Maksym Vasylchenko

• Character Information

  Maksym Vasylchenko was 12 years old when the world ended. Old enough to know what was happening, but not old enough to know why.
  
  He'd been lucky, he and his father. Inside the Metro when it came, on a business trip. He was Ukranian born, but like many, his father chose Russia as his second home, the place where he made his living. His mother stayed in Kyiv until Maksym and his father settled in- or, she would have. Maksym still doesn't know if she's even alive. Not sure if he cares. He was never close to his mother anyhow.  
  
  Piotr Vasylchenko was a craftsman, a maker of hand-crafted, rustic watches, which he sold at a high premium due to a lack of output. They were fine pieces, and he'd made something of a business out of it, expecting Maksym to follow him in the trade. Maks wasn't interested. By the time they'd settled into their new home, Polis, he'd already grown tired of watches. The world they lived in now had no place for watchmakers, thought Maksym, it needed men who were willing to brawl, to fight, to survive. He would be one of those men. 
  
  Starting at first helping his father search for parts he might require for his timepieces, now mostly digital due to the rarity of watch-quality quartz above the ground, Maksym began to see the world left behind. He loved it. Wanted to spend more time in it, to face the brave new world with his heart in one hand and his weapon in the other. With the money he made for helping his father, he bought his first weapon, an old, battered Bastard, and began to strike out on his own at 20 years old. At first, it was short journeys with friends, finding only enough junk to sell and then leaving, but as he got older, he grew more bold, and began ranging further, moving faster, finding more valuable wares in the residential areas of Moscow. With the money he collected on his adventures to the surface, he acquired better firearms, better gear, and was able to take more adventurous routes out of the Metro. 
  
  In recent years, with the fall of the Red Line and the bloodying of the Fourth Reich, the Metro seems a lot safer to Maksym, though he is loath to lose the business of many of the Spartans he met in his travels. As his father ages and toils away at watchmaking, his son wanders the Metro and Surface alike, making a hard, yet fulfilling living out of chasing the adrenaline high, and making a few rounds doing it. Occasionally, when he's injured or worried about a particularly close call, he stays with his father in Polis and helps him with the trade. It is on the tail end of one of these incidents where Maksym finds himself now, his father finally settled into a comfortable life in the Metro as Maksym himself wonders if he, too, should hang up his gas mask for good.
  
  ________________________________________________________________________________________________
  
  "Perhaps one day we can all leave these tunnels for good, and speak of the days we spent in the dark as but bad memories of a time where evil men reigned, and good men simply survived." 
  
  
  
   

• Possible Plots

  • There are few things Maksym loves more than a jaunt on the surface. Any opportunity to scavenge for something valuable is worth it to him. 
  • Maksym has a special hatred for the Fourth Reich, and believes the Metro to be better without them. Though not violent by nature, he is more than willing to fight any fascist he sees. 
  • With D6 destroyed and the factions all at a crossroads, perhaps Maksym can find something more fulfilling than simply 'getting by'...

Recent Posts

1. 

   Time

   January 22, 2021

   Maksym Vasylchenko buried his father on the surface. 
   
   It was a dangerous trek, by far the riskiest he'd ever made, but he'd made it regardless, and Piotr Vasylchenko's final resting place viewed the distant sunrise across wrecked and wrought beams of the old world he'd left behind. The Metro had saved his life, and its dank, dreary tunnels had taken it back from him. 
   
   The Hands of Time stood still. The shop, closed. Timur, fatherless Timur, was allowed to stay, as Maksym could not find it within his heart to kick the poor boy out. He knew enough of the watchmaker's craft to build watches all on his own by now, but Maksym would not ask that of him, and Timur would not continue without Maksym's approval. 
   
   For the first day or so after his father passed, Maksym wept. It was not manly, in the traditional sense, to weep, but Maksym did not care. He wept that his father did not live to see the surface one last time, that only in death would he return to the land, never to return to Kyiv, to their home. When the weeping was done, though, he instead began to ponder. His father never punished him for his wanderings, but openly disapproved of them. He wondered, now, what late Piotr would have wanted him to do. Would he have wanted Maksym to take the shop for himself, or to abandon it for his wanderlust. Maksym knew not, and it scared him that he knew not, so he pondered further, and wondered if the Hands of Time would ever move again. 
   
   About two weeks had passed since his father had when the shop reopened, but no longer was it the Vasylchenkos who ran it. It was Timur. Maksym did not help the boy build watches, instead asking Misha to do so, and the boy did it without complaint. Instead, Maksym cooked, kept the home, and continued to ponder. 
   
   What was his purpose in life? To make watches, or something more? He didn't know, and wished he had an answer. 
   
2. 

   Clock's Ticking

   September 14, 2020

   "Wonderful," Maksym agreed. "Then let us go, and quickly. We don't want to stay out here any longer than we have to." 
   
   Makysm followed him, taking the time to reload his Mayak, slipping his half-used magazine into his backpack as he jogged after the older man, listing a bit on his good leg. "You sound like you make this run relatively often, yes?"
   
   @AnOriginalAccountNam
   
3. 

   Clock's Ticking

   September 5, 2020

   (OOC: it's fine!)
   
   Maksym was usually a very good shot, but his Mayak could only do so much to a Demon's thick, leathery hide. It felt like he might as well have been throwing sharp rocks at the damn thing. 
   
   Finally, however, despite Misha panicking and pushing him around like he was an idiot, he was able to line up a precise shot, hitting the Demon right in the eye just as Misha unloaded a  burst into its skull. Not even a Demon could survive that kind of shot. 
   
   Problem- it wasn't stopping.
   
   Before he could move out of the way, Misha had already bowled over Maksym and sent them both into  the water below, and once again, Maksym thanked God for his mask, as there was no doubt in his mind this irradiated water would have fucked him something fierce if he'd gotten any of the shit in his mouth. Keeping a firm grip on his Mayak meant that his ability to move around in the current was compromised, and he took quite a few more bumps than he probably should have as he was carried downstream, until finally, he surfaced. He came up with a gasp, more of shock than a lack of air, noting a burning feeling on his right leg. 
   
   "Ah, shit," he muttered, hobbling out of the water behind Misha. "A moment, please?" Grabbing his bag, he managed to dig out some iodine and a roll of bandages, before looking down at his leg. Sure enough, there was a nice, thin gash down his calf, likely caught on some rebar from the collapsed bridge. Acting quickly, Maksym poured the iodine onto the wound with a wheeze of pain before unraveling the latter and starting to tie it around. "Last thing I need is a fucking infection." 
   
   With a firm tug, Maksym ripped the bandages off of the roll and finished tying them, before standing up and experimentally putting some weight on it. "Not too deep. I'll be fine, let's go." 
   
   @AnOriginalAccountNam
   
4. 

   Clock's Ticking

   September 1, 2020

   Demons. Normally, Maksym called it a day if a Demon decided to wander too close to him, but for some reason, he doubted he had that option. 
   
   "I'm more worried about our flying friend than drowning or arguments. I can swim, and I can get my pay. I can't survive a fall from thirty feet in the air," Maksym said, turning to see if he could get eyes on the Demon. "Let's hurry up and make a decision. If we all train our weapons, we could take it down, but we'd be down a lot of ammo, and it would likely take one of us out before we can kill it."
   
   Maksym turned and looked at Grischa out of the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow. "Plan?" 
   
   @AnOriginalAccountNam
   
5. 

   Clock's Ticking

   August 31, 2020

   "Let's be quick about it, then." 
   
   Pulling his Mayak off his back, the Ukranian racked the action, the hefty sound of the bolt cycling filling him with a quick surge of adrenaline. It never got old, going out into the great wide beyond, seeing what was left of the world after the end of days. Pulling his mask on and ensuring the seal was secure, he was the last man of the group out of the door- just as well, to cover them with his long rifle. 
   
   The sun was just starting to rise, bathing the wasteland of Moscow in an eerie glow, like an old oil painting, perhaps. It was lovely, in its own way. 
   
   @AnOriginalAccountNam
   
6. 

   Clock's Ticking

   August 18, 2020

   While internally, Maksym was rather angry, he made no such feelings known. Instead, he offered a smile and a wave. "The more, the merrier! Maksym Vasylchenko, at your service. May we all return from our journey with pockets full and innards inside our bodies, yes?" 
   
   Turning back to Grischa and Misha, he offered them a thumbs up. "Are we heading out? The more daylight we have to move through, the better."
   
7. 

   Clock's Ticking

   August 15, 2020

   Maksym's father had not been happy to see him leave, but it was what it was. He had things he had to do, and Timur could more than handle the shop with him gone.
   For now, Maksym had men's work to do. Four spare magazines of 7.62mm ammo for his Mayak, three for his Nine, and the long knife he'd found at a shop in Venice. Combined with the old mask, compliments to Vadim, he was almost ready to go. 
   All that was left was time. 
   Maksim lifted the watch in front of his face, slowly turning the dial to the proper time. 5:30 A.M. The sun would be rising by the time they reached the surface. All was well, all was right. Throwing his rifle over his shoulder and placing his pistol inside the holster on his chest, Maksym secured the seal on his gas mask, and took a deep breath. He'd brought three spare filters in his pack. Hopefully he wouldn't need more than that. 
   He gave himself about 10 hours before he'd run out of clean air. He'd have to get this done quickly. That shouldn't be too difficult. With preparations complete, the Ukranian left the watchman's shop he'd called home many times over, and waited for his new employers. The halls of Polis were still mostly quiet... for now. 
   @AnOriginalAccountNam
   
8. 

   A Gentle Craft, For Gentle Hands

   July 28, 2020

   Well, they at least sounded like they'd done this before. Perhaps they hadn't and were just bullshitting Maksym. Perhaps they weren't. Only one way to find out.
   
   Maksym nodded slowly, relaxing his posture and even giving a little bit of a smirk. "You don't make a convincing case, but fortunately for you, I don't need much convincing. Give me a day to gather some last minute supplies, and I'll be ready. " 
   
   Instantly, Maksym regretted his choice, but at the same time, he felt it was the right one. There was nothing in life more rewarding than a great risk, and this could turn out to be far more profitable than it seemed on the surface. "I'm staying at the Hands of Time, the little watchmaker's shop. If it's not too much trouble, perhaps we can meet there in the morning and be on the surface for sunrise. We need to maximize our daylight hours." 
   
9. 

   The Hands of Time: Maksim

   July 27, 2020

   This is for any plotting you wanna do with everyone's favorite Ukranian watchmaker's apprentice, Maksim Vasylchenko. There are no real overarching plots for him right now, so go wild!
   
10. 

    A Gentle Craft, For Gentle Hands

    July 27, 2020

    Finally, some good, honest work-
    
    Or not. 
    
    "... this is starting to sound less and less my speed the more you talk, friend," Maksim said, cutting his eyes around the room. "What exactly is it you're expecting out there? Shabolovskya's not friendly territory." 
    
    Maksim folded his arms. "I'm no coward, but you seem to be playing with some dangerous shit." 
    

Topics I Participated In

1. 

   Time

   Started by Maksym Vasylchenko · January 22, 2021

   Maksym Vasylchenko buried his father on the surface. 
   
   It was a dangerous trek, by far the riskiest he'd ever made, but he'd made it regardless, and Piotr Vasylchenko's final resting place viewed the distant sunrise across wrecked and wrought beams of the old world he'd left behind. The Metro had saved his life, and its dank, dreary tunnels had taken it back from him. 
   
   The Hands of Time stood still. The shop, closed. Timur, fatherless Timur, was allowed to stay, as Maksym could not find it within his heart to kick the poor boy out. He knew enough of the watchmaker's craft to build watches all on his own by now, but Maksym would not ask that of him, and Timur would not continue without Maksym's approval. 
   
   For the first day or so after his father passed, Maksym wept. It was not manly, in the traditional sense, to weep, but Maksym did not care. He wept that his father did not live to see the surface one last time, that only in death would he return to the land, never to return to Kyiv, to their home. When the weeping was done, though, he instead began to ponder. His father never punished him for his wanderings, but openly disapproved of them. He wondered, now, what late Piotr would have wanted him to do. Would he have wanted Maksym to take the shop for himself, or to abandon it for his wanderlust. Maksym knew not, and it scared him that he knew not, so he pondered further, and wondered if the Hands of Time would ever move again. 
   
   About two weeks had passed since his father had when the shop reopened, but no longer was it the Vasylchenkos who ran it. It was Timur. Maksym did not help the boy build watches, instead asking Misha to do so, and the boy did it without complaint. Instead, Maksym cooked, kept the home, and continued to ponder. 
   
   What was his purpose in life? To make watches, or something more? He didn't know, and wished he had an answer. 
   
2. 

   Clock's Ticking

   Started by Maksym Vasylchenko · August 15, 2020

   Maksym's father had not been happy to see him leave, but it was what it was. He had things he had to do, and Timur could more than handle the shop with him gone.
   For now, Maksym had men's work to do. Four spare magazines of 7.62mm ammo for his Mayak, three for his Nine, and the long knife he'd found at a shop in Venice. Combined with the old mask, compliments to Vadim, he was almost ready to go. 
   All that was left was time. 
   Maksim lifted the watch in front of his face, slowly turning the dial to the proper time. 5:30 A.M. The sun would be rising by the time they reached the surface. All was well, all was right. Throwing his rifle over his shoulder and placing his pistol inside the holster on his chest, Maksym secured the seal on his gas mask, and took a deep breath. He'd brought three spare filters in his pack. Hopefully he wouldn't need more than that. 
   He gave himself about 10 hours before he'd run out of clean air. He'd have to get this done quickly. That shouldn't be too difficult. With preparations complete, the Ukranian left the watchman's shop he'd called home many times over, and waited for his new employers. The halls of Polis were still mostly quiet... for now. 
   @AnOriginalAccountNam
   
3. 

   The Hands of Time: Maksim

   Started by Maksym Vasylchenko · July 27, 2020

   This is for any plotting you wanna do with everyone's favorite Ukranian watchmaker's apprentice, Maksim Vasylchenko. There are no real overarching plots for him right now, so go wild!
   
4. 

   A Gentle Craft, For Gentle Hands

   Started by Maksym Vasylchenko · July 20, 2020

   Maksym Vasylchenko's biggest problem with watchmaking nowadays wasn't the tedium of it. After many a long day out on the surface, facing all that the world had left to offer, the tedium was practically a gift from God. 
   
   It was more that he wasn't built for it. No longer was he the gangly, acne-pocked boy of 16, he was a grown man now, broad of body and hearty. He'd spent so much time lugging shit about the surface that his hands were more like bear paws. A watch was a small, delicate thing, and it wasn't something for his hands, yet he tried nonetheless. 
   
   The parts were painstakingly milled and crafted to his father's exact specifications and the customer's preferences. While Piotr had a few timepieces on display, most of those were easier-to-construct digital watches that sold for a modest number of rounds. His handmade pieces? All made-to-order, and at a hefty premium, but oh, you got what you paid for. The one he'd built for Maksym had needed a battery replacement only last year, and the battery had lasted almost six before that. Quartz was extremely hard to come by on the surface unless you specifically went looking for watches or other such appliances, and usually, it was Maksym or Timur who would go to the surface and look for them, and every hand-made piece came with fine quartz, not to mention the finer parts going into the analogs, hand-milled faces and perfectly-articulated hands. 
   
   Maksym wasn't much for watchmaking, but he had to try his best while he was under his father's roof again. The old man needed the help, and Maksym was once again on his own after one argument too many. 
   
   The watch in front of him was a custom project, one that had taken his father a fair two weeks to tweak to his satisfaction. It was all pretty much assembled now, it just had to be calibrated. Maksym looked to his own watch as he slowly turned the knob on the new piece. 1805 hours. It would be time for dinner before long. 
   
   "It's done!" Maksym called out, turning his head back to the other end of the 'shop floor' of Piotr's home. 'The Hands of Time', the little board that advertised him said, sitting in one of the windowsills. It had been Piotr's home for the past five years, far better than the huddled corners they'd slept in back when the world went up in flames. "The order for Simon!"
   
   "Ah, yes, yes," came the throaty, aged voice of his father, like a deep rumble from the Metro's darkest corners. The air in Polis was better than other parts of the Metro, to be sure, but it wasn't doing Piotr many favors. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, mind, but he wasn't going on any treks much farther than Hanza at this point. "Let me see, please."
   
   Gingerly, Maksym took the timepiece, and met his father near the door to their establishment. They'd cut out another awning and placed a wooden shutter over it to use as a display, and that was where his father would usually sit when he was manning the shop. Watching the people of Polis pass by, no doubt reminiscing about the surface, and when such a thing was normal, but not... this normal. Maksym placed the watch next to his father, who turned and examined the piece with bleary, tired green eyes. Through a thick, white beard, he began to smile.
   
   "Excellent, excellent, excellent. Thank you, Maks. I'm sure Simon will be pleased."
   
   "It's not Simon who needs to be pleased, papa, it's Sasha. That woman's a hellion. Still, you did fine work. Not our fault she thinks herself above it." Maksym clapped a gentle hand on his father's shoulder and smiled. "Your work, not mine."
   
   "Nonsense, you've been a far greater help these past few months. I wish you would stay like this more often. Timur works himself to sleep somedays, bless him." 
   
   "I worry more for you," Maks replied, pulling a second stool from the side of the stall and taking a seat next to his father. No doubt it was a strange sight to those who knew him, seeing him inside the shop instead of on his way out the tunnels and into the Metro beyond, or up to the surface. "Timur surely cannot be the only help you can find."
   
   "He's the only one who cares, Maks. I can't just have anyone making these pieces, it requires a gentle touch, care. I do not sell cheap labor, and I do not want cheap labor to bear my name. Otherwise, I would just tell you to bring me those watches from the surface so I could resell them. Timur understands the craft, cares about what he creates. I cannot find that just anywhere in Polis." 
   
   Maksym sighed. His father was so stubborn, and over something as silly as a watch. "Papa, you're killing me. No, you're killing yourself with this nonsense. What about Misha, the butcher's boy? He always seems to be around here nowadays."
   
   "He's here more for you than me," Piotr stated, matter-of-fact. "Your adventures on the surface are all he cares about." 
   
   "Well, for now, I'm not doing any adventuring, and he knows that. Maybe you can use that to your advantage- he can get closer to his hero through his work, no?" 
   
   "You're asking me to take advantage of a little boy."
   
   Maksym shook his head, chuckling. "Not taking advantage of him, papa. Just... using alternate methods of persuasion. I'm not saying you shouldn't pay him for his work, but maybe introduce him to the concept. Surely there's someone in Polis who wants to learn how to make a watch."
   
   "It's not just 'making watches' that I do, son." 
   
   Maksym sighed once again, longer and deeper. Not this conversation again. "Right, right. Do you need anything? I'm thinking I'm going to go out and get some drinks, run some errands." 
   
   A few bullets were passed. "If Nikita has any kvass ready, could you spare the time?" 
   
   "Of course, of course." With that, Maksym pushed himself back from the stall with a grunt and stood up, stretching stiff limbs. He needed to stretch a bit more in the mornings, that was for sure. "I'll be back within an hour or two."
   
   "Be well, son."
   
   Maksym opened the door of the shop, and stepped back out into Polis again. Another day in 'paradise'. 
   

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