Better Living Through Chemistry [Yuri/Closed]

[Damon T. Ruger]

6:03AM
FEBRUARY 3RD, 2012
ABOVE A SMALL CLEARING IN AN ICY VALLEY
STYGIAN TUNDRA
INFERIS

"The day is Friday, February 3rd, 2012. The time is approximately 5:06AM, local to Irkutsk. This is Knight-Templar Damon Ruger, official mission record. At approximately 4:45AM, Irkutsk time, I underwent a crossing, and have arrived with all equipment in the area known colloquially as the 'Stygian Tundra'. I will begin to embark and look for signs of demonic life, and upon discovery, terminate with extreme prejudice, and hope to leave by around 12:30PM, Irkutsk time." Click.

*****

The first of the pair of arachnids was the larger, and the first that the Eagle Eye had noted from across the tundra upon a ridge, even through the perpetual - though slightly less intense than usual - snowstorm. From distance it would have seemed much smaller than it was; around the size of a pickup truck, circling its smaller brother. It was strange to see two kindred Demons - sentient or not - circling each other in such an aggressive manner.

The first reared its front legs and slammed them against the ground, spitting up a powdery white snow into the air in the shape of an obfuscating cloud, snapping together the pincers at its mouth and releasing a dull hissing noise which permeated even the ears of any onlookers on high. The second recoiled and released a sound of a slightly lower pitch, scuttling backwards a little defensively as the first moved forwards, pursuing it with as much prejudice as possible.

Lurching forwards, the larger of the native arachnids raised its legs and darted up in something between a lunge and a thrust, before bringing a tapered, weighty leg down upon the thorax of the second. Normally spiders were silent; but of course with size of this scale came changes to the typical physiology, not the simple sound of skittering and scuttling as they avoided a rolled-up newspaper and the hand of a weary middle-aged woman. Suffice it to say that it would be a cosmically large newspaper required to squish these two particular bugs.

The smaller arachnid released a harrowing, high-pitched screech as an exoskeleton-covered torso equivalent was slammed downwards with a series of loud cracking noises. The snapping of human bones was typically, on an auditory level, muffled usually by the squelch of flesh and the ripping of tendons, but for a Demon which borrowed a spider's physiology, there was no solace from the splitting of a skeletal system located on the outside. The splintering of a pitiful excuse for armour was accompanied with the oozing of hemolymph from within; the analogous liquid for blood located within most arthropods' systems, trickling down in a viscous blue-green to reflect the usual human crimson.

The larger arachnid reared its head and screeched in triumph over the defeat of the first, crippled and clearly pained from its continual chittering, but not quite dead yet. The spider would feast well tonight in its cannibalistic desires; for the law of Hell was the law of all the wilds, survival of the fittest, a golden adage for those who thrived within these icy lands. And with that, it rose the dripping, slicked limb from the other Demon's abdomen, and moved it now over the crippled arachnid's head, ready to deliver the final blow, and execute its would-be biological brother-

Ssssssssssssssssthwunk.

The pain struck the arachnid's left flank, an unfamiliar, cold, tearing presence, and released an instinctive, pained screech. For a moment it did nothing, simply turning to look at the intrusion; and it was a human construct, a black shaft with strange triangular flaps at the end. Retracting the limb, leaving the debilitated and half-dead instance of its prey with a gentle hiss, it turned around and blinked with all eight eyes at once, scanning the white expanse beyond.

And it was there that it picked out that which was inevitably responsible for its pain. A small, black figure, standing in the wind, nothing more than a speck on the horizon. Turning around, ignoring the pain from the unfamiliar presence in its side, it raised its front legs once more in a barbaric, arachnid war pose, and unleashed another harrowing screech which swept the valley that the two spiders had been tracked to - but was unfortunately cut short.

Ssssssssssssssthwunk.

The second projectile struck the larger arachnid then in the rightmost of the centre pair of eyes, and with that, it fell backwards, flailing and curling upwards in a dying physiological reaction, legs pulling together over the thorax and abdomen. Hemolymph spilled out as its chittering slowed and finally ceased, and the predator died, swiftly turned to prey of another sort.

The second of the arachnids noted the fall of its would-be executor, and immediately tried to raise upwards and slink away; but its wounds were far too dire, and as it rose, its abdomen buckled and its back four legs refused to support alone the weight of a bleeding half-carcass. It screeched quietly and continued to stir endlessly in the icy beyond until the third and final indiscriminate arrow hissed forth from the white mist on the other side of the valley. Sssssssssssthwunk. The force of the arrow driving into the flank of the smaller spider's thorax was force enough; and that was all she wrote.

From an opposite side of the valley, Damon Ruger let his hand fall and lowered the CRX 32 compound bow, aptly given the moniker of "Pandemonium", with a gentle sigh of exertion. Reaching up to his collar to talk into a small clip-on recorder, he spoke with a hoarse yet reserved voice. "Time is 6:05AM. Discovered two abnormally large native arachnids undergoing some form of dispute. Moved to successfully terminate. No injury sustained." With another click the Eagle Eye paused the recorder, and pulled the bowstring out and let the frame hang over his back as the fibers of the ATLORS garb clung to his skin and muscles to allow him a sense of being streamlined - moreso than usual - in movement.

The bow frame had been designed and modified to accommodate such impromptu stowing away, and was indeed crossed with the frame of the scopeless rifle; Jaeger. Weiss and Schwarz, the pistols, were holstered at his hips. Zerstorer remained back in his room, stowed away in his footlocker. A bow, two pistols, and his bread and butter, the glorious .50 rifle, was all that the sniper required - especially for such a typical mission. With that, he scanned mechanically the walls of the valley, sloped enough that no usual human would be capable to climb them, but with the ATLORS and specific Templar training, Damon could manage.

Looking at the grooves where he'd performed a two-footed slide to descend with speed and avoid being noticed too quickly by the late, though preoccupied arachnids, the Templar leapt and grasped onto a loose, though compacted block of ice, and from there continued to pull himself up in irregular though well-calculated strides, and over a few minutes' exertion and after a series of harsh breaths, found himself upon the ridge once more, and out of the crevice, brushing away some of the snow that the ATLORS had collected on the way up.

And with that, on the horizon, around four hundred metres away, he almost immediately isolated a single figure moving along. Solitary - apparently - and ever-so-slightly raised up. Immediately, Damon moved to a crouch and drew the bow once more, pointing it downwards and waiting before he drew an arrow from his quiver, breathing once more into the receiver as he clicked it on. "Time is..." A wayward glance at his wrist, where the CrossGear - and, handily enough, a rather durable watch - was located. "6:11AM. Another target located. Solitary. Unsure of destination. As of yet unnoticed. Will continue to track and ascertain threat level before engaging or continuing to follow." Click.

And with that, the Eagle Eye began to stalk up the gentle incline, grasping his bow with both hands, a silent tracker, a silent hunter, a silent predator, ready to strike whenever the time became right...

[Yuri]

The masked creature stood still, half of his battle robe submerged in the thick snow. It didn't bother him despite the fact he was poorly dressed. The Stygian Tundra was no much for equipment that could handle the depth of outer space were no stars shinned. His frozen breathe escaped from the vents covering his mouth with force.  Despite being in Infernis for so long, this was the only place that he could feel at home at. It certainly resembled mother Russia in some ways, massive spiders being one of them. Although he craved to visit the real deal, this place was enough to kill his urges for a bit.

Yuri suddenly turned, his bright, orb like eyes gazing at the distance like searchlights. His ears had picked up the sounds of dying Ice Spiders. Odd. Usually those didn't bother attacking sphere residents. Perhaps a wanderer like himself got caught up in a brawl with some. The demon chuckled, his voice echoing through the machinery. Finally; some excitement. A brawl was always fun, just like in good old Russia.

Navigating through the snow with his battle robes was no easy task, but the demon had been used to it by now. As he edged closer, he couldn't make out were the intruder was, causing him to pause. Perhaps he was spotted? It could be that whoever killed those spiders noticed him as well. His colors didn't blend in with the environment at all after all.

The demon could careless. He had survived worse. In response he took a small flash from his waist, pulling it close to the vent covering his mouth. As he drew it closer, the vent seemed to lift, exposing a gaping, tooth filled, circular hole that was  now his mouth as he poured some the liquid in before the vent lowered once more. "Good old Vodka." He cheered in his native tongue, chuckled to himself as the strong alcohol burned his taste buds. The demon resumed his way shortly after. Deciding that if whoever was there wanted to play hide and seek he wasn't interested.

[Damon T. Ruger]

Stalking prey and ascertaining their threat level was a particular necessity when tracking Demons in this twisted excuse for a dimension. It wasn't long before, bow drawn, but arrows still in the quiver, Damon concluded that this being was indeed functioning alone. Lifting his eyepatch, he let his Augment kick in; and the colour from his eye drained from the vibrant gold irises that normally hung there down to a cold, harsh grey. Utilising the inherent abilities that had been unlocked within his genome, the Eagle Eye used the Eagle's Eye to zoom in upon his quarry and try to ascertain anything factual that would be of some sort of assistance.

The disgusting excuse for a humanoid had ground to a halt and was now apparently taking a sip from a flask of what he knew wasn't just any old soft drink; so there were alcoholic Demons here, too, huh? Perhaps Inferis was more similar to Earth than he'd anticipated; and just as unclean in certain ways, as well as being more so in others. "Time is 6:17AM. Target has stopped and is drinking from a flask. Presumably alcohol." In that, Damon deactivated his ability; as the gold colour re-injected itself into his iris once more, he lowered the square panel of his eyepatch and continued to speak. "Ascertained threat level is comparatively low. Moving to interrogate prior to execution." Click.

With that, he pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked it at the strong, reinforced fibre string of the Hoyt compound bow, the wheels locking in the projectile with a subtle though distinctive whir. Raising from his crouch into a hunched run, above the gentle gradient of the hill, Eagle Eye began to sprint, holding his weapon high and the bow out in front of him, just in case his analysis of the target had been incorrect. In the unlikely effect that the Demon was to turn around and lash out with him, all Damon had to do was ease his finger from the taut bowstring he now held in check - and that was all she wrote.

The sprint up the hill was simple enough, and when he drew onto the uphill, relatively easy path that the target was stalking across, he took a sharp, quiet intake of breath, and let the integrated sights of Pandemonium fall upon his quarry, straightening and stabilising the bow so that it was completely vertical against his body. He extended one arm forwards, the sleek black-grey fabric of the ATLORS gripping his tensed figure, even in such an unorthodox assault position, and the sniper readied himself.

"Demon." The archer called out in a low growl. "I hope you speak English and understand me perfectly well, because if not, I don't know how I'll make you understand that this arrow's got a silver head, dipped in holy water, and will kill you." The German accent clung to his words, giving it a sharp, harsh tension to them, and making the growl that much more tenacious and aggressive. His authoritative tones conveyed perfectly, even in a language not his own. "All I seek is information, then I shall be on my way."

The German-Spaniard continued, bowstring creaking underneath the grip of his whitening fingers within the stealth suit's gloves. "Respond displaying you understand as I say and will comply, otherwise I will shoot." Damon wasn't one to fuck around; and normally, in this instance, the purple-garbed Demon would already be a motionless hunk of flesh not dissimilar from the pincushion, but the topography of the Stygian Tundra was less-than accommodating, even for a skilled tracker such as the Knight-Templar, and it was better to ascertain reconnaissance and intelligence on entrenched Demon covens and strongholds nearby from one who actually knew the lands. The utilitarian decision was to let him live so he the fear could be manipulated - first-hand intel was of the highest quality and richest detail, after all.

He could execute the reprehensible speck of dirt in a few moments, anyway. Damon blinked mechanically and waited for a response.

[Yuri]

The demon paused his movements, staying perfectly still for a moment before he quickly turned to meet with the arrow tip pointed at him. Despite that, he remained still, no signs of distress shown in his body language. His bright eyes narrowed to intensify the glow in his expressionless face. Even if he was startled it wouldn't show. In the end he produced a single sound after several moment moments of silence: a soft chuckle, distorted through the machinery.

"Ah, English." He mumbled in his native tongue, bring a hand under his chin for a moment to ponder. "Let's see... I think I still remember how to... ah!" He cheered for a second. "Perfect." He added in Russian, showing little regard for the Templar. This wasn't the first time he had seen one after all. He eyed the human for a few moments. He grinned under his mask when he took notice of his German accent. "Don't you know what happened last time the Germans tried to meddle with the motherland, child?" He said, chuckling in an eerie tone once more. His accent reeked of his Russian heritage, breath hinting at Vodka.  

"You seem tense. First day on the job? Compensating for something perhaps?" He asked, reaching for his flask once more slowly to show that he meant no harm. He didn't really see the point in fighting, not when he clearly had the disadvantage. "Kill me? I reckon I'm already dead." He said, taking a sip of his drink before extending the flask towards the human, offering some. "Surely you aren't here for a tour. Is it a fight you are looking for maybe? Maybe love?" he taunted, chuckled once more.

[Damon T. Ruger]

It was then that the Demon turned around. "Ах, английский язык." Damon was familiar enough with Russian that it was no surprise to hear it - that came with working in Irkutsk - but had not yet devoted any time whatsoever to the linguistic study of the Cyrillic alphabet or dialects, so, in this instance, he did the only thing he could: analysed the Demon standing before him. The creature's clear Russian heritage meant that, in life, he had clearly been from the Motherland, and indeed that he had not become undead long enough that his sense of his very own historic chronicles had faded and dulled in his memory; so, comparative to the other abhorrent beasts around here, some of whom had stagnated in this pit for millennia, he was naught more than a child.

"Humanoid" had been loosely correct, but the creature's posture was the only thing that it held even close to one of his own mortal kin, for in death, this once-human had forsaken its original appearance. In this unshackled Demonic form, it bore bulging, leathery skin of the deepest purple, and great yellow headlights carved into a slant on the creature's detestable pallor. The sickly imitation of the human form carried down to its waist; and though it bore around six inches of height over the Templar - who was not short - from its garter, a sweeping, dark battle robe of steel and cloth obscured its lower half.

However, for a lesser mind, this would have amounted to little save for an intimidating appearance, but the most harrowing of his features was yet to come. A great, mechanical respirator clung to the creature's face, distorting its Russian drawl as it spoke. A more pitiful man would have faltered at such a sight or noise, but, luckily, the Eagle Eye was more than used to the horrors that Inferis spat at him viciously on a regular basis. "Let's see... I think I still remember how to... ah!"

Stoically the sniper stood there, bow drawn and still taut, straining against the fibre string of its frame. "Прекрасно." The beast was clearly taking his time. Damon checked down the sights once more. Perhaps an execution here and now was to be called for; but the Demon undoubtedly held information which would be of use to his directive and the Templars' mission, so the archer stood, silent, and activated one of his lesser-broached virtues. Patience. "Don't you know what happened last time the Germans tried to meddle with the motherland, child?" The purple-bound figure offered up a half-taunt, and, in response, Eagle Eye stepped forwards once, bow still extended before him, to show that there was no room left for fucking around.

"You seem tense. First day on the job? Compensating for something perhaps?" Damon growled once more. Patience, again, was not his forté; and it was beginning to wear thin here. "Kill me? I reckon I'm already dead." No fear of death? That seemed to be a common recurrence through the so-called "sentient" Demons of this Hell. In that case, the sniper would happily oblige him a second time. To be killed in undeath, to be broken down into the impurities of one's soul - that was a fate to fear. To become nothing once more. Just like this disgusting imitation of humanity deserved. "Surely you aren't here for a tour. Is it a fight you are looking for maybe? Maybe love?"

The Demon offered him the flask. In response, Damon broke into a single, fluid motion. He jerked the bow barely half an inch to his own right, and let his fingers fall from the string, releasing what felt like hours of tension fulled fast in an instant. The arrow loosed itself, and cut a shearing path through the air next to the creature's face with a sharp whistling, disappearing off into the calming, yet eternal blizzard behind him, but conveying the sniper's message perfectly. His control over the weapon was unparalleled by most in the Knight-Templar corps - suffice it to say that the Eagle Eye knew what he was doing, and didn't fuck around for anyone. The beast was only breathing because he had something the bowman wanted, and even the clock for his expiry date on those circumstances was ticking away.

"Enough of your games. I'm not sharing in your liquor." Damon hissed disgustedly, drawing and nocking another arrow in an instant, pulling the string taut once more and aiming it this time at the purple creature's face. That was one arrow wasted already. The beast didn't warrant a second miss. "I want to know everything you do about your immediate surroundings. Entrenched positions. Demon strongholds. Archdemon scouting parties, or even Moloch himself."

That single golden eye narrowed as the eyepatch clung to the frame of his skull and the ATLORS garb to the frame of his body. "All you know, now, and I might let you go." Well, that was a lie anyway - Damon Tomasz Ruger had never really been one for loose ends...

[Yuri]

The demon narrowed his eyes at the arrow whistling past his head, his right arm glowing purple, seeing that as chance to counter react to the empty bow, only to be met with another arrow. Needless to say he was impressed. It certainly acquired a certain amount of skill to reload a bow at such a short time. Yuri withdrew his hand, purple glow diminishing.


"Enough of your games. I'm not sharing in your liquor." Barked the human, causing the demon to narrow his eyes at him. Why were all Templars so obsessed with morality and the such? Who could hate booze? "My, my. Aren't you an aggressive fellow." He said calmly, slowly sheathing his flask again. "Your loss. And his is coming from someone who grew up with Vodka." He said, the eerie chuckle returning.

"I want to know everything you do about your immediate surroundings. Entrenched positions. Demon strongholds. Archdemon scouting parties, or even Moloch himself. All you know, now, and I might let you go." Came the human's ranting once more, causing he demon to force a yawn out of his respirator. "First things first: If you want my help stop with your petty threads." He hissed, locking eyes with the Templar. "Now, this sphere.... sure I know the area well, but I don't serve any of the Archdemons. I don't belong in any sphere either." He explained calmly. "Long story short, son: I know nothing of what you are asking of me. I only come here because it reminds of Russia." He added.


"Soo... I answered your questions, time for you to answer mine.." He said, grinning under his mask. He was more amused than he showed. "You seem to take your Templar busyness as serious as I take my flask. Any reason for that?" He asked, reaching for the flask once more.

[Damon T. Ruger]

"My, my. Aren't you an aggressive fellow." Aggression, towards Demons, at least, was a staple attribute of most, if not all Templars. Damon was surprised that some form of hostile enthusiasm didn't come under the criteria for joining the Order. "Your loss. And his is coming from someone who grew up with Vodka." Even Inferis had alcoholics, and this one wouldn't shut up about his beverage of choice.

The sniper felt himself becoming more and more uptight as the moments passed; if his little spiel wasn't leading into something productive over the next few moments, the Eagle Eye was going to cut the purple-bodied freak down without a second thought, no two ways about it. "Hurry up." The archer stated flatly, in tune with his thoughts concerning this petty abomination. Irrespective of whether it divulged to him information, however, its fate was already sealed; the Demon was simply unwittingly delaying its inevitable, impending future as a close-range practice target for Damon and his bow.

"First things first: If you want my help stop with your petty threads." The rising snarl only heightened. His patience - shorter than the fuse on a stick of dynamite already - was wearing thin, fraying, and close to snapping into nonexistence. "Now, this sphere.... sure I know the area well, but I don't serve any of the Archdemons. I don't belong in any sphere either." The primitive, monstrous, guttural noise subsided down only to a growl then; he had indeed of his wanderers, but none perhaps as utterly ignorant or stupid as this Demon, whatsoever. "Long story short, son: I know nothing of what you are asking of me. I only come here because it reminds of Russia."

A Russian, eh? Perhaps in life this foul hunk of reanimated flesh had known his dearest Frau Vladimirovna, she who now gave the sniper his directives. In a sense, Damon had a large breadth of respect for those who hailed from the so-called Motherland, almost holding a certain twisted kinship when it came to the world further west; the Americans, and even the British, didn't quite understand it. "Soo... I answered your questions, time for you to answer mine.." The archer blinked. No; when he was facing the point of an arrow, that wasn't how things work. Did this Demon not understand the principle of a second death? "You seem to take your Templar busyness as serious as I take my flask. Any reason for that?"

Of course; there was a grand slew of reasons for it, which on paper would lead from here back across the inter-dimensional cosmic barrier to the frigid wastes of Siberia. But none of them would the respirator-donning Demon uncover - not today, not ever. These beasts, these twisted, pathetic impersonations of humanity were not to be respected, or feared, and least of all trusted. In that lied too his distaste for the practice of Ritualism. "Many." The sniper answered bluntly. "However, not only were your answers insufficient, my patience has worn through, Demon."

The announcement came clear of the bowman's utilitarian motives next. "You have outlived your use to me, you pathetic, ignorant, piece of scum." Normally he had no time to utter out loud any staple prayer; and even though he was loosely-believing, part of the Templar training was to send the target off with a spiritual sentiment as good practice, stifled and brief as it might be. "Burn in the everlasting hellfires of this place not as a Demon, but as a shattered essence of what you once were."

[INITIATE BATTLE THEME]

The prayer was abrupt but it was all the sniper would offer with his mechanical pallor as the frigid breeze swept over his olive-brushed complexion and rigid frame snapped into movement. For a moment, all froze in the icy wasteland, and just for the pair of them, time itself appeared to stand still. The tensions were all rose and isolated; even the harrowing whistle of a pseudo-blizzard fell still out of the sheer impending sense of what came next. Was it simply to be execution? Or further to be combat?

In his mind's eye Damon almost wished for a clash, some more depraved part of him. The Templar was indeed detached; and from half a mile away behind the scope of a fifty-calibre rifle, that was easy enough to achieve, but it had been too long since he'd had a chance to prove himself hand-to-hand or at such a range. Of course, any day he would have chosen his beautiful Jaeger over this pathetic situation, but here, with conviction, he could utterly annihilate this Demon, and appease the part of his mind that wanted absolution in removing every last element of humanity from this distasteful, disgusting, abominable hunk of flesh that had once called himself a name of the same ilk as the sniper.

Then he let his fingers slip forward from the bowstring, jerking down the frame of the compound Hoyt just an inch or two. An explosion of all the tension concealed in that thrumming fibre as the wheels released the projectile with a mechanical whir that almost mirrored the brain activities of the cold, metallic sniper himself - almost at home, by rule of his personality, here. The tautness of the string all released at once and the arrow whistled through the air as Damon launched himself backwards with a great evasive maneuvre - many a time had he heard horror stories of underestimating a Demon's actual form and abilities, and so, the only thing he could do was to aim for one shot out utilising the element of surprise that a sniper so delectably adored, and get the fuck down.

There was no need to hope. There was no hope in it. This wasn't a clash of wills of spirits; it was a battle of reflex and physical, bodily power. The Demon had yet to unveil his own ability, this once-Russian horror, but considering it was a waste of brain function - and with that in mind, the Templar let himself fall into a mound of powdery snow, flying up around him like a pure white smog, nocked another arrow and ultimately kicked his own psyche into overdrive, focusing everything on one thing, one singular, solitary objective ahead, one final directive to end all others, to override anything and everything all at once:

Victory.

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