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Post by Finland on Mar 15, 2011 22:40:32 GMT -5
Slight warning for very brief Finnish expletive use. Bad Tino! Bad!
“Well to begin with, you can come out of hiding and face me like a nation. Then we can play a game of ‘who can pull the trigger first.’ That one has the potential to be exciting, don’t you agree?”
Tino didn’t agree. It didn’t sound exciting; it sounded insane. Why should he be the one to step out of hiding first while Ivan remained safely hidden where he was? That would put him at a huge disadvantage.
Not that he wasn’t already at a disadvantage. The Russian obviously knew where he was, as that last shot proved, but Tino hadn’t yet had the luxury of spotting him.
“As fun as our game of ‘hide and snipe’ is, I have a battle to win, and other Finnish soldiers to kill when I’m done with you.”
A dangerous growl rumbled deep in Tino’s throat. An unusual action it was, given that not much usually perturbed the Finn to the point of making such a primal gesture. Perhaps it was the fact that Ivan was a nation that made him so opposed to the idea of him hurting his citizens. Perhaps it was the fact that Ivan had questioned his nationhood, thereby questioning his loyalty to and ability of protecting his citizens. Perhaps it was the fact that he and Ivan knew each other so well, had grown up as neighbors, and knew more about each other than any human could hope to. Whatever the case, in that moment the Finn decided – he would die himself before he allowed this man to hurt any more of his people. It was time to face Ivan and end it.
Tino’s body began to tremble furiously, this time not from the cold, as he realized the magnitude of what he was considering. To come out of his hiding spot could mean being instantly shot. Just like Ivan, he could survive it, but it would make it much harder to keep his concentration. In that case, even if he did cripple the Russian beyond fighting condition, he wouldn’t have time to seek medical attention before returning to the battlefield. On the other hand, his people needed him and he couldn’t spend his entire day fighting one opponent. His mind wandered to the soldier he’d been with earlier that morning as a cluster of shots rang out from nearby. Was he even still alive? He couldn’t take a shot to a vital organ and survive like a nation-spirit could. Tino had to help him – had to help all of his people – by taking Ivan down, and if Ivan wanted face-to-face combat, he would comply.
With shaking knees, adrenaline pumping through his veins and eyes sharpened anew, Tino rose to his feet. It wasn’t that he was afraid to face Ivan face-to-face. Throughout history, he had fought alongside Berwald with little more than a dagger and his own sheer strength. Here, at least he had a gun. What he was afraid of was the possibility of the Soviet not upholding his end of the offer. The Finn knew very well that the other nation might be luring him out so he could shoot him from the safety of his own hiding spot. Rifle still clutched tightly to his chest, loaded and waiting, he willed himself to step out into the open.
“Fine, Venäjä,” he seethed. “If this is what you want, I’ll face you like this. And don’t you ever question my dedication to my people. You, of all people… You’re the last person who should be able to suggest I don’t care for my citizens, perkele!” This time, he was unable to control the rising accent of anger in his voice. He was terrified and he was enraged all at the same time, and even if he had cared to, there would have been no way for him to contain it in his vocalizations.
He began to plod back towards the area he had last seen Ivan – somewhere on the other side of the fallen tree. As his boots crunched through the snow in cautious, measured steps, a rustling in a patch of shrubs just behind him caught his attention. Wheeling around, his heart all but stopped as he caught a blur of motion in the corner of his eye.
He had no time to react before Ivan was upon him.
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Post by Russia on Mar 19, 2011 16:36:17 GMT -5
Violent, violet eyes were focused intently on the pristine white landscape, searching for any sign of his enemy. He was not expecting the Fin to lunge out of hiding at him like a crazed animal or anything, but he was hoping that he would move just a little too much behind that clump of trees, and make himself a nice target. Patience was supposed to come with age, but sadly it had not done so with Russia. He was by no means a ‘spring chicken’ as the saying went, but here he was growing more antsy and impatient by the moment. There was a battle going on in the area, which always brought out his more sadistic urges. More than anything he wanted to satiate his bloodlust, with either Tino himself or his Finnish soldiers.
The bullet wound he had already sustained reminded him to be cautious, and even though every fiber of his being wanted to throw himself at the Finnish nation in a full frontal assault, he knew better. Instead Ivan opted to try and slip around behind the clump of snow-laden trees, or at least to the side of them. He wanted to be able to see Finland before he made his move. Keeping his rifle at ready should he be discovered before he was close enough to attack, Ivan carefully moved to the right of the trees. The snow and the gunfire in the background helped muffle his heavy footsteps to some extent, but the Russian still found himself trying to step gently in hopes of silencing them even more. He was a large country-both in height and weight-which put him at a disadvantage when it came to being stealthy.
All the white was somewhat disorienting, and the Soviet kept his eyes fixed on the clump of trees as he moved so as not to risk losing sight of his enemy’s location. In these conditions, one grouping of pines looked very much like the next.
“Fine, Venäjä.”
The Fin’s words startled Ivan, who had made it close to the snow covered trees and shrubs by the time his enemy had spoken. He stopped in his tracks, turning his attention through the falling snow and in the direction the voice had came from.
“If this is what you want, I’ll face you like this. And don’t you ever question my dedication to my people. You, of all people… You’re the last person who should be able to suggest I don’t care for my citizens, perkele!”
Ivan smiled, despite the fact that he was pretty sure he had just been insulted. His earlier comments must have really gotten to the Finnish nation, whose voice was now dripping with anger. Though Ivan was not sure what a “perkele” was, the tone with which it was spoken and the context provided clues that it was not a pleasant, polite thing to be called in Tino’s tongue.
Suddenly he caught sight of Finland himself, out in the open, and making his way back towards the area Ivan had previously been. It was the first time he had seen the enemy nation in detail since they had began their deadly game of ‘hide and shoot‘. His heart full of a sort of eager, sadistic glee, Ivan wasted no time in charging his freshly revealed target. His hopes of taking Tino down before he even realized he was behind him vanished as the other man turned around to face him, but he had been too late to avoid the Russian tackling him to the snow.
Allowing his rifle to drop to the ground, Russia struggled to get his hands around Tino’s throat. Things would be so much easier if Tino had been a normal Finnish soldier. If given a choice, Russia much preferred to vastly out power those he fought with. Being another nation, he couldn’t just grab onto the Fin’s neck and snap it like he could a normal man.
“It doesn’t matter how much you care for your citizens in the long run, Tino. You won’t be able to save them anyways. I’m glad you decided to switch games though, I much prefer this one.” The struggle made the pain from his gunshot wounds increase tenfold, and even though that did little to dampen his resolve to try and throttle the smaller nation, he had to bite his tongue hard to refrain from gasping in pain.
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Post by Finland on Mar 20, 2011 23:52:55 GMT -5
Tino cursed himself for freezing up like he did as Ivan charged and then tackled him. The impact of the frozen ground against the back of his head jarred his brain and knocked the breath from him, disorienting him just long enough for the Russian to pin him down. At some point, he’d dropped his gun in the snow, but that was now the least of his worries as he felt Ivan’s hands at his throat. Grunting in effort, Tino managed to get his fingers in between the crushing force of the Russian’s grip and his own delicate windpipe, but it was taking all of his strength to repel the man. The size difference between the two – both in their bodily stature and in their nation size – was great and the smaller wasn’t sure how much longer his trembling muscles could keep the other’s hands at bay, especially at this disadvantageous position.
“It doesn’t matter how much you care for your citizens in the long run, Tino. You won’t be able to save them anyways. I’m glad you decided to switch games though, I much prefer this one.”
The Finn heard the words in the loosest understanding of the statement. Ivan’s voice reached his ears, but not his brain. He was far too occupied with the struggle at hand to worry about any taunts the Soviet might have been throwing at him. The snow was freezing the back of his head and his neck, his hood having fallen down under his shoulders after he had been roughly forced down. His blonde hair had fallen into his eyes, marring his vision, and something was digging uncomfortably into the small of his back. He was having trouble sucking enough oxygen through the fabric over his nose and mouth as he exerted himself, puffs of vapor seeping out through his face mask with each unsteady breath.
With his mind racing at a hundred miles per second, he considered his options. His gun was too far off to be of any assistance now, and after it had sunk into the snow, he wasn’t even sure where it was. He couldn’t very well get up. Ivan had pinned his legs when he forced him onto his back so that he could only lift his knees up a few inches. If he moved his hands, Ivan would grab onto his throat, either crushing the breath out of him or stopping the flow of his jugular long enough to knock him unconscious. If that happened, there would be no way to further defend himself.
It was at this time that he noticed the hole in Ivan’s coat. There was a dark blotch radiating from the rip, staining the fabric a dark crimson. Blood. So he had hit him. Though not seemingly in a vital area, his own shot had done more damage than the Russian’s. That would surely work in his favor.
As Ivan bore down on him, Tino’s hands only able to keep him away from his throat by mere millimeters, he felt the uncomfortable prodding in his spine once more. Having had simply brushed it off as a limb or root before, he suddenly realized – his sissipuukko was strapped to his belt there. If he could reach around and get ahold of it, he could stab Ivan’s exposed chest or belly.
Yet again, the thought occurred to him – his hands were both quite occupied. The Finn would have to risk having his esophagus crushed by freeing up a hand if he wanted to take hold of his weapon. The act would not be a subtle one if he did decide to take up his weapon. Ivan could very likely figure out what he was doing and stop him. And if he did stab him, failing to wound a critical area might only anger the larger man and unleash his wrath more fully. If he continued to lie deadlocked with the Russian, alternatively, his muscles would weaken and eventually give out completely. He would be choked into unconsciousness and then beaten into a coma. Either way, there was really no escaping his current bind unscathed.
Taking a deep breath, he wrenched a leg free and pushed it up as hard as possible, aiming to knee Ivan in the bullet wound he’d left in his abdomen earlier. Almost simultaneously, he released one of the Russian’s hands and allowed it to come down on his throat, arching his back up so that he could slip his own arm underneath himself. A sense of panic swept over him as he felt his heart throbbing, attempting to push blood faster to circulate oxygen that just wasn’t there. With the feeling in his hand dulled by the glove, the awkward positioning of his arm and the lack of oxygen in his brain, it was taking him longer than he could afford to undo the clasp of his puukko’s sheath.
At last, he managed to unclasp the leather strap holding his knife in place. In a quick, fluid motion, he drew his blade and stabbed up into Ivan above him with less strength than he would normally be capable of, not paying attention to how the steel became lodged as his vision blurred.
__________ [A [sissi]puukko is a traditional Finnish knife. Though it is normally intended to be used as a multipurpose tool or hunting aid and not as a combat weapon, it is worn as a standard part of the Finnish army’s uniform and was often used during the Winter War for close combat.]
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Post by Russia on Mar 22, 2011 16:18:11 GMT -5
Finland’s hands managed to hold Russia’s own at bay, as the larger nation struggled to crush his windpipe. Tino was stronger than he had thought, but still showing signs that he would not be able to hold up for long. It was only a matter of time before his strength gave out and Russia would be able to choke the life out of him. Although, as much energy as the Fin was putting into struggling against him, Ivan was putting just as much into trying to throttle the Nordic. He couldn’t keep it up forever, and he was hoping to find the other nation at his mercy before his own strength gave out. How disastrous it would be for Finland to wear out just slightly before himself so that he did not have the physical strength left to choke the other all the way.
The sight of the other nation struggling to breath was nice though, and he focused entirely on the task at hand. His wild, violet eyes fixed on the man beneath him, Ivan put as much force behind his efforts as he could. Squeezing at the Finnish nation’s throat like something possessed. He would win. He had his victim trapped beneath him and he assured himself that it wouldn’t be much longer before victory was at hand; both here in this personal battle and concerning the war itself.
So caught was he in his visions of victory, that Ivan did not notice his foe start to move a leg under him. Focused only on Tino’s throat, the Russian was surprised to suddenly feel the nation’s knee forced upwards into his abdomen, catching him right in the bullet wound. His eyes widened at the impact, and a hiss of pain escaped his pale lips as he drew in a sharp breath. With the wave of intense pain in his injury, he didn’t even notice at first when his hand finally was able to tighten on the flesh of Finland’s neck.
It did not take long for the Russian’s pain to be eclipsed by fury. A series of the harshest swears his native language had to offer flooded his mind in an unintelligible mess as he made to choke the other man with all the strength he had. Not being a masochist, these games started to become less fun with injury to himself.
The Fin had somehow managed to get something in his free hand, and it was only after he felt a sharp stab of pain in his gut that Ivan figured out what it was. The stab, combined with the bullet wound he had suffered previously, put the Russian in a state of misery. Releasing Finland’s throat and moving off the other nation, he grabbed onto the handle of the Finnish blade and pulled it free with slightly shaking hands.
A feeling of nausea and unfamiliar weakness was taking a hold of the tall blonde. Forgetting about Finland for a few moments, he opened his coat and examined the darkening stain of blood on his shirt. Clumsily re-fastening the buttons on the coat, Ivan rose to his feet, remembering that he was not alone and should not let his guard down. Immediately he scanned the snow for his fallen rifle. The injuries and blood loss was starting to catch up with him, and as much as he wanted to stab Tino to death with his own knife, he was starting to feel as though it wouldn’t be a good idea.
Still determined to win, Ivan snatched his gun up out of the snow and took a shaky aim at Finland. Pulling the trigger hastily, he was greeted with the unwelcoming click of an empty rifle. His disappointment and surprise was written on his pale features for once as he realized what a dangerous and possibly humiliating position he was in. He really, really did not want to back off. Every fiber of his dominant being was telling him to use what fading strength he had left to attack Finland once more in a “death or glory” moment. He still had the other man’s knife. But the move seemed crazy even by his deranged mind. If he were to fall here, at Finland’s hands, then his people would suffer for it as well. With every major defeat, his chances of winning the war were pushed farther and farther out of reach.
Get out of harms way now…find a medic… and take Finland down next time you meet… deciding that it was a good idea, the injured Soviet nation backed up a few steps, before turning to attempt and get to relative safety. As much as he wanted to tell Tino that he was not running away, he was merely retreating so he could kill him later, he remained silent. It sounded lame and pathetic even to him, and it was far better to retreat silently than to add further embarrassment by making desperate claims. He was the lead Soviet nation after all, he was far too prideful for that, even if that pride had been hurt by being forced to retreat.
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Post by Finland on Mar 23, 2011 12:39:25 GMT -5
Just as Tino began to see fuzzy grey patches forming at the edge of his field of vision, Ivan released him. The deadly grip around his throat was gone. For a moment, he forgot to breathe, content to lie in a semi-conscious pile. His racing mind had been calmed by the lack of air so that he was almost lulled into sleep. Sleep would be nice, a small voice in his mind suggested as his lids began to droop over watering, bloodshot eyes. At last, a tickling deep in his lungs reminded him: Breathe! Suppressing the urge to gag, he drew in as much air as he could. Lungs burning and hands clawing at his face mask, his chest heaved with desperate effort to suck in more, more air. Sound began coming back to his ears, the racket of gunfire fading in. As he became more alert, he Finn was relieved to find that his esophagus hadn’t been crushed, though from the feel of it, he would have a nasty bruise there.
In its entirety, the ordeal, starting from when he’d kneed Ivan, lasted mere seconds. His sluggish mind had made it seem much longer – minutes, even hours. And what had happened with Ivan? He vaguely remembered seeing the larger soldier’s face pale after he’d kicked his wound, but after that, he couldn’t recall. The weight on his throat and body where Ivan had been pressing him down against the earth was gone, meaning that he must have crawled away from him. Had his blade pierced something important, then? Looking around, he spotted the Soviet kneeling just beside him, drawing the blade from his stomach.
He still has my knife, the Finn thought in horror, scrambling to find purchase in the snow to get to his feet before Ivan could turn and stab him. Through the reeling of his head and the sting in his shoulder he’d managed to roll onto his belly and lift himself onto his hands and knees just as the bloodied Russian discarded the blade in favor of snatching up his discarded Mosin-Nagant. Tino’s breath hitched as he stared wide-eyed down the barrel of the gun. There was no way he could survive such a shot. Ivan would certainly not take pity on the nation that had gone against him and inflicted personal injury not once, but twice. Biting back a worthless plea for his life, he closed his eyes and waited for the worst.
Click.
It was a beautiful sound. Nearly in a state of disbelief, Tino watched as Ivan took a reluctant step backwards, lowering his thankfully empty rifle. Ivan looked upset, possibly discontent with the fact that he would not be killing the Finn just yet. Although his expression hardly betrayed the full extent, the Finn could make out the traces of a cold fury etched in Ivan’s face. The Russian took another step back, and then turned and began retreating. So that was it. Tino had done his job. Allowing himself to breathe once again, the little Finn collapsed into the snow.
But I’m not done, am I? He groaned. He didn’t want to move right now, let alone finish Ivan off. Still, he knew that if he didn’t do something, the other nation would wander back to his own people, get patched up, and go back to killing Finns.
“Where are you going?” Tino asked, his voice now very hoarse and broken. It took some degree of effort just to make it audible. Getting onto his feet, he stumbled a bit until he came across his rifle, picking the weapon up and slinging it over his shoulder. A few steps more and he came across his knife. He stooped to pick it up, wiping Ivan’s blood from the blade against his pants. “Say, Ivan? It can’t be that you’re running away from me, can it?” taunted the Finn to no one in particular as he slipped the blade into its sheath.
Dropping down onto one knee, he moved his rifle into his arms and took aim through the scope. At first, he targeted the back of the Russian’s head, imagined how good it would feel to send a bullet through that blonde hair into skin and skull and brain. If he killed Ivan, though, he’d wake up perfectly fine beside his boss only days later. Alternatively, with a well-placed shot in the knee, he could make traversing the rough Karelian terrain even more of a challenge for the man. It would be hard to sneak up on unsuspecting Finnish soldiers with a shattered kneecap. His aim lowered.
“I told you, Ivan, you won’t be taking my land. Kollaa stands.”
Deftly, he squeezed the trigger.
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