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Luka Baikov

An armed society is a polite society.

0 · 144 views · located in The Abandoned Slums

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Monroe

Description

Image

Hair: Medium brown, fairly short.
Eyes: Blue and covered by thin, wire-rimmed glasses
Skin: Light
Height: 5'10
Weight: Between thin and average
Clothes: Jeans, nondescript gray teeshirt, black zippered hoodie
Accent: Faint Russian accent

Personality

*High strung
*Intelligent
*Cocky yet insecure, especially about women
*Makes many jokes
*Generally views other people as rather stupid
*Perverted
*Often displays poor social skills
*Loyal

Equipment

*Whatever guns he is engineering
*Extreme intelligence

History

*Illegal arms dealer that specializes in crafting illegal guns from legal components. Tries not to get involved with what the guns are being used for. Born in Russia, relocated for University.

So begins...

Luka Baikov's Story

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#, as written by Monroe
Luka Baikov test

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#, as written by Monroe
success

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Luka Baikov “And in other news,” droned the television located in the small kitchen. ”61-year-old Patricia Maisch is being called a hero after wrenching away the Tucson shooter’s ammunition, preventing him from reloading as she helped press him to the ground, NBC News reports.”

Luka snorted as he dunked a teabag into his mug, chuckling as the reporter continued.

“Maisch was in line to meet Rep. Gabrielle Giffords when the shooting began. She threw-”

He pressed the power button on a remote control and the tv flicked off, interrupting the woman on-screen. “She wouldn’t mess with one of my guns,” he said confidently to himself, a soft Russian accent tinging his words, and he blew on his tea before taking a sip. On the butcher block table before him, a rifle lay disassembled, the tools of his trade laid out carefully beside it. A soldering iron and pair of pliers had been recently used and looked disarrayed next to the meticulously arranged tools. An elevated picatinny rail was ready to be attached to the semi automatic, and Luka reached for it with weathered, calloused hands that had been handing such weapons for years.

The small loft around him was a rented space at the edge of the industrial district in the city, but not too close to the heart. It was the perfect place to engineer highly sought, highly illegal weapons. And the warehouse was rented month to month, just in case anyone got particularly interested in the young Russian man and what he was doing all day.

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Luka Baikov The door, which had been left ever so slightly ajar in order to let in some fresh, night air, made a horrible creaking and slammed shut. Luka’s eyes flashed upward, watching in open mouthed shock as a woman bolted his door from the inside. He flew to his feet, hurriedly coming around to the other side of the table to block the extremely illegal rifle he was building. What the hell? he thought. Is she a cop?!

“Hey- hey! What the hell are you doing in here?”

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He couldn't believe some chick had broken into his studio and was proceeding to tell him what to do. He pointed angrily at the door she had just come through. “Out!” he ordered, impatience heavy in his tone. He didn’t have the time or energy for this. A loud but dull clang caught their attention and he glanced up, his wire-rim glasses sliding down his long nose.

“Who’s following you! Did you bring the cops here?!”

He glared at her and began stowing the rifle pieces in a safe, which he quickly relocked, just in case authorities chose to break in at that moment.

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“Who’s after you?” he demanded, ignoring her question. His brows were knit together in irritation and he straightened up from his kneeling stance by the safe. Luka pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looked at her steadily, then crossed his arms over his chest. “And why should I help you? Give me one good reason I shouldn’t give you up to whoever is banging on my door. I may even get....” he searched for the word. “Reward.”

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Shit! Who was this woman? And why was she looking around his studio as if she had any right? A tinge of desperation clogged his throat, which he tried to clear anxiously.

“Stop that! Stop that!” he ordered, stepping in front of her before she could open a closet door. He didn’t need her seeing all of his things. He was an extremely private person, and here she was, invading his work space.

“There is ladder to roof in back of studio,” he relented, extending his arm toward a heavy door at the back of the room. It led to a fairly small storage room, about 3 feet by 5 feet, and in it there was a ladder to the flat roof of the one-story building. “Please go. Just stop looking through my things.”

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As the door rattled, a new kind of panic began to slowly rise through Luka, churning in his stomach and tightening in his throat. His hands twitched ever so slightly. That was a solid steel door, he thought. Titatium bolt. Impenetrable. Part of the appeal of these warehouses was how tight they were. When locked, virtually nothing could get in. Of course, his mind had considered the possibilities. A tank could get through that door, sure. Or enough explosives, of course. But no man could force that door open. Hell, not even ten men stood a chance. And yet, the steel blockade between them and whoever was after the mysterious woman by his side was rattling, and it seemed only a matter of time. Did he want to find out what had that much force?

But my work, he thought, eyes darting anxiously around the room. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in materials, enough evidence to put him in high security prison for life. Luka was under no false pretenses that he would not survive well in prison. He weighed less than 150lbs soaking wet, and if childhood was a testament, he was a runner, not a fighter.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, and followed the blonde to the storage room. Once inside, he decided to lower the bar on that door too, just to give them a little more time in case whoever, or whatever, got inside.

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Luka didn’t need to be told twice. He had just shoved a fully automatic handgun fitted with a scope into his back pocket, and slid a silencer attachment into the other along with another cartridge. It wasn’t so much that he could imagine himself actually shooting another person.... Sure, he built them, but he was more the brains of the operation. If he was being completely honest with himself, he considered himself to be a bit of a coward. But whoever was slamming on that door was dangerous, and he wanted to at least be armed if it caught up to him.

He climbed the ladder, then closed the hatch behind them. Unfortunately, it locked from the inside, not the outside. It wouldn’t stop anyone. “There-” he said, pointing the woman toward a fire escape on the far side of the roof, opposite the main door. “That will take us to the street level.”

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“What did you say?” asked Luka with a curious frown, though it was tempered with apprehension over whatever was banging against the door of his studio. He mounted the fire escape, following quickly at her heels. “It sounded like you said vampire.”

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“Argh, fucking lunatics,” he muttered under his breath in Russian, shaking his head as he looked at the top of her blonde head. “Go on then,” he said coldly. “I hope they follow you. Would serve you right. Breaking into my studio, rifling through my things....”

His words drifted off contemptuously. Was he imagining it, or had the banging ceased? At a quick pace, Luka set off down the street, ready to catch a cab and get the hell away till morning to see what remained of his precious workshop. Unfortunately, his pockets were bare of cash or card, filled only with an expensive and deadly weapon he didn’t have the balls to shoot.

“Hey lady, you got some money for a cab? I’d say you owe me.”

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Actually, he couldn't recall a lady ever coming to him to him for help before. Maybe when he was younger he'd thought about it, fantasized about somehow 'saving' a girl. But that didn't happen in real life, and women certainly didn't want to be saved by him. He just shrugged his shoulders noncommitally toward her. Great, he'd just have to walk into the city and what? Wait till he thought her stalker was gone. That was a great plan. "Yeah, you're welcome," he answered bitingly

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She didn't see him coming. The woman- he realized he'd never learned her name- had her back turned to the man rushing toward her, a sharpened pieced of wood poised to be dug into her back. His mouth opened, but no sound came out except for a sort of strangled sound. But his feet were moving of their own accord, toward the man with the stake and the woman who had broken into his warehouse, and he wasn't sure why. I could just walk away, one part of his mind was thinking. But another part, a much louder part, was thinking 'Hey dummy, you wanted to save a girl? Here's your chance!'. And Luka, unsure really what he was doing or why, lunged in front of her, knocking her aside, and putting himself in the path of the huge man's sharpened wooden stake.

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That sharpened piece of wood pierced through his skin and bursts of red and white exploded behind his eyes. The pain wasn't immediate, and for a long moment he stared at the grotesque sight of his arm skewered with a crude stake. His face drained of color and Luka became very white, then he stumbled backward, losing his balance as his heel caught on the edge of the gutter. He fell hard and hot, thick blood dripped down his arm, soaking his black hoodie and steadily nearing his jeans. The blonde crouched next to him, looking sadistically excited, and she tore the stake out of his arm. A sharp cry of pain escaped his lips and he doubled over in pain. The stake had left splinters, he could feel it. Luka was in agony. But the man who had attacked them wasn't down. He threw the woman like she weighed nothing, paying no attention to Luka. Luka, meanwhile, was slowly pulling the gun out of his pocket. No need for a silencer, he thought grimly. He loaded the cartridge as best he could with little help from his left arm, and carefully took aim. There was no fear, no regret, nothing to hold him back. Maybe it was the pain or the adrenaline, but Luka didn't think twice about shooting him square in the back of the head.

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Luka barely had the energy to chuckle, and it came softly and painfully. His face was bleached of color, and his right hand was clamped tightly over his left arm, trying to stop the blood from flowing out so quickly.

“You, you are not dangerous,” he said, shaking his head. “You are... scared kitten, hiding in my building, afraid of big, scary man.”

There was a ghost of an amused smile on his face, but mostly he looked pained. He took the stairs slowly, knowing the difficult part was going to be the ladder back into his storage room. He swallowed down a hard lump that had formed in his throat.

Step, step, step, step...

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“I, on other hand,” he said as he ascended the emergency stair case that clung to the side of the red brick building. “I am very dangerous man. Can’t you tell? I snap my fingers, someone will come. Like that.”

He snapped his fingers on ‘that’, but there was no seriousness in his tone. Luka was very aware he was not an intimidating person. He didn’t try to be, either. He was the brains, not the brawn. But one of the benefits of being an arms dealer was that he was friends with an interesting group of people. A group of people who wouldn’t ask questions if he told them there was a dead body outside his workshop that needed to be removed. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. That was how things worked with the kind of people he did business with.

Luka and Kaitlynn reached the roof, and the brown haired man was breathless and glazed with fresh perspiration. “Almost there,” he told himself, kicking up the loose roof hatch with one sneakered foot. The hatch bounced against the cement top of the roof loudly, but Luka wasn’t worried about noise. If a gunshot and all that banging hadn’t alerted anyone that something weird was going on, a little more noise sure wouldn’t.

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Slowly, carefully, painfully, and with one arm, Luka clambered down the ladder and into the storage room. He deposited the gun and the silencer onto a shelf and unlocked the door, then crossed the room and fell tiredly onto a worn sofa placed against the wall. His cell was on the side table, and he selected a number from the contacts list. None of the contacts had full names, just vague aliases. After a few rings, the phone was answered on the other side.

“Vincente,” he said tiredly into the phone, and then launched into an brief conversation in fluent Italian, which he spoke with more confidence than English. The conversation was concluded and he snapped the phone shut, slipping it into his pocket.

“Come here, kitty,” he said, gesturing to the spot on the sofa next to him. “I think you should tell me who that was, and who you are too.”

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"Are you sure he wasn't your ex-boyfriend?" asked Luka with a pained grin. He was a removing a splinter from the bloody pulp of his arm. After critical inspection, the wound wasn't extremely deep. But it had caused a good deal of damage to the outside of his upper arm.

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"What can I say, Kitty?" he asked, and there was an element to his voice that was a bit off. He was feeling the effects of the blood loss and seemed to have lost his filter. All those things he thought of were actually coming out of his mouth, and they sounded terrible. Oddly, this woman, whoever she was, hadn't slapped him yet. He didn't have the sense of mind at that moment to know he was pressing his luck. "I am so irresistible to the women they get very angry when I move on. But come now, why will you not tell me your name?"

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"Yargh!" cried Luka in pain, stumbling sideways across the couch as she yanked on his arm with a lot more strength than he would have given her credit for. "Hey, that hurts!"

His lighthearted feelings and playful mood evaporated, and he glared at her contemptuously, his arm throbbing with a fresh wash of pain. A few choice words were poised on his tongue, but he bit them back. “Does it look like I keep first aid kit here?” he asked angrily, gesturing to the workshop with his good arm. “This is place of work. I do not live here. I am not doctor. Why would I need first aid kit?”

He took his arm back from her and paced over to the kitchen area, which was really nothing more than a sink, some cupboards, a microwave, and a large butcher block table that served as a sort of island between the kitchenette and the rest of the space. There was also a door that led to a bathroom, but it housed only a toilet, sink, and vanity over the mirror.

Luka lowered his elbow into the sink and slowly turned on the cold water, crying out as it touched his skin, then sighing as the pain eased ever so slightly. “I am Luka Baikov, and you are a bad woman.”

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"I have never had an accident here until you arrived," he said coldly. The water was now running almost clear with just the smallest tinge of pink, but he left his arm under the water a little longer. The cold water felt particularly nice and he was reluctant to step away from what he had deemed 'the sink of relief'. "Why the hell was he trying to attack you with a stake?" he asked, serious now in his line of questioning. His mind was gaining a little clarity, and sure enough, he was already regretting the flirtatious vein he had taken earlier.

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Luka was getting irritated with her. He reluctantly turned off the water and walked into the kitchenette, water dripping down his left arm, tinged pink with blood. He gave the woman a contemptuous look and waved her toward the dented door.

"Go on, then!" he called to her, then began muttering about how much trouble she was under his breath. So far, that night was adding up to be one of his worst, and it was all because of her. He still didn't know what to call her.

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Watching her steadily as she downed half the glass of water, Luka began to ponder the implications of what she had said. There was too much he didn’t know about her, too much she could be lying about, and it made him uncomfortable.

“A lot has happened since that moment,” he said carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. He needed to figure out if she really didn’t remember what she had done, or if she was playing some kind of game.

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She seemed sincere in her confusion, and he let his guard down ever so slightly, lowering himself into a stool that was pulled up to the table. He pushed his wire-rim glasses up the bridge of his nose, then folded his arms carefully on top of the table, moving his left arm gingerly. “Well, to pick up where you left off, I was not really able to help you that much,” he began. “At least, not yet. The man, I know not who he is, stabbed me in the arm and threw you. You looked very hurt, and he meant to kill you. I had a gun on me though, and I shot him in head.”

He looked extremely uncomfortable saying that. He’d never killed a person, had never planned on killing a person, and though it had been self-defense (or rather, the defense of Kaitlynn), the murder didn’t sit well with him. “We came back to my workshop, and I called Vincente to come clean up body. He came, recognized you, attacked you, then ran away. You tell me you are vampire, and then you bit me, but promised not to kill me.”

He flattened his palms on the table and looked up at her. “After that, you looked dizzy and fell to floor. That brings us to now. My name is Luka Baikov.”

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That was a good question. “I had no choice but to help you. We were both threatened,” he tried to explain. In the moment, he’d felt angry with her, irritated that she had upset his relatively calm and predictable life and dragged in so much trouble, but once faced with it, he had acted on instinct. He knew it would sound much better if he said something that indicated gallantry or heroism or chivalry, but he thought it was probably best not to stretch the truth. He wasn’t a good liar, particularly in English.

“And I have not thrown you out because... You say you are vampire. And Vincente, who is much stronger than I, is afraid of you. I do not want you to kill me. And also...”

There was a long pause as he gathered his thoughts. He ran his fingers through his short brown hair and sighed. “And also because I do not think you know who you are, what you did.”