Natalya Zamyatin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blonderussianspy) wrote2010-01-11 01:45 am
blonderussianspy) wrote2010-01-11 01:45 am
(no subject)
The snow was gone. All of it, gone. It was hot out, mostly sunny, though every few days they'd be pelted on and off for hours with fat, warm rain drops falling from barely-grey clouds that would then be blown on out over the water by the breeze off the sea.
Natalya was miserable.
Having sadly packed away the ski gear and snowboots and reverted to her island uniform of tank tops, shorts and combat boots. She hated them. The worst was that she hated them more, now. More than Kansas, more than she'd hated the island's climate when she'd first arrived, she hated it now because she'd had more than a teasing glimpse of snow, almost a full season of it.
The place had almost felt like home.
Today she was going to indulge in her favorite pastime of climbing trees and pretending to bird watch with her sniper rifle while keeping an indulgent eye out on the horizon for signs of ships. Then she would go to where Vladimir and the American Astronaut were buried out of a sense of strangled and floundering duty, and then, who could say. An evening spent sifting through old Russian poetry in search of something palatable was never out of the question.
She ran her hand wearily over the back of her neck as she pushed aside a low hanging palm frond and stepped down onto one of the lesser worn paths from the slope she'd been quietly traversing, and sighed.
Natalya was miserable.
Having sadly packed away the ski gear and snowboots and reverted to her island uniform of tank tops, shorts and combat boots. She hated them. The worst was that she hated them more, now. More than Kansas, more than she'd hated the island's climate when she'd first arrived, she hated it now because she'd had more than a teasing glimpse of snow, almost a full season of it.
The place had almost felt like home.
Today she was going to indulge in her favorite pastime of climbing trees and pretending to bird watch with her sniper rifle while keeping an indulgent eye out on the horizon for signs of ships. Then she would go to where Vladimir and the American Astronaut were buried out of a sense of strangled and floundering duty, and then, who could say. An evening spent sifting through old Russian poetry in search of something palatable was never out of the question.
She ran her hand wearily over the back of her neck as she pushed aside a low hanging palm frond and stepped down onto one of the lesser worn paths from the slope she'd been quietly traversing, and sighed.
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"Am glad for to help. Eh, is interesting dog," she ventured, nodding to Duncan, although she also made eye contact with the animal. She was talking about him, after all.
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"He's a marbari - they're native to my country," he said, reaching out to pat the mabari on the head. He was growing more affectionate with him lately, even though he doubted he'd be a good owner when he first showed up for him. "They're war hounds. Basically they look nice and friendly - if a bit large - until you make them mad. Then it's chomp and you've lost your arm or some other important body part. I don't suspect you'll be pulling any weapons on me any time soon, though, so not to worry too much about that second part."
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