Finish It Friday
Jul. 28th, 2023 05:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosanicus
I missed WIP Wednesday (and always do) because honestly what is a "Wednesday" anyway, sounds very suspicious to me, so here is a small piece of the Buries A Hatchet Daemon AU which I continue to slave away at in the vain hope it'll magically finish itself, or possibly some helpful mice will start typing away overnight a la The Tailor of Gloucester.
In this portion we begin to unravel exactly what it was that changed Intelligence's mind on a rescue mission, and no one is happy about it.
In this portion we begin to unravel exactly what it was that changed Intelligence's mind on a rescue mission, and no one is happy about it.
Ginger didn’t like anything about Sakhalin. The atmosphere of wasting sickness was oppressive in the extreme; there was nothing to recommend the place to anyone other than the most masochistic tourist. He did not revise this opinion one iota upon meeting the man named Miskoff. It seemed impossible that such a man could have been born anywhere but on this island, and yet Fritz had extracted the truth – that he had once tried out kindness, and it had backfired so severely that it destroyed his life.
It seemed that he would be a fount of valuable information about the layout of the prison, which would doubtless be invaluable if they were forced to execute a rescue from the building itself.
The man’s wife was more of an enigma. She had emerged once during the time Miskoff spoke with Fritz, trailed by the boy Mishka who tugged at her skirts until she drifted back through the doorway. Her eyes were sunken and absent, the skin of her arms oddly loose. There was something puppetlike about her movements which, frankly, gave Ginger the screaming abdabs.
“There is much he has said which I would prefer to say only once,” Fritz told him. Miskoff had gone to chop the last of his wood; the light was dying and he didn’t want to waste time. His daemon, a husky whose ribs showed through her coat, roamed the edges of the clearing, ears pointed. “So I will save it for when we return to the Otter. In a word, it is terrible.”
“Has he said anything about his wife?” Ginger asked.
Fritz shook his head. “I asked, but he won’t say anything. He made this sign.” He copied a gesture the man had done a few minutes before. It was not quite the sign of the cross and also not quite anything else.
“She’s clearly ill,” said Ginger. He could just make out her silhouette through the door of the hut. She stood in the middle of the room, arms hanging limply by her sides. Mishka had wrapped himself tightly around her legs, face pressed into her hip. His daemon flitted through the air above the hearth, moth to sparrow, then landed as a kitten small enough to fit in one palm. “Perhaps some of our medical supplies wouldn’t go amiss.”
Fritz exchanged a few words with Miskoff. The other man shook his head, then made the sign again.
“He says the sickness is not curable,” Fritz relayed. “It is a soul-sickness. The cossacks took her some days ago, and when she returned she was like this. She doesn’t eat and barely sleeps – in a day or so she will likely die of dehydration.”
And when she did die, Ginger could see that Miskoff would have nothing keeping him tied to this miserable existence. The boy, perhaps, but it was clear that Miskoff was much more attached to the idea of revenge than that of fatherhood. Sakhalin had stripped much of the feeling from his bones until only sinew remained.
When they returned to the Otter, Ginger went to the medical kit. He was sure there was a rehydration treatment still in there, a remnant of their recent excursions to desert climes.
Algy found him still digging through the kit.
“We ought to sort that thing out,” he opined, as Ginger tipped out another handful of plasters which had escaped their cardboard packet. Ginger hummed in agreement; he had a penlight clamped between his teeth.
Vedastus swooped down and landed on the zip, pecked thoughtfully at a tube of antiseptic, and presented his chin for Ginger to scratch.
Ginger did so obligingly, feeling the familiar thrill as Algy sighed with pleasure. Vedastus’ feathers were soft beneath his nail. Ginger was careful not to brush them against the grain.
Algy kissed him briefly, then turned to the task before them. “You’re looking for rehydration solution?”
“Yes,” said Ginger, after spitting out the penlight. “Miskoff’s wife is in a fearfully bad way. I thought we might do something for her.”
Algy paused. There was a heaviness to the quiet, all of a sudden. “Ginger, I think I may have an idea of what happened to her.”
“What is it?”
Another pause. “Did you see her daemon, when you were in the clearing?”
Ginger shook his head. “I assumed it was in the hut with her. She was so clearly unwell I’m surprised she was still walking around.”
“There is another possibility,” said Algy. He looked off towards the horizon, as if trying to memorise the play of sunlight over the forest of firs. “What do you know about intercision?”
Vedastus, still perched on the medical kit, beat his wings and in one motion landed on Algy’s shoulder, head pressed close against his neck.
“Nothing,” Ginger replied. He had a faint memory of the word being used in association with one of the cases Algy had told him about when they first met. “What is it?”
“Evil,” said Algy, quietly. “Pure evil.”
It seemed that he would be a fount of valuable information about the layout of the prison, which would doubtless be invaluable if they were forced to execute a rescue from the building itself.
The man’s wife was more of an enigma. She had emerged once during the time Miskoff spoke with Fritz, trailed by the boy Mishka who tugged at her skirts until she drifted back through the doorway. Her eyes were sunken and absent, the skin of her arms oddly loose. There was something puppetlike about her movements which, frankly, gave Ginger the screaming abdabs.
“There is much he has said which I would prefer to say only once,” Fritz told him. Miskoff had gone to chop the last of his wood; the light was dying and he didn’t want to waste time. His daemon, a husky whose ribs showed through her coat, roamed the edges of the clearing, ears pointed. “So I will save it for when we return to the Otter. In a word, it is terrible.”
“Has he said anything about his wife?” Ginger asked.
Fritz shook his head. “I asked, but he won’t say anything. He made this sign.” He copied a gesture the man had done a few minutes before. It was not quite the sign of the cross and also not quite anything else.
“She’s clearly ill,” said Ginger. He could just make out her silhouette through the door of the hut. She stood in the middle of the room, arms hanging limply by her sides. Mishka had wrapped himself tightly around her legs, face pressed into her hip. His daemon flitted through the air above the hearth, moth to sparrow, then landed as a kitten small enough to fit in one palm. “Perhaps some of our medical supplies wouldn’t go amiss.”
Fritz exchanged a few words with Miskoff. The other man shook his head, then made the sign again.
“He says the sickness is not curable,” Fritz relayed. “It is a soul-sickness. The cossacks took her some days ago, and when she returned she was like this. She doesn’t eat and barely sleeps – in a day or so she will likely die of dehydration.”
And when she did die, Ginger could see that Miskoff would have nothing keeping him tied to this miserable existence. The boy, perhaps, but it was clear that Miskoff was much more attached to the idea of revenge than that of fatherhood. Sakhalin had stripped much of the feeling from his bones until only sinew remained.
When they returned to the Otter, Ginger went to the medical kit. He was sure there was a rehydration treatment still in there, a remnant of their recent excursions to desert climes.
Algy found him still digging through the kit.
“We ought to sort that thing out,” he opined, as Ginger tipped out another handful of plasters which had escaped their cardboard packet. Ginger hummed in agreement; he had a penlight clamped between his teeth.
Vedastus swooped down and landed on the zip, pecked thoughtfully at a tube of antiseptic, and presented his chin for Ginger to scratch.
Ginger did so obligingly, feeling the familiar thrill as Algy sighed with pleasure. Vedastus’ feathers were soft beneath his nail. Ginger was careful not to brush them against the grain.
Algy kissed him briefly, then turned to the task before them. “You’re looking for rehydration solution?”
“Yes,” said Ginger, after spitting out the penlight. “Miskoff’s wife is in a fearfully bad way. I thought we might do something for her.”
Algy paused. There was a heaviness to the quiet, all of a sudden. “Ginger, I think I may have an idea of what happened to her.”
“What is it?”
Another pause. “Did you see her daemon, when you were in the clearing?”
Ginger shook his head. “I assumed it was in the hut with her. She was so clearly unwell I’m surprised she was still walking around.”
“There is another possibility,” said Algy. He looked off towards the horizon, as if trying to memorise the play of sunlight over the forest of firs. “What do you know about intercision?”
Vedastus, still perched on the medical kit, beat his wings and in one motion landed on Algy’s shoulder, head pressed close against his neck.
“Nothing,” Ginger replied. He had a faint memory of the word being used in association with one of the cases Algy had told him about when they first met. “What is it?”
“Evil,” said Algy, quietly. “Pure evil.”
no subject
Date: 2023-07-28 10:16 pm (UTC)Miskoff was much more attached to the idea of revenge than that of fatherhood
He is upsettingly quick to take his son and give him to a different family before going off to get revenge, I’m glad you have Ginger noting that.
And if you ever track down those helpful mice, maybe send them on a visit down here?
no subject
Date: 2023-07-31 03:50 pm (UTC)Miskoff really does just jettison the adopted son! I understand it but I do not approve. The mice will be on their way ASAP if I ever locate them... they seem very elusive at the moment.
no subject
Date: 2023-07-29 12:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-07-31 03:51 pm (UTC)