[In all honesty, Russia doesn't even know what he's doing here. The world around him crackles and burns, set ablaze by forces tearing it apart, and while in the beginning there had been a deep well of righteousness and glory -- now he just feel numb, bored with all that languishes beneath his fingertips.
He's the figurehead, the monster who steps from the shadows and smiles so sugar sweet he can't be anything terrible. It's a job he's well suited for, and Russia hides the blood staining his hands beneath gloves and seemingly gentle mannerisms, builds up until he is upon a pedestal and the world is beneath his boot.
In some dim way, he feels almost invincible, untouchable, and maybe it's his own fury and danger thrumming at his fingertips, because the last person who tried to kill him found out just why Russia had achieved all that he has. Still, perhaps he has gotten used to it, this pedestal of his, and he does not expect Kazama. Nobody does.
Russia doesn't know what clues him in, maybe it's the sound of cloth and rifle cutting through air, maybe it's a sharper breath, a long ingrained paranoia. Russia doesn't know, but that blow misses it's mark, slamming instead into the side of his skull as he tries to dodge. It doesn't knock him out but the world goes a bit sideways, jumbled and dark, and he stumbles, even as he lashes out with his bare hands.
Russia has never been one to go down without a fight, and he snarls, bares his teeth even though the room is swimming and his limbs feel sluggish -- that blow had had enough force there to knock a lesser being out after all. He can feel the give of a body beneath his knuckles, knows he's landed one punch at the very least, but then like a felled oak, Russia stumbles backwards, head hitting the ground as he goes. The world ebbs black at the edges, seeps across his vision even as his gaze lulls upon the hazy, covered sight of Kazama's face. He blinks--
swoons!!!!!
He's the figurehead, the monster who steps from the shadows and smiles so sugar sweet he can't be anything terrible. It's a job he's well suited for, and Russia hides the blood staining his hands beneath gloves and seemingly gentle mannerisms, builds up until he is upon a pedestal and the world is beneath his boot.
In some dim way, he feels almost invincible, untouchable, and maybe it's his own fury and danger thrumming at his fingertips, because the last person who tried to kill him found out just why Russia had achieved all that he has. Still, perhaps he has gotten used to it, this pedestal of his, and he does not expect Kazama. Nobody does.
Russia doesn't know what clues him in, maybe it's the sound of cloth and rifle cutting through air, maybe it's a sharper breath, a long ingrained paranoia. Russia doesn't know, but that blow misses it's mark, slamming instead into the side of his skull as he tries to dodge. It doesn't knock him out but the world goes a bit sideways, jumbled and dark, and he stumbles, even as he lashes out with his bare hands.
Russia has never been one to go down without a fight, and he snarls, bares his teeth even though the room is swimming and his limbs feel sluggish -- that blow had had enough force there to knock a lesser being out after all. He can feel the give of a body beneath his knuckles, knows he's landed one punch at the very least, but then like a felled oak, Russia stumbles backwards, head hitting the ground as he goes. The world ebbs black at the edges, seeps across his vision even as his gaze lulls upon the hazy, covered sight of Kazama's face. He blinks--
--and slips unconscious.]