His father was Zakhar Dorofeyevich Vitushko, and mother Vasilisa Iosifovna Fomasenko
He lost his father in 1979 (5), after which he was raised by his mother and her brother.
Between the hardships, there were moments of love and kindness. His mother truly did her best even with her distance, and Viktor met a girl his age who accepted dancing with him at the community center, in 1985 (11).
His mother fell into a permanent catatonic state caused by a car crash in 1986 (12), and died shortly thereafter, in mid 1988 (14).
Now he was being raised solely by his late mother's brother Ivan Iosifovich Fomasenko and his wife Ulyana, but didn't stay home much, often leaving to do odd jobs here and there.
In 1989 (15), he was forced into the army to fight the third insurgency, which he did, he did and saw things no boy his age should see. But he would grow numb, and would do as he was told, otherwise he would not survive.
In 1992 (18), during an encirclement, he and the platoon he was part of was disconnected and killed off. Out of 23 Soldiers, only himself, a friend of his and the commander survived the day... Little did he know, in the moment, that the commander had sold them out. He had a lot to earn with their deaths.
But he would find out, soon after.
After that, he was dismissed from service for Invalidity, due to his left eye which was hurt during the encirclement, and would often look a "little off-center".
From that point forward, he started dabbling in small-time jobs, and then some rather odd jobs, escalating into quasi-illegal activities, before fully entering the world of crime, in which he would prove himself to be a fine asset.
Viktor worked with "merchant caravans", Trucks with regular sale items for transport, but hiding people who want to leave their countries for another, without the trouble of checkpoints, Visa or Passport, along with "displacement", Code word for corpse removal and transport. He got used to it, so much so that he even would crack up a joke/pun or two sometimes.
He did these jobs for a long while (1992-2007, 15 Years) and got sick of them. But continued anyway, for the money. By 2007, he had enough money, but would stay a bit until the time was right... He bribed a trade ship captain in Klaipeda to let him aboard and drop him somewhere new, to start anew, to absolve himself from the things he had done and seen...
So, he went there. To New York City, 2008.
References for him; Face Claim & Clothing
His build
Voice claim (speaking English)
Thank you for the Resource(s): @suupersonic, @uzmacchiato
This is one of the stories my tribe tells. I remember it from when I was younger, with my mother. Please note, some tribes have different forms of stories and beliefs. This is ours.
The sun rises.
The sun sets.
The moon came upon.
The moon left.
It is as it always was. Always had been. It was what was normal. It was right. Nothing more and nothing less.
The sun allowed life, a vibrant form of it. The rays of heat, the birth of growth, the prospect of a glimmering life. A life to live, all for the sun. All for it's glory, for it's sacrifices. For all it gave.
The moon allowed life in its calm care. A darkness casting over the fields, casting a cool sensation to fill the air. To allow rest. To allow grief, allow those creatures of the night to shine. Those who could not handle the suns pride. The moon was quiet, making as little noise as possible. Nothing more than a peep.
Yet, the moon was villianized. For it was different; it was not as colorful as its counterpart, it was not joyful. It had sorrow, it had death, it reeked of sins! Full of lies! Full of such greed, the coyote was such evidence for that (for context, a coyote was in charge of star placements but became... not as should be.)
The night was uneasy, it was not calming for most. Tears, allowance of thoughts. How dare the moon! But none the less, one could not get rid of it, as much as they longed. As much as they longed for the fields to be forever. For the crops to grow ever so big, to never go hungry! Oh what a thought!
The sun loved that idea.
The idea of no night.
Of more being given to him, more being praised in his name. More life, more more more! Oh such a wonderful thought. More to him. More for him. More to the people. To the beasts. To the plants. To the very life he allowed! HE allowed, none other! The thought could make one chuckle.
Every day when he lay beyond his field, he'd watch as the moon made its way every so slowly up the hill. His steps careful. Silent. Head bowed in something the other called shame. Shame that a entity should not show. One thst made them weak. They were not mortals. They could not show weakness.
The sun scoffed each time, turning his head hotly, unknowing of the others gaze slowly finding him. Unaware of the jealousy that course through the moons body, but dared not act upon it. Though he was made of sins, he would never commit one himself. Only be blamed for them.
One day however, the sun wished for winter to not arise. Crop would die, so many animals would die, so many mortals! All the life he brought in would shrivel, more in the night than anything. The night and winter must work together he thought so bitterly, consumed by the rage of things he couldn't control. The winter and night worked together. Get rid of one. Get rid of it all. The very ideas. Easily manipulated.
One could not get rid of a season, as much as the sun wished it and thought on it. You could not tackle the season. You could not stop the wind. You could not bite it's neck for it had none. It wasn't something you saw. Just something that became.
The moon though.
That was something physical. He saw it every day. The weakness it posed. The cowardice. The slinking. The sun couldn't stop his mind, nor did he want to, as he became that of a fox and his thoughts turned cruel. So many ways to get rid of a being. But he had to be careful of what he choose...
He had to make it seem like the moons fault. That it was his own upbringing. The sun could not take that responsibility. He would not risk his reputation if it went wrong.
He could be patient though. He waited until the next season, letting winter have a final pass. Take those lives. A fresh start to a new reign. When the time was right... he struck.
The sun had waited another day; he lay in his usual spot upon the hillside, his green eyes watching every movement of the budding flowers, the swaying grass, the whistling of bird turning to crickets. Moon was arising, his steps heavy like they were chained as he walked. His tail hung low, head bowed just as low as ever. The sun grinned, lips curling in that of a sudden snarl and punched upon moons back.
The moon gave that of a booming howl, back arching as the suns back legs kicked at it relentlessly like a cougar with its kill, thumping against the spine with the force of a thousand warriors. The land was engulfed in wuddwn darkness, the hillside just a burning orange. Dimmed to them, but to the mortals is stung their eyes and made them cry in horror. The moon was teying over take the sun, they cried, unknowing of the murder being attempted, the victim not the one they praised.
But instead the one they cursed.
The sun kept kicking, in a haze of joy at the feeling of his jaws snapping around a scruff, tugging and snarling. No blood was drawn, but the moons pained cries showed his harm; the moon did not yank away, did not try and flee as the sun suspected. He fought back instead, he dragged a paw upwards, slicing the suns side. Having never been harmed before, he let out a howl, allowing the moon to leap away.
Though the sun was hurt, the moons body ached and his legs trembled with strain.no defiance or anger in his eyes, but hurt in them. The betrayal of one he thought as a friend. He uttered no words as the sun snarled at him, ❝We need not you.❞ he words came out as a gargle through spit. ❝We need not you. Run. Escape. Or i will kill you.❞
The moon had never seen the other be so fierce. He was always so happy, so dramatic but never in a real sense. The moon stared and stared then bowed his head slowly... and began to head down the slope.
Victorious, the sun raised his head high, tail lashing behind. He had won. The darkness was no more. The grief was no more. Ph what a glorious day. He rushed to the nearest village in the form the humans could handle, excitedly telling the news. ❝My friends, Moon is no more! That darkness cannot harm you no more! I have protected us all! I have secured our future!❞
The townspeople cheered, though some hung back in fear. The moon brought comfort to those, and the sun called them crazy. This was best for them all he assured them. It would help! He would guide more, and help!
Yessss it was nice. To have the sun going and going... and going... and going... until his rays became too much. Until he burned hotter in his demands, his orders. He grew over time too, he grew and grew to mimic that inside him. That greed. That ego. He paid less attention to the mortals under his care, only caring for the food he was given, the sacrifices in his name.
Until the food came no more. His beef had slowly turned tough. Turned sour. His grapes became raisins, his tomatos were barely the size of a raccoons paw. It didn't make sense. What was happening? Where was the gratitude!?
His anger burned bright as he stormed his way to the village, preparing the sun their town on fire... when he saw it already was.
His rays had been so hot this very day, everything was already so dry, the homes were on fire. People lay within the trails, dead, turning to ash. Animals laying down with panting breaths, just skin and bones. Plants shivering into themselves, dry and falling. Crumbling. The world was crumbling.
For the first time, The sun felt a flash of panic. No no no! He was not supposed to kill, he was helping! No no! His gifts! The life he'd started! It was being torn away! No no no!
But he could not stop it. He howled for winter, begged, for it to come now, please, oh please! But the rays were to hot, and winter very well did not exist no more. Please oh please, the sun begged for hours. For weeks. For months...
Another year of ever growing loneliness settled across the land. The sun walked oh so slowly, head bowed, tail tucked between his legs in shame as he wondered mindlessly. His paws burned whatever he touched. Waves along the air...
He only looked up when he had returned to the hill he used to lay upon. Ehat he saw made him freeze.
The moon sat upon the hillz looking calm as ever, fur neat, eyes narrowed as it stared at its counterpart. Head high.
They locked eyes until the sun lowered his snout to the ground. Silent. Wanting forgiveness but he knew he had no right to that luxury.
❝....How does it fare?❞
❝not... Not well.❞
❝Why?❞
❝I burned it all.❞ hot tears found the suns eyes as he whimpered pathetically, ❝I have burned the world.❞
❝Why?❞
❝...I thought you brought depression. You brought so much sadness. You took so many lives. You... I wanted them safe.❞
❝And?❞
❝And I... wanted to be praised... to be seen more... to grow more.❞
The moon nodded slowly, watching before sighing and standing. He slowly padded his way over. The sun lowered his neck more, exposing his scruff for the other to sink his fangs into.
But instead the moon nudged him. ❝We have work to do. You and I. We cannot exist without another. We should not.❞
Viktor's eyebrows furrowed at the incredibly personal and random question.
“I don't know, man. Look at me.” His words tinged by a sarcastic tone. Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose, followed by a sigh. “You know something? I can paint you purple just using my fists.”
The damp, verdant grass prickled the young soldier’s stomach, it shuffled beneath him as he crawled in prone, the silence occasionally broken by a cough, a sneeze or a chuckle from the targets below.
The colonel—an older man—moved his gloved hand to grab the front end of the rifle barrel held in the younger soldier's hands. “Hold your fire.” He demanded. “Do you see that man, the one with the sparse, frizzy hair?”
Viktor—the young soldier—nodded to the colonel.
“That, Vitya, is Pavel Chorniat, one of the commanders of the insurgents. He is your target.” To emphasize his words, the colonel pointed in the distant man’s direction. “Is the rifle ready?”
“Loaded, cocked and ready to fire, Sir.” Viktor replied, raising the barrel, positioning himself and placing his right eye behind the scope.
A deep breath.
Viktor took a few seconds. His aim was right over the target’s temple. He was ready to take the shot, until something else came up; a young boy, waddling with the help of a woman’s hands, wearing little boots, blue overalls and a red sweater.
“Come on now, Viktor. Take the shot before he goes away.” The colonel reminded the young soldier, as though he didn't see the child with the target, or perhaps he did see, and didn't care.
“Non-combatant in sight, sir—It’s a minor.” Viktor replied, observing the scene through the scope, nonetheless. The colonel shuffled and turned to take a look at Viktor. “Put the gun down.” He ordered. Viktor did so.
“What did we go over, Viktor? You cut the head and—”
“The rest of the body dies. I remember, sir.” Viktor completed the colonel’s words.
“In conflict, sniping your enemy is like hunting any other animal.” The older soldier spoke. “Fire at the wrong moment, or wait too long, and your chance is forever lost.”
Viktor hesitated to reply to the colonel's point of view. The young soldier simply stared at his face, his eyebrows furrowed slightly in an unreadable expression, tilting his head.
“You should know, this time, that I am not telling you to do it—but, I am telling you to get it done.” The older man emphasized the last four words. Get it done. “There is a difference between the two orders.” He added, afterward.
Viktor broke his silence with two, simple words: “Yes, sir.” The young soldier nodded.
His father was Zakhar Dorofeyevich Vitushko, and mother Vasilisa Iosifovna Fomasenko
He lost his father in 1979 (5), after which he was raised by his mother and her brother.
Between the hardships, there were moments of love and kindness. His mother truly did her best even with her distance, and Viktor met a girl his age who accepted dancing with him at the community center, in 1985 (11).
His mother fell into a permanent catatonic state caused by a car crash in 1986 (12), and died shortly thereafter, in mid 1988 (14).
Now he was being raised solely by his late mother's brother Ivan Iosifovich Fomasenko and his wife Ulyana, but didn't stay home much, often leaving to do odd jobs here and there.
In 1989 (15), he was forced into the army to fight the third insurgency, which he did, he did and saw things no boy his age should see. But he would grow numb, and would do as he was told, otherwise he would not survive.
In 1992 (18), during an encirclement, he and the platoon he was part of was disconnected and killed off. Out of 23 Soldiers, only himself, a friend of his and the commander survived the day... Little did he know, in the moment, that the commander had sold them out. He had a lot to earn with their deaths.
But he would find out, soon after.
After that, he was dismissed from service for Invalidity, due to his left eye which was hurt during the encirclement, and would often look a "little off-center".
From that point forward, he started dabbling in small-time jobs, and then some rather odd jobs, escalating into quasi-illegal activities, before fully entering the world of crime, in which he would prove himself to be a fine asset.
Viktor worked with "merchant caravans", Trucks with regular sale items for transport, but hiding people who want to leave their countries for another, without the trouble of checkpoints, Visa or Passport, along with "displacement", Code word for corpse removal and transport. He got used to it, so much so that he even would crack up a joke/pun or two sometimes.
He did these jobs for a long while (1992-2007, 15 Years) and got sick of them. But continued anyway, for the money. By 2007, he had enough money, but would stay a bit until the time was right... He bribed a trade ship captain in Klaipeda to let him aboard and drop him somewhere new, to start anew, to absolve himself from the things he had done and seen...
So, he went there. To New York City, 2008.
References for him; Face Claim & Clothing
His build
Voice claim (speaking English)
Thank you for the Resource(s): @suupersonic, @uzmacchiato
His father was Zakhar Dorofeyevich Vitushko, and mother Vasilisa Iosifovna Fomasenko
He lost his father in 1979 (5), after which he was raised by his mother and her brother.
Between the hardships, there were moments of love and kindness. His mother truly did her best even with her distance, and Viktor met a girl his age who accepted dancing with him at the community center, in 1985 (11).
His mother fell into a permanent catatonic state caused by a car crash in 1986 (12), and died shortly thereafter, in mid 1988 (14).
Now he was being raised solely by his late mother's brother Ivan Iosifovich Fomasenko and his wife Ulyana, but didn't stay home much, often leaving to do odd jobs here and there.
In 1989 (15), he was forced into the army to fight the third insurgency, which he did, he did and saw things no boy his age should see. But he would grow numb, and would do as he was told, otherwise he would not survive.
In 1992 (18), during an encirclement, he and the platoon he was part of was disconnected and killed off. Out of 23 Soldiers, only himself, a friend of his and the commander survived the day... Little did he know, in the moment, that the commander had sold them out. He had a lot to earn with their deaths.
But he would find out, soon after.
After that, he was dismissed from service for Invalidity, due to his left eye which was hurt during the encirclement, and would often look a "little off-center".
From that point forward, he started dabbling in small-time jobs, and then some rather odd jobs, escalating into quasi-illegal activities, before fully entering the world of crime, in which he would prove himself to be a fine asset.
Viktor worked with "merchant caravans", Trucks with regular sale items for transport, but hiding people who want to leave their countries for another, without the trouble of checkpoints, Visa or Passport, along with "displacement", Code word for corpse removal and transport. He got used to it, so much so that he even would crack up a joke/pun or two sometimes.
He did these jobs for a long while (1992-2007, 15 Years) and got sick of them. But continued anyway, for the money. By 2007, he had enough money, but would stay a bit until the time was right... He bribed a trade ship captain in Klaipeda to let him aboard and drop him somewhere new, to start anew, to absolve himself from the things he had done and seen...
So, he went there. To New York City, 2008.
References for him; Face Claim & Clothing
His build
Voice claim (speaking English)
Thank you for the Resource(s): @suupersonic, @uzmacchiato
The damp, verdant grass prickled the young soldier’s stomach, it shuffled beneath him as he crawled in prone, the silence occasionally broken by a cough, a sneeze or a chuckle from the targets below.
The colonel—an older man—moved his gloved hand to grab the front end of the rifle barrel held in the younger soldier's hands. “Hold your fire.” He demanded. “Do you see that man, the one with the sparse, frizzy hair?”
Viktor—the young soldier—nodded to the colonel.
“That, Vitya, is Pavel Chorniat, one of the commanders of the insurgents. He is your target.” To emphasize his words, the colonel pointed in the distant man’s direction. “Is the rifle ready?”
“Loaded, cocked and ready to fire, Sir.” Viktor replied, raising the barrel, positioning himself and placing his right eye behind the scope.
A deep breath.
Viktor took a few seconds. His aim was right over the target’s temple. He was ready to take the shot, until something else came up; a young boy, waddling with the help of a woman’s hands, wearing little boots, blue overalls and a red sweater.
“Come on now, Viktor. Take the shot before he goes away.” The colonel reminded the young soldier, as though he didn't see the child with the target, or perhaps he did see, and didn't care.
“Non-combatant in sight, sir—It’s a minor.” Viktor replied, observing the scene through the scope, nonetheless. The colonel shuffled and turned to take a look at Viktor. “Put the gun down.” He ordered. Viktor did so.
“What did we go over, Viktor? You cut the head and—”
“The rest of the body dies. I remember, sir.” Viktor completed the colonel’s words.
“In conflict, sniping your enemy is like hunting any other animal.” The older soldier spoke. “Fire at the wrong moment, or wait too long, and your chance is forever lost.”
Viktor hesitated to reply to the colonel's point of view. The young soldier simply stared at his face, his eyebrows furrowed slightly in an unreadable expression, tilting his head.
“You should know, this time, that I am not telling you to do it—but, I am telling you to get it done.” The older man emphasized the last four words. Get it done. “There is a difference between the two orders.” He added, afterward.
Viktor broke his silence with two, simple words: “Yes, sir.” The young soldier nodded.
