Lih laughed when he believed that Dorian’s quip about doing Atharim’s dirty work had been a joke, and then laughed even harder when he realized it wasn’t.
The pale officer coughed as he stifled up his laughter.
“Good… good work, sir.”
Thinking over Dorian’s words, Lih was little reassured. He wasn’t sure who would win a head-on collision between monsters and Atharim, but he was sure neither party would walk away smiling.
Now there was an uncomfortable thought...
Frustrating: he had never actually killed before, not that Dorian needed to know. Not fair, not fair, not fair!
His first, and second kill.
Lih tensed.
Helpless rage boiled up inside of him. It reminded him in the worst way of his fight with the rougarou and the decisions he’d been forced to make there. For the greater good of moscow, of CCD, he’d killed two men.
He could say it was self-defense. Say it was to help his partner Costa. Say the men were not human. It’d been legitimate. Necessary. He could say all these things, but he jolly well wasn’t going to— not even think them.
In all of his training scenarios, some of which rather realistically simulated, he had not accounted for this particular feeling when he made his first kill, and they fell short.
Tears welled in his eyes. He could no longer discern Dorian. He looked out at the blurred shapes sliding by and said nothing because there was nothing to say.
Oh, fine. So he was upset, okay?
Truth be known, like it wasn’t already obvious, Lih was terrified of killing again. He’d been corralled by the will of the good doctor to study cases inside—he seldom caught glimpse of the sun. His studies kept him busy, very busy and Lih had become a touch thinner in the face, thinner in the body and his complexion lighter (how possible?). In that cordoned off “Lih Area” he’d gained a healthy respect for paperwork, but bounced enthusiastically into the sunlight after Dorian—hello, free time!
At that unbidden mental image of himself chasing Dorian like a puppy, Lih tried to laugh but managed something between it and a sob.
Bruised, battered, beaten, belligerent, and now feeling very sorry for himself, Lih was sitting on the edge of his chair, his head in his hands, crying silently.
Lih didn’t understand. He wasn’t sorry. Wasn’t this promotion what he’d wanted? How was this for a jam?
He felt indignant and confused and began speaking again only because he was lost; speaking gave him a sense of purpose.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Lih whispered. “I shouldn’t have."
Weariness, depression, a combination of both: it didn’t matter. There was a dull ache in his head and he imagined his mind and body leaking out through his skin. Lih wasn’t the best communicator; words came awkward, stiltedly, but the other didn’t interrupt what he had to say.
“It was my fault, sir… I looked up, and they were dead. Dead! I didn’t think, I just moved! I killed both of them … I can’t let myself hurt people again… I can’t.” His tone was bitter.
He refused to look up at Dorian for help, having reduced himself and feeling rather stupid.
Vitya Lih
The pale officer coughed as he stifled up his laughter.
“Good… good work, sir.”
Thinking over Dorian’s words, Lih was little reassured. He wasn’t sure who would win a head-on collision between monsters and Atharim, but he was sure neither party would walk away smiling.
Now there was an uncomfortable thought...
Frustrating: he had never actually killed before, not that Dorian needed to know. Not fair, not fair, not fair!
His first, and second kill.
Lih tensed.
Helpless rage boiled up inside of him. It reminded him in the worst way of his fight with the rougarou and the decisions he’d been forced to make there. For the greater good of moscow, of CCD, he’d killed two men.
He could say it was self-defense. Say it was to help his partner Costa. Say the men were not human. It’d been legitimate. Necessary. He could say all these things, but he jolly well wasn’t going to— not even think them.
In all of his training scenarios, some of which rather realistically simulated, he had not accounted for this particular feeling when he made his first kill, and they fell short.
Tears welled in his eyes. He could no longer discern Dorian. He looked out at the blurred shapes sliding by and said nothing because there was nothing to say.
Oh, fine. So he was upset, okay?
Truth be known, like it wasn’t already obvious, Lih was terrified of killing again. He’d been corralled by the will of the good doctor to study cases inside—he seldom caught glimpse of the sun. His studies kept him busy, very busy and Lih had become a touch thinner in the face, thinner in the body and his complexion lighter (how possible?). In that cordoned off “Lih Area” he’d gained a healthy respect for paperwork, but bounced enthusiastically into the sunlight after Dorian—hello, free time!
At that unbidden mental image of himself chasing Dorian like a puppy, Lih tried to laugh but managed something between it and a sob.
Bruised, battered, beaten, belligerent, and now feeling very sorry for himself, Lih was sitting on the edge of his chair, his head in his hands, crying silently.
Lih didn’t understand. He wasn’t sorry. Wasn’t this promotion what he’d wanted? How was this for a jam?
He felt indignant and confused and began speaking again only because he was lost; speaking gave him a sense of purpose.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Lih whispered. “I shouldn’t have."
Weariness, depression, a combination of both: it didn’t matter. There was a dull ache in his head and he imagined his mind and body leaking out through his skin. Lih wasn’t the best communicator; words came awkward, stiltedly, but the other didn’t interrupt what he had to say.
“It was my fault, sir… I looked up, and they were dead. Dead! I didn’t think, I just moved! I killed both of them … I can’t let myself hurt people again… I can’t.” His tone was bitter.
He refused to look up at Dorian for help, having reduced himself and feeling rather stupid.
Vitya Lih