evidently too weak to withstand the gales and weather.

To be weak is a crime, a dysfunction, one that forever heralds failure and punishment. 

T8 knows such nearly so well as he does the heft of a blade.

Unnecessary thoughts. A distraction from the current objective. One that T8 is almost upon. There is a shape he can barely see as he moves through these high branches, the slide of his feet against frigid bark swallowed by the wind. Soon the mawing entrance of the cavern becomes clear, and T8 wastes no time in leaping to a sturdy branch closer to its level. There he drops to hang from gloved hands, the force from his leap carried through. He swings and releases, the bitter assault of wind barely assuaged by his mask and eye wear.

The rock foundation is a brief shock though his flesh, but nothing worse than T8 had expected. He allows the momentum to carry him, rolling over his shoulder, coming to rest with one knee to the ground and his other foot to the side, ready to leverage up and away should he need to. His blade is already free of its sheath and gripped, even though this cavern is to be free of hostiles and non-combatants.

Such is so rarely a thing to be guaranteed in the wild.

[zimoivolk]

Wooded Reprieve

They scream and they bellow, and for once Volke doesn’t care, can’t even cringe despite the terror speeding his blood. The engines are too loud to let him even be startled by sharp words and temper, a roar of malfunction in the gears, of imminent disaster. The left one finally bursts, the side of the craft a sudden wall of roiling flame and buckled metal. 

The second engine will not be much longer for the world, and Volke takes his chance in his captors’ distraction. A lunge, a twist of his legs against a thick throat, and the operative that has been in charge of his obedience lies broken and still on the trembling deck of the aircraft, throat snapped. There is no time to know any satisfaction in the termination of one so endlessly insistent in returning Volke to a leash, not when already the craft is no longer level, the tremble so very worse.

There is no option but to grab at the strap of a sack that he can only hope to be a parachute, lunging out the sundered side of the plane a bare moment before the other engine alights in flame and smoke.

-

There is a waver in his steps. A continued lack of function, a lag in the movement of his left leg. One Volke can’t even attempt to correct, no matter how certain he is that he is leaving a trail, a furrow in the fallen foliage and dirt from the refusal of his foot to rise but the barest measure from the ground. Could hardly limp along even as he is without the support of these trees, each so wide, so tall. Tall enough to snag the near shredded extent of the parachute as he’d fallen, the impact enough to snap the weathered cords.

There’d been so many branches between Volke and the forest floor. More than enough to rip the denim of his already torn jeans, to destroy the remnants of his shirt, thin lines of bloodied and broken skin the evidence of the vicious displeasure of nature as he’d fallen.

Hasn’t the energy to even be frustrated right now. Not when each breath is an almost weak rasp, a fire inside him, refusing him air. There is something wrong with his ribs, he’s sure. Something defective in his leg as well.

Volke almost laughs, so exhausted and barely lucid a whisper after stumbling along for more than an hour. It isn’t like being dysfunctional is so strange to him. 

There has been nothing more constant in the entirety of his existence, if he is honest.

Not that he knows any other way to be. 

[zimoivolk]

Coming Home

The darkness hides his steps, the lashing of rain and wind forcing him to coherence, awareness a terrible thing, a sense of known and not twisting together like some fanged beast. One that lashes and snarls behind his eyes, so sudden and loud and wroth-.

Breathe, has to do that. Has to try, even when he’s so sure that there is fire under his marked flesh, his bones scorched and ruined. Rain doesn’t help, is barely cool against the heat of his skin, the heavy patter of it all around almost terrible, swallowing the desperate edge to each almost pained exhale, what might be a name, not that he has any idea who or why.

Has no idea where he’s even going, or why scenes flash before his eyes, as if claiming his surrounding as false, as untrue, as a lie.

Everything about this building is dishonest. The bricks are not broken and pitted. The windows shine in the storm without cracks, without boards and crumbling ledges. Despite this lie he still climbs, no matter how he trembles, how the suddenness of thunder crashes so often in judgment, like the herald of things to dark to even think. 

Was too distracted to care though, a strangeness in his hands, his eyes. Seemed like maybe he’s done this, that a sill like this has borne his weight, that there is something inside, a haven, a place known.

It is not difficult to then be within this known darkness, to drop sodden and broken on the floor, the window open above him as he presses back against the wall, an objective accomplished that he doesn’t even understand.

The storm swallows the pathetic keen that then escapes his throat, so bare and broken a sound, "Steve...”

[zimoivolk]

Forced Assistance

There was forever a chill in his blood, to again walk the paths of those that once held such long dominion over him. 

Each step had almost been a debate, a forever struggle in his blood.The urge to flee was never so prevalent than when forced to this sort of proximity, Hydra’s dark innards a sight he was content to never again witness. Had been spared that, at present, the outer courtyard full enough of hostiles to warrant his attention, enemy elimination a usual stipulation of his contracts with SHIELD.

Was not so often required to do battle alongside the organisation’s operatives though, not that Volke was so eager to ever have employment from these people.

Didn’t matter. The contract was complete, the base taken and already brimming with SHIELD personnel. They would not find anything of Volke within, not even of his father, and there was no reason to not depart now, his payment already secured. None would question the Fireman’s sudden absence, no reason for him to remain when the job had been accomplished.

Volke turned from the compound, sucking in breath heavily through the red cloth of his mask, a sharp pain still abounding in his chest. A similar one forged through his left leg, one unexpected, forcing him to stumble, catching himself against one of the side of a flipped vehicle, HYDRA’s terrible sigil nearly touching his gloved hand.

[zimoivolk]

Barter

Been nine days since he’d seen his father.

Two hundred sixteen hours and thirty eight minutes now.

Such was nothing to the long years where they had existed within ice and darkness, frost flaking against flesh and bone. Volke was a fool to consider this time any different, to count every second in increasingly fraught despair, so sure that every moment spent gone from his father’s sight was made in folly. Was still difficult to resist the thought that even if he returned with the dreaded Shield, that there would be no one to return to, that papa would have forgotten him, again, would have struck out on his own, even though so exhausted and injured. 

Useless thoughts, nearly so useless as Volke was himself. He was already here, already tucked behind the driver’s seat int he floor well, his legs cramped and aching. 

Didn’t matter. He was hidden here in this darkness, folded tight and unseen. Soon the Shield would step through the night and retake his vehicle. Would then be forced to action, to barter, his life allowed if he removed the constant threat from papa’s life, from the terrible hounding of SHIELD and of the old superiors.

This man would end all that. Would allow papa to rest a night through without worrying on capture, would give Volke the time needed to tend his father’s arm, to remind him of everything that the superiors were ever determined to steal from him. 

Papa would be able to exist untethered, to form his own objectives beyond the oversight of others. 

There was nothing Volke would not do to ensure such.

[zimoivolk]

all the fruits :o

Meme :D

melon -  First impression: ‘Brock. Brockbrockbrock, ohhhhh….divergent Brock :D’

peach - Like about blog: Very organized! That’s something that gets you points in my book!

vanilla - Like about you: Always easy to talk to or ask questions of!

lilac - Why following: because you have a lot of lovely content on your blog!

orange - Opinion: You are very friendly, and engaging!

coconut - Blog reminding of: hmmm, maybe howlinginkheart XD

plum - A song: Come with now - KONGOS ???

strawberry - Secretly think: That RPing maybe has become more a job for you than enjoyment?