[color=lightgreen][center][h3][i][b]Day 2: 06:25:01 Polavian Standard Vodka Distillery, Novy Jork, Capital Province, Republic of Polavia [/b][/i][/h3][/center][/color][center][b][h3][i]Borys Skala[/i][/h3][/b][/center][hr] Borys did not fight gracefully when wielding a melee weapon. It was not like the movies where a lone knight dances among his enemies, dispatching them with precise flourishes of his sword. Borys was more like a tank driving through a neighborhood in a straight line - he picked a target and stuck to it, pounding them into mulch using brute force and single-minded conviction that would qualify him to be a paladin in a different magic system built up over years of childhood fights, drunken pub brawls and prison pit fighting, shrugging off retaliatory strikes until the target stopped moving before moving onto the next one. It was enough to send some of the militants fleeing, which only opened them up even more to the rest of the team. When the pandemonium was over, Borys paused by one of the dead goons to wipe blood and what he was reasonably sure was a bit of grey matter from his shoes with the same gravity he would with a dog turd, quickly checking that the girls were intact and shooting them a thumbs up to let them know he was as well. He paused by the pile of sugarcanes, grabbing a few pieces and beginning to chew on one, holding his hand with a few stalks to Rowan and Oksana. “Just remember to spit, not swallow.” His gaze paused on the broken bottles Rowan had caused, flicked between the redhead and the national disaster she was responsible for, then pointed at her with the sugar canes he was still holding and slowly shook his head in profound disappointment. “You can make it up to me by supplying more of this.” He tapped the wine bottle in his vest with the knuckles of his other hand, “And you’re already making it up to Polavia by killing these fucks, so keep at it.” When Upswing burst onto the scene, Borys glanced between him and Felix, “Of course you know the guy.” He said in that particular tone of voice that indicated he was aware that his life had become a tragicomedy but he was too drunk and too powerless to do anything about it, so why bother? The next arrival was less of a happy reunion. [quote]”You interrupted a business meeting. I will interrupt yours. Including you, Borys Skala. Alcohol poisoning hasn't gotten you yet.”[/quote] “Pass, too ugly.” Was the first reply Borys’ chemically happy mind conjured up in response. The second were 5,45x39 mm fullmetal jacket, but that didn’t really count, and although by now he was deep enough in the bottle to probably survive long enough to fire if he raised his rifle now, his team would definitely not. “Don’t waste your breath on her, Butterfly.” Borys said as Oksana tried to negotiate, “You’ll have an easier time convincing a Kalani priest to release the little boys from the church’s basement.” True to expectation, it all went to shit then and bullets started flying. Bullets and… ghost dogs? They actually looked remarkably similar to the strays Borys and his chums would have to throw rocks and empty bottles at so they’d leave them be as they stumbled home from the pub. And yet they somehow still looked less dangerous than the ones the guards at the prison were using. Two were on Borys in an instant, one latching onto his left arm, another going for his crotch which was really the one that concerned him, at least until its spectral jaws found their mark and absolutely nothing happened. He started laughing, a deep rumbling bellow he was too drunk to hold despite the bullets flying around. He stopped abruptly, levelling his left arm - with the spectral stray hanging off of it impotently - to point at Yelena. “You’re dead.” He simply said, punctuating the statement by swinging his arm in a wide arc that ended with the dog hanging off of it striking a nearby wall, enough to make it let go and allow Borys to wield Svetlana properly, quickly dispatching both dogs - they were too close to miss even with his blood alcohol content. The showdown of two Adidas-wearing, binge-drinking gopnik arcane commandos was a lot less spectacular than one might have hoped, with one zipping around the room in a stunning display of common sense in combat - how unPolavian! - while the other was too hammered to hit any target that was moving perpendicularly to him. But just because he was drunk didn’t mean he wasn’t observing. In fact, it probably helped, seeing double and all… Because Borys noticed a pattern. He left cover to get across the room, a burst of 9x18 mm from a PP-19 slamming into his side and sending him tumbling onto the ground near where he needed to get to being enough to actually draw blood from what was, at least by gunshot wound standards, a surface-level scrape. He wasn’t going to address the rib that had probably broken, it wasn’t in his lung so it was fiiiiiine. He set up his mirror by the wall and stood back up, still taking potshots at Yelena - and at one point throwing an empty magazine because that seemed like a good way to keep up the pressure even while reloading - as he moved to a certain part of the room, near a mostly intact display case - one holding a polished brass still. He swore loudly, letting Svetlana hang on her sling and switching to his PB in oe hand and bat in the other. He fired and jumped into his reflection in the still. Yelena blinked herself into cover, exactly where Borys thought she would go. Borys came out of his mirror bat-first, smacking Yelena across the face before he had even fully materialized yet. She might have been one hard to pin down witch, but it was very hard to teleport with a broken nose and mild concussion. “Too bad, so sad…” Borys said as he stood over Yelena’s dazed form, holstering the PB as she tried to figure out which way was up and why her mouth tasted like iron, “But sometimes life’s a Polavian,” He spat out the remnants of the sugar cane he’d been chewing as he raised Yelena II - how appropriate - over his head to deliver the finishing blow, “And you’re an unstolen car.” The bat came down just as a spectral hound lunged for it, yanking it off course and Borys off his feet. “Yoebany v rot, blyat. We’re not playing fetch, suka!” Borys thundered at the dog, levering the bat sideways and twisting the spectral dog’s neck in a way bone structure would not have allowed, enough for the apparition to whimper as it disappeared. He quickly swung the bat again from supine position, but only struck the ground where Yelena had been before she blinked out. “This is why I like cats better. Yoeb tvayu mať...” Borys groaned as he picked himself up again. Some hours later, a sober Borys would be kicking himself over getting cough monologuing like a B-movie villain. Drunk Borys just hoped no one would call it out for what it was.