Encounterlogs
Viktorins Odd Encounter Sr Rachel 240301
Viktorin's tranquil morning in his crammed yet cozy room is abruptly disrupted by the distant wail of sirens, steadily drawing closer until they halt nearby. The scene, bathed in the soft glow of morning light and shadowed by ominous storm clouds, shifts from peaceful to tense. Viktorin, after briefly entertaining the company of his book, 'Catch 22,' is suddenly on edge, moving to arm himself as police officers knock on his door, searching for him under a potential misunderstanding or false accusation. Opting not to engage directly with the officers, he instead uses cunning to divert their attention, preparing his escape through the window with a rifle in hand, illustrating a scene of desperation mingled with a fierce will to preserve his freedom.
The narrative escalates as Viktorin executes his daring escape, descending from his window and leading into a heart-pounding chase through the urban landscape into the forest. Despite the younger officer's pursuit and sporadic gunfire failing to hinder him, Viktorin's innate survival instincts coupled with his regenerative abilities exemplify his resilience. A tense confrontation ensues in the woods, where Viktorin, relying on both strategy and brute force, manages to subdue the officer, highlighting a raw struggle for dominance and survival. However, their encounter with an enigmatic presence in the forest, exuding ancient curiosity and darkness, suggests an underlying supernatural element at play, leaving Viktorin to confront the knowledge of pernicious forces lurking beyond the confines of the Institute, a revelation that adds a sinister undercurrent to his already tumultuous day.
(Viktorin's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sun Feb 25 2024]
In Vik's Room
A black and white rug, made of wool greets the toes of those who enter the room, contrasting deeply with the mahogany floor boards beneath. This nook of a room seems cramped with the amount of furniture scattered everywhere. A strange quasi-murphy bed, onyx in color, settles on the floor in the northwest of the room before the window to the north. to the north east, a wardrobe and dresser combination exists, made of elm and spruce, lacquered and beheld with a pristine finish. A credenza desk sits in the southeastern corner, accompanied by an antique oil lamp that provides the room with ambient light. A bookshelf lays within the southwest of the room along with a small armchair and an end table, creating a small reading nook.
It is morning, about 26F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
It's a quiet Sunday morning, for the most part. The sun's just crested and casts a pleasant, orange glow across the room. Outside, birds chirp. A gentle wind shakes leaves loose, so they roll down sidewalks and streets beyond. There's nothing amiss.
As the sun crests, Viktorin wanders to the window, tossing open curtains to let the dawning light in. Quiet steps, heel to toe, bring the man back to the reading nook he's fashioned for himself by the bookcase, a copy of 'Catch 22' there to greet him. "Yossarian seems a funny sort," he murmurs, parting the blue paper-back cover. "A man to have some level of distaste for. But those are the best sorts of protagonists, aren't they?" His words, ushered forth quietly from parted lips, speaks to none in particular. Almost as if to feel the lonely atmosphere the man's seemingly woken up to.
Lonely? Oh, that can be addressed. It's Haven -- and he who asks shall receive. The question's just, "is it worth it?"
Sure enough, muted by the window pane and the thick building walls, sirens blare outside. They start out far, far away, barely audible to even a sensitive ear, but draw closer, and closer, and closer. It seems like there's something going on in the neighborhood.
At some point, they stop. Viktorin might be at liberty to go back to reading.
Silence.
Booted feet scuffle outside. Clomp. There's a conversation being had between two men, one gruff and older, the other younger and bored. Viktorin might, at this point, be able to hear a question asked of what's presumably passerby.
"Seen this guy around? 'Bout six foot, black hair. Name's Viktorin Tep-tick."
Viktorin sighs listening to the sirens. With annoyance, and little faith, he closes his book and covers his ears with his hands, clenching his jaw. Aggravation becomes the world for the Czech, and as silence comes, he uncovers his ears. Only to hear something that tightens the man's already sharpened features. His eyes slant, and with care, he moves towards the wardrobe, fetching his rifle and his dagger, fixing the dagger on to his rifle into the bayonet lug. Slowly, he pads to the door, pointing his rifle towards it, not daring to rack a round. Not daring to make a noise. Instead he listens, silently.
"I don't think it's Tep-tick," the younger man clarifies. "Maybe Tep-tish." The boots draw near. They stop.
The rap on the door is loud, and impolite. "Police," the older voice barks. "Open up."
Now, Viktorin might have a bayonet, but if these two men are what they claim, they've probably come packing heat -- and they outnumber him. His choices are limited.
Fight.
Argue.
Flee.
Whatever Viktorin wants to do, he'll have to do it quick. In the short second after that first knock, another few come, shaking the door in its frame. "We know you're in there." However annoyed Viktorin is, he meets his match. They want business cleaned up, quick and neat as possible.
Viktorin slowly backs to his window, his rifle, trained upon the doorway. Quirking his lips faintly, he moves one if his hands behind him, flicking latches here and there in preparation to open the window and flee. His nervous hands shake a little and whilst he does his best not to make noise, there's no helping unlatching the window, really. With a bit of deception, he calls to the door, in a very crappy rendition of a Southern accent, "This is Caleb Johnson, the hell you want?"
"Damn, wrong door." That's the younger guy. The older one's retort comes fast, alongside a 'thump.' Probably knocked his companion upside the head for being, as the Southerners call it, a dipstick. The ensuing "ow" makes that theory more plausible. "Smith, you idiot. That's him. You seriously buyin' that shit? This is why you're failing your fucking training."
He continues: "We just want to talk. There's been reports about a crime 'round this area. Open the door an' we'll be on our way after we ask you a few questions. Doesn't need to be a whole spectacle, yeah?" That's all said real smooth, real convincing. No reason to believe they've got another objective -- no reason besides, of course, the obvious. It can't be said enough: this is Haven.
The timer's ticking.
Viktorin fumbles with the window, popping it open. And with a bit of cunning, the Czech seizes the curtain with one hand, testing his weight a bit against it. Boldly, and without a care to see if the curtain -can- actually support his weight, he wedges himself out the window. Planting his feet upon the side of the building, he uses all his strength to keep himself steady, as if he's about to rappel downward. He doesn't take the leap yet, though, and with one hand, he clumsily aims his rifle at the door, using this moment for the bit of cunning he had, and purposefully opens fire, not trying to hit anyone, but to preoccupy them into thinking he's still there, bunkered down in his room, ready to fight.
Whether they intended for peaceable communication or not, that possibility's out the window now, together with Viktorin. "SHIT." One or both of the cops open fire, too. Spots of light stream through t` #eef27che door where bullet holes pepper the door. Next thing, it splinters entirely. The butt of a rifle can be seen, knocking wrecked wood out of the way.
There's no 'go, go, go,' the way that this happens in movies. Instead, rampant gunfire.
"BACKUP." One of them's yelling. Presumably there's radio static to follow -- it's just impossible to hear over the chaos.
The other one -- the younger one, of course -- turns his head around the corner, past the threshold, for just a second, so he can see what's going on. Maybe that'll have consequences; maybe not. Either way, that's a clear breakage of protocol. "GOTTA RUNNER HERE."
The sound of running, while the barrel of a gun's still pointed at the window, firing off round after round. They're going to try and pincer Viktorin between them.
Whether they intended for peaceable communication or not, that possibility's out the window now, together with Viktorin. "SHIT." One or both of the cops open fire, too. Spots of light stream through the door where bullet holes pepper through. Next thing, it splinters entirely. The butt of a rifle can be seen, knocking wrecked wood out of the way.
There's no 'go, go, go,' the way that this happens in movies. Instead, rampant gunfire.
"BACKUP." One of them's yelling. Presumably there's radio static to follow -- it's just impossible to hear over the chaos.
The other one -- the younger one, of course -- turns his head around the corner, past the threshold, for just a second, so he can see what's going on. Maybe that'll have consequences; maybe not. Either way, that's a clear breakage of protocol. "GOTTA RUNNER HERE."
The sound of running, while the barrel of a gun's still pointed at the window, firing off round after round. They're going to try and pincer Viktorin between them.
Viktorin doesn't fire afterwards, in fact, he only slings his rifle over his shoulder and slides his feet down, loosening his grip immediately to slide down, past the window, as much as the curtain would allow. And then he let's go, using his free hand to guide his fall against the wall. He clumsily forces his body to drop down, from the second story to the ground, aiming for the grounds, preparing to kick off the wall when he gets closer. He's a stranger to this stuff, and honestly, the only thing that seems to spur him onward is the confidence that practically oozes from his face.
They're so predictable. It is, in fact, the old guy who'd stayed behind, and the young one who's hitting the ground hard in pursuit. By the time Viktorin's on the ground, he might make out, should he choose to look over his shoulder, the navy blue of the guy's uniform. It doesn't get any closer; he's keeping pace with Viktorin. It'll be a question of whose stamina wins out. Or, perhaps, who's the healthier of the two -- and while Viktorin might win out on a normal day, it's a toss-up, if he's just jumped out of a building.
Every so often, the cop shoots at Viktorin. He's trigger happy. As luck would have it, though, he's got poor aim while on the move. Bullets go whizzing by. A window breaks. There's a loud 'crack' in the air, and impact some feet from where Viktorin's positioned.
If they keep going, into the forest they'll run, where it'll be that much easier for Viktorin to round some corner, or hide behind some trees, to grab this poor, incompetent soul.
Viktorin sighs tiredly beginning to book it for the forests. He pounds dirt with his heels, digging in each time to launch hinself further forward. He keeps in a straight line for now, indifferent to the stray lead that might hit him, confident in his own abilities to regenerate and his flesh's natural toughness. But the forest is his goal, and as he makes it, that's when he zig-zags, dipping between trees and such to scramble the line of sight upon him. Eventually he halts and skids behind one tree, planting himself against it.
The cop - 'Smith' - narrows in on the forest. By this point, if Viktorin's looking, he'd be able to make out some details. At first, it's just his physique. Smith's probably about Viktorin's age, built lean, but strong. Then, as he gets closer, enough to break the treeline, it's more. Enough to be seen that it's, perhaps, humanizing. He's got a face that's still shedding baby fat -- and he knows it. He's tried to hide it with a beard, but it grows in sparse, thicker around the mouth, and thinner the closer it gets to his ears.
"Come out with your hands up." His voice suggests confidence, too, unearned. He's not dissimilar from Viktorin. "Or I'll shoot." He was shooting, anyway.
Viktorin whistles, loud, laying the bait. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, he slips around the opposite side of the tree, trying to circle around, keeping the tree between himself and the cop. There wasn't reluctance in his movements. Only a need to survive. He carefully steps, keeping himself plastered to the tree, tensing his muscles as he prepares for an ambush.
Smith's steps slow. The barrel of his gun swings left. It swings right. Where did that whistle come from? A twig snaps beneath his foot. He stops talking. There's no reason to give away his position -- or, that's likely the line of thought, anyway. Viktorin knows perfectly well where the cop is, and how long it'll be before he's in grabbing distance.
There's a voice on his radio. "Hey, where'd you go?" A crackle. Shit. The guy turns his device off, and in the process, lowers his eyes from his surroundings for one quick second.
It might be enough, if Viktorin's fast. Or he's going to get riddled with bullets. Same question as before: Is it worth it?
In the distance, students are probably starting to get to lunch. Viktorin's got a small window -- an hour, maybe -- to pry answers out of the cop. Then, any commotion's going to attract attention, as his peers and faculty move back to the lecture halls. Tick tock, Tepic.
Viktorin slips his hand into his pack, pulling out his steel compass. With a side-ways throw he discards it, tossing it out and away from him, at a tree north of him as the man lowers his eyes. He waits a moment, to see if the man turns his eyes that direction, and if he does, he moves, swiftly, aiming his rifle towards the man's feet, popping a warning shot, before aiming it at the man's face, using the tree as cover. "Move and your brains are gonna be coating the trees, Yearling," the Czech calls to the man. He informs the man, gently, as if trying to deescalate the situation, "Now, I don't want to, but I'm not gonna risk my life for your sake if you're not gonna play ball. And I like my odds right here, right now. Answer the radio, you're dead. Move an inch my way, you're dead. Now... we're gonna have a chat."
This cop's got rocks for brains. He does, in fact, immediately point his gun and his stare in the direction the compass is thrown. He even fires once -- no questions asked. The grace Viktorin gives him, he won't extend.
And then there's Viktorin, lobbing that threat at him. He freezes. His finger's still on the trigger. But for the second, he's doing as Viktorin asks, moving nothing except his eyes, so he can get a closer glimpse at Viktorin. "You're the fucking fugitive. I don't answer to you."
And that's that. No shot, pun intended, that Viktorin's going to get away from this without a scuffle. The man's decided that Viktorin's too much a threat to expect true, civil conversation.
He tries to swing his gun around in Viktorin's direction, and to simultaneously duck behind the cover of a tree trunk.
The ultimate measure of morality is what you do when faced with adversity. Your go, Viktorin.
Viktorin instantly drops his aim by a foot and prays to whatever Gods are looking out for this man, that he's wearing plates, because he sends bursts of lead down range at the man, trying his best not to actually kill him. He delivers as promised, except for a twist. The Czech continues firing, dropping his aim further to spray at the man's legs and feet, fearlessly emerging from cover to approach the target's position, keeping him well inundated with rifle fire, to force him behind cover. There's very little mercy granted beyond the attempts to only wound the man and not kill him.
There's the sound of impact -- a metallic ringing. That wouldn't be happening if the cop weren't, in fact, wearing armour of any kind. He just barely makes it behind the tree. From there, the sound of cursing, loud, vicious. Viktorin's probably clipped him, at least, if not more, somewhere where it'd hurt. From where he was aiming, if he's lucky, it's a leg.
More shooting, backward. Lady Luck smiles on Viktorin today. It absolutely looks as if, as the cop tries to make it back toward campus, he's limping. If Viktorin's able to catch up without getting shot himself -- and if he's able to somehow disarm this man -- he'll have his chance to get some answers. Every manner of insult gets thrown at Viktorin. It's good the firing drowns some of it out; it's offensive.
Viktorin charges forth at the man, sprinting after him as he limps back . He can overtake him. And he no longer cares about getting shot. He lifts his rifle with both hands, flipping it with the barrel pointed towards the sky. His muscles aches as he bounds forward, darting left and right. His aim is for the man's legs, an attempt to knock his feet out from underneath him.
The cop barely grazes Viktorin with a bullet -- and honestly, it almost looks like it was an accident -- just before he gets tackled. "FUCK." The force of the collision shocks him enough to have him drop his gun. He goes down hard, back to the grass.
Now it's just him and Viktorin, grappling for leverage against the other. He's trying to get a good punch in on Viktorin's side, so that he'll wind him. Again, and again, and again, he drives his fist toward Viktorin. For all he lacks in smarts and in his shooting capability, the guy's strong by human standards.
Viktorin lifts his body, barely, taking the punches, letting the man take out his frustrations. His body's working overtime to knit together any wounds and he gives the man a taste of his own medicine, slugging him in the face twice. He's no longer trying to grapple the man, clearly considering it a lost cause. This time he's just trying to knock him out, keep him from fighting for the moment.
That's the question, isn't it? Why is this cop so insistent on coming after Viktorin Sure, the American police force is known for hotheadedness -- but this? This is suicidal. It's weird that he hasn't let up. It's weird that his partner hasn't shown face. All he does is hit mindlessly until he wears himself out. That, coupled with the moment when Viktorin gets a good swing at the side of his head, means it's over.
In the silence, when there's just Viktorin's breathing, and again -- the birds chirping, the leaves tumbling across the barren background -- he might have room to think.
There is, in fact, something amiss here.
A single word, spoken from the depths of the forest. It resonates. "Unusual."
Viktorin slowly rises and runs his fingers through his hair. He's done -everything- he can to show as much restraint as possible, and at this point, he's pissed. Still, work has to be done and the Czech first, combs himself over, checking for any wounds that really need further care. And then he checks the man, searching for the wound in his leg, and anything else beyond that. He's not well-versed with anatomy, and it's becoming clear to himself that it's pointless but he tries anyways, he tries the best he can manage.
However, the word spoken immediately has the man on his feet, scrabbling for a rifle. He scans the area around him, looking for the source of the voice. "Who's there?" he asks, anxiety surfacing.
The man's out cold.
There's no chiding laughter. No mockery. There is just the unbearable weight of someone watching. As Viktorin turns to find the source of the voice, it feels as though the world is closing in. The trees loom lower. The air grows thicker. The sun no longer beats as hard.
It's the middle of the day, and yet, there are shadows here. One crosses, darker than the rest, in the distance. Its loping form is there, then not. Complete and utter silence. But he might now know: there are eyes in this forest.
Viktorin lifts his rifle, ejecting the half-spent magazine, quickly inserting a new one. He flicks the selector switch, and aims down the sight, bayonet still at the ready to do some damage. He adopts a low crouch, moving backwards on his feet, his hand shifting from the heat-guard on the barrel of his rifle to the collar of the officer's shirt. And watching his surroundings, he tugs the man a bit, testing their weight. Might as well begin dragging them, and it's quite clear that the Czech's not too fond of the shadows or the loping form. His rifle's barrel moves in a figure-eight pattern, especially excaberated by the single hand that attempts to hold the entire thing steady. Viktorin cries out, "Show yourself. What's unusual? Where are you?"
The darkness creeps, as slow, as heavy as mist. It's as if clouds are rolling overhead, so that they remove the image of the line of trees furthest back. And then all the trees, all the rocks, all the bramble within Viktorin's line of sight. The grass right. Ahead. Of Viktorin's feet. It'll swallow him whole, too, if he doesn't move. Him and that cop. That frustrating, good-for-nothing cop.
The voice doesn't deign to answer Viktorin -- not aloud. But it makes a suggestion, nonetheless. It pauses. It teases. What will Viktorin do now? The cop is deadweight. He's annoying. So terribly, horribly frustrating. Would the world not be better off, were Viktorin to surrender him? A presence can be felt, and it has an ancient, insatiable curiosity.
Run.
Viktorin immediately begins to shudder in fear, as if in recognition of the fog. As if his greatest fear was to burst forth. But that doesn't seem to stop the Czech from tugging the man's collar, dragging him backwards along with the man. Surely he can't be too far from the school? Surely. He strains his legs, as if trying to drag the man like a sled. He doesn't leave his rifle unused for long though. He gives sprays here and there, into the tree-line, wherever the fog is, and he does his best to light up the world in front of him. He's not careless with his ammo, he needs to conserve it.
A tendril of shadow unlinks itself from the darkness, sinuous. It follows Viktorin with the slow viscosity of oil. But the closer that Viktorin gets to the Institute, the weaker it becomes. It's not noticeable, at first. It grows a shade paler with a foot of distance put between it and Viktorin.
The line of buildings is so close. The shadow becomes the color of smoke.
The familiar facade of Viktorin's fraternity house can be seen. Now, the shadow's the color of an overcast sky.
Still, it tries for Viktorin. A little wisp breaks apart. It snaps. It dissipates.
It has no power here. But now Viktorin's knows. Out there -- anywhere past the safety of the Institute -- the darkness waits.
The narrative escalates as Viktorin executes his daring escape, descending from his window and leading into a heart-pounding chase through the urban landscape into the forest. Despite the younger officer's pursuit and sporadic gunfire failing to hinder him, Viktorin's innate survival instincts coupled with his regenerative abilities exemplify his resilience. A tense confrontation ensues in the woods, where Viktorin, relying on both strategy and brute force, manages to subdue the officer, highlighting a raw struggle for dominance and survival. However, their encounter with an enigmatic presence in the forest, exuding ancient curiosity and darkness, suggests an underlying supernatural element at play, leaving Viktorin to confront the knowledge of pernicious forces lurking beyond the confines of the Institute, a revelation that adds a sinister undercurrent to his already tumultuous day.
(Viktorin's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sun Feb 25 2024]
In Vik's Room
A black and white rug, made of wool greets the toes of those who enter the room, contrasting deeply with the mahogany floor boards beneath. This nook of a room seems cramped with the amount of furniture scattered everywhere. A strange quasi-murphy bed, onyx in color, settles on the floor in the northwest of the room before the window to the north. to the north east, a wardrobe and dresser combination exists, made of elm and spruce, lacquered and beheld with a pristine finish. A credenza desk sits in the southeastern corner, accompanied by an antique oil lamp that provides the room with ambient light. A bookshelf lays within the southwest of the room along with a small armchair and an end table, creating a small reading nook.
It is morning, about 26F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
It's a quiet Sunday morning, for the most part. The sun's just crested and casts a pleasant, orange glow across the room. Outside, birds chirp. A gentle wind shakes leaves loose, so they roll down sidewalks and streets beyond. There's nothing amiss.
As the sun crests, Viktorin wanders to the window, tossing open curtains to let the dawning light in. Quiet steps, heel to toe, bring the man back to the reading nook he's fashioned for himself by the bookcase, a copy of 'Catch 22' there to greet him. "Yossarian seems a funny sort," he murmurs, parting the blue paper-back cover. "A man to have some level of distaste for. But those are the best sorts of protagonists, aren't they?" His words, ushered forth quietly from parted lips, speaks to none in particular. Almost as if to feel the lonely atmosphere the man's seemingly woken up to.
Lonely? Oh, that can be addressed. It's Haven -- and he who asks shall receive. The question's just, "is it worth it?"
Sure enough, muted by the window pane and the thick building walls, sirens blare outside. They start out far, far away, barely audible to even a sensitive ear, but draw closer, and closer, and closer. It seems like there's something going on in the neighborhood.
At some point, they stop. Viktorin might be at liberty to go back to reading.
Silence.
Booted feet scuffle outside. Clomp. There's a conversation being had between two men, one gruff and older, the other younger and bored. Viktorin might, at this point, be able to hear a question asked of what's presumably passerby.
"Seen this guy around? 'Bout six foot, black hair. Name's Viktorin Tep-tick."
Viktorin sighs listening to the sirens. With annoyance, and little faith, he closes his book and covers his ears with his hands, clenching his jaw. Aggravation becomes the world for the Czech, and as silence comes, he uncovers his ears. Only to hear something that tightens the man's already sharpened features. His eyes slant, and with care, he moves towards the wardrobe, fetching his rifle and his dagger, fixing the dagger on to his rifle into the bayonet lug. Slowly, he pads to the door, pointing his rifle towards it, not daring to rack a round. Not daring to make a noise. Instead he listens, silently.
"I don't think it's Tep-tick," the younger man clarifies. "Maybe Tep-tish." The boots draw near. They stop.
The rap on the door is loud, and impolite. "Police," the older voice barks. "Open up."
Now, Viktorin might have a bayonet, but if these two men are what they claim, they've probably come packing heat -- and they outnumber him. His choices are limited.
Fight.
Argue.
Flee.
Whatever Viktorin wants to do, he'll have to do it quick. In the short second after that first knock, another few come, shaking the door in its frame. "We know you're in there." However annoyed Viktorin is, he meets his match. They want business cleaned up, quick and neat as possible.
Viktorin slowly backs to his window, his rifle, trained upon the doorway. Quirking his lips faintly, he moves one if his hands behind him, flicking latches here and there in preparation to open the window and flee. His nervous hands shake a little and whilst he does his best not to make noise, there's no helping unlatching the window, really. With a bit of deception, he calls to the door, in a very crappy rendition of a Southern accent, "This is Caleb Johnson, the hell you want?"
"Damn, wrong door." That's the younger guy. The older one's retort comes fast, alongside a 'thump.' Probably knocked his companion upside the head for being, as the Southerners call it, a dipstick. The ensuing "ow" makes that theory more plausible. "Smith, you idiot. That's him. You seriously buyin' that shit? This is why you're failing your fucking training."
He continues: "We just want to talk. There's been reports about a crime 'round this area. Open the door an' we'll be on our way after we ask you a few questions. Doesn't need to be a whole spectacle, yeah?" That's all said real smooth, real convincing. No reason to believe they've got another objective -- no reason besides, of course, the obvious. It can't be said enough: this is Haven.
The timer's ticking.
Viktorin fumbles with the window, popping it open. And with a bit of cunning, the Czech seizes the curtain with one hand, testing his weight a bit against it. Boldly, and without a care to see if the curtain -can- actually support his weight, he wedges himself out the window. Planting his feet upon the side of the building, he uses all his strength to keep himself steady, as if he's about to rappel downward. He doesn't take the leap yet, though, and with one hand, he clumsily aims his rifle at the door, using this moment for the bit of cunning he had, and purposefully opens fire, not trying to hit anyone, but to preoccupy them into thinking he's still there, bunkered down in his room, ready to fight.
Whether they intended for peaceable communication or not, that possibility's out the window now, together with Viktorin. "SHIT." One or both of the cops open fire, too. Spots of light stream through t` #eef27che door where bullet holes pepper the door. Next thing, it splinters entirely. The butt of a rifle can be seen, knocking wrecked wood out of the way.
There's no 'go, go, go,' the way that this happens in movies. Instead, rampant gunfire.
"BACKUP." One of them's yelling. Presumably there's radio static to follow -- it's just impossible to hear over the chaos.
The other one -- the younger one, of course -- turns his head around the corner, past the threshold, for just a second, so he can see what's going on. Maybe that'll have consequences; maybe not. Either way, that's a clear breakage of protocol. "GOTTA RUNNER HERE."
The sound of running, while the barrel of a gun's still pointed at the window, firing off round after round. They're going to try and pincer Viktorin between them.
Whether they intended for peaceable communication or not, that possibility's out the window now, together with Viktorin. "SHIT." One or both of the cops open fire, too. Spots of light stream through the door where bullet holes pepper through. Next thing, it splinters entirely. The butt of a rifle can be seen, knocking wrecked wood out of the way.
There's no 'go, go, go,' the way that this happens in movies. Instead, rampant gunfire.
"BACKUP." One of them's yelling. Presumably there's radio static to follow -- it's just impossible to hear over the chaos.
The other one -- the younger one, of course -- turns his head around the corner, past the threshold, for just a second, so he can see what's going on. Maybe that'll have consequences; maybe not. Either way, that's a clear breakage of protocol. "GOTTA RUNNER HERE."
The sound of running, while the barrel of a gun's still pointed at the window, firing off round after round. They're going to try and pincer Viktorin between them.
Viktorin doesn't fire afterwards, in fact, he only slings his rifle over his shoulder and slides his feet down, loosening his grip immediately to slide down, past the window, as much as the curtain would allow. And then he let's go, using his free hand to guide his fall against the wall. He clumsily forces his body to drop down, from the second story to the ground, aiming for the grounds, preparing to kick off the wall when he gets closer. He's a stranger to this stuff, and honestly, the only thing that seems to spur him onward is the confidence that practically oozes from his face.
They're so predictable. It is, in fact, the old guy who'd stayed behind, and the young one who's hitting the ground hard in pursuit. By the time Viktorin's on the ground, he might make out, should he choose to look over his shoulder, the navy blue of the guy's uniform. It doesn't get any closer; he's keeping pace with Viktorin. It'll be a question of whose stamina wins out. Or, perhaps, who's the healthier of the two -- and while Viktorin might win out on a normal day, it's a toss-up, if he's just jumped out of a building.
Every so often, the cop shoots at Viktorin. He's trigger happy. As luck would have it, though, he's got poor aim while on the move. Bullets go whizzing by. A window breaks. There's a loud 'crack' in the air, and impact some feet from where Viktorin's positioned.
If they keep going, into the forest they'll run, where it'll be that much easier for Viktorin to round some corner, or hide behind some trees, to grab this poor, incompetent soul.
Viktorin sighs tiredly beginning to book it for the forests. He pounds dirt with his heels, digging in each time to launch hinself further forward. He keeps in a straight line for now, indifferent to the stray lead that might hit him, confident in his own abilities to regenerate and his flesh's natural toughness. But the forest is his goal, and as he makes it, that's when he zig-zags, dipping between trees and such to scramble the line of sight upon him. Eventually he halts and skids behind one tree, planting himself against it.
The cop - 'Smith' - narrows in on the forest. By this point, if Viktorin's looking, he'd be able to make out some details. At first, it's just his physique. Smith's probably about Viktorin's age, built lean, but strong. Then, as he gets closer, enough to break the treeline, it's more. Enough to be seen that it's, perhaps, humanizing. He's got a face that's still shedding baby fat -- and he knows it. He's tried to hide it with a beard, but it grows in sparse, thicker around the mouth, and thinner the closer it gets to his ears.
"Come out with your hands up." His voice suggests confidence, too, unearned. He's not dissimilar from Viktorin. "Or I'll shoot." He was shooting, anyway.
Viktorin whistles, loud, laying the bait. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, he slips around the opposite side of the tree, trying to circle around, keeping the tree between himself and the cop. There wasn't reluctance in his movements. Only a need to survive. He carefully steps, keeping himself plastered to the tree, tensing his muscles as he prepares for an ambush.
Smith's steps slow. The barrel of his gun swings left. It swings right. Where did that whistle come from? A twig snaps beneath his foot. He stops talking. There's no reason to give away his position -- or, that's likely the line of thought, anyway. Viktorin knows perfectly well where the cop is, and how long it'll be before he's in grabbing distance.
There's a voice on his radio. "Hey, where'd you go?" A crackle. Shit. The guy turns his device off, and in the process, lowers his eyes from his surroundings for one quick second.
It might be enough, if Viktorin's fast. Or he's going to get riddled with bullets. Same question as before: Is it worth it?
In the distance, students are probably starting to get to lunch. Viktorin's got a small window -- an hour, maybe -- to pry answers out of the cop. Then, any commotion's going to attract attention, as his peers and faculty move back to the lecture halls. Tick tock, Tepic.
Viktorin slips his hand into his pack, pulling out his steel compass. With a side-ways throw he discards it, tossing it out and away from him, at a tree north of him as the man lowers his eyes. He waits a moment, to see if the man turns his eyes that direction, and if he does, he moves, swiftly, aiming his rifle towards the man's feet, popping a warning shot, before aiming it at the man's face, using the tree as cover. "Move and your brains are gonna be coating the trees, Yearling," the Czech calls to the man. He informs the man, gently, as if trying to deescalate the situation, "Now, I don't want to, but I'm not gonna risk my life for your sake if you're not gonna play ball. And I like my odds right here, right now. Answer the radio, you're dead. Move an inch my way, you're dead. Now... we're gonna have a chat."
This cop's got rocks for brains. He does, in fact, immediately point his gun and his stare in the direction the compass is thrown. He even fires once -- no questions asked. The grace Viktorin gives him, he won't extend.
And then there's Viktorin, lobbing that threat at him. He freezes. His finger's still on the trigger. But for the second, he's doing as Viktorin asks, moving nothing except his eyes, so he can get a closer glimpse at Viktorin. "You're the fucking fugitive. I don't answer to you."
And that's that. No shot, pun intended, that Viktorin's going to get away from this without a scuffle. The man's decided that Viktorin's too much a threat to expect true, civil conversation.
He tries to swing his gun around in Viktorin's direction, and to simultaneously duck behind the cover of a tree trunk.
The ultimate measure of morality is what you do when faced with adversity. Your go, Viktorin.
Viktorin instantly drops his aim by a foot and prays to whatever Gods are looking out for this man, that he's wearing plates, because he sends bursts of lead down range at the man, trying his best not to actually kill him. He delivers as promised, except for a twist. The Czech continues firing, dropping his aim further to spray at the man's legs and feet, fearlessly emerging from cover to approach the target's position, keeping him well inundated with rifle fire, to force him behind cover. There's very little mercy granted beyond the attempts to only wound the man and not kill him.
There's the sound of impact -- a metallic ringing. That wouldn't be happening if the cop weren't, in fact, wearing armour of any kind. He just barely makes it behind the tree. From there, the sound of cursing, loud, vicious. Viktorin's probably clipped him, at least, if not more, somewhere where it'd hurt. From where he was aiming, if he's lucky, it's a leg.
More shooting, backward. Lady Luck smiles on Viktorin today. It absolutely looks as if, as the cop tries to make it back toward campus, he's limping. If Viktorin's able to catch up without getting shot himself -- and if he's able to somehow disarm this man -- he'll have his chance to get some answers. Every manner of insult gets thrown at Viktorin. It's good the firing drowns some of it out; it's offensive.
Viktorin charges forth at the man, sprinting after him as he limps back . He can overtake him. And he no longer cares about getting shot. He lifts his rifle with both hands, flipping it with the barrel pointed towards the sky. His muscles aches as he bounds forward, darting left and right. His aim is for the man's legs, an attempt to knock his feet out from underneath him.
The cop barely grazes Viktorin with a bullet -- and honestly, it almost looks like it was an accident -- just before he gets tackled. "FUCK." The force of the collision shocks him enough to have him drop his gun. He goes down hard, back to the grass.
Now it's just him and Viktorin, grappling for leverage against the other. He's trying to get a good punch in on Viktorin's side, so that he'll wind him. Again, and again, and again, he drives his fist toward Viktorin. For all he lacks in smarts and in his shooting capability, the guy's strong by human standards.
Viktorin lifts his body, barely, taking the punches, letting the man take out his frustrations. His body's working overtime to knit together any wounds and he gives the man a taste of his own medicine, slugging him in the face twice. He's no longer trying to grapple the man, clearly considering it a lost cause. This time he's just trying to knock him out, keep him from fighting for the moment.
That's the question, isn't it? Why is this cop so insistent on coming after Viktorin Sure, the American police force is known for hotheadedness -- but this? This is suicidal. It's weird that he hasn't let up. It's weird that his partner hasn't shown face. All he does is hit mindlessly until he wears himself out. That, coupled with the moment when Viktorin gets a good swing at the side of his head, means it's over.
In the silence, when there's just Viktorin's breathing, and again -- the birds chirping, the leaves tumbling across the barren background -- he might have room to think.
There is, in fact, something amiss here.
A single word, spoken from the depths of the forest. It resonates. "Unusual."
Viktorin slowly rises and runs his fingers through his hair. He's done -everything- he can to show as much restraint as possible, and at this point, he's pissed. Still, work has to be done and the Czech first, combs himself over, checking for any wounds that really need further care. And then he checks the man, searching for the wound in his leg, and anything else beyond that. He's not well-versed with anatomy, and it's becoming clear to himself that it's pointless but he tries anyways, he tries the best he can manage.
However, the word spoken immediately has the man on his feet, scrabbling for a rifle. He scans the area around him, looking for the source of the voice. "Who's there?" he asks, anxiety surfacing.
The man's out cold.
There's no chiding laughter. No mockery. There is just the unbearable weight of someone watching. As Viktorin turns to find the source of the voice, it feels as though the world is closing in. The trees loom lower. The air grows thicker. The sun no longer beats as hard.
It's the middle of the day, and yet, there are shadows here. One crosses, darker than the rest, in the distance. Its loping form is there, then not. Complete and utter silence. But he might now know: there are eyes in this forest.
Viktorin lifts his rifle, ejecting the half-spent magazine, quickly inserting a new one. He flicks the selector switch, and aims down the sight, bayonet still at the ready to do some damage. He adopts a low crouch, moving backwards on his feet, his hand shifting from the heat-guard on the barrel of his rifle to the collar of the officer's shirt. And watching his surroundings, he tugs the man a bit, testing their weight. Might as well begin dragging them, and it's quite clear that the Czech's not too fond of the shadows or the loping form. His rifle's barrel moves in a figure-eight pattern, especially excaberated by the single hand that attempts to hold the entire thing steady. Viktorin cries out, "Show yourself. What's unusual? Where are you?"
The darkness creeps, as slow, as heavy as mist. It's as if clouds are rolling overhead, so that they remove the image of the line of trees furthest back. And then all the trees, all the rocks, all the bramble within Viktorin's line of sight. The grass right. Ahead. Of Viktorin's feet. It'll swallow him whole, too, if he doesn't move. Him and that cop. That frustrating, good-for-nothing cop.
The voice doesn't deign to answer Viktorin -- not aloud. But it makes a suggestion, nonetheless. It pauses. It teases. What will Viktorin do now? The cop is deadweight. He's annoying. So terribly, horribly frustrating. Would the world not be better off, were Viktorin to surrender him? A presence can be felt, and it has an ancient, insatiable curiosity.
Run.
Viktorin immediately begins to shudder in fear, as if in recognition of the fog. As if his greatest fear was to burst forth. But that doesn't seem to stop the Czech from tugging the man's collar, dragging him backwards along with the man. Surely he can't be too far from the school? Surely. He strains his legs, as if trying to drag the man like a sled. He doesn't leave his rifle unused for long though. He gives sprays here and there, into the tree-line, wherever the fog is, and he does his best to light up the world in front of him. He's not careless with his ammo, he needs to conserve it.
A tendril of shadow unlinks itself from the darkness, sinuous. It follows Viktorin with the slow viscosity of oil. But the closer that Viktorin gets to the Institute, the weaker it becomes. It's not noticeable, at first. It grows a shade paler with a foot of distance put between it and Viktorin.
The line of buildings is so close. The shadow becomes the color of smoke.
The familiar facade of Viktorin's fraternity house can be seen. Now, the shadow's the color of an overcast sky.
Still, it tries for Viktorin. A little wisp breaks apart. It snaps. It dissipates.
It has no power here. But now Viktorin's knows. Out there -- anywhere past the safety of the Institute -- the darkness waits.