Andrei
A slow russian jazz played in the background as Andrei worked. The hopping beat was met with a pleasantly synchronous and staccato 'chk, chk, chk' every time his knife met the bottom of the chopping block. It was an art, the only art Andrei knew. He chopped with strength and delicate precision, knowing from years of experience just the right angle, just the right weight, just the right height from which to start. Expertly he sheared through softly cooked flesh and charred bone, flicking his butcher knife just right to send a flowery slice sagging over onto the growing pile to his left.
As was the case with all things, Andrei worked in silence. He didn't even look up when the bell rigged to his Grocer's door would ring, signalling that it had been opened. He trusted his comrades. If they stole from him, so be it; it was their loss of both honor and the title of 'good communist', and the only thing he lost was trust in the individual. It was not a fair trade; he was left with far more than they were. This being said, he was compelled on occasion to answer the 'hello' of a regular customer or respond to an individual (of appropriate legal age of course) demand for some sort of liqueur. Occasionally the request was altered to include a 'house', signalling that some of the bottle should be poured out into one of the shot glasses stored under the meat counter so that the customer may sit, drink and talk as Andrei worked.
This occasional event was presently in motion, a man of incredibly dark skin gesturing to him animatedly as he related to the Ukrainian the sad affairs of his home life. Andrei did listen- listening was what he did best- but did not meet the man with as much enthusiasm as he was given. Grunting occasionally in agreement or nodding his head sagely, it didn't impact his work. He kept his eyes on the lamb hock beneath his large gloved hand, and the knife stayed in motion. Life was simple for Andrei. Work, listen, be a good communist. It was easy, and easy was the only thing he was good at.
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Nicolae
Nicolae
Hate was a strong word. That was one of the top five mandates of Elementary School. 'Don't say you hate something, hate is a strong word'. Yeah. Hate was a strong word. Which was exactly why Nick felt the need to use it to define his feelings about his job. Everything he'd heard was terrible about the communist occupation of Romania, everything that ruined the lives of the average man, he emulated because of his job. A murderer, a government dog, the indoctrinated. Yes, there had been a heavy amount of brainwashing. A lot of effort went into instilling a sense of loyalty to the government, and Nick was to some extent a loyal member of the secret police. Despite this, however, he was predisposed by nature to be obstinate- and unlike many other civilians, particularly those in the program, the echoes of wrongdoing in his own country still fueled some of his more subconscious impulses.
The violence came naturally. Maybe that was genetic too, but there was some sick pleasure in killing the pitiful ones. Those who begged, pleaded, asked why were useless in any society. They were just more of a threat in this one, due naturally to the fact that the pitiful had no place in this world. A successful nation was a unified and strong one, and the proud did not beg. But what didn't come nearly as easily was the obedience. He'd never once said no, but he seldom failed to consider it. What he did, everything that formed the foundation of his loyalty, could be loosely defined as self preservation.
This was why, in the interest of self preservation, he returned to Head Quarters with a paper lunchbag containing two brown eyes. Okay, so maybe that was a bit unorthodox and a tad excessive, but being that it was him his proxy wasn't surprised. Opening the lunch bag and examining the contents, she quirked a brow and looked up to him, a gesture he met with a shrug. It was a necessary act. The particular owner of these brown eyes was a man whom had been 'killed' three times now, and yet still managed to survive. Rather cockroach-y in Nick's opinion. That set aside, physical proof of his death was required, and it was harder to sneak a head around than a pair of perfect eyes. Paperwork was then filled out, like always, questions asked and answered under the supervision of three sets of eyes- only two of which being operational.
With that settled, he left with a 50 mark ration coupon and was on his way to the door of the stairwell when he passed the conference room. The door was open, which was rare since open doors were terrible ideas in India. Backpedaling and glancing in, he quirked a brow at Sherry. He didn't know her name, it had never been an issue, but he'd interacted very briefly with her before by chance.
"Slow day?" He called casually, leaning against the doorway. He decided he couldn't be pegged as invasive; after all, she was wheeling around like a kid left in their dad's office.
