Ignoring the crying man on the floor, the Commissar spat out his cigar, stamping it on the floor,
"Thousand year old tobacco?! Isn't that dangerous!? Dammit, we've plenty of the ol' spic smokes left on the Warship Havana, and they're fresh! Ish."
He sighed, then looked worried.
"Sh*t, Weise, what the hell will the damn boffins say when they hear we've lit up bloody historical artifacts?"
Again, he pointed two guns, one at each applicant, continuing to yell, his vodka-laced breath able to be smelled from outside, most likely,
"What do you both think should be done, regarding this grievous destruction, which is your fault, both of you, of objects of great archaeological importance?! Eh!?"
Comrade, this stuff has no historical value. The only thing it's good for, is the extra pleasure after shooting down some snobby Alliance prat. What is this situation going to become, huh? Here I am, a fighter for the Revolution, a sworn enemy of the pested capitalism and all of its minions... and what are you doing? Tossing me on the ground, into the blood of those... traitors.
Calm down Kirill... you forgot where you are. This guy has pointed a weapon on your face.
So, what are we going to do now? Do you want to execute me like you did already with the others? Or do you want a honest fighter for the good side?
Bjorn was passing trough hallway, promptly enjoying one of Adbul's kebabs. They became big bang in coalition, taking place just behind votka. And rightly so, thing was delicious beyond compare.
*sound of gunshots and muffled shouting*
"Oh my... what now?" Asked bjorn more to himself, and he hurried onward. Soon a girl with bolt imbedded in her hand passed him walking in what looked more like dance than walking with all the zig-zaging.
"Ah, that explains it, so they set up recruitment office there. Good, im gonna go retrieve my crossbow." With that in mind, Bjorn started to follow bloody footprints all the way to the doors. As he approached he heard familiar voice of Eugene, and three more voices he couldnt link up. He passed old man in coat filling out questionarie near the doorway, noding with his food in hand he entered the room.
"Dont shoot me you twat!" he jelled at Eugene. "Im here to get my toy, need it for work. And, oh my Commissar-Captain Gorodetsky? Who took you out of the closet?" With wink he proceeded to desk where crossbow was, almost triping over weapons on the floor. "By Lenins beard comrades, clean this up when you are done. Who in the right mind keeps ammo and guns on floor?" With last sentence he sat on desk, and started inspecting crossbow.
"We seem to be attracting twice as many applicants as necessary, Captain Thorvaldsson... but only half the number of chromosomes required.
Damn,"
He pointed at Koslov with the muzzle of a pistol,
"...this one is stupid enough to dodge my bloody questions, even after I've told him not to. How bloody hard is it to answer a question about what you'd do if you destroyed some sort of historically important national treasure?!"
He then groaned, his voice rising in volume rapidly...
"Dammit, this one is supposed to be DEAD!"
He then proceeded to kick the armoured man on the floor square in the nose with a heavy right boot, following it up with a stamp on the head, crushing his skull.
He looked around, menace in his eyes, then shrugging as he explained to Bjorn,
"Sometimes I forget that you can save bullets doing that, da?"
"Nice piece of work, comrade commissar, but you see, I think things like blades are much more adequate. That way you dont get any of that "stupid" on your shoes." Said Bjorn, putting away now loaded crossbow and pulling out ornate sabre, while still eating kebab. He tossed it in the body of the unarmored corpse, and sabre penetrated all the way trough the hearth and out on the other side.
"Its waste of time having someone polish boots again, yes?" Finishing his kebab he looked down on injured man on the floor. Comrade, stand up, and limp your way to the med bay. You can follow the trail of blood that was left by some lass moments ago." He slid down from desk and proceeded to retrieve sabre.
"Well, comrades, I will be leaving you with last guy at your own leisure. Oh, and I believe somebody knocked on the door, but it was lost in the noise of skull cracking." Said Bjorn cleaning the sabre and taking closer look of armour on the now pretty dead recruit.
"Niet, comrade, I think you'd be good sticking around, you're good at this nonsense, eh?" responded the Commissar-Captain, lightening up a touch.
"Also, the way I see it is that I have to polish my boots every day anyway, right? So... it doesn't matter if I get the brains of utter idiots on them, since they've already got cleaning scheduled.
A sword... well, that's just more work, heheh. Cleaning that will cut into the time I spent grilling these sorry excuses for human beings..."
Again, he pointed at the recruits, this time the live ones. He was angry again, of course.
"I mean, really, who found these guys, and where? Are they the parish of the local Bretonian church? They're like charity workers!"
Pavel moved back inside the office, slowly opening the door with his hand that was holding the now filled-out paper in his hand, the other thrust into his coat's pocket.
His white eyebrow raised slightly at the corpses on the floor, the blood everywhere, the inventive weapons, and the sadistic, inebriated officers. But it was nothing new to old Pavel, and he made his way to the two commissars, one holding rather good specimens of saber and kebab, and the other pointing and asking about religious Bretonians.
Pavel handed the one with the red-coloured boot the paper. "If they were parish member, they would look worse... I think... like those on Cardamine, yes? As religion is drug, they say."
"This one isn't as mentally deficient as the others, eh? Maybe he'll do well. Maybe."
He then smiled as he read his form, which, to be fair, was probably rather frightening, as he continued to roughly point a weapon at the less capable applicants.
"What the hell, you can't fly whilst you're drunk?! What would happen if we were having a May Day celebration and there was a red alert!? What would you do?! Cry?!"
He waved the application form around angrily,
"We'll beat that out of you, dammit! Head to processing, Recruit! You're in, you pathetic, sober girl!"
As the new recruit left, Gorodetsky leaned over to Thorvaldsson again, whispering,
"That one seemed okay. Probably one of those Arab sorts like Muhadrem, with the lack of liquor. Looked a bit pale, though..."
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