происхождение (Origin)
Sept 5, 2021 12:32:46 GMT -6
Ripped “Tide” Taylor, thegoldenidol, and 2 more like this
Post by Irina Ivanova on Sept 5, 2021 12:32:46 GMT -6
*CRACK*
The lash of the whip echoes through an empty concrete bunker.
*CRACK*
The sharp bite is the serpent’s tooth of American capitalism.
*CRACK*
A whimper; pain mingled with a hint of pleasure. Beneath the brim of an officer’s hat, crimson lips curl in a derisive sneer. The pointed heel of a black vinyl stiletto rests gently between the intricate pattern of lashes across a man’s bare back. She coils the whip and kneels beside her prisoner, tilting his chin up with the handle so that their eyes meet.
“I trust, Comrade Fyodorovich, we have made our point.”
His reply is a terrified nod.
“Good.”
Pale blue eyes widen as she withdraws a Makarov from a shoulder holster.
“Perhaps, if there is a next life for you, you will remember this lesson.”
*KA-BLAM*
Before the thunder of the gunshot even fades from hearing, the distinctive sound of stilettoed bootsteps retreats through the only door. With a sigh, she drops into a creaking, antique office chair and pulls her feet free of the constricting footwear. A ridiculous costume, when her comfortable Soviet-issue combat boots would send the same message. In the American idiom: fuck around, and find out. They certainly would make Irina Ivanova no less harsh or cold a mistress; no less a perfect representation of Mother Russia…
“Kommissar!” a voice cuts into her reflection.
She throws an irritated glance at the uniformed girl hovering at the door to her private office.
“Um… there is an urgent call for you. From -- well, they said to tell you krasnyy pokrovitel is summoned.”
Irina Ivanova had been selected for the Special Service at a young age. Barely out of elementary school, she had demonstrated early an aptitude for violence and warfare. When the People’s Army had come knocking, her parents had been proud to relinquish their daughter to the nurturing bosom of Mother Russia.
She hadn’t been the only one chosen, of course. But Irina was the best. And she was ruthless. Willing to do whatever it took to get ahead. By the time training and testing were over, she was fifteen and one of a handful of other children assigned to a covert operation known only as Project: Krasnya.
Each was given a codename. Training grew more rigorous; the tests, more exacting. There were experiments, too. Bizarre medical experiments. Blood was taken and run through machines she couldn’t name, whose purpose she couldn’t fathom. She was given injections, subjected to strange and harsh conditions meant to strain the limits of her physical and psychological endurance. Irina rode them all out with grace and dignity, earning her the codename Red Angel.
The children of Project: Krasnya grew into a highly skilled, extremely deadly fighting unit; rumored, by those who had witnessed them in action and lived to tell the tale, to be possessed of unnatural powers. Flight. Telekinesis. Shapeshifting. Irina herself was said to be inhumanly strong and incapable of feeling pain. But those were, of course, only rumors. Propaganda meant to inspire fear in the enemies of the Soviet way, to persuade them to lay down arms and instead embrace the true freedom of Communism.
One by one, the others had fallen -- slain by a Capitalist bullet, immured by hubris, or dealt a fatal blow by their own hands -- until only Irina remained. Whispers in the shadows, behind her back and far from her potentially superhuman hearing, implied that none of those were exactly true. That, perhaps, those others had been removed from service by the Red Angel herself to clear her path through the ranks of command.
Irina had heard those whispers, but they didn’t bother her. Let the others live in fear. Let them think her capable of any atrocity. It would make her life easier. Fucks were a Capitalist indulgence, and she had none to give.
Irina can feel the inquisitive gaze of the young Comrade; she wonders, vaguely, where her mind had just gone. Memories tug at the edge of her consciousness, but flit away like butterflies when she tries to grasp them.
“Put the call through. I’ll take it here.”
The voice on the other end of the phone sends a chill of recognition up her spine.
“Good afternoon, my little Krasnyy Pokrovitel.”
“... Viktor. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long, Angel.”
“The Project is over, Viktor. Dead. Has been for years.”
“I have new Project for you now, my Angel. You remember the stories of the Lion of Siberia?”
Something in his tone fills her with a sense of dread.
“....no.”
“Yes. I’ve found him, Irina, and recruited him. He’s already on his way to Moscow Airport. You will join him there.”
She’s a little girl again, trembling in the dark as she struggles not to show fear.
“To go… where, Viktor? To do what?”
A soft, sinister chuckle.
“The city of sin and vice, the veritable Mecca of Capitalist idealism -- Las Vegas. And there, my Angel, you will wrestle. For the glory of Mother Russia.”
Without waiting to hear her response, the line goes dead.
Las Vegas was bordered on one side by a vast wasteland, crawling with an odd mixture of uniformed National Guard, members of a dozen different street gangs, and an assortment of chainmail and leather clad savages who prowled the desert like wild dogs. The rest of the perimeter was outlined in iron fence topped with razor wire, studded at intervals with gun turrets and guard towers. Irina had to appreciate the irony -- Las Vegas, the world’s biggest gulag.
The airport consisted of a single useable landing strip, barely large enough to accomodate the private Black Pyramid Wrestling jet they’d been obliged to take out of LAX. No commercial airline was permitted to land in Vegas. Jabberwock Security guards were on the flight with them, ostensibly to protect the new talent; though neither Irina nor Magnus had any doubt of their true purpose. Not that it mattered. They had their orders, and for now, the two would cooperate.
Irina leafed idly through the dossier she’d been provided on their opponents as the jet made a final approach. There was nothing to hold her interest. They were children. Literal children. To crush them both would be neither challenging nor particularly satisfying. If the match was intended as an insult, it fell flat. She couldn’t even muster the energy to be annoyed. They were Americans, after all, and probably thought an easy debut would make the pair feel welcomed. Ease and luxury were relished above all else in Capitalist societies -- and it made them weak.
All of which would serve her purposes perfectly. She settled into the plush seat as the plane touched down and began to taxi along the runway, trying to ignore the ominous presence of the man across the aisle. Soon enough, this mission would be over, and they could safely part ways -- assuming he didn’t put a bullet in her skull first. Or vice versa. It would be interesting to see how it played out.
For now, her focus would remain on the task at hand: win at any cost, destroy the competition, and move on. For the glory of Mother Russia.
The lash of the whip echoes through an empty concrete bunker.
*CRACK*
The sharp bite is the serpent’s tooth of American capitalism.
*CRACK*
A whimper; pain mingled with a hint of pleasure. Beneath the brim of an officer’s hat, crimson lips curl in a derisive sneer. The pointed heel of a black vinyl stiletto rests gently between the intricate pattern of lashes across a man’s bare back. She coils the whip and kneels beside her prisoner, tilting his chin up with the handle so that their eyes meet.
“I trust, Comrade Fyodorovich, we have made our point.”
His reply is a terrified nod.
“Good.”
Pale blue eyes widen as she withdraws a Makarov from a shoulder holster.
“Perhaps, if there is a next life for you, you will remember this lesson.”
*KA-BLAM*
Before the thunder of the gunshot even fades from hearing, the distinctive sound of stilettoed bootsteps retreats through the only door. With a sigh, she drops into a creaking, antique office chair and pulls her feet free of the constricting footwear. A ridiculous costume, when her comfortable Soviet-issue combat boots would send the same message. In the American idiom: fuck around, and find out. They certainly would make Irina Ivanova no less harsh or cold a mistress; no less a perfect representation of Mother Russia…
“Kommissar!” a voice cuts into her reflection.
She throws an irritated glance at the uniformed girl hovering at the door to her private office.
“Um… there is an urgent call for you. From -- well, they said to tell you krasnyy pokrovitel is summoned.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Codename: Red Angel
Irina Ivanova had been selected for the Special Service at a young age. Barely out of elementary school, she had demonstrated early an aptitude for violence and warfare. When the People’s Army had come knocking, her parents had been proud to relinquish their daughter to the nurturing bosom of Mother Russia.
She hadn’t been the only one chosen, of course. But Irina was the best. And she was ruthless. Willing to do whatever it took to get ahead. By the time training and testing were over, she was fifteen and one of a handful of other children assigned to a covert operation known only as Project: Krasnya.
Each was given a codename. Training grew more rigorous; the tests, more exacting. There were experiments, too. Bizarre medical experiments. Blood was taken and run through machines she couldn’t name, whose purpose she couldn’t fathom. She was given injections, subjected to strange and harsh conditions meant to strain the limits of her physical and psychological endurance. Irina rode them all out with grace and dignity, earning her the codename Red Angel.
The children of Project: Krasnya grew into a highly skilled, extremely deadly fighting unit; rumored, by those who had witnessed them in action and lived to tell the tale, to be possessed of unnatural powers. Flight. Telekinesis. Shapeshifting. Irina herself was said to be inhumanly strong and incapable of feeling pain. But those were, of course, only rumors. Propaganda meant to inspire fear in the enemies of the Soviet way, to persuade them to lay down arms and instead embrace the true freedom of Communism.
One by one, the others had fallen -- slain by a Capitalist bullet, immured by hubris, or dealt a fatal blow by their own hands -- until only Irina remained. Whispers in the shadows, behind her back and far from her potentially superhuman hearing, implied that none of those were exactly true. That, perhaps, those others had been removed from service by the Red Angel herself to clear her path through the ranks of command.
Irina had heard those whispers, but they didn’t bother her. Let the others live in fear. Let them think her capable of any atrocity. It would make her life easier. Fucks were a Capitalist indulgence, and she had none to give.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Irina can feel the inquisitive gaze of the young Comrade; she wonders, vaguely, where her mind had just gone. Memories tug at the edge of her consciousness, but flit away like butterflies when she tries to grasp them.
“Put the call through. I’ll take it here.”
The voice on the other end of the phone sends a chill of recognition up her spine.
“Good afternoon, my little Krasnyy Pokrovitel.”
“... Viktor. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long, Angel.”
“The Project is over, Viktor. Dead. Has been for years.”
“I have new Project for you now, my Angel. You remember the stories of the Lion of Siberia?”
Something in his tone fills her with a sense of dread.
“....no.”
“Yes. I’ve found him, Irina, and recruited him. He’s already on his way to Moscow Airport. You will join him there.”
She’s a little girl again, trembling in the dark as she struggles not to show fear.
“To go… where, Viktor? To do what?”
A soft, sinister chuckle.
“The city of sin and vice, the veritable Mecca of Capitalist idealism -- Las Vegas. And there, my Angel, you will wrestle. For the glory of Mother Russia.”
Without waiting to hear her response, the line goes dead.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Las Vegas was bordered on one side by a vast wasteland, crawling with an odd mixture of uniformed National Guard, members of a dozen different street gangs, and an assortment of chainmail and leather clad savages who prowled the desert like wild dogs. The rest of the perimeter was outlined in iron fence topped with razor wire, studded at intervals with gun turrets and guard towers. Irina had to appreciate the irony -- Las Vegas, the world’s biggest gulag.
The airport consisted of a single useable landing strip, barely large enough to accomodate the private Black Pyramid Wrestling jet they’d been obliged to take out of LAX. No commercial airline was permitted to land in Vegas. Jabberwock Security guards were on the flight with them, ostensibly to protect the new talent; though neither Irina nor Magnus had any doubt of their true purpose. Not that it mattered. They had their orders, and for now, the two would cooperate.
Irina leafed idly through the dossier she’d been provided on their opponents as the jet made a final approach. There was nothing to hold her interest. They were children. Literal children. To crush them both would be neither challenging nor particularly satisfying. If the match was intended as an insult, it fell flat. She couldn’t even muster the energy to be annoyed. They were Americans, after all, and probably thought an easy debut would make the pair feel welcomed. Ease and luxury were relished above all else in Capitalist societies -- and it made them weak.
All of which would serve her purposes perfectly. She settled into the plush seat as the plane touched down and began to taxi along the runway, trying to ignore the ominous presence of the man across the aisle. Soon enough, this mission would be over, and they could safely part ways -- assuming he didn’t put a bullet in her skull first. Or vice versa. It would be interesting to see how it played out.
For now, her focus would remain on the task at hand: win at any cost, destroy the competition, and move on. For the glory of Mother Russia.