𝕃 𝕀 𝕆 ℕ ℍ 𝔼 𝔸 ℝ 𝕋

A secretary; he actually thought that H.U.N.K, of all human beings on this forsaken planet, could pass as a secretary. The look on his face is a combination of utter bewilderment and annoyance. Were he not continuously reminding himself that his sole purpose right now was keeping this man alive, he might have actually punched the son of a bitch.

As it stands, he doesn't have much of a choice. He could object again, of course, but it's rather obvious that Alexander is not going to see reason on any of this. So he nods in stoic obedience and starts to help the other man inside the building. Mindful to not make too much disruptive sound, even though the front doors are old and groan with protest upon being opened.

The interior feels strange. Foreign in some ways. He can hardly recall his own adolescence, let alone a time when he might have interacted in buildings with other children. His eyes glance around. Absorbing the details: the walls that need a fresh coat of paint. The hastily wiped away crayon marks that are just about at the height of someone much, much smaller than he.

"How many are there in here?" He questions. "Do you know?"

It was a relief to only have to deal with that many. In the early years after the war, they'd been so short on teaching staff that Alexander had had to teach multiple subjects, not all of which he was familiar with, often to classes of fifty to a hundred per day. Having a more normalized teaching experience since then, he supposes, is proof that the country has healed quite a bit.

The door to his classroom is pushed open, and he is greeted by a chorus of young voices. "доброго ранку, професоре Козаченко," they say.

"Good morning, everyone." Alexander responds, saying it once in Ukrainian and then again in English, so that HUNK isn't left out. "We have a guest today. He is observing our class and you will be very respectful towards him, tak?" he asks.

If HUNK looks around, he will find two dozen-odd faces peering at him. Some are still soft and full of baby fat, and others hardened. Some were thin, others pudgy. There was no real uniform look to them besides being in the rough twelve-to-fourteen age range. A couple are older, having missed crucial classes during the war and being joined with the younger students.

"Milovan," he says, singling out one of the older ones, who quickly stows the paper he'd been doodling on face-down, "you will show new instructor where supplies are kept."

He almost looks like steam should be billowing out of his ears, but he keeps whatever commentary he's thinking to himself and leans to punch the school into the GPS. Opting for the ever-reliant tech in place of simply asking Alexander for directions.

He leaves his helmet and mask in the backseat. Like some abandoned lunchbag that he eyes just before he sets the car in motion. There isn't much to say while they're driving. He mumbles something about the estimated time. Echoing the GPS like a well-trained parrot, only to become more annoyed at the realization that's what he sounds like.

When they pull into the parking lot, he doesn't hesitate. He sets the vehicle into park and exits. Wandering around to unload the wheelchair and push it over towards the passenger side. After opening Alexanders door, he moves it to be close enough for him to transfer, then waits.

"Do you want me to speak to them about anything in particular?" He's not even certain he knows what children talk about. Things he wouldn't understand, he presumes.

"Do not ask them nor prompt them for anything concerning their parents." he advises, as they make their way into the building. "Many of them are orphans."

The truth was that learning to be around kids and not tearing your hair out, let alone enjoying their company, was definitely a learned skill that could take a while to develop. God bless them, but if he hadn't had Irene around to help him do it the first time, he might not have settled into teaching so easily.

He's well aware sentencing HUNK to a day like this amounts to torment as much as it does enrichment - but it was also, to be fair, going to be funny as hell.

His analyzing gaze drifts a bit above Alexander's eyes, and a small scoff leaves him.

"«Deliberations on upcoming policy. They're sure to debate if they should intervene, and if so: how, in regards to the social integration of mutated humans and uninfected civilians.»"

What an astounding sentence just on its own. Who would have ever thought that biological weapons could produce such ramifications. Before a certain time period, mutated humans would have simply, uniformly, meant 'victims'. A case like his own, from the outside, wouldn't even be considered worth pursuing, since all he seemingly had wrong with him was an obvious after-effect of Las Plagas parasitism, the red eyes. Guess the rate of survival had improved lately.

He knows exactly what should and must be said in response to such a framing, of course. He can read all too many ill futures and consequences into the idea of separating people into categories based on infected or uninfected status, and the social consequences would be disastrous. Paranoia and stigmatization would run rampant. It would be the fantasy of a suited prick with an agenda. Which means it's just as likely to be what Nikolai here fully intends.

when he turns toward her , clearly irritated by the light , she lowers the beam slightly , just enough to illuminate the blood that drips down his neck . her own gaze darkens , but she is not struck with fear , not yet . he also seems unphased by what he's done . something is off about all of this . was this a means of self defense , or simply a crime of passion ? elena keeps her distance , her free hand hovering at her side should she need to reach for one of her knives . ❛ did he hurt you ? ❜ she asks quietly , gaze peering toward the body on the ground . ❛ i can help with that , if you need . ❜

All traces of humanity are amiss, not replaced by anything monstrous, except in actions alone, but replaced merely by nothing. As if through a glitch, or some kind of misfire of brain signals. That surely could be the only explanation.

.The Slavic man is quick to move away from the beam of light, shielding his red eyes, and a small growl escaping him that does not match his unbothered expression. His grip on the axe, having relaxed since discovery, tightens again and he makes a menacing step forward, meaning to close the distance.

All that time off, and he still had one last obligation to fulfill. With one final week before he returned to duty, Leon spent the last of his medical leave calling in favors to purposefully drop himself into the aftermath of a war zone. Considering the USGov allowed him to go AWOL on the eve of an impending joint-occupation, it hadn't been all that difficult to pull a, You owe me one.

You'd think after saving the guy's life, making good on a promise to visit--with souvenirs--and paying for his dinner, Alexander Kozachenko would be happier to see him.

Then again, maybe he should've been grateful "Buddy" hadn't shot him on sight, promise of drinks or not.

Okay, so it was, and it always would be. Right now, he works for free, with the support from TerraSave not yet having been established - and as such, what little enough organization there was left in the country to arrange classes for students did not include a salary, at least not yet. Only a lack of options, and perhaps a yearning desire to see bright and youthful faces again, made him do it.

There were, of course, the expected complaints from the tykes. Our country is at war, why do we have to go to school? and other similar complaints that he could only shrug at. But truthfully, the students were far less of a stress test now than Alexander could ever remember them being before. Many were recently orphaned, and most were simply happy to have an adult present who had their best interests at heart. The younger ones tended to be scared of his red eyes, but the wheelchair, at least, helped present him as no threat to anyone. 'Mr. Kozachenko' had become the only stability in much of his student's lives.

"Unlike visiting me. It has its own re...."

Before he can complete the sentence, he's caught off guard and trails off.

Alexander is, at the reveal of seeming gifts, utterly nonplussed. The truth of the matter is, he and Leon don't know each other that well. If you could call them friends, that alone would be a bit of a stretch, but certainly he would not have imagined Leon fond enough of him to actually think of him and spend money. As a matter of fact, the whole thing makes him rather suspicious. And, as such, he doesn't immediately reach for them.

" You know it. " A roll of his eyes. " I was dying without seeing that mug of yours. " The sarcasm dripping from his words, Leon was almost all too happy to match the other's energy. Not that it was that strange considering their history. However it was telling that he came to visit, or rather that he willingly step foot in a hospital given how he'd rather bleed to death than being taken to one.

" You know how it is. That's classified. " The shrug that followed nonchalant in nature. However despite his own words he kept talking. " I was just looking into some intel we got, nothing too bad. And since I was here, I thought of checking up on you. "

There was a raise of a brow then, almost a silent question of where to, or rather a request to move somewhere, anywhere for the matter, because the white walls around him was starting to get him antsy despite still keeping his usual demeanor.

The next day, the very next day. The timing of it still stunned him. He supposes that's what Leon gets for rushing in, but then again, if he hadn't, Alexander would probably be dead. And so, here they sit. But, not for long.

"You look as though you want to leave." he says, reading the expression on Leon's face. "Come. There is still much of the Republic that is intact. Much I could show you. Where do you want to go first?"

Is it too late to make the counteroffer of allowing Alexander to break his kneecaps instead? Because he very visibly considers making it as he stands there, battling the compulsion to scowl at his employer right now, only because he knows that would make it so much worse than it already is.

This one had some rather absurd ideas about where he was best suited. And lofty ones at that if he thought that H.U.N.K could ever reach the point of ever being properly socialized.

Like a prisoner being trotted off to his own public execution, he takes a few steps towards Alexander, fully prepared to follow his employer to their destination now. As bad an idea as he secretly thought that it was.

Someone's child was going to end up crying today, he could feel it.

One of JD's favorite American movies, cinephile and Ameriphile that he'd been, was called 'Terminator'. He knows it well, because the shorter, more excitable of the two men had forced him to watch it with him many, many times. Always in English, like he'd forgotten their mother tongue, always saying he was practicing.

In the second movie, one JD had raved about even more than the first, the big, scary-looking thug of a robot had learned about human emotions, and become beloved by the boy he had been charged to protect. Alexander could admit he found it compelling. And fictional story though it might be, he's quite sure it won't be as difficult for HUNK to interact with other people as it will be for that stupid robot.

Within minutes, the car is loaded with his wheelchair, and he occupies his passenger seat, looking expectantly at HUNK, who would be driving.

That Alexander would rebel the piece, rejecting its symbol of status, this was predicted at meetings. It would not halt progress. Altering the public image of Kozachenko was part of the equation.

Alexander needn't know any of this, only that their wishes, as clients of Nikolai Zinoviev, would be fulfilled.

The tie tosses about Alexander's collar; a silk snake, winding round Nikolai's leather gloves. Guided from formless chaos to precise symmetry. A shape that pleases suit wearing elites. Not Nikolai's tastes, but he isn't the one being forced into it.

"Що це за дурне зібрання, і який у ньому сенс?" he asks. He'll not use English or Russian - Nikolai can adapt to him. "Що такого важливого, що ти втягнув мене в цей жахливий костюм?"

"It's fine. They're not the most unruly bunch I've ever dealt with, trust me." Kwame turns to face the class, smiling warmly. "That would have to be my family at our holiday gatherings."

Alexander had not done much research into who exactly was coming to teach when TerraSave announced they'd be pulling staff from other parts of the world to assist in the teaching shortage post-war. Only when he'd head the term 'Philosophy University' had he felt the need to look into it, having understood that to be a school of some repute in Australia.

As it turned out, the school had suffered biological weapons-based chaos only last year; it surprised Alexander, then, to find that the school had any staff to spare at all, let alone those who would want to come to a place very recently full of bioweapons. Perhaps Professor Sarpong felt like being somewhere else other than where the disaster had happened, he reasoned. Either way, he feels much gratitude and respect for the decision to do so.

"I don't know how many ages you are used to teaching," Alexander admits, wheeling himself closer, "but everyone ages twelve to eighteen takes my class. It has been a bit of an adjustment. Not enough staff or resources to divide up the kids the way it used to be done."