Izmael gripped the revolver tight, his hand as steady as a rock. He silently thanked his luck (and Mother, just to be sure) for being placed within such a perfect host. His finger hung tight against the trigger, and his whole body hummed with tense anticipation. The day Izmael wasn't ready to dive out of the way of danger was the day he'd get himself killed, Strauss included.
Through the barricade, in the lobby, his target looked back at him...in essence, at least. It was facing him, dead on, but its entire face was a mass of bloody gristle. No eyes, no mouth, no features, save for that of the sickening pulp blankly staring him down.
"Don't move," Izmael barked, doing his best to be commanding. He was good at it, but he knew it wasn't likely to mean much. This thing was unlikely to listen to orders. One of its feet was planted on a nurse, laying on the ground. An interesting tableau, considering how they hadn't been out of the lobby all that long, nor had they heard much noise heralding his arrival. Suddenly, there he'd been, and once again without a second through Izmael had drawn his gun and taken aim.
He itched to fire. He desperately wanted to. Supernatural things were going on here, hostile things, and he wasn't in the mood to be polite about it. But past experiences had taught him that sometimes, a gentle hand was required. So, unflinchingly, he spoke again. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" No reply. No movement. Not a thing. Izmael sighed, took aim, and fired.
The bullet sung through the air, passing through a gap in the barricade, heading straight for the gristle man's leg...but then in a blur he was gone, and the nurse was gone with him. Izmael blinked.
Relaxing a little, though still highly strung, Izmael put his gun away, and looked around. Things had gone from weird to weirder. Shadows had appeared that didn't seem to have any origin, there was still no sign of Nakhimov, and they'd had to force themselves through some weird mirror to get access to this side of the hospital. The reflection had been a curious one, showing Izmael the back of his own head when he'd been facing it. The same had happened to the others. Upon touching it, they'd discovered that it was almost like a membrane, allowing objects to pass through. The only thing normal about the damn thing had been its ability to reflect the room itself. He'd tested it by pushing a piece of fallen plaster through, and it had popped right back out on to his side, unscathed. Going through it in person, though, had turned out to be far different...it spat them out in an adjoining bathroom, on the other side of the barricade. Useful, but nonetheless curious. Still. He'd seen worse.
Several minutes later, once it was discovered that heading back the way they came was impossible, Izmael found himself reassessing that very statement. He hadn't so much seen worse as seen the end of worse. But at the rate things were escalating, and with absolutely no clue about what lay ahead...
Izmael gritted his teeth. Regardless of what lay ahead, he had to save Nakhimov. And who knows, he thought, maybe others are in danger as well.