Logan
Sergei slipped through the darkness of the mansion and unerringly headed towards the kitchen. He got out a bottle and filled it with water. After a few minutes of concentration, he had a bottle of about 80% proof Russian vodka, that could knock a bear back on its behind. He nodded in satisfaction, then settled down for some serious drinking.
Soon, the bottle was halfway empty. Sergei raised a glass to his family in Russia. They'd always wanted him to go to America. He knocked back the shot, his throat sufficently numbed by now.
Logan padded out on his rounds, and hesitated when he saw a light in the kitchens. He went in to find the dark skinned youth they had rescued from the labs getting steadily drunk on a bottle of vodka. "What are you doing?" He hissed.
"Gettin' drrrunk. It is a time honourrred Russki trrradition, mudilo," Sergei slurred. "Hoorrah for mother Russia! Hey, dat's mine!" He protested as Logan took the bottle from him. "Poslushay ty, mudack..." He got to his feet and staggered to the kitchen sink. (Dumbass.) (Listen you, muthaf*cka...)
"You shouldn't do this. There must be something that is better."
"Na khuya?" (Like f*cking what?) Sergei said bitterly. "My family thinks I am dead. I find I have wasted two years of my life. Ot'ebis'! Pizdetc." (F*ck off. It's all over, finished, kaput.) Sergei snagged another bottle and filled it with water. "Watch me make like Jesu Christos!" He concentrated, and then swigged back vodka from the bottle. "I am getting betterrr at dis, tovarisch." He stumbled back over to the chair.
"Life is a bitch...and then you die."
"Verrry trrue, tovarisch." Sergei concentrated on getting drunk. Logan watched him, knowing everyoine had their own ways for finding release. When after five bottles, Sergei slumped to the table, passed out, Logan lifted him and took him back to bed. He cleaned up the kitchen, and left a glass of water and two headache tablets on the bedstand, and a bucket on the floor.