Shadow On Water, Part IV



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kazimir_icon.gif rasoul2_icon.gif

Scene Title Shadow on Water, Part IV
Synopsis The hunt begins again, but Feng Daiyu is haunted by memories of the past…
Date July 29, 2009

A bitter cold so strong that is numbs fingers has fallen over the city, snow carries over rooftops, icing roads and blinding vision beyond just a few hundred yards. The blizzard that has dropped down could not have come at a worse time, given the activities of one paramilitary organization currently conducting operations here.

Leaning against the frosted panes of glass, six stories above the whitewashed street, Feng Daiyu breathes into gloved hands, dark eyes peering through what little of the window he can, watching movement down on the roadside below. "This is ridiculous," he mutters detestably into his hands, shoulders hunched forward and brows furrowed. "We should be down there, not up here sitting on our hands."

"Orders are orders." The response comes from a man seated across the small, sparsely furnished apartment, from a tanned man quietly reassembling a pistol that had been taken apart to be oiled. His eyes rise up to Feng, one thick brow shifting slightly higher than the other. "Do you want to know why the Wolf is the one down on the street, hunting Grigori?" It is with some selfish pleasure that the tanned man sets down the partially assembled gun, removing his radio from his waist to set down on the table with a clunk. Feng Daiyu does not need to respond for him to continue, "because he follows. orders."

Turning the volume of the radio up, the tanned soldier rises from his seat. boots clunking against the hardwood floor. Equally uncomfortable by the cold, his level stare flattens down on Feng from a taller height of stature. "You're always going to play second to him, Daiyu, because you're not loyal to the cause, you're loyal to yourself."

A stare of quiet intensity is fired back from Feng, and the shorter man moves from the window, coming to stand close to his taller counterpart. "Tell me again," he breathes out the words, "who am I loyal to?" Those words come strained through Feng's teeth, fingers rolling into white-knuckled fists. But before an answer can be given, a staticy voice crackles over the radio.

«Oi, you girls done makin' love up there? Mark's 'eaded your way, flushed 'em out like a fox.» Feng hisses out a sharp breath at the sound of Ethan Holden's voice coming over the radio, «Daiyu, Rasoul, someone goin'ta fuckin' answer me?» Smiling snidely, Rasoul sweeps away from Feng's side, picking up the radio to depress the call button.

"Fafnir here, I read you Fenrir." Rasoul's voice comes crisp over the radio, even as Feng's eyes narrow and he moves towards a shelf next to the window, retrieving a long-barreled rifle from up against the wall next to the shelf, then begins headed towards the window. Rasoul's dark eyes track Feng's movements, then return to focus on the radio.

«Yeah I forget which one'a ya was which, so'm just goin' to say tha' our little old man's makin' 'is way to your three o'clock.» Pushing open the window with the barrel of the rifle, Feng levels his eye down onto the scope, squinting as he tries to make out darkly dressed forms on the streets of Moscow through the blizzard.

He trains his sights on an elderly woman in a heavy coat shuffling down the sidewalk through the snow, then up to a darker figure rushing past her. Jerkily, he tries to follow the black-clad man's movements, crosshairs baring down on him before a soft thwip comes from the barrel, followed by a hissed curse and another thwip. "I hit him, I know I hit him twice!"

"Daiyu missed," Rasoul clearly enunciates for Ethan into the radio, "radio down to Niflheim unit, they have the next shot." Blistering with frustration at the window, Feng swings the barrel of the rifle out from the window's opening and hustles towards another at an opposite corner, pushing the window open before swinging his legs out and onto the icy ledge.

"Daiyu!" Rasoul shouts, watching as Feng throws himself out the window. The lightly tanned man rushes to the windowside, watching as Feng skids down the ledge and jumps with rifle in hand to the next adjacent rooftop, landing in a roll to slide through the snow and ice. "Fenrir be advised, Daiyu is mobile after the target. Repeat, Daiyu is— "

«I 'eard ya. I've got it. Over'n out an' all that.» The radio clicks once, and Feng is out of sight, sprinting through the snow across the rooftops, rifle clutched close to his chest as slippery bootfalls crash down rapidly. Each rythmic slam of his feet takes him further and further away from the dream, from the memory of the prickling cold of the snow and the chase, and closer towards the feelings of reality bleeding away.

Sitting up slowly, the dark look in Feng's eyes lingers from his expression in the dream. Days like today remind him of the past so strongly, remind him of a life that still exists in a way, that has transitioned from dreams of grandeur to dreams of vengeance. Sliding off of the sofa, Feng quietly collects his sidearm from the coffee table, holstering it inside of his jacket as he begins to walk towards the open window, one letting in the noise and humidity of the cloudy New York skyline.

Setting on the window sill, a cell phone left folded open flashes silently with an alert. Picking the phone off, Feng brushes the screen with his thumb of a few dust specks, angling it away from the pale glow of morning sun. A single text message flashes in his inbox, and one touch of a button reveals it's contents reading: Status Active.

Dark eyes lift from the phone as it is flipped closed, and Feng's focus turns to the city skyline, the hazy shapes of Brooklyn's urban environment, and Manhattan's broken horizon beyond that, then slowly up to the gray skies. It's too humid, too hot to be Moscow, but the anxiety does not help clear the memories.

"I trusted you to act with discretion." Biting words come with a rough, gravley voice, followed by the slam of one hand against a table. Kazimir Volken is not a tall man, not a young or strong man, but for what the spectacle-wearing old soldier lacks in physical presence, he makes up for with force of personality. "You disobeyed a direct order and nearly cost me one of my men in the process."

With Feng seated in a chair, and Kazimir's darkly dressed form looming over him, the younger of the two men in the room feels all of an inch tall in comparison. "I don't want to hear a single word of excuse out of your mouth, or so help me I'll rip your jawbone out of your idiot head." Blue eyes narrow, and as Kazimir turns, his gloved fingers clench tightly into creaking fists.

The old man paces away from the table, towards now darkened windows occasionally lit by the passing of falling snow. "If you had reported back to Holden like I asked you to after taking your shots, he might have been able to come up with a solution to Grigori's ability." His lips pull back to reveal white teeth, a snarl like a feral dog would make. "I'm disappointed in you, Daiyu."

Opening his mouth to speak, no words come, Feng knows better. His eyes slowly slide shut, hands curling closed in his lap, shoulders rolled forward. "You're worth more to me alive than dead, Daiyu, that is the singular reason why I don't kill you where you sit. Your recklessness today put Hans in traction, which means I'm going to need to bring someone else in charge of this theater while we follow Grigori's trail." One gloved hand moves to rest on Feng's shoulder, and he can feel the pinpricks of pain beginning to lance through his flesh.

"I have no choice but to reassign you." His hand moves from Feng's shoulder, and Kazimir's footfalls quietly take him across the floor, hands folded behind his back. "I'm sending you overseas, to Argentina. Velasquez and Ramirez need extra hands putting the Argentinian compound into operation. Consider this your permanent assignment until I think of what to do with you." Pausing by the door, Kazimir's lips downturn into a frown, "perhaps some time out in the jungle with those two will teach you some patience."

Feng's eyes focus distantly over the horizon, then finally pull back to reality. Tucking the cell phone away into the breast pocket of his suit coat, he turns away from the window and begins walking back into the apartment. On the table nearby, black and white surveillance photographs are strewn out. The pictures, taken from a long distance, show a cottage nestled in a forested thicket surrounded by miles of empty farmland and woods.

His fingers paw through one of the photos, finding purchase on a distant shot of a thin young woman sitting up against a tree reading a book, with a man beside her holding a block of wood in one hand and a knife in the other. Feng's jaw trembles, fingers curling the photograph against his palm as he crushes it between tightly curled digits. "Holden," he hisses out in a single, slow breath. "You've gone soft."

The hunt resumes.

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