It was one of his many recurrent nightmares: Russian rebels were hacking his arm off in the middle of a forest and without any sort of anesthetic. The internal screams were soon external and he'd wake up in a cold sweat. His first action was always the same; his hand went to the arm he was missing. This time, however, his hand touched actual flesh instead of whatever surface he'd fallen asleep on or the prosthetic he was prone to wearing even to bed. Krycek's brow was furrowed at this revelation as he lifted himself off the bed. Was it possible that the entire incident in Russia had merely been a nightmare? Instinctively he'd reached under the mattress for his gun, but found nothing there.
Confusion continued after he reached out and flicked on a lamp he spotted on the bedside table. The blue glow of the alarm clock alerted him to the time: 1:30am. Eyes surveyed the unrecognizable room before he glanced down at the other side of the bed, wondering if he'd gotten drunk and wound up going home with another bar patron. On the floor, he spotted his usual white tee-shirt, pair of jeans (although they seemed to have actually been washed recently) and shoes, all of which he slipped on before venturing with caution into the next room. As he checked each room, he called out: "Hello? Anyone here?" The apartment had three bedrooms and was decorated in an upscale manner alluding to a financially comfortable owner. No one answered back and he found every room empty and aside from the nice furniture, the apartment seemed barely lived in; no personal photos or knick knacks. When he felt sure that the location was secure, he headed for the foyer and stopped at a closet. Rifling through it, he found his leather jacket and in one of the pockets were a set of keys, his wallet and in the other pocket (most importantly) his gun. An eyebrow was raised at the keys and he stalked to the door to see if they fit the lock. Surprisingly they did, which made him wonder what the hell was going on.
Did he rent or own this place? Where exactly was he? Krycek tried to recall the last place he'd been, but his head felt sort of fuzzy. Maybe he'd been pistol-whipped again or this was a set up. Further investigation was necessary, so he put on his jacket and headed out - locking the door behind him. There was a chill in the air as he walked the streets, eyes darting around for signs of anyone tailing him. One hand gripped the gun in his pocket as he made his way into an area full of shops. Suddenly a wave of dizziness hit and he was forced to take a seat on a nearby bench. He rested his head in his hands, unable to keep as keen an eye on his surroundings as he would have liked.
[This progressed into an amusing/fun/interesting thread with the character Betty, from "Dead Like Me" - but when GJ died, the post was lost. Have a back up somewhere and may transcribe at some point. To Betty's mun: had a blast writing with you and miss ya!]
