DAMN GOOD AND READY (VADIM)

[CRESSIDA AHRI MANCINI]

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YAY NOTES HERE

sitting silently, thinking of nothing in particular, on the cold cement floor, cressida stared at the same stained spot on the pavement just past the tips of her toes. her hip bones were sore from sitting like this, from getting less exercise than she ever had, but she found that she either couldn't or didn't want to move. she didn't consider herself despondent just yet. her sister probably would if she could see her. the way she lingered on the cusp of awake and asleep, didn't particularly care about anything. she would represent despondency as far as genesis was concerned. the thought comforted cressida in the weirdest way. knowing that her sister would put a label on her behavior somehow made her feel as if she wasn't alone, as if genesis was with her, and that kept her sane. although she often told her sister that her constant analysis was tiring and drove a person to drink.

leaning her head back against the wall behind her which was just as cold as the floor she sat on, she lifted her gaze as the sudden crashing of the entrance to the chamber drew her attention. she watched in disinterested nonchalance as a dark-haired male tumbled inside, holding his arm and grimacing in pain. she wasn't surprised she'd been joined in the room since it was a common area after all. simply because she was currently alone in the space didn't mean one russian or another wasn't going to wander in eventually.

cressida hadn't really made friends here. it technically wasn't possible. she was a captive and a slave, dropped from being a prima ballerina to a slave girl for the evil bitch who ran the show. she could say she hated anya, but she just couldn't find the energy to give a shit. perhaps it was because she was a mancini, but she had a strange way at looking at life. she also couldn't find much of a will to care after everything that had happened to her.

she'd left her relationship with her older sister on a rock at best. they'd gotten into a fight over jamie, a man she couldn't say she loved but she'd dated and fucked just to irritate the hell out of everyone, and while they hadn't left on a horrible note, it hadn't been a good one either. she'd gone to the harbor to get what she always wanted out of him - sex - but the story had been a different one entirely. instead, she'd been snatched by anya's little pet dog and held ransom: the girl or your life. jamie had chosen himself, and she'd seen him splattered all over the harbor as a result. the image was burned into her mind like an atomic bomb. she hadn't had enough time with him to say she loved him. it wasn't that, but even if she didn't love him, she'd shared intimate moments with him. they'd fucked more than once, and that alone made her feel remorse that he would now be a greasy spot on the broken boards of the dock in boston harbor. he hadn't cared if anyone loved him, so she hadn't, but they understood one another. he was pleased to become her enigma, the one thing she could have independently of her family's wishes.

and she was a natural rebel, especially when she was pushed. so, naturally, she indulged herself in something she enjoyed while irritating those of her family members who were the most vocal.

blankly, she stared up at the young male as he cradled his shoulder and muttered something incoherent to himself. in her short time here as a prisoner of the russians, she'd learned to spot certain signs. she could tell he'd recently been shot, or possibly knifed, but she was leaning toward the gunshot option considering the amount of blood and damage that seemed to be in his shoulder.

pushing her weight back against the wall, she elongated her legs and slid up the wall until she was standing on her feet. pushing off with her right hand, she walked, nonplussed, toward him, ignoring his mutterings and incoherence. "what happened?" she asked, her voice disinterested in his well-being so much as him surviving. she didn't know any of the russians, but as she grew closer to him, she imagined she'd seen him somewhere before. she just didn't know where.

gripping his shoulder roughly, not particularly caring if she upset his pain more, she examined the wound and decided on a course of action. she wasn't a field medic by any means, and what little work she'd been coerced in to doing for the irish mafia was mostly acrobatics. as a ballerina, she was good at that. but taking care of wounds? that wasn't her specialty.

finding the nearest fabric - which happened to be a hand towel of some sort - she grabbed it, laid it out on the table to catch any blood she could catch since he'd already bled on the table, and finally looked into his eyes. "the bullet looks like it's lodged in your shoulder. i'm going to try to pull it out," she commented, not informing him this was the first time she'd done such a thing. she didn't know where she had found the effort or the courage for this, but she supposed it must be done. she would rather keep busy than to sit around and stagnate until she died. digging through the hundreds of utensils in the drawers of the kitchen where they stood, she found a few items which she believed may help her task. fishing them out, she asked him to stand as still as possible before she rolled up a wash cloth she'd found and shoved it in to his mouth. "so you don't bite out your tongue," she clarified, gripping his shoulder as she began her work.

she knew the pain must be excruciating, and she didn't know if she should fear he would pass out on her or not. grimacing whenever he reacted to her pressure, she focused herself and tried to forget jamie's death. it was prevalent in her mind with this new show of violence, and she couldn't forget it, but perhaps she could get a temporary break from seeing it constantly.

"oh, stop whining like a big baby," she growled, rolling her eyes as she finally connected with the bullet and pulled it from the wound.

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[VADIM ISAAK PETROV]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 366x; height: 190px; padding: 10px; background-color: #dcd4c7; border: #eae4d8 10px solid;] I'M NOT MAN ENOUGH TO BE HUMAN. The entire episode between Vadim and his older sister was nothing but a blur to the young male as he tried to recollect the events, waking to an aching in his head and an even worse burning in his favorite shoulder. He could hear the sound of the gunshot echoing through his head as if it were happening again at this very moment, the male wincing as he tried to push himself out of the warm puddle that seemed to be gathering beneath him. For the first time since he had lifted a gun, the blood on his clothing was his own, and the crimson stain gathering against the concrete belonged to himself...not shattered bits of store mannequin or even that time he'd shot a raccoon by pure mistake not realizing that it was in the greasy cardboard box he'd fired upon in an alley as a young teenager. This was an entirely new feeling, the feeling of all cockiness being erased and replaced with the harsh realization that he was in fact mortal; even if he didn't want to believe it. That in combination with realizing that his own sister had nearly blown his arm off was a bit more than he could handle in this very moment, though all he wanted to do was get the damned obstruction out of his shoulder and stop the fucking bleeding. He pressed his fingers roughly to the spot as a means to staunch the blood flow, the tips of his fingers instantly growing warm as the liquid like heated syrup from iHop oozed between the tips of his already red stained fingers. Like that time he'd attempted to create false blood stains on gauze for a Halloween costume where he'd gotten the red dye all over the tips of his fingers and looked like he'd just committed a nasty murder for about a week. His arm hung limp down by his side, undoubtedly from shock as he made efforts to push himself to his feet without applying any weight to the momentarilly useless limb. It didn't surprise him that his sister had just left him there to bleed out, probably expecting that eventually he would come to his senses and find a way to patch himself up since obviously visiting the hospital was completely out of the question. Usually when a young man appeared in the emergency room with a bullet lodged into his flesh, people tended to ask questions, and questions were exactly the kind of thing that didn't need to be asked of the Petrov family. With a deep groan, he began his slow movement to the door on the oppsite side of the shooting range, the pain shooting through his flesh like lightning each time that his muscles tensed to allow his body's movement. He wasn't going to die, that he was completely aware of, but that didn't stop him from being in more pain than he could ever remember being in or wanting nothing more than to knock that smug grin right off of his older sister's face. Even now, all he could think about was how completely fucking pissed off he was and exactly what he was going to do about it once he had at least some sort of a grip on his current condition. The bitch ruined his tattoo, and that alone warranted a nice headstone with her name carved into it. No, not her name, a fucking number. Nothing but a number to mark one of the many fallen since this war had began. He could just imagine how Alina would have reacted to seeing him now, shrieking in that shrill voice of hers about how she knew his sister couldn't be trusted, shrieking about how she was going to tear Anya's hair out though Vadim knew that if she even tried...Anya was capable of cutting the girl to a thousand pieces and feeding the bits to the dogs without even a trace of remorse. She would have been weeping like an infant and clinging onto him, which would have of course caused him more physical pain, and began cooing at him like he was a baby asking him if it hurt. "Of course it fucking hurts, bitch." Vadim found himself muttering under his breath as if his girlfriend were actually standing before him and holding a conversation with him. "It's a fucking gunshot wound what the fuck do you think?" The door swung opened at full intensity as he kicked it with his heavy black motorcycle boot, his dark hair falling into his piercing blue eyes as he stumbled into the room behind lucky door number one, presumably the kitchen. When the head of a young woman came into site, he half expected it to be Alina, standing there looking stern and disappointed in him for getting into trouble like she had specifically told him not to do. Not get into trouble? What the fuck did she think that he was doing in Boston? Watching the lightning show at the Science Museum and going on the fucking Duck Boat Tours? He grunted angrilly at the female, partly because of his own dillusion and partly because the pain was distracting him from actually forming any sort of coherent words. No, she wasn't Alina, yet here she was barking orders at him as if the bitch had hired her to take her place. "Nyet, do you think?" He responded sarcastically in his thick Russian accent to her comment about the bullet being lodged into his shoulder, seeing as how he could feel the damned thing tearing further into him each time that he attempted to move his arm. Now didn't exactly seem the time to piss of the person who seemed to be willing to help him, however uninterested in actually doing so, and seeing as how he wasn't about to stroll into the ER, he figured that he better at least cooperate. With an angry groaning noise, he felt the cloth shoved into his mouth, nearly gagging on the damp texture against his tongue and mild taste of lemon scented soap. As she worked at the bullet in his shoulder he felt a pain that rivaled even the pain of the shot itself, nearly screaming into the cloth as he gripped the surface of the table until his tattooed knuckles went pale white. Another angry grunt broke through the material as she taunted him, halfway wanting to put a bullet in her shoulder and see just how fucking quiet she could be while he sat there and yanked it out like it were some kind of splinter. "FUCK." He screamed into the cloth, pulling it out of his mouth and panting to take in the fresh air while he still could. "Get a fucking spoon. Spoon, now." Vadim demanded, shoving the cloth back into his mouth as he unearthed his lighter from inside of the pocket of his leather jacket. WORDS:THIS SHIT SAYS 1307 . TAGGED: CRESS. VESSIDA.

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[CRESSIDA AHRI MANCINI]

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this looks short as frick

Unfortunately, Cressida had no prior experience in digging out bullets from gunshot wounds. She knew she wasn't being gentle, and it wasn't entirely intentional. While she hated that she was being held captive like some sort of animal, she was a naturally easygoing person. She didn't intend to make friends with them either, but that didn't mean she hated the world and everything in it simply because she was going through a rough time. She had a weird positivity gene in her. Surely that passed down through the family. Her family had a habit of finding the best in things, whether it be out of a desire for positivity or denial, she didn't know.

Clenching her teeth as the metallic smell of his blood filled her nostrils, she struggled to push past it as she succeeded in withdrawing the bullet and dropped it with a clink to the table. For a brief moment, she drew herself up proudly and almost grinned victoriously before she realized he was barking at her to get a spoon. Reaching over to the utensil drawer, she withdrew the first spoon she could find and she shoved it into his hand.

Overall, Cressida was naive and world-wise simultaneously. She knew the world wasn't made up of rainbows and unicorns, but she didn't expect people to do the things they did sometimes. As she handed the young Russian the spoon, she didn't wonder if he was going to use it for drugs or some other reason. She just handed it to him and backed away, using the towel on the table to wipe up the blood. Lifting the bullet in her fingers, she examined it curiously, and realized her fingers were coated in blood. It was thicky and smelled like iron, and she felt suddenly nauseous.

Jamie had bled somewhere, if he wasn't splattered around like a dropped bowl of cereal on a moody Monday morning. The thought disgusted her, and she ground her teeth together as she walked to the sink and shoved her hands beneath the water. Turning it up as hot as it would go, she washed the Russian blood from her fingers until the water scalded her and she knew she should stop. She was turning into some Lifetime movie character, and it wasn't even her blood. Her petite hands turned bright red and stung, and finally, she gathered the strength to settle her stomach before she shut off the water. Her hands shook from the searing pain of the hot water, and she found a clean towel to dry off her hands.

Turning around, careful not to turn her back on him although she wasn't entirely sure why, she moved with the grace of a dancer. She walked from her toes to her heels which meant she made no noise when she moved. It was from years of being trained in ballet, and it was a habit of hers. Her hips soaked up the movement when she walked so her head never bobbed, and her movements were naturally fluid. This was why Connor Selwyn had chosen her to be his personal acrobat. Well, that plan was going in the shitter, wasn't it?

"Are you alright?" she asked without thinking. She shouldn't care. This man was obviously part of the organization that had taken her - as evidenced by his obvious Russian accent - and she shouldn't care. She didn't care. She might not love Jamie, but he could be the object for her to project all of her feelings on to. He was her showcard, her reason to fight if she chose to fight at all. Lifting her chin, she watched the raven-haired man and stepped back slightly from him, looking away as she busied herself with wiping a nonexistent stain from the countertop.

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[VADIM ISAAK PETROV]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 366x; height: 190px; padding: 10px; background-color: #dcd4c7; border: #eae4d8 10px solid;] I'M NOT MAN ENOUGH TO BE HUMAN. Under different circumstances, a rather attractive young female would have been the last person that Vadim would raise his voice to for obvious reasons, though his gentlemanly nature seemed to evaporate the moment that his sister went and opened her puffy lipped mouth. Right now, women were the last thing that he wanted to deal with, though at least this one didn't appear to think that she was queen of the universe because she got to tell a few angry little men what to do every now and then. If he hadn't been practically boiling in the heat of his own angry blood, he might have noticed the sway of her hips or the way she was so light on her feet, and he might have watched her walk away to get the spoon with something a little different than venom behind his electric blue eyes. He might have noticed the freckles that splattered across her face in no particular pattern or even how long and dark her eyelashes were, but right now all he cared about what getting a goddamn spoon to deal his wound shut before he got some kind of an infection. The ragged texture of the cloth against his tongue told him that it was probably ancient and long since needed replacing, and it had probably been used to clean filthy dishes for at least a couple of months now. Even better, it was in his mouth. It was as if he could actually taste the overwhelming scent of lemon that the rag had soaked in, though the bitter taste reminded him of being punished as a child for using improper language in front of his mother. In a strange was it was as if he were being punished for the way that he had talked to Anya and now the way that he was talking to this girl whom he didn't even know. From across the water and with a bullet in his shoulder, his mother still found a way to make him eat soap for being rude to a lady, regardless to if he considered that female a lady or not. He grabbed the spoon from the girl and brought his lighter up beneath it to heat the surface, something that he had learned from watching one too many horror films. When he was sure that the rounded metal was as hot as the lighter could manage to get it, he pressed the spoon against his wound and screamed into the towel once more in agony, the smell of burning flesh coming to his nostrils as he cauterized the wound to prevent bleeding any more than he already had. The skin around the area swelled before turning a violent red, the flesh melding together and creating disturbing patterns across his pale skin, infecting the tattoo that had once been vibrant. As the spoon clanged to the floor, he slid to the ground and sat dumbfounded, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. Spitting the dish cloth to the floor, he panted, his fingers trailing over the chest of his jacket to the wound beneath it, feeling the hole burned through the leather where the bullet had pierced through. "Bitch fucked up my jacket." He responded when he realized that the female had spoken to him, leaning his head back to look up at her and watch her do some kind of cleaning, maybe removing some blood from the counter. "Hey..." Vadim began, this time his voice much softer and less demanding now that the pain was beginning to subside. Now all he could feel was the fresh burn and the dull agony of where the bullet had entered and exited. "Can you help me? Please?" Now the more charming traits were beginning to set back in, the training that his mother had practically slapped into his head all coming back to him as he realized what a dick he'd been just moments before. To be honest he had absolutely no idea who this woman was or why she was standing in the kitchen of the warehouse to begin with. As errand boy, he never really got to be an intricate part of anything that could actually be considered delicate, including a kidnapping. Of course he was moderately aware that there was some type of a captive in the building, but he never would have suspected that she would just be free to wander around when it seemed so likely that she could escape. Delicately, he pushed himself up off of the floor and gestured to the ruined jacket that was clinging to his skeletal frame, attempting to shrug it off without aggravating his burned wound. "Just help me get this off." Grunting, he jolted his unhurt shoulder and tried to get the jacket to fall backwards down his arms with no success. GIVING HER A REASON TO STRIP HIM . TAGGED: CRESS. VESSIDA.

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