Schrödinger's Soldier

i'm still breathing so i guess i'm still a l i v e [Indie semi-selective Viktor Reznov of WW2 / The Cold War. Multiverse; Mun/Muse 21+]

[trickyvik-blog]

[I know I promised to be around more, but I saw Jason Bourne today and tl;dr I think my Julia muse is now trying to drown her grandpa in a desperate play for power. I’ll be at @hissingthroughmyteeth for the rest of the day, but I’ll check in tomorrow when I can find my chill.]

[trickyvik-blog]

Think about the last snowfall and the quiet, how has the world changed...

For years, every winter had been the same, a blank page dotted with the blood of friend and foe alike. (Never his own blood, though. Never his own.)The last snowfall was no different in this regard. It did not make for a good story, all the battles and bile, bones left bleached in the winter sun. In truth, Viktor had become bred of such monotony, of the slow letdown that followed every battle. Where he had once simmered, eager to shoot any color that intruded on the icy landscape, he had burnt out in the aftermath. Every day was exactly the same, variation found only in the depths of his hunger.

His mind traced back instead, several snowfalls before. His memories settled in a different sort of blankness stained red -- Her pretty mouth, her parted lips stained from what little make up she could scavenge, her temperature coloring her wan cheeks a fetching scarlet. She lay half-exposed on their bed, her high, delicate breasts rising and falling in a manner more troubling than erotic. It was one of the illnesses that so plagued his little wife with every change of the season, the sheets stained with sweat and her hair gnarled into knots around her narrow shoulders.

He had been gentle with her -- the whole world was muted with the first snowfall, all of Stalingrad somehow reverent of General Winter’s entrance, and he had fallen into the same sort of piety. His great hands, with five fingers each in those days, lightly traced her dark locks, before he took up the cool metal of her brush. With the kind of care he might never show again, he tamed her hair with slow, tender movements, for once moving against his desire to hurt others. He paused only when his little wife began to shake, some ugly rasp drawn from her elegant neck. With time, he finished his delicate chore, Sonya’s long ebony hair calmed and shining through the dim light of the window.

(She had given him such kisses then, fevered little pecks across his jaw and his lips. Her pride allowed little in the way of acknowledgement save for whatever affection he won. He thought then that, perhaps, they could make something lovely of this, in spite of circumstances, that something would give and she might come to love him.)

That had not been the question, though. That had not been the last snowfall. It was a jarring contrast, to leap from Sonya’s delicate embrace to the whistling of bullets. The last time winter came, it came roaring, and the smell of death and warfare had coiled around his neck as a noose. The only metal he held in his hand had been a weapon. A lot of men had become ill throughout the winter, what few were not lost. Suddenly, comrades he had fought and bled and toiled beside flickered out, left him thrown to the wolves and running with what few remained.

But this was the same as every other winter he had known in the war, without fail.

[trickyvik-blog]

they call him...

the love sausage.

[trickyvik-blog]

"What brought you to war, sir? Do you believe you're fighting for the right cause?"

“Of course! There is no cause more righteous than defending one’s Motherland and upholding the society she holds dear. It is an honor to fight for my leaders, to bring my men closer to victory against the Fascist cancer.”

It would not do to become personal about it -- perhaps only in private would it be feasible. He did not speak of father, wife, child, blood brother, any family who motivated him through the long war. Such ties would distract from a proper goal, tearing down Hitler’s empire and leading Russia to a more peaceful age. His work must be for everyone, or else it would be false. Viktor did not consider himself a false man.

“I was young and patriotic, and I was a fair shot. I did not fare very well in classes, but I could hunt better than most. It seemed inevitable that I join the military as soon as possible, and I have stayed ever since. Put in a decade and Germany’s traitorous invasion, and that is what brought me to war. So long as Mother Russia has enemies, I will answer her call.”

[trickyvik-blog]

[if people would not mind sending me characterization asks and such so I can get back into the swing of Loudass McGermanFucker, that would be peachy.]

[trickyvik-blog]

NAME: Kadian / Sara GENDER: female EYE COLOR: grey HAIR COLOR: brown/black RELATIONSHIP: ldr ZODIAC: cancer

FAVORITE COLOR: silver FAVORITE SEASON: autumn FAVORITE PLACE: woods FAVORITE HOLIDAY: christmas FAVORITE VIDEO GAME: final fantasy vi. or fire emblem 9. LAST SHOW YOU WATCHED: my mom and i are trying to watch stranger things when we can.

WHAT’S YOUR HONEST OPINION ABOUT YOUR MUSE? He’s an honest to God trash man who shouldn’t be nearly as beloved by the fandom as he is. In my eyes, Viktor has always been the Token Evil Teammate at best, and a straight up Villain at worst. The way he uses people makes for a fascinating character, but not a good man. I feel like the sole reason he’s not considered an antagonist in Black Ops is due to his goals overlapping with those of our less morally bankrupt protagonists. As another facet of his personality, Viktor has certainly suffered, and one could argue that this is more a catalyst for his reprehensible behavior than a character flaw he was born into. Regardless, I have a hard time excusing several of his actions, and I have a curious hate-love relationship with him, all while marveling over how finely crafted he is when you look past face value.

WOULD YOU DATE YOUR MUSE? My minds tellin me no... but my body... my body’s tellin me yes.....

WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE KINDS OF THREADS? Mission threads! Relationship development threads! Character development threads! Anything that lets Vik run wild in his natural, warmongering, monologuing natural habitat!

ARE YOU A SELECTIVE ROLEPLAYER? Yep!

DO YOU HAVE A FAVORITE MUSE (IF YOU HAVE MORE THAN ONE)? @hissingthroughmyteeth is my child who I want to play as forever.

WHAT MADE YOU DECIDE TO JOIN THE FANDOM? My friend Shelby got me into COD RP, but getting into COD itself was more the result of brain fever.

DO YOU SEE YOURSELF STAYING WITH THE FANDOM FOR A LONG TIME? I mean I’ve been here for years now so. I’m pretty firmly rooted.

TAGGING: whoever has not been tagged is invited to say I tagged them!

TAGGED BY: absolutely magnificent @golodyayeva

[trickyvik-blog]

BOLD ANY FEARS WHICH APPLY TO YOUR MUSE. ITALICIZE WHAT MAKES THEM UNCOMFORTABLE.

tagged by: @unsungunbroken

the dark. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. prison. blood. drowning. suffocation. public speaking. natural animals. the supernatural. heights. death. dying. intimacy. rejection. abandonment. loss. the unknown. the future. not being good enough. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched.

TAG PEOPLE: i’m a month late to this party, if you haven’t been tagged, consider this your invitation.

[trickyvik-blog]

me: tries to do drafts on another acct viktor: kicks in my door, eats all of my cereal, pees on my dog.

[proditoriarchive]

Poetry Meme: Richard Siken

Poetry Meme. Send a number 1- 28 for a starter or drabble featuring our two characters based on one of Richard Siken's lines.

Keep reading

[wehrmxcht-deactivated20171018]

                                                            IND. SEL. PRIV.                                                                   WW2 OC                                                   Oberstleutnant Reiner Keitel

[unsungunbroken-blog]

     The weapon— a sleek and black Colt Pocket Hammerless issued exclusively to officers —was sheathed back to its holster, and the man was smiling in some form of silent apology.

     ❝ Very well. I will take you to the armory.         Lest you wander around and get shot. ❞

     Chen Song cleaned up the remains of the papers with quick efficiency, putting them back into the drawers.

    ❝ Lieutenant Colonel Chen Song.        Please do not salute, captain.        It’s tiring to salute back. ❞

     He turns to give a small smile. His relaxed demeanor and attitude a complete 180 degrees from his cold interrogation earlier.

[trickyvik-blog]

    Smiles are such a difficult thing in Russia, carrying unspoken insult if not handled correctly. Viktor had to remind himself that this man likely did not know any better, and returned the gesture.

    “Ha.” What a story that would be, to survive     Berlin and then die at the hands of a foreign     ally. “Thank you. It is much appreciated.”

    It was perhaps prudent to look away as this man tidied up. Turning his gaze from his work, the Russian only looked back when addressed.

    Nodding at this man -- Song’s -- assertion, Viktor slowly lowered his worn hands. Still grinning in a way that could be called quiet, he decided he might like this man after all.

    “I am glad I am not the only one who thinks     so. I have a hard enough time dealing with     it from my men. I could not imagine it at     your rank.”

[trickyvik-blog]

[GUESS WHO FINALLY REMEMBERED THEIR LOG-IN!]

[trickyvik-blog]

ALT

other voices.

This little seaside diner really does have the best eggs she’s ever tried.The woman finds herself torn between wolfing them down as quickly as possible, and extending the experience, savoring each individual morsel. In contrast to her warring opinion on how best to handle the godsend, she eats steadily, neither too fast nor too slow. She did not want to leave an impression.

Could anyone tell her apart from any other tourist in peak season, her shoulders bare, hair bound back so carefully? She might have come from one of the nearby condos, or have a suite in one of the inns dotting the horizon. Her accent might draw some attention, but the waitress had been kind enough not to comment when taking her order. Even Russians were allowed vacations, after all. It was not a crime to be Russian in America, even with recent events aside.

(She could hardly even taste if the cook had spit in her pancake.)

She does not have to look up when the bell above the door clangs, heralding more business for the little diner. Instead, a short glance at her watch tells her all that she needs to know.

Her target really does move like clockwork.

There is no need to look at the greying ginger, and she continues eating her meal in peace. Her mind was only a few steps from the restaurant, after all.

First, she would clear her plate and wipe down her silverware, finish her coffee and clean it as well. The payment would be easily lost in the hustle of the day, fingerprints or not. She would leave spare minutes before her target, walking back to whatever condo or inn she took shelter in for all appearances. 

She would wait for the aging redhead to make his own leave, and trail him back to his own beach safehouse. Once he reached the door, she would ever so casually invite herself inside with him, at knife point. Once inside, she would apprehend the traitor, bind him to the nearest chair, and make the withdrawal her employer so desired. Once he had sung his song for her, told her how far his little lies had spread about the involvement of others in a recent slaughter, he would no longer be of use.

A little ransacking, a little thievery, and a little throat-slitting. The rest of the day would be hers. She might even have time to hit the beach before her check-in with the boss.

The brutal summation of her day shifted nothing in the woman or on her expression. Taking another sip of her coffee, she stares out the window at the early-morning waves, and wondered how good the salt sea would feel against her legs.

@hissingthroughmyteeth // Modern Warfare OC

[trickyvik-blog]

alt!

other voices.

Alright, so they needed a new point of entry. It shouldn’t be that hard, as Captain MacTavish proved. One hit, and the window shattered. Waiting for the telltale alarm, he eyed Riley warily. The masked lieutenant said nothing in the frightful silence, and Soap began to wonder if the building had been left unguarded in the chaos of the raid. 

More likely someone had shot out a generator and left the place with no power. It would certainly make clearing out any stragglers interesting, and more than that, explain why the automated doors remained sealed. Raising his hand, he signaled for his team to follow him in, gently easing through the window, the broken glass crunching under his boots. His gloves might have picked up a few shards, but nothing stuck to him, and his uniform seemed intact.

It would be easier to move, but it was also a risk. Either the enemy could see him and he shake up their aim, or he walked into them in the dark hallways. Flicking his night vision goggles down, he dared to move further into the tomb that the concrete edifice had become, his white-knuckle grip on his rifle tightening.

This didn’t sit right with him, but he could no longer tell if it was an actual threat, or that reeling sense of deja vu brewing in his gut.

@whatthehellkindofnameissoap // Modern Warfare Canon

[trickyvik-blog]

alt motherfucker

other voices.

“I would not trust that one, sai. She’s terrible skittish.”

The lanky blonde looked down from her chores at the far end of the stable, catching the light through the windows so her gold hair blazed. Summing the tall man up with stark grey eyes, she found herself unable to put a name to the face. An outsider, but one dressed well enough for the times.

It would not do to palaver on and on like some silly child.

“If it is a ride you’re seekin’, t’would be better if ye took an older mare.”

Wiping her worn hands on the rough fabric of her blouse, she straightened to her full height. The young belle breezed past the newcomer to a stall almost at the door, clicking her tongue to coax its occupant nearer to her.

“Now Moony,” she began, her Meijis voice softened as she stroked the horse’s muzzle, “She’ll get ye where ye need with near-to-no complaint.”

The old grey mare might not be the prettiest they had, but what good was beauty if you had no use?

Susan Delgado // potential RP account.

[trickyvik-blog]

alt!

other voices.

“Koshka, a lady so lovely should not be so alone.”

He keeps his voice even, silk-soft, and the grin he wears betrays nothing. He takes up the seat beside her with a measured grace, nigh draping himself across the wooden bar. Even at this proximity, there is some distance between them -- he does not lean in to her, does not overstay his welcome. It is simple conversation between a beautiful woman and a man who is -- by his own egoistic measure -- also beautiful.

The stranger peers out at her from behind long lashes, his dark eyes flecked with brown in the dim light of the bar. Tall and strong, he is no doubt a striking specimen, even down to his thickly-accented voice.

All of these things made it imperative he make himself invisible. People could get antsy if such a big, foreign man were to overstay his welcome. An idiot striking out at the bar would just be a typical feature of any Saturday night. Glancing away from her for a moment, he turns to get the bartender’s attention, taking the opportunity to watch his target from the full length mirror behind the bar.

“Could you please refill my friend’s drink? And put it on my tab.”

@codenamenikolai // Modern Warfare Canon

Send me "alt!" and I'll introduce you to a character I've rped in the past, want to play in the future or are currently playing somewhere else!