fissionmailed | BIG SWEATY GYM TIMES/TORTURE

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BIG SWEATY GYM TIMES/TORTURE

[The Nexus gym is particularly loud and noisy today, as someone is in there barking orders like a standard drill sergeant, except the said orders are in Russian. The treadmill is rattling and rolling at a high speed, and there is the sound of feet clopping along on it in their frantic rhythm.

At the back corner upon entry, there is the large, imposing figure of Volgin, still quite large and still very imposing even in casual dress. He is currently overseeing the forced fitness regimen of one of the Raikovs he had come to grow some attachment to (as he is aware of clones in this place, but still grasping the concept). Fed up with this pattern of fattening Raikovs, the Soviet giant is determined to rectify the problem. Once a GRU colonel in charge of his own unit (in this Volgin's particular case), the proper care and maintenance of his men was a high priority and body shape was among those concerns.

No man looked like Volgin at his age without proper self-discipline! Like a good commanding officer, he feels it is his proper duty to keep his men in shape if they are so foolish as to let their discipline slip. There would be consequences.

Starting with this one.

Whenever Raikov's pace slackens, Volgin coolly holds a hand out, and a good electric probe to his asscheek helps him right back along. His face is locked for the time being into a stony indifference. No matter what sounds Raikov makes or how much he complains: There is a price to pay for letting such a beautiful body grow soft, and there will be correction.]

((OOC: Open post, anyone is free to walk in and interact in any way you see fit! Sometimes they're both there, sometimes Ivan is left there and Volgin is off doing something in another room. Pretty briefly, if he's out.))

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Come again? I can't hear you, Major.

[His tone was as cruel as the rest of him as his foot sought further purchase on the kitten's balls.

The sharp ozone odor punched harder again, a sign of an impending electrical assault readying to ravage the boy's body again. Make him bleed and burn him to a crisp.

Then something rang, shaking the formerly unshakable ex-Colonel. His head snapped about. The expression was one of surprise and confusion. What was that?

His foot withdrew when the water came, sprinklers drenching the room and its equipment. And him. There was a howling cry from the giant as the current that once obeyed his whims turned against him with a crackling hiss, a short circuiting almost. This was not a mere trickle from a pipe but a full on soak. Unprepared, the shock had the beast of a man stumble, his vision white and ears ringing, completely stunned.]

[His body was just short of giving out, but Ocelot's legendary determination pushed him. Once freed from that foot, he turned over with great effort. His right hand landed on his fallen revolver, and he kept it in his fist as painfully pushed himself to his knees, then his feet, remaining crouched to protect his injured stomach as he staggered towards the door, dripping water and blood down his left arm.]

Edited 2011-01-17 03:23 (UTC)

[And where did Ocelot think he was going?

Raikov was no help to Volgin right now--so he took up the job of the distraught Colonel and ran up to Ocelot (his feet slapping against the soaking floor) before wrapping his arms over his front and tackling him to the ground.

Once that lovely act was complete he went to pin him down.]

[Ocelot cried out in brief agony as his bruised body hit the floor. Desperate and furious, he kicked out with his spurs and swung the butt of the revolver at him.]

Ow! [Without his usual uniform on to protect him the spurs cut deep into his bare flesh without much resistance. Pain welled up from the wound, and as if that weren't enough Ocelot's revolver hit him hard on the shoulder.]

Stupid fuck! [He retaliated by grinding Ocelot's face into the ground and trying to twist the arm holding his revolver behind his back.]

[The revolver went off as Ocelot's finger squeezed into the trigger, discharging loudly between the two men but missing Raikov. Ocelot snarled.]

You little shit--

[He jerked his arm to elbow the man above him, breaking Raikov's grip mostly in thanks to the water making him slippery.]

[As they struggled, Volgin roused as finally his vision cleared and the rest of his senses were stable enough to register his surroundings. His limbs were shaking in the aftershock of his own electricity being used against him.

It was a struggle to "hold" his internal charge. It was a struggle against his trained, disciplined soldier's resolve against every natural impulse of his body to release, like a frightened piss. It was a struggle, but he could finally move and still hold in the dangerous lightning that had ravaged the bodies of so many other men before him.

The giant Soviet saw the two men on the floor, and he moved on the energy granted from his rising rage. He could feel his soaked clothes, heavy and cold against the insulative wrappings around his body. His cold, numb legs shivered under his weight. His old ankles and hips were choosing this time to complain of their age against him. He did not want to hear it. He almost fell in his corrective shuffle.

But, his gaze was transfixed on the two men: His world was tearing Ocelot apart. ]

Edited 2011-01-19 03:41 (UTC)

You--!!

[Ivan was shaken by a wave of icy terror as the gun sounded--a bullet speeding past. It came so close to him--God, he swore he could feel his life flash before his eyes. It's not like it'd be the first time he died.

And then came the unbridled rage born from fear and the will to survive. He grappled again for Ocelot's revolver; this time using both hands to try and pry it from his grip. His own gun had been lost sometime when he tackled Ocelot.]

[Ocelot was not afraid of Raikov, but he was beyond furious at him for keeping him from escaping. Ocelot maintained his hold on his precious revolver, flicking the hammer back with his thumb and pulling at Raikov's wrist with his other hand.]

[He fired again, the revolver discharging loud enough to be heard well despite the shrieking fire alarm.]

[Ivan was blinded by pain, red hot and radiating out from his shoulder. He cried out, disorientated, a ringing in his ears from the gunshot.

He still sat ontop of Ocelot, but the hand that had been grappling with his revolve now clung to the fresh wound, easily soaking his white shirt in red with help from the fire sprinklers.]

H-HELP!

Ivan!

[The gunshot was all Volgin needed to hear before his own panic took hold. Suddenly forgetting about the abundance of Raikovs in the Nexus, Volgin was able to throw his own larger body in the fray. His first priority was ensuring that the traitor would not be injuring the other any further.]

Fall back!

[A command to Raikov. The older man's voice gargled more than it should have; he still was not in the best state to be chasing after subordinates half his age like sprawled, struggling children on the floor, and he was cold. And wet.

There was a wet tear as Volgin was freed of his shirt, his "civilian-grade" insulation dark sleek "bandages" wrapped around his body.

A minor discomfort. The insulative wrap by themselves took better to the sprinklers.

Ocelot likely escaped by the time Volgin was able to position himself into an attack. The giant was cursing hotly, taking up Raikov in an impromptu bridal carry to whisk him somewhere more out-of-sight.

And drier.

Next time, you tricky bastard. I trained you well.]

[Everything happened so fast.

Ivan reacted to the command, tumbling off of Ocelot's body. His shoulder bled, red diluted in the water soaking the floor. His eyes were squeezed shut in pain and they only opened again, startled, as Yevgeny picked him up.

They were moving and his head felt light. Shoulder and leg throbbed with the rhythm of his heart.]

[Volgin was stumbling. Still shaking. Raikov could feel a tremble shudder through his massive arms. The old giant felt the beginning bites of cold. He hated being cold. His artificially-given ability had offered him decades away from the cruel intimacy with the sensation he built in his childhood and beyond. Never would he be cold again, pressing against heated pipes and engines in the dead of winter, fantasizing about the small period of green in the Spring, until it rained.

His electricity still favored the deep trails it too marred him with, years ago; the actual pain of being shocked faded quickly into the comforts of his nearly inhuman tolerance.

He was somehow still upright, with his lover... a... Raikov, whatever, his lover (right?), his footsteps distant as he moved urgently on his own honed soldier instinct. There was a hallway, another one, follow his gut, stop into the bathroom, that looked like a bathroom, set Raikov down in a stall. Prop him against the toilet. Barely fit into the damn thing with him. Shut the door.

(Silence, perhaps?)

Sit down with him. Drip. Lean against the side of the stall. Simmer in rage. Growl:]

That bastard. Insolent brat. I'll cut his eyes out myself, I swear.

[Grunt. Slide the drenched clothes off. He had insulation underneath. Wouldn't have cared if he was naked anyway. The sweater made a wet plop at his side. He did not have a suit now; still destroyed, still not replaced, but even wet the material he wrapped tightly around himself was adhering well.

He leaned in.]

Ivan, your wound...

Edited 2011-01-27 03:01 (UTC)

[He was shivering, soaked to the bone. Even as Ivan settled on the cold linoleum he coughed sharply, limbs curling up against his body to expose as little skin as possible.

His uniforms, his supplies--were all back in his duffel bag at the gym.

The blood looked much worse than it was, soaking his entire shirt. When he looked down he squeaked in panic and swiftly turned away, white-faced.]

G-Godammit.

Let me see it.

[Raikov could go without a shirt, all the more reason to have the smaller Russian press that trembling body against Volgin's for warmth, when he was warm again. He was too wet to warm himself right now. He hated it.

Volgin tore the shirt away with a wet rip. He examined the wound.

The wet remains of the shirt was toweling the blood, staining the white shades of red and yellow as it mingled with the moisture.

A pause as he set the shirt aside.]

We're going to have to get the bullet out.

[Hesitantly Ivan removed his hand, and with the pressure he'd been applying removed the wound began to bleed again. Maybe it was psychological, but he swore it hurt ten times more too.

Never has being stripped of his clothes in a bathroom been so unwelcomed.]

Right...you can draw it out, can't you?

[A grunt. A gesture to his own wet pants. On that note, he started to shuffle, legs out to unlace those jackboots. A mumble:]

Not dripping wet like this.

[Experience granted Volgin speed. Being a good field colonel carried the realization of how much their men's morales hinged on his own; he had to be steeled against all odds, something unbreakable. Don't look too worried. Just keep moving. It's not that bad. You've seen worse, Yevgeny. Stop worrying about him; you never felt like this for others before.

It's not even ... ... even Ivan proper.

A jackboot collapsed next to them with a moist clop on the tile. His gaze was on the roll of toilet paper. ]

Dry your chest with that. Put pressure on it, don't stop, you idiot.

[Ivan watched Volgin blankly, his thoughts at a standstill, only concentrating on the pain and the shivering cold.]

Yes, Sir.

[Obediently he gathered up a fistful of toilet paper in one hand and began to dab himself dry. It soon became soaked, falling apart and sticking to his damp skin.

So Ivan grabbed more, the process continuing until he was finally dried and covered in pills and flakes of toilet paper that he was too exhausted to bother picking off.

His leaned back against the cold porcelain.]

It smells in here... [The most noticeable odor at the moment, however, was blood; it was only that Ivan's nose had become so used to the scent over the past few minutes he could barely register it.]

Who cares about the smell. That is the least of our worries.

[Volgin narrowed his eyes at the dusting of curled toilet paper. Even he never bought something that cheap. His final jackboot off, he went to work sliding the soaked pants away. It left his ass nearly bare on the cold, hard floor, a layer of supposedly space-age insulative material between flesh and tile.

(His suit did a better job containing his "flares"; now the lights flickered when he sneezed.)

He grabbed a handful of toilet paper to dab at the wound before tearing more handfuls away to dab at himself. Fortunately, Volgin only needed a reasonably dry arm and chest to keep Raikov within relatively safe measures.

The flaking paper had the man resembling an inverted dalmatian.]

Yeah...it's just disgusting.

[Ivan scrunched his nose up a bit.

He watched Volgin idly, his own hand still pressed firmly over the wound.]

Are you sure we're dr-dry enough? [A cold puff of breath.]

I should be.

[He slowly bled some electrical release unseen, through the arm that was going to be "sucking" a bullet out of Raikov within a few minutes.

Zap.]

Ah-! Shit!

[He clutched his arm, wincing but feeling some moisture linger within the insulation. That explained it. So goddamn careless. Thick fingers scratched around the bandages, searching for the wrapping end tucked away.

There it was.

He went to work, the dark peeling away to the lighter tone of his marked, hard skin.]

[Briefly alerted, Ivan turned and almost moved to sit up--but Volgin seemed fine and he relaxed again, as much as he could, against the toilet.]

Be careful!

[Yeah, he could scold the older man if he felt it necessary.]

[Volgin eyed his... partner.]

I'm fine.

[He had removed the wrapping in a winding river of black on the floor, exposing an arm, his chest and stomach. Toilet paper was scrubbed and torn along his skin to nothing; the damn thing was behaving moreso like an application of garbage paper than actually drying him.

The older man was brushing peels and twists off himself.]

This will hurt, Ivan. You know that. I've done it before.

[If this Raikov retained any memory of such. Or even had it at all.]

[A nod; he understood.

The pale Soviet clenched his jaw in anticipation, and his hands fell into his laps white-knuckled.]

...

[Volgin channeled electricity again.

It did not hurt. Cause him to recoil. Curse.

He restrained himself. Flexed his fingers. Reached for Raikov's wound to pull his hand aside.]

Count of three, Ivan.

[His voice was low and calm.]

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