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- The Russian Assassin: America Awaits -
Topic Started: Dec 12 2015, 05:20 PM (36 Views)

**(Found this baby while scouring the SHOOT forums to look for some info on an NPC character I used to write for back in my old stable days of the Hierarchy with Azrael Goeren and Marcus Mirage. Wanted to re-post it here because I was incredibly proud of being able to write an interesting piece for a type of character I hadn't recalled seeing anywhere at the time. My inspiration came from the movie 'Eastern Promises', as it delved quite a bit into the frightening Russian Mafia scene. Anyway, thought you might enjoy reading this. It's from 2010, I believe.) **

I am not complicated.

A man of considerable size dryly uttered these words in broken English. An inelegant cadence in his speech pattern suggested Russian, or at the very least one of the many neighboring dialects of Northern Asian. He was impeccably built, and standing at six-foot-ten, three-hundred pounds, to say he was intimidating would be a gross understatement. With a rumpled appearance that complemented his cracked, baritone voice, he bore a thick beard and fairly tousled Caesarean hairstyle befitting a man in his early 30’s from the Motherland. Multiple scars proceeded up his forehead until they were buried beneath a messy heap of atramentous hair, embedded beneath his scalp. One particular scar stood out among the rest; it was half an inch in diameter and scrolled from his right cheek bone all the way up over his left eyebrow. The slight imperfection in his eyelid suggested that someone had slashed his face with a sharp object, diagonally, at some point in time in a downward slashing motion. Judging by the serrated nature of the scar tissue, one could assume it was done by something unconventional such as a glass shard or splintery piece of wood. In all likelihood, it was a souvenir from a recent prison term.

All wounds were indications of a murky past, and the fact that this man had so many in such vital places was… unsettling.

I am… as saying goes… open book. You know this, Sergei.

Having angrily blurted out the last part in his native tongue, there was a strong enough conviction in his elocution that shed light on the fact that he was not young. Nor was he an injudicious sort. Sneering with contempt, Gavrilovich Mikhael Yurinov took a deep draw of the Sobranie black Russian cigarette, the brand’s trademark golden sieve sparkling from the harvest moon above - it’s majestic luminescence pouring down upon the darkened, unpaved roads of Krasnoarmeisk like a whit of afterglow upon an otherwise chilly night. Exhaling a large puff of smoke for the briefest of moments, Gavrilovich - “Yuri” to social circles, and “The Russian Assassin ” to a slightly sinister faction of people - ghosted the thick carcinogenic cloud back into his mouth. He held it for several seconds, allowing it to practically burn a hole through his lungs before letting the now smokeless vapor seep slowly through his flaring nostrils.

He often tested his own limits like this; circumstances that did not require for him to pledge an ounce of self-control. Yet, he did it anyway, and to be so gratuitously self-contesting was something of a Russian specialty. It was his birthright. It was, intrinsically, an idiosyncrasy that made him so good at what he did that nobody bothered to ever call him out on it. Russian pride was as deadly as unjacketed hollow-points to the skull, and those that knew The Russian Assassin, knew exactly that.

Those that didn’t? Well, they would soon find out.

The gaseous fumes he ingested had smoldered inside a heart sheathed with ice. They were painful… but on this typically cold night in Krasnoarmeisk, it kept him as warm as a glass of vodka . A terse look struck his irritable countenance as his eyes wandered from the edges of a shoddily layered brick building he had been standing next to, to another man - the company of whom he had been enjoying quite immensely. This man, Sergei Anton Yurinov, was his much smaller and particular awkward looking brother. Sergei stood there, arms crossed, rubbing his own elbows to try and maintain his core body temperature. He shook, but do not be fooled into believing it was from the cold. Sergei was a user, see. An out and out addict. Ironically enough, between the two brothers, it was Sergei who had spent more time in and out of the ghastly, rodent-infested Moscow dungeons that are internationally recognized as some of the worst places one could possibly spend their time in.

The indentation on Yuri’s right cheek gave away the fact that he was biting a chunk of adipose scar tissue inside of his mouth. Remnants of a time when this Czechoslovakian cocksucker decided to ram a sword in his mouth over “payment issues” from a job they recently completed together.

Is it mistake, Sergei? No lie to me.

Sergei seemed predisposed to answer as his concentration lied on another matter entirely.

No. It is a better life for you than here, brother. No more evils polluting the soul. You will … be a better man once all is said and done.

Sergei’s far superior English speaking skills was surprising, especially given the fact that he allowed himself to be so weak-minded and controlled by substance abuse. Yuri contemplated these words for a few moments. “Better“ and “Man” are the last words he’d expect anyone to say to him in a single sentence. Family or not.

Da. But America not much better, Sergei. People far worse over there. They have politics that are worse. That are, how you say… дерьмо? Their government do not love their people, and their people do not love their government.

Sergei waved his hand at Yuri, scoffing at the notion.

Oh, and our "Mother" does, Yuri? Have you forgotten about all of the things She did to you? Have you forgotten about all of the years of your life that have been wasted rotting inside of a jail cell because She couldn’t look away? Come on, Yuri… you‘re smarter than that.

Yuri shook his head.

Don’t do that. That is not Her fault. I not blame my imprisonment on the Motherland , brother, because it was not the Motherland that made my mistakes. I made my mistakes, so I have made my own bed. Only recently do I not have to lay in it anymore.

So what are you saying, Yuri? You want to stay? You want to go? You want to go back to work for your Uncle? You want to go pigeonhole yourself and wrestle bears like some American carny? I am sorry, but I cannot support that which I do not understand.

The Russian Assassin laughed loudly. His booming voice carried out through the darkness like some kind of devilry skulking through the night looking for the lowest forms of debauchery and depravity.

Who say… hahaha… who say I really escape anything by going there?

He laughed heartily.

I still have to try, Sergei.

Try what, exactly? Hm? Try to be "somebody"? Live the American "dream", eh Yuri?

The next few words struck a chord within Yuri like no other.

You’re a convicted felon. You live in that shitty half-way house behind you. You... did things... bad things... for paper. Your Uncle's paper. Your lust for blood knows no bounds, my brother. I promise you that.

Without hesitation, Yuri grabbed the much smaller Sergei by the underside of his jaw, his huge hand palming his head like a cantaloupe.


His vice-like grip tightened. Sergei yelped like a little cub caught in a grizzly bear’s jaws. One little squeeze and Sergei's head would explode off like a lid to a pressure cooker.

You don’t remind me of that. You DON'T do THAT. Because… because that is why I must LEAVE this place. There is no future in my Uncle's business.

Sergei nodded, though he hardly understood. Self-preservation was the name of the game here.

If I go back to working for Uncle, then I will be thrown back into the pits. The O.M.O.N. are watching me, Sergei… probably as we speak. They are zooming in with their lenses, waiting for me to make that final mistake.

Sergei almost shook with these words, but he kept himself calm and composed. It was true. Hundred meters. Seven o’clock. They were watching him with digital cameras and very sophisticated government technology.

It all they need to send me away for rest of life… and I refuse to waste life any longer. Not when I could be putting what I have…

He cracked his knuckles severely. They cracked so loud that it resembled walnuts crunching beneath the thick treads of a tank.

… to better use.

He released his beastly grip and shoved Sergei back, sending him down to the dirt of the outside parking lot of the halfway house he lived in. He regretted physically manhandling his emotionally delicate brother like he did, but sometimes, physicality was the only language people were capable of understanding.

Look at you, Sergei. You sick. The drugs are killing you…

Sergei wept in the dirt as the unavoidable truth suffocated his drug addled soul. Reaching a hand up for his brother to take, Sergei gestured for an assist. He received nothing which only magnified his embarrassment.

So weak. You... you make me sick.

Yuri scoffed at his brother’s needs and harshly turned away, shaking his head in absolute revulsion. Sergei wept a bit harder, almost like a defenseless child needing his Mommy's tenderness. Retracting the hand, he buried it into his sodden face within the dirty ridges of his sweaty palm. Yuri turned back around and looked down at his much weaker brother with unquestionable revulsion. "Fucking pathetic..", he thought.

You are disgrace to family far more than I ever was, Sergei. I… I can’t even call you my brother. You are Sergei to me… not brother. SERGEI. Just a man. Your veins flow with piss water, not my blood.

Yuri knelt down, hands criss-crossing left knee with right knee planted in the dirt adjacent to Sergei. He chuckled mercilessly.

THIS is why I am going to America, Sergei. Herr Goeren and Mr. Van Warren have offered me the opportunity to serve them. To… fight… for them. Da… and the pay is good, I will not lie. Pay is real good. Better than what Uncle can give... and legal.

He paused, working through the emotions that had gathered over him through out the conversation at the thought of leaving his once beloved Motherland behind in the rearview mirror.

I not going to wrestle bears in circus, Sergei… I going to America to aid the, how you say… conquest, of Herr Goeren and Mr. Van Warren. If someone lays hand on them, I protect. If someone threats, I punish. If someone disrespects, I pick their bones apart. Man, woman, child... does not matter.

The terrified expression on Sergei’s face exhibited a man who understood what he just heard to be unequivocally true. Labored breaths from where he sat in the dirt revealed a frightened state within. His eyes darted to the gold watch snugly fastened to Yuri’s massive wrist. Catching Sergei’s slight wandering of the eyes, Yuri quickly realized that he had lost track of time. Looking at his watch, Yuri sighed impatiently.

I am late for plane. It is only plane going to America for rest of the week. Better hope that I make in time, Sergei, or I come back and crush those nasty teeth into yellow sand.

Yuri stands up from the ground, brushing off the point of his knee that balanced on the dirt. Turning his back, Yuri began walking away when Sergei shouted.

Wh-where... (sniff)... where in America will you go, my brother?

In what resembled a parlor trick, after finishing off his black Russian cigarette, Yuri doused the end of it on his thick tongue by patting it three times against the wetness of his saliva. Flicking the cigarette down into Sergei’s face, Yuri smacked his lips a few times before discharging a wad of his ashen spit onto the ground, careful so as to not splash any on his size expensive size 18 shoes or neatly crinkled pant cuffs.

Las Vegas.

A laugh somehow escaped Sergei, as he tried to force himself to his feet amidst the uncontrollable shakes.

Aha... ahahaha... the place that is called Sin City? Hehe… the irony is not lost on me, my brother.

Yuri smirked ever so faintly.


The Russian Assassin turned his back away from his brother once again and disappeared into the night. The ardent services of Herr Goeren and Mr. Van Warren had emphatically called out to him.
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