[ Their target is coming into range now, the hangar and its resting aircraft more than a dot on the horizon, though the Germans don't seem to have visual on them yet. It sits there completely undisturbed like a snow-dusted hornets' nest, and they're approaching it with one hell of a bat.
Nikolay's own pulse picks up as they close in, his body falling into the familiar rhythms even after more than a year spent grounded. He pulls down the goggles resting atop his head, then grasps the oil shutter lever to his right, fingers guided by spatial memory alone as they wrap around the cold metal without visual guidance and pull it back, closing off one of the only points vulnerable to attack on the aircraft they call the flying tank.
The other is the rear gunner's side of the cockpit. He can't do anything about that other than fly evasively and push the throttle forward as he does now, making them—and the newly assigned American machine gunner—a faster target, harder to hit. ]
Get ready, Bucky. Itās going to get hot.
[ Very much so, given that half of the birds on that runway are going to be on his ass in a few minutes; one hell of a third mission for Barnes, although it's not his place to question it. He leans back into his seat and pushes the control stick forward, bringing her nose down and dropping altitude—and god, it feels good, cutting through the cold air like this in a sharp drop toward their target, the force of the descent holding him down to such an extent that the webbed harness crisscrossing his upper body feels redundant.
Heās not particularly focused on anything other than the approaching hangar, but he does dimly recognize that itās probably still an unfamiliar sensation for the rear gunner—theyāve been on a few flights now, but from personal observation, it tends to take people a while to get used to dropping backwards while unable to see the direction in which theyāre flying. To his credit, though, his newly assigned American friend hasnāt puked yet. ]
[ He's been here long enough now to have gotten at least somewhat accustomed to the skimpiness of the attire here, even in winter's cold—but the people wearing such things are wearing them willingly, unlike the latest round of new arrivals who have been turned loose on the city in flimsy paper gowns that do nothing to hold heat, naked beneath them.
The train comes to a stop and more passengers come onboard, filing into the last few remaining seats, and among them is a woman around his age, more of her skin exposed to the icy air than covered by the pathetic hospital gown they've sent her off in. It turns his stomach. She's not the first woman he's seen forced into such a position upon arriving here, but it's been a few weeks since he's actually come face-to-face with it. She elects to stand, holding one of the hanging bars; whether she's aware of the empty seat beside him (and a couple of others around the train) and is making a deliberate choice or is simply too stressed to have noticed is unclear. Already, he's undoing the buttons of his overcoat and sliding it over his shoulders to reveal the long-sleeved uniform and leather bracelet beneath. ]
[ They had to sedate her in the end. The grogginess had lingered when she was herded off to orientation, which is why she chooses to stand on the train now. If thereās any justice in whatever world this is, the other passengers would leave her to scroll through her device in peace.
A man sitting nearby turns towards her and Natasha sighs. She would have been content to ignore him if he hadnāt addressed her in Russian. It gets him a quick glance, head to toe. The uniform under the coat is one she hasn't seen for decades but remembers intimately. The plain leather bracelet marks him as a dominant according to the city's designations. What are the chances, she thinks uncharitably, that the first person who's spoken to her here has these specific traits.
She isnāt concerned with modesty or bothered by the cold yet, but the offer seems genuine. From what she's learned so far, the key to surviving here as a submissive will depend heavily on gaining the favor of dominants. She would be a fool to turn down an opportunity, even if the irony of it being a Soviet pilot feels like bile rising in her throat.
Thank you. [ She responds in Russian, checking the insignias on his uniform and wondering how much of her hand to show. Soldiers are easy though. ] Captain.
[ She's Russianā! It's a rarity here, one that immediately entitles her to a degree of fondness thanks to the relief of finally encountering a fellow countryman (or woman, as the case may be). She also, apparently, knows how to read the insignias on the coat he holds out to her, or maybe the uniform below itāwhat time is she from?
She's also very pretty, a thought he tries to push from his head as soon as it occurs to himāhe's met quota for three months now with other people, none of them Olga, to survive here long enough to go back to her... but it feels different, actually finding another woman attractive. It's a different kind of betrayal, even if she's probably already forgotten him, or thinks he's dead. The relationship will probably end when he does leave this place and she realizes that the whole, intact man she fell in love with, was attracted to, now walks on legs cut unnaturally short, stumps, balancing on hard inhuman limbs.
She will undoubtedly react with revulsion, even if she thinks she won't until she actually sees them. Maybe that's why he can't find the words to write her. He doesn't want to just face it, to 'pull the Band-aid off', as they say here. Maybe he'd rather linger in the ambiguous silence of her not knowing, of theoretically still having someone waiting for him.
It's a heavy thought, and he's thankful for the distraction of company. ]
Nikolay, [ he corrects, with a faint, welcoming smile. ] What is your nameā?
[ Nikolay. No-one left alive knows what that name once meant to her. What are the chances indeed.
She looks at him properly now, sharp and assessing. He has the harrowed look of someone who's been in the field (or somewhere worse) for too long, but recovering perhaps, in the cushy lifestyle afforded to him by the city. Thereās a cane propped near his leg, graying hair at his temples. A stoic face softened by the way he brightens at hearing her speak, the relief of finding something familiar.
Meeting another Russian isn't the same comfort to her as it is to him. Still, might as well see where this goes. ]
Natalia.
[ She accepts the coat, draping it over her shoulders and exhaling softly at the immediate warmth. It's well made, even carrying some residual body heat. The hospital gown crinkles as she shoves her arms through the sleeves, which end past her fingertips. ]
You managed to keep this when you were pulled through?
There's a feeling of contentedness as he watches her pull the heavy wool over her frigid body, concealed, now, in a garment much too big for her, protected from the elements. One small, disturbing wrongness of this place has been fixed, for now. ]
Yes. They'll give your things back, too. Are you on your way to public housing?
[ He intends to walk her there, if so—and escort her wherever else she's going if not—this place is dangerous, and she's a woman, small and slightly built, in a state of undress that turns his stomach. He's tall, and whatever the cane detracts from the appearance of a soldier, the loaded gun at his hip returns twofold. ]
[ They had mentioned that her possessions would be waiting in an assigned room. Natasha is curious to see if that includes all the gear she had on her before waking up here, though it seems unlikely.
If nothing else, she notes that Nikolay has a weapon. Two, if he knows how to get creative with that cane. ]
Yes. Might as well see what I have before looking around.
[ She pauses for a moment, slipping her device into one of the coat pockets and sorting out the overly long sleeves by tucking them under her arms. There's no need to hold on to anything, her body instinctively adjusting to the motion of the train. ]
Not all of it. A lot of it, though. There's a cafeteria in the public housing unit, and the food there is safe. There are places here run by other prisoners, but they're usually open about what is and isn't spiked.
[ A pause. She's clearly doing fine standing—more than fine, one of those people who can keep their balance on a train without holding anything—but it's rude not to offer.
He inclines his head toward the open seat beside him. ]
[ That's encouraging. He's also being a lot more helpful that she expected from anyone here, and seems to mean well. Her carefully banked anger at the whole situation doesn't fade by any means, but she can swallow her pride enough to take the offered seat.
That gets a few looks from people, including disdainful stares from a pair where one where is seated normally and the other is kneeling at their feet, a customized collar around their throat. Natasha wills herself not to react, glancing instead at Nikolay to see how he takes it. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@sidecars;
Nikolay's own pulse picks up as they close in, his body falling into the familiar rhythms even after more than a year spent grounded. He pulls down the goggles resting atop his head, then grasps the oil shutter lever to his right, fingers guided by spatial memory alone as they wrap around the cold metal without visual guidance and pull it back, closing off one of the only points vulnerable to attack on the aircraft they call the flying tank.
The other is the rear gunner's side of the cockpit. He can't do anything about that other than fly evasively and push the throttle forward as he does now, making them—and the newly assigned American machine gunner—a faster target, harder to hit. ]
Get ready, Bucky. Itās going to get hot.
[ Very much so, given that half of the birds on that runway are going to be on his ass in a few minutes; one hell of a third mission for Barnes, although it's not his place to question it. He leans back into his seat and pushes the control stick forward, bringing her nose down and dropping altitude—and god, it feels good, cutting through the cold air like this in a sharp drop toward their target, the force of the descent holding him down to such an extent that the webbed harness crisscrossing his upper body feels redundant.
Heās not particularly focused on anything other than the approaching hangar, but he does dimly recognize that itās probably still an unfamiliar sensation for the rear gunner—theyāve been on a few flights now, but from personal observation, it tends to take people a while to get used to dropping backwards while unable to see the direction in which theyāre flying. To his credit, though, his newly assigned American friend hasnāt puked yet. ]
@balletmoves
The train comes to a stop and more passengers come onboard, filing into the last few remaining seats, and among them is a woman around his age, more of her skin exposed to the icy air than covered by the pathetic hospital gown they've sent her off in. It turns his stomach. She's not the first woman he's seen forced into such a position upon arriving here, but it's been a few weeks since he's actually come face-to-face with it. She elects to stand, holding one of the hanging bars; whether she's aware of the empty seat beside him (and a couple of others around the train) and is making a deliberate choice or is simply too stressed to have noticed is unclear. Already, he's undoing the buttons of his overcoat and sliding it over his shoulders to reveal the long-sleeved uniform and leather bracelet beneath. ]
Miss— please, take my coat.
no subject
A man sitting nearby turns towards her and Natasha sighs. She would have been content to ignore him if he hadnāt addressed her in Russian. It gets him a quick glance, head to toe. The uniform under the coat is one she hasn't seen for decades but remembers intimately. The plain leather bracelet marks him as a dominant according to the city's designations. What are the chances, she thinks uncharitably, that the first person who's spoken to her here has these specific traits.
She isnāt concerned with modesty or bothered by the cold yet, but the offer seems genuine. From what she's learned so far, the key to surviving here as a submissive will depend heavily on gaining the favor of dominants. She would be a fool to turn down an opportunity, even if the irony of it being a Soviet pilot feels like bile rising in her throat.
Thank you. [ She responds in Russian, checking the insignias on his uniform and wondering how much of her hand to show. Soldiers are easy though. ] Captain.
no subject
She's also very pretty, a thought he tries to push from his head as soon as it occurs to himāhe's met quota for three months now with other people, none of them Olga, to survive here long enough to go back to her... but it feels different, actually finding another woman attractive. It's a different kind of betrayal, even if she's probably already forgotten him, or thinks he's dead. The relationship will probably end when he does leave this place and she realizes that the whole, intact man she fell in love with, was attracted to, now walks on legs cut unnaturally short, stumps, balancing on hard inhuman limbs.
She will undoubtedly react with revulsion, even if she thinks she won't until she actually sees them. Maybe that's why he can't find the words to write her. He doesn't want to just face it, to 'pull the Band-aid off', as they say here. Maybe he'd rather linger in the ambiguous silence of her not knowing, of theoretically still having someone waiting for him.
It's a heavy thought, and he's thankful for the distraction of company. ]
Nikolay, [ he corrects, with a faint, welcoming smile. ] What is your nameā?
no subject
She looks at him properly now, sharp and assessing. He has the harrowed look of someone who's been in the field (or somewhere worse) for too long, but recovering perhaps, in the cushy lifestyle afforded to him by the city. Thereās a cane propped near his leg, graying hair at his temples. A stoic face softened by the way he brightens at hearing her speak, the relief of finding something familiar.
Meeting another Russian isn't the same comfort to her as it is to him. Still, might as well see where this goes. ]
Natalia.
[ She accepts the coat, draping it over her shoulders and exhaling softly at the immediate warmth. It's well made, even carrying some residual body heat. The hospital gown crinkles as she shoves her arms through the sleeves, which end past her fingertips. ]
You managed to keep this when you were pulled through?
no subject
There's a feeling of contentedness as he watches her pull the heavy wool over her frigid body, concealed, now, in a garment much too big for her, protected from the elements. One small, disturbing wrongness of this place has been fixed, for now. ]
Yes. They'll give your things back, too. Are you on your way to public housing?
[ He intends to walk her there, if so—and escort her wherever else she's going if not—this place is dangerous, and she's a woman, small and slightly built, in a state of undress that turns his stomach. He's tall, and whatever the cane detracts from the appearance of a soldier, the loaded gun at his hip returns twofold. ]
no subject
If nothing else, she notes that Nikolay has a weapon. Two, if he knows how to get creative with that cane. ]
Yes. Might as well see what I have before looking around.
[ She pauses for a moment, slipping her device into one of the coat pockets and sorting out the overly long sleeves by tucking them under her arms. There's no need to hold on to anything, her body instinctively adjusting to the motion of the train. ]
Is all the food here laced with aphrodisiacs?
no subject
[ A pause. She's clearly doing fine standing—more than fine, one of those people who can keep their balance on a train without holding anything—but it's rude not to offer.
He inclines his head toward the open seat beside him. ]
Would you like to sit?
no subject
That gets a few looks from people, including disdainful stares from a pair where one where is seated normally and the other is kneeling at their feet, a customized collar around their throat. Natasha wills herself not to react, glancing instead at Nikolay to see how he takes it. ]
Where is your contract partner?