[ vasiliy's a former stalin-era NKVD interrogator who played the 'good cop' to coerce prisoners into signing false confessions by acting as though he was speaking to their best interest, executed in 1940 when nikolai yezhov's appointees were purged - who then woke up in the middle of nowhere in the winter of 2015, alive, unscathed, and with documentation claiming he was born in 1985. in the canonpoint i'm pulling him from he's been out in the world for 3 years and has started to come to grips with what he did/started to unlearn stalinism, and is an EMT in chicago in an attempt to feel like he's balancing some of the cosmic harm he did. he comes with warnings for references to the yezhovshchina, torture, etc.; his curse is starting out with randomly bleeding hands as a manifestation of his guilt. it's worth noting that he speaks english despite it being his second language instead of defaulting to russian and letting the world handle it because he knows that his patterns of speaking are anachronistic for someone ostensibly born in the 80s. info here, permissions here. ]
1. MY TUITION'S PAID BY BLOOD (I MIGHT DESERVE YOUR FATE OR WORSE) blood offering | cw: blood.
[ The blood starts as pinpricks. Brilliant, oxygenated, as though his cuticles have been nicked somehow—one finger, then the next, until his right hand is dripping onto the dubiously clean sheets over his lap. Vasiliy frowns and reaches for the box of tissues next to the fake wood finish radio on the bedside table—then a lump in the covers on the bed next to him stirs. Shit, he's not alone. Fuck. Last time he came back he was alone, in the middle of nowhere, on snow like an organ waiting for transplant. He pulls several tissues and squeezes across as many fingers as he can at the same time, maintaining the pressure even as red propelled by the racing of his heart blossoms across the rough single-ply paper, and waits until the other party starts to sit up. At least being in uniform, the crisp navy blue of a Chicago paramedic's winter dress, might keep them from panicking—and if they do, well, when he frantically patted himself down at the beginning of this his hands quickly located the comforting weight of his sidearm.
He pauses for a split second, mentally assembling the sentence in English before speaking, a conscious effort when his mind is pulled in so many other directions. The words that come out are heavily accented, moreso than usual. Pronunciation or something as trivial as the length of vowels isn't exactly his priority right now. ]
Who are you?
2. LE DANGER IMMΓDIAT ET L'AMOUR FICTION roller rink.
[ The transition from wheels to blades takes a little effort, initially, like a calf's first few steps in the outside world—but it doesn't take Vasiliy overly long to regain his balance and make the transition from ice skating in Gorky Park in the late 1930s to roller skating sometime in the 80s. Of course, he's hardly as graceful as he would be on a frozen pond, but at least he manages not to wipe out as most of the people around him seem to be doing.
Like the person who starts to lose their balance next to him, swaying back and forth like a sapling in the wind. And down they go—but he snatches their wrist before their ass actually hits the waxed floor, momentarily losing and regaining his own balance in the process. ]
Hey— Are you alright?
3. THESE ARE VERY DIFFICULT AND DANGEROUS TIMES mallrats | cw: blood.
[ It feels vaguely sacreligious, dressing himself in the high waisted, shapeless American blue jeans that surround him at every turn. It's a symbolic yield, a surrender—conformity leveraged against him, a collective he has no interest in. The denim is heavy, unpleasant against the bare skin of his legs, scraping. He's not much happier with the shapeless cotton tee shirt, but at least that's something he's more used to, something he associates less directly with Reagan.
He carries his EMT's uniform (neatly folded, of course) in the Ruby's bag at his side as he exits the store, though he doesn't get far—he stops dead in his tracks in front of a wall of synchronized home television sets, a million replicas of the same birthmarked face standing before dozens of overlapping news center microphones, his lips moving in the shapes of familiar syllables as English ticker tape runs an unnecessary translation below him. In the corner of the screen: RUSSIAN NUCLEAR THREAT ON THE RISE, as though theirs isn't.
In the split second he catalogues all of this information, Vasiliy doesn't get to mutter under his breath before someone slams into his back, clearly not expecting him to stop in his tracks in the middle of the mall's thoroughfare. He turns immediately, starts to issue an apology—and with the motion of the turn a few drops of blood from the palm of the same hand as back in the hotel room land on their presumably-also-new jeans. ]
Sorry—sorry!
[ Why is it bleeding again? Is this my curse? ]
4. WILDCARD
[ vasiliy's likely to be exploring the place/gathering as much information as he can, with his hands intermittently bleeding despite a lack of visible cuts. if you'd like a starter or want to plot feel free to hit me up here or send a pp to bluehellgazette! ]
vasiliy yegorovich ardankin | original β historical/revenant
blood offering | cw: blood.
[ The blood starts as pinpricks. Brilliant, oxygenated, as though his cuticles have been nicked somehow—one finger, then the next, until his right hand is dripping onto the dubiously clean sheets over his lap. Vasiliy frowns and reaches for the box of tissues next to the fake wood finish radio on the bedside table—then a lump in the covers on the bed next to him stirs. Shit, he's not alone. Fuck. Last time he came back he was alone, in the middle of nowhere, on snow like an organ waiting for transplant. He pulls several tissues and squeezes across as many fingers as he can at the same time, maintaining the pressure even as red propelled by the racing of his heart blossoms across the rough single-ply paper, and waits until the other party starts to sit up. At least being in uniform, the crisp navy blue of a Chicago paramedic's winter dress, might keep them from panicking—and if they do, well, when he frantically patted himself down at the beginning of this his hands quickly located the comforting weight of his sidearm.
He pauses for a split second, mentally assembling the sentence in English before speaking, a conscious effort when his mind is pulled in so many other directions. The words that come out are heavily accented, moreso than usual. Pronunciation or something as trivial as the length of vowels isn't exactly his priority right now. ]
Who are you?
2. LE DANGER IMMΓDIAT ET L'AMOUR FICTION
roller rink.
[ The transition from wheels to blades takes a little effort, initially, like a calf's first few steps in the outside world—but it doesn't take Vasiliy overly long to regain his balance and make the transition from ice skating in Gorky Park in the late 1930s to roller skating sometime in the 80s. Of course, he's hardly as graceful as he would be on a frozen pond, but at least he manages not to wipe out as most of the people around him seem to be doing.
Like the person who starts to lose their balance next to him, swaying back and forth like a sapling in the wind. And down they go—but he snatches their wrist before their ass actually hits the waxed floor, momentarily losing and regaining his own balance in the process. ]
Hey— Are you alright?
3. THESE ARE VERY DIFFICULT AND DANGEROUS TIMES
mallrats | cw: blood.
[ It feels vaguely sacreligious, dressing himself in the high waisted, shapeless American blue jeans that surround him at every turn. It's a symbolic yield, a surrender—conformity leveraged against him, a collective he has no interest in. The denim is heavy, unpleasant against the bare skin of his legs, scraping. He's not much happier with the shapeless cotton tee shirt, but at least that's something he's more used to, something he associates less directly with Reagan.
He carries his EMT's uniform (neatly folded, of course) in the Ruby's bag at his side as he exits the store, though he doesn't get far—he stops dead in his tracks in front of a wall of synchronized home television sets, a million replicas of the same birthmarked face standing before dozens of overlapping news center microphones, his lips moving in the shapes of familiar syllables as English ticker tape runs an unnecessary translation below him. In the corner of the screen: RUSSIAN NUCLEAR THREAT ON THE RISE, as though theirs isn't.
In the split second he catalogues all of this information, Vasiliy doesn't get to mutter under his breath before someone slams into his back, clearly not expecting him to stop in his tracks in the middle of the mall's thoroughfare. He turns immediately, starts to issue an apology—and with the motion of the turn a few drops of blood from the palm of the same hand as back in the hotel room land on their presumably-also-new jeans. ]
Sorry—sorry!
[ Why is it bleeding again? Is this my curse? ]
4. WILDCARD
[ vasiliy's likely to be exploring the place/gathering as much information as he can, with his hands intermittently bleeding despite a lack of visible cuts. if you'd like a starter or want to plot feel free to hit me up here or send a pp to