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About z-Nochlev

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  1. This is Carver. <--------- And this..... is Misha.
  2. Nochlev init: 10 total Carver *rolls* 1d20: 9+1: 10
  3. Misha turned with a frown when he saw the woman toss the boy away. Quickly, he went to the young man’s side. “Are you alright?” he asked in English. The boy gasped for air and didn’t look like he understood. Quickly, Misha pointed to the young man’s chest and then made a hopeful thumbs up. After a second, the kid nodded. ,, That left the woman. ,, Her hair was fanning out farther from her body, like vines questing for the sun. Only from the woman’s ashen expression and shaking hands, Misha was laying his bets on a super-powered panic attack. He hoped not – panic could be dealt with, while a panic attack had to be ridden out. ,, Misha caught the kid’s attention, noticing that his breathing was slowly easing. He pointed across the room where the other non-combatants were and waited for the boy to understand. When Misha thought he understood, he approached the woman. ,, Her hair lashed out at him but he was expecting that. His hands spread wide, he caught a hunk of the animate material and clenched his fist around them. She tried to throw him across the room but he countered with a sharp tug that sprawled her on the floor. Feeling like an evil bastard but unsure how to end the confrontation sooner, he stepped on her hair, pinning her head. ,, The woman shrieked and wept, pulling harder against his imprisoning hair. “Please calm yourself. “ Misha spoke with as much gentleness as he could muster, which he knew wasn’t much. Stress and exasperation at the woman made his words hard and sharp. They certainly didn’t help to calm her and her tentacle-like tresses pawed and pulled at him futilely. ,, Kneeling carefully so he kept her hair pinned, he grabbed hair closer to her skull. He lifted her head just far enough to give her a light slap across the face. “Please. Calm. Down!”
  4. Misha’s eyes fluttered open- ,, -union in the blood- ,, -his head spun- ,, -angels reborn- ,, -burning in his stomach until he felt- ,, -my angels- ,, -as if he would belch fire. His gray eyes stared at the scene before him listlessly, unable to comprehend what he saw—until he saw the child. Red fire burst in his mind, his instinct overriding his disorientation. Protect the young. ,, With a loud scream, he brought his hands up and pressed them to the door holding him. At first, the door resisted, right until he shifted both hands to one side of the pod and pressed over the latch on that side. Then it seemed to take so little effort for him to push up and out, tearing through alien metal like thick taffy. The door clanged to the floor loudly as Misha hopped out of his prison. He didn’t pause in his quest – he marched over to the tube with the boy and pushed the man in the suit aside. “Pozvol'te mne sdelat' eto.” Let me do it. ,, Misha grabbed the edges of the boy’s pod around the locked latch, put a foot against the panel next to the tube and heaved. The panel groaned and buckled in a flare of sparks, unable to stand against the pressure he put on it. He found a new brace, this time on brackets holding in the pod. When he pulled it open with a bellow of exertion, the door squealed open. ,, Misha leaned down and offered his hand to the lad. “Idi syuda. Eto bezopasno.” Come here. It’s safe. Misha wasn’t sure that the boy spoke Russian; it didn’t matter because whatever the kid saw in Misha’s eyes was enough. The boy bolted forward and wrapped his arms around Misha’s waist, while the big Russian put his arm over the boy’s smaller shoulders. As the kid cried into his shirt, the cop in Misha came out. ,, “You.” He pointed at the woman in the suit. She’d been speaking English and he switched to that language. His accent was heavy as he said, “Go help open pods. You two.” He looked at the rock man in armor and the super suit. “Go, to the door. They come soon. Guard it.” ,, Moving to the man comforting the woman, he ordered, “Get her out of center of room. Then go help at door.” He began to get the woman and the two teens in motion, herding them to the side and leaving the still crying boy with them. The kid tried to cling to Misha but the teen girl seemed to come out of it enough to grab the boy and pull him against her. The young kid collapsed against her after a brief struggle, as if he only needed someone to cry against. ,, He wished he had his gun as he went to open more pods, directing people out of the way or to the openings, if they seemed capable. But even as he lamented the loss of his weapon, he glanced down at his hands. He’d seen a burst of purple-red power, hadn’t he? ,, His fingers clenched tightly as he listened to the klaxons. He’d find out soon enough.
  5. Misha rested his head on the back of his couch, his thoughts far away from his cold Moscow apartment. He could make it warmer but he didn’t spend much time there. He came here to sleep and gain privacy from his fellow cops; even eating happened in diners or at McDonalds. Taste didn’t matter as much as filling his belly, so the choices never ended. Nothing mattered to him more than closing cases. ,, So being sent home and told to take a vacation – a real one, his boss had added with a glare – didn’t sit well with him. ,, Rising, the middle-aged man went into his bedroom. Kneeling next to the bed, he pulled out a cardboard file box. Opening the lid revealed files crammed tightly into the available space. In another house, they would have been dusty. In his house, they weren’t left along long enough to accumulate dust. He carried the box out to his kitchen table and selected the first folder. ,, He always left the reports on top, so that when he first opened the file, he didn’t see any photos. Picking up the first report in the file, he slumped back into his chair to read. He’d read it dozens of times before but he didn’t let his eyes glaze or skim. He forced every iota of his attention to the file. Somewhere in this file existed a clue or evidence that would find a murderer. Misha merely had to find it. A little boy depended on him to do so, so that his soul could rest in peace. ,, Time had not eased the gruesome nature of this case. Someone had told him that humans could adjust to anything but he no longer believed that. Misha didn’t want to believe it, either. If time could erase the horror of this injustice, then time deserved the same punishment as these criminals. ,, The pictures were last. He left to them to last because they were the hardest. He also wanted the details of the reports fresh in his mind when he went over them. ,, The first image pictured a distant shot of the scene, the body still in situ. He had a system for doing this: first, he studied it carefully unaided, then he looked at it unfocused to get a larger picture, and last he would pull the magnifying glass over and take a detailed look at it. His system had worked well for him for years. ,, Tonight, the image made his skin crawl. Misha gritted his teeth and studied the image diligently despite his discomfort. The boy lay naked in the middle of an interlocking pattern of geometric figures drawn in blood. The blood had come from the boy and another person, yet unidentified. ,, The itching under his skin didn’t improve. Misha dropped the picture on the table and rose, scratching at his arms. The crawly feeling worsened as he went to the sink and got a glass of water. His skin felt as though it would jump off his body. ,, What is wrong with me? No one answered the question and Misha felt his fingers tighten around the glass. The hard plastic buckled and shattered, the pieces dropping into the sink with a small stream of water. Misha stared at the broken cup, trying to understand what had just happened. ,, Pain lanced through his skull and Misha lost a moment of time. When he came back to himself, he knelt on the floor by his kitchen counter. I mixed the blood in union. He had no idea where that thought had come from or why it had popped into his head. It felt almost like the headache had conjured it. ,, Before he had a chance to figure it out, sirens began to wail outside, in the city. He’d never heard them ring out altogether like that before; he guessed that no one had since Hitler invaded. Misha hesitated before grabbing his sidearm and heading for the door.
  6. ,, ,, Nochlev stares at his fellow prisoners/teammates, not sure what to say or do in response to any of this. It'd be fun if it were a surprise. I do think we're going to have some overlap and that is completely okay - like I wouldn't be surprised if most or all of us has some flight.
  7. My PC is to the ST for approval/edits. Just so people know my concept, he's an obsessed detective with a temper problem. His obsession is crimes involving children - he's built a reputation being relentless when it comes to solving cases with minors as victims. Granted, that reputation is in Russia and none of you have heard of it, but I'm sure Batman knows. Because Batman knows everything.
  8. Interested. Looking at building a man who's powers come from his boundless rage.
  9. “We are then. We need to go crack a few skulls.” He flashed Narinder a grin, and that shark-smile was why Misha didn’t have friends. He smiled like that and made violent statements with an unhealthy intensity. If you called him on it, he wasn’t serious—or he was, but who didn’t talk bigger than they walked in this business? He was just blowing off steam—and all said with that same smile that called him a prevaricator, if not an out and out liar. But at the end of the day, when all was said, when the bodies were stacked against the wall and the survivors were being tended to, no one could deny that Misha got shit done. More importantly, he walked into Hell, got shit done and walked out with children, usually alive. And that was why he was sent into these missions over and over again—because not only was he good at it, but because he was good at saving the child and putting the bad guys down in the name of the law, and what cop didn’t secretly get tiny boners whenever that happened, regardless of the borderline legalities? Misha ‘s long legs carried him to the parked motorcycles. Narinder had been surprised on his first day when his Russian counterpart had directed him to the tiny, junky, motorbike. It had only taken one traffic jam for the FBI agent to understand why Misha had insisted. As Narinder got on his own bike, Misha started his, initiating a two-cyclindar assault on their ears. The motorbikes weren’t meant to be used outside the city, which was good, since they didn’t go much faster than forty miles per hour. You couldn’t beat them when the streets clogged with people, as they were now. Silently, the two men began their trek, zigging down the road without a helmet or traffic laws. Of course, no one used either safety feature, not in Bangkok. The worst of the traffic was off the streets by the time they reached Phra Suan, and they were able to rev the lawnmower engines that powered their sad vehicles to ear-splitting volumes. The motorbikes were vibrating with exertion by the time that Misha left the busy main thoroughfares behind and entered the side streets. Men eyed them darkly from doorways, or eyed Misha, anyway. The big white man had earned a reputation among the flesh-traders; Misha had once joked that he started every day with kasha and an assassination attempt. Some of the men glaring at them may have been contributing to Misha’s morning rituals. If the thought had occurred to him, it didn’t show in his gray eyes or stoic expression. The pair of hunters came to a stop in front of a building; Narinder saw nothing to distinguish it from any other, but Misha parked his bike and swing off the machine. Though in truth, it was made for the average Thai frame, so he practically stood up and stepped over it. Once Nari was at his side, Misha walked up to the door, where a man was staring at them with an unfriendly glare. The glare darkened as the men stopped in front of the door guard. “What you want?” The guard’s English wasn’t bad, but Narinder and Misha were more focused on the hand resting in the small of his back. It was no doubt inches from a gun. “Information.” Misha wasn’t nearly as casual as he put his hand on his holstered weapon, out in plain view. Both men had permits to carry and did so openly, unlike the thug in front of them. “Nothing to tell you.” The guard waved with his other hand, the one hanging at his side. His balls-to-brains ratio was disappointingly small, and Misha spat on the ground in disgust. The guard scowled harder and drew himself up further, resembling a small dog about to take on a larger dog. Misha might get his chance to crack a skull.
  10. It's fine. I can ladle out Nochlev's special kind of crazy for a while.
  11. Here and ready. I know that Jas is still interested in playing with Nari; she's just been damned busy lately.
  12. Narinder, could I get a reply to our joint prologue soon? Thanks!
  13. Misha peered up and down the streets of Bangkok, thinking rapidly. Time bore down on his mind; every second spent looking for the three missing children were seconds they were being tortured. The two teams were working as fast as they could to find the dealer who had them. It wasn’t fast enough, not to Misha. He and Narinder’s teams had worked their contacts ferociously to find the particular sex dealer evil enough to deal in unwilling human flesh. There were plenty of sex dealers who traded in unwilling flesh; their time was coming. Tonight, both men and their teams were desperate to find one in particular. A woman approached him, a shawl over her dark hair. Her softly-featured Thai face was drawn tight with fear, and her caramel-kissed skin was sallow. But she was here. “Hello.” Misha always spoke to the natives, due to his fluency with their tongue. He added a smile; not a real one because only children saw those. “I heard you pay money for information on three Americans.” She shifted nervously, her dark eyes darting under the edge of her shawl, trying to be invisible. Many of the dealers wouldn’t hesitate to kill a woman who had sold them out to the law. Misha didn’t ask for a name and didn’t try English. “Yes. What kind of information do you have?” It was always good to clarify that before they talked money. He drew out a wad of baht, keeping it cradled in his hands but clear to her eyes. Her eyes darted even faster. “A name.” “Just a name?” Misha pushed. A name would take time to track down. Locations were better. Names could be found later, for prosecution, if that even entered the picture. But the place where the children were would be the best. He casually unwound the roll and fanned the bills, letting her see the brown hues of a 1000 baht note. It was about $30 US, but he had several bills and that was a lot of money to the average Thai person. She saw the notes and he could see the indecision, the desire for the money in his hand. “A district.” Misha’s hand closed around the bills. “A neighborhood.” He stared at her, willing her to give him more, to grant him what he needed. She paused, licking her lips with eagerness, her eyes locked on his closed fist. “Phra Suan, in Bang Na District.” He offered her the money, then grabbed her wrist when her fingers closed around it. “Double if you tell me the address.” Oh, how she wanted the money, but she shook her head. “I don’t know.” Misha’s gray eyes closed with weariness. “Very well. Go.” He released and let her scamper away as he turned to his partner in his affair. “Narinder, did any of our teams mention a flesh dealer near Phra Suan?”
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