Many years later, his body about to spill its guts in the act of torture, former Sergeant Surkov reminisced of the day he got tremendously drunk with the worst beer he had possibly ever tasted.
Life had been surprisingly harsh during those days, making him question everything he knew and everything he believed in. Cheve's own capital had caught his attention no sooner than later, the famous City of Lights a place of constant tourist reception with its festivals, diverse commerce, and most especially, its beer.
Following the townsfolk's directions, his boots carried him to a family tavern seemingly famous for its particular homebrewing and distinctive flavor. He was welcomed with open arms, the service and attention putting many in his own world to shame.
A cherry-haired and freckled young girl that served as hostess brought him a share of the drink at his request, beaming him with a smile that soured his mood that much more.
The ale had been so horrendous to his taste buds he proceeded to cry with a smile, the patrons giving him some words of comfort and encouragement all the while. The ghastly flavor was crude but felt distinctively real and down-to-earth, the only object of interest until those moments that had seemed right to his past experiences, akin to a bright light of certainty in a world filled with wyverns, magic, and pyrotechnics the likes which he had only imagined possible in movies.
He cried and drank some more, many joining him in his mourning for different motives and intentions. Ones grieved for the loss of their loved ones, ones for the heartbreak caused by their ex-fiances, others for the difficult times of war, and the rest because they felt alone and found companionship in the grievances of others.
Aleksei awoke hours later, his reserve of tears threatening to spill once more, to the same nightmare that had been haunting his existence: he was still inside the fantastical world conjured by the creative minds of Intelligent Systems.
He had left many coins above his payment in the countertop, urged to move above the stone floor and think hard about his predicament. The Romanesque architecture of limestone and flint was left ignored as his mind both fought and cursed itself, trying to make sense out of what he knew while perpetually avoiding going mad.
He decided to sit in a plaza, the chirping of birds and the rush of a fountain's water a soothing sound source for his nerves.
He had at first suspected it was a very well executed joke, with all the ideal props for an appropriate medieval setting. Everyone looked the part, both men and women wearing fabrics of cheap linen or expensive silk with intricate designs and colors layered over doublets and jackets to protect themselves from the cold.
The moment he listened to himself speak to someone, asking to stop the ruse for Christ's sake, he had almost screamed in surprise.
He was talking a language unknown to his ears.
He tried again, chanting the English words in his mind, only to voice them out once more in a different dialect.
The man, curse him and his Portuguese-like accent, had asked him if he was okay. Granted, he admittedly seemed like a cracked jackpot to the outside observer, frantic and nervous, sanity in sale for the low price of a small number of words.
In his hyperaware state, his body plagued by a stage of fight-or-flight mode, he heard the whispers and conversations of the people around him, discussing the state of the war between the nations of Hoshido and Nohr.
More panicked than ever before, he had run to the nearest individual in his sight, hysterically questioning her about his current location, demanding the use of her cellphone.
Nervous and apprehensive as a result of his conduct, the young woman carrying a child in arms requested of him to remain calm, to breathe, and it had been only thanks to his developed patience through his years in the military that prevented him from flipping her off in the spot.
He was residing in the Dukedom of Chevalier, famously known as Cheve, in a town at the outskirts of the capital. She proceeded to ask what in the name of the dragons a cellphone was. He promptly passed out.
Alas, his predicament. No matter who put him there, or how, the universe had pulled a Deux-ex-machina on him. He was inside the fourteen entry in the Fire Emblem series-Fates.
It took him two days to put his thoughts in order while taking the time to reflect in a rented room at an inn, having found a couple of gold coins in one of his coat's pockets to pay for it.
How in heavens could he come back?
The room, illuminated by the small flame of a pair of candles, promptly turned colorless in a palette of grays, whites, and blacks, achromic and blanched.
Aleksei grabbed tight onto the bed, scurrying to press himself against the wall, his mind trying to make sense of the event.
"You, my dear friend, must consider logical thoughts above all else."
A worn, more chocolate than brown face with distinct laugh-lines, along with charcoal eyes that glinted behind unpretentious oval-shaped spectacles—ones he seasoned to routinely use in his role as Gus Fring from AMC's biggest hit.
In other words, the face of Giancarlo Esposito in flesh and bone, suit and everything.
He had gone mad. Aleksei Surkov accepted the fact he had irredeemably gone bunkers. "What, wha—"
"I know this seems considerably... what could be the word, shocking, to say the least? Nevertheless, I would advise against stammering like a clown fish, Aleksei."
The sound of his name was grounding enough to stop his lapse and restart his processing brain.
"What—WHAT IN THE HELLS!?"
Giancarlo was sitting close to the bed in a modest mahogany chair, the furniture's arrival not quite as shocking as the presence of the man using it. He was nevertheless startled.
"Do not fret, I will let you process this as we go. I wish we could have a stew to help ourselves while at it, but alas, I can't do as much as I'd like."
"Why—Why are you here? What are you even doing here? This is—"
"Yes, this is the world of Fire Emblem Fates imagined by the minds of Intelligent Systems and Nintendo, you are correct in that unpronounced assumption. I'm a monitor, if you could call it as such, that wishes to observe your involvement in this particular setting."
He explained it all with a serene expression, the likes of a father that patiently waits for a child to finish its tantrum. It irritated Aleksei to no end.
"Monitor? Involvement? What the hell is this all about?! Why it is that everything's gone monochromatic?! What are you—"
He raised both hands. "I know of your dislike for interruptions, but let me pitch my answers one by one, please."
At the man's silence, he continued. "A monitor, yes—an observer of your trials inside the game's narrative. I am to evaluate the consequences arisen from the involvement of a third party, an outsider, in the conflict between the nations of Nohr and Hoshido. Valla as well, but the less mentioned, the better."
The soldier narrowed its eyes. "Are you insane? Is this all a ruse to make me fun of me? Are you filming another movie or—"
"Not exactly, my friend. I'm not the carbon-based life form known as Giancarlo Esposito, yet I present myself as him to serve as an anchor of familiarity to your disordered mind." He gestured slightly with his hands in circular motions, trying to drive the point home.
"Would it make you more comfortable calling me Gus? Between him and Gregory House, I was tempted to pick the later, but it seemed I could not make justice to the character. The witty remarks of that man are incredibly challenging to pull off."
"I—I can't even begin to make sense of this. What are you, then?"
He put a hand to his chin, deep in thought. "That is a fair question. I suppose you could call me an omnipotent being, not God itself, mind you, but alas, a powerful entity nonetheless, one that is certainly curious."
"A being from a higher dimension? An alien? The hell are you? What—What is the game you are playing?"
The easy smile was left ignored, a frown of severe magnitude taking place in his façade. He looked out, at the window, beyond what sight could possibly gaze at. "Humans have, and pardon me if I'm not explaining myself correctly, tremendous capabilities in achieving seemingly impossible things. Your race, for more weak and vulnerable that it is, endures just enough to successfully accomplish many great deeds even if the odds are stacked against your luck and probabilities."
He leaned forward, his face every bit shared with interest. "I'm intrigued, and so it's my species. What have you lot to offer to this cosmos? Are you a threat? Or a possible answer to many of our problems? Your potential is unparalleled, and it would be a sin to lay it to waste. As such, you've been chosen amongst billions to answer that for us."
For more profound those words sounded, Aleksei couldn't help but feel skeptical and mad and confused. "And you fucking deemed it necessary to test it in this way? Why pick anyone up and rob them of their home just to place them in a video game? Why was it even Fire Emblem, to begin with?"
"We are omnipotent, but not easily amused. We must find some form of entertainment out of this, and this seemed quite extraordinary in paper for such purpose. We know you are familiar with the series as well, the only franchise you've paid attention to."
"So, am I just a guinea pig for you? A sucker stripped away from the love and presence of his family for your own showbiz?" He sits straighter, angry and intolerant about everything that is happening.
"Why couldn't you pick, I don't know, someone who actually wanted to do this?! If this is real, and if you are real as well, why didn't you bring some fictional fucker like Robin or Ike from the previous games? I even bet Walter White would have done much better than I!"
The man smirked, apparently entertained in his comments. "Who says you are the only one?"
The answer caught him by surprise, ironically. ". . . I'm not alone? Who else is here?"
"That information is beside pointless in your hands, but I'll humor you with an explanation. We did not want to run the risk of picking someone of your species to only, as you people name it, screw it up? There's strength in numbers, after all. It is additionally amusing to watch as you lot come up with your own different solutions."
Aleksei stands up, his patience running dry. This was beyond ludicrous, and he wanted to vent the stress. By blows and kicks, that is. "Fuck you man! Why me? Why us?!"
He's stopped in his tracks, an impossibly heavy weight settling at the base of his feet. Gus, or whatever the thing is, only looks at him with unsympathetic admonishment. "Why is it that you people take interest over the littlest of things? Is it so important the fact you were picked? You are already here, like it or not, and you are in a position most unique."
Struggling to move without success, Aleksei felt the beginning of a migraine at the back of his eyes, promptly making him sigh with exhaustion. "Fuck it. Say I believe you. Say you are what you are. What is it in for me? How can I return?"
"You are to simply make the most out of yourself."
"Whatever the hell does that even mean?"
"You are right in your assumption that we could have picked a better candidate for this endeavor, fictional that it may be or not. Yet, I go back to what I've just told you. Your species, you as an example, Aleksei, trusted into a military position at the time most are simply riding their bicycles to school dealing with both drama and hormones, have overcome colossal adversities. It is the fact that you are not special, and yet do as you do, that intrigues us."
At his petulant silence, the being continued.
"With your foreknowledge, you could intervene little in the events, or you could just use what you know to remain hidden and unaffected, that is up to you. Do not die, please? That would be our minimum condition. You must see it through the end of the war."
Surkov turned alarmed, frustrated tears pickling at his eyes. "Gus, Gus! Please, pick someone else. I promise you I will do anything—"
The enigmatic character looked away, attentive, as if he heard something of most interest. "Ah, the show's starting! You will have to excuse me, I am eager to observe these—"
"I am not your play toy!"
An ugly pause settled over the room. Gus, unruffled. Aleksei, manic.
The former stood up, completely ignoring him as he left through the door, taking a moment to look back over his shoulder. "I'd suggest you get a hold of yourself and evaluate your choices."
And with a snap of his fingers, the world returned to its normal state, Gus's presence every bit gone. A deep feeling of apprehension and horror clawed from the depths of his gut, rising slowly and viciously through his throat.
The sound of muffled screams stopped him from voicing his own, coming from far down below, out in the streets in front of the inn. A glance through the windows showed him a picture he was very acquainted with, yet couldn't miss for his dear life.
A cavalry of blood, weapons, and spilled insides.
Charcoal figures of ebony and iron poured out from the streets, clashing swords, axes, and lances with their red counterparts, all equaled armed to the teeth, their roars akin to lions on a den.
Above, a black entity of claws, fangs, and tendrils rained fire upon the land and whatever victim had the misfortune to cross its path, a crimson rider above holding the beast in check.
"To arms, Chevois! Let us banish the influence of the mad king from our Dukedom!"
Down below, between the scorching earth and wrathful chaos, a paladin of silver hair brought his sword down to prevent his early demise, shouting orders above the agitated rumble of screams and warcries.
Silas looked like everything but the caring, thoughtful man he seemed during his bonding conversations with his companions. "Forward! Do not let them flank us! Forward!"
Aleksei remembered how his balls had, somehow, clammed his throat from all the way down below his stomach, showering everything in cold sweat. He recalled the words of the alien, the being of omnipotent nature that seemed to be the responsible for this mess, and his ears thundered with the onslaught of his heart beating wildly inside.
Involve himself in this shit? Screw that.
He made haste to grab whatever he had at his disposal, no matter how little it was. Cloak in place, he was about to run through his door and exit from the balcony when a wyvern-turned-projectile slammed through the walls of the neighbor's room, the debris of splintered wood and stone making quick work of the lives inside.
He crouched low, battle-hardened instincts taking over. The blood of the animal and its guts—its corpse having collapsed the walls of the room that faced the corridor—flew down the hall and stairs, scaring the already petrified patrons that had been attending the bar and reception below.
If it weren't for the fact he had seen many images alike in his years in Africa and the Middle East, he would be just as immobile and scared to the core.
He jumped down the stairs, absentmindedly pushing everyone and their mothers away as he passed. Women cried, aghast, terrified by the violence. Men rushed for their families or for weapons, scared but eager to defend themselves and their own. A few sneaky thieves took the opportunity from the chaos to steal the purses and money left behind by the people, their lives taking priority over their resources.
"It's the resistance!"
"Divines save us!"
"Run!"
The last man got his urgencies straight, thought Aleksei while making his way through the back door. He planned to reach the outskirts of the city, probably spend his time wandering through the towns closest to the capital by his own means. In the wild, even alone, he could survive. Life had groomed him for that.
How much time, however? He realized. How much time does this war last?
In the game, it seemed to only be hours, but that's because of its own nature as an entertainment media. War took days at best, but most lasted years, and he would bet his nuts on the later if he were to go by Fates' narrative.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—!"
He crashed into the crowd, stepping on men, women, and children alike, their protests dying in their throats to let air pass through and focus on putting one foot in front of the other in a continuous staccato of beats.
A wall of bricks at his side blasted right into everyone thanks to the exploits of a Nohrian mage making use of her tome to dispatch a pair of Chevois soldiers. The wreckage of the explosion fell like a grenade's shrapnel, killing every civilian that had the misfortune of running close to the wall.
The screams filled the streets again, and for some reason, he found comfort in the fact he wasn't the one causing them this time.
He took a turn to the left in an adjacent alleyway, others following close behind just as the main streets were turned into a mess of red.
"Go for the buildings!"
"Woman, you are asking for a rubble grave if you do that!" Grumbled a skinny man that looked the part for a royal.
"As you like, be food for the black demons!"
"It is you that'll turn into tuna for the wyverns, you old hag!"
He needed a vantage point, a place from where he could observe the ensuing conflict and plan for the nearest exit without much trouble.
"What building is it you are after?!"
The petite but motherly sembled woman returned the plea as she held onto a bag of bread. "This way!"
The group had suddenly dispersed, ones taking for the streets and a few others following the call of the lady. They arrived at the entrance of a residence-like structure which took to the skies over a couple of stories, not beyond the altitude of fifty meters.
With a quick use of her keys, everyone was soon inside, gasping and catching their breaths. Aleksei counted seven people total, each looking more different than the other.
The old adage of never judging a book by its cover had never been one he closely followed. When you see so many cases of little kids carrying bombs strapped to their chests, fanatic killers disguised below the façade of innocence, you are quick to start paying attention to the primal instincts your mind's developed to protect you from danger.
You judge first and asks questions later.
And boy, did his mind scream danger after he looked at three of the people he was sharing a shelter with.
The woman took a moment to compose herself. "We can stay here until the battle passes. Many doors in here lead to different exits in case something occurs."
Fuck that. The less you stay here, the better. "From where can I catch the stairs up to the roof?"
She looked at him as if he had grown a second head. "Follow the corridor around the corner—hey, why would you even want to—"
A rough looking boy, one of the ones he had been wary of, stepped from behind pointing a knife at her back. "Now, now, shut your little mouth. Why don' we go upstairs to your apartment? You hand ove' the goodies and you' fingers stay intact."
One of the others, a woman with a dark cloak and a pair of daggers, raised her own share of input in the matter. "Everyone else as well. Take those pockets off."
Dear God, now the petite woman looked as she was about to have a stroke. He could not catch a breath, could he not?
Aleksei raised his quivering hands, leaving a pair of gold coins on the floor next to his feet. "C—can I go? That's all I have with me."
One of the men, another smug looking royal if his choice of clothes was to go by, bolted around for a quick getaway, only to be promptly stopped by a punch in the guts courtesy of the third one in his list.
"Uh-uh, we boys don' do that aroun' here."
The soldier could only swear in as many different languages as he knew. This turned from complicated to outright troubling.
The thief woman made a mistake to take her eyes away from him as she crawled towards his position, the gold coins apparently that much attracting if to go by her flabbergasted expression.
She never saw the pummeling kick to the jaw nor, in her staggered state, the headlock he trapped her in after deftly robbing her of the knives, one of them currently pressing into her jugular.
"Drop your weapons and leave," he grunted.
Drop it or leave it to her to make for the perfect punching bag to take out his stress. Man or woman, it did not matter.
He made no distinctions between them in his fury.
The boy didn't hesitate to put his own against the older lady's throat, his crystal eyes turned vicious. A primal reaction; a possible sign of weakness to exploit. "She's dead'f you d' not let'er go."
Between her cries for please and stop and help, Aleksei coldly mocked him with a sneer in an attempt to seize the higher ground. "I care none for the woman, unlike in your case." He pressed the knife deeper, enough to draw blood out of her pale skin.
The last thieve took alarm in this, trusting he would completely back up his words. He dropped the short sword in his belt and soon asked the boy to do the same. A pair of knives clattered down to the floor in response.
How dare they, taking him as an amateur.
Releasing the thieve's throat, he plunged the knife into her thigh, a guttural scream of agony echoing over the dark walls around them. Amidst it, his own voice was kept leveled, stelled.
"Alice!" Oh, so the bitch has a name?
"Do not take me for a sucker. All. Of. Your. Weapons." He punctuated each word to drive the point home. "Her face will be next if you dare so much as to ignore the threat."
The boy glared at him with rage, his gaze so intense it melted flesh and bone together. Both thieves parted away from their hidden knives beneath layers of gear and clothes, swiftly raising their hands in defeat and backstepping towards the exit.
All the while, he registered the woman in his hands, not caring for shame or manners as his hands traveled throughout her body, probing and examining for any other weapon concealed from sight.
Content with his findings, he drove an elbow to her nape, the force behind the blow knocking her out on the spot.
"She's just knocked out cold before you believe otherwise." He kept the blade still pointing at her, not believing for a moment the guy's intentions had turned one-hundred and eighty degrees.
"Leave."
The boy hesitated in his abode of wounded pride and rage, but before he could voice any form of protest, the other swiftly jostled him back, opened the door to the sounds of warcries and shrieks, and shoved the both of them outside to face their demons.
High in adrenaline, Aleksei knew he should just keep moving. "Down the corridor, you mentioned, yes?"
The woman, still in shock from what could be a heck of a near-death experience, clammed her throat, her jaw not appropriately responding to her intents. A chocking sob came out, and she clasped both of her hands to her mouth to let it cage inside in a desperate attempt to keep silent.
He sighed, frustrated. Be practical. Move. You need to MOVE. "A nod will do."
She managed that, followed by a weak thank you that failed to reach his ears.
He took a few steps towards his exit route before he cursed. The thief woman, Alice. Right.
Not even being careful with the wound on her leg, she jostled her up, balancing her weight on his right shoulder as he took note of how light she was. He returned to the corridor and up through the stairs, the clash of his boots against the cobblestone his only guide through the darkness.
"Those thieves better be ready, because I'm throwing her by the window." His voice had turned gruff, be it for the exertion, the stored tension or the nature of his vocal chords presently unadjusted to the language his mouth bizarrely spat.
The sight that greeted him as he risked a glance over the roof was appalling. Otherworldly beasts battled in the skies just as would dozens of frenzied F18 Hornets, their cries less mechanical yet more rancorous.
Down, in the streets, the dispersed Nohrian guard clashed for its survival as the Chevois resistance stacked hundreds of soldiers in a myriad of surprise attacks that beheaded most of their opposing forces.
The hell, he thought, when is this happening? Was he in the Hoshidan route? Perhaps the Nohrian? Was the avatar and her—or his—crew already here, kicking butts?
A strike of inflamed locks caught his attention, and soon enough, he amusedly observed as the thief boy ran in-between the pandemonium stealing glances towards the roof, his partner one step behind.
"Kid's got balls, I'll give him that."
He turned to scan the districts while trying to form some sort of order of his jumbled memories, forcing his mind to recall from where he first had entered the capital. He could have bargained the thieves for directions, but he wasn't risking the chance of being set up for a trap.
Deciding to follow his instincts, he picked up his pace and jumped to the nearest residential building, the additional weight in his back making him crash hard against the floor.
Fuck, that hurt. Light or not, gravity turned out to be a bitch even with little weight.
Taking notice of a ladder that went into the dorms, he unceremoniously dropped the thief inside, shortly following suit.
The aisle was well-lit thanks to the windows perched throughout the walls, the opaque nature of the day painting the marble floor in an unexpected ashen tone. The rooms to the apartments were tightly closed, and no matter how hard he knocked asking for help, no one answered.
He strode down the stairs, having in mind an alleyway he'd seen without much movement that ended in a junction towards two plazas. Depending on which one felt safer, he would make his way towards the start of the forest at the borders of the capital, preferably avoiding any markets and concentrated zones of combat.
Successfully outside, he evaluated the environment around him. The streets were devoid of life save for the screamings that echoed from miles away. There were countless bodies skewered here and there, with no proper order to their placements.
No one in sight, he made for the alley at the back, taking a secure hold of his knives. In other conditions, this would have felt like the time he strolled across the streets of Bern. The Swiss capital had been nothing but captivating during his visit, the medieval architecture contrasting spectacularly with the most modern iterations of museums, parks, and structures.
Now, however, his boots clanked with an urge not possessed through those times. There was no freckled brunette accompanying him on his journey. There was no pride in having the chance to afford the voyage of a lifetime. There was no happiness to draw strength from, no presence to bring comfort from, no messages of I wish you well, or I love you, come back soon to remind him of his home next to the fireplace where his father recited anecdotes like Neruda recited poems of love and affection.
Now, it felt lonely and alien, it felt wrong at all levels and senses. Aleksei felt the walls conspiring against him, nauseatingly close, whispering his position to an unseen enemy that awaited around the corner to behead him in on the spot.
He gripped the blades with an anxious glee. If any motherfucker was going to unexpectedly spring against him, the least he could do was to return the favor.
The plaza to his right seemed particularly desolated save for a lingering patrol of Nohrians tending to their wounds. The commander, some average-looking dude save for the ebony armor and colors he proudly carried, fought for breath while he directed a new set of orders to his recruits.
He paused, holding his position until left alone. If he had to cross this thing Snake mode, crawling through the dirt and mud to avoid some chance of unforeseen interrogation, imprisoning, or likelihood of death because the fuckers wouldn't leave, he was going to deck someone.
His prayers answered, the troops soon left to follow their respective orders. He went low, ready to bolt at any given moment towards his destination, and crossed the hundred meter town square as if the Grim Reaper itself followed closely behind his shoulder.
Thank the Lord, he was safe. He could keep close to the walls now and avoid any—
"By order of the King, stop right there!"
The sack of balls dropped, and the muscle memory from countless experiences in the act of war came instinctively with it. Aleksei spun, his cloak hurling in the air and hiding his knives from view, primed and willing. Inside, he was nervous; he was the little kid who entered a frightening maze with no way of turning back.
A face made of rock and dirt, eyes dark as charcoal, equally rough but naïve. The young man, he suspected of around two-to-three years behind him in life, glared with the point of his sword at him, drawing closer each second.
"Do I look Chevoian to you, sir?" Raise your hands. Draw your attention upwards. Keep a submissive stance. Bit by bit, step back.
Charcoal man took notice of his intentions, it seemed. He raised his blade as if to strike. "Stand where you are, scum! I am to take you imprisoned if you so much as blink!"
Aleksei couldn't help himself but glare. "Tell that to Scarlet! Know of her? She's the one burning your comrades from atop of the skies, not some damn civilian trying to run from harm!"
Unfazed, he kept biting and drawing closer. "The Crimson Witch will burn as she deserves for raising arms against the motherland who fed her, but that is beside the point."
Indeed, he did not have high hopes for her survival. In two-thirds of the possible routes available, she is either killed by the Nohrian troops in a gruesome manner, or used as a puppet for giggles and ragdolls by Gunther, or Anankos if you prefer.
His eyes widened, imploring. "Go for her, then! I am not your enemy. I want nothing on this conflict. I'm just a man far away from home that seeks shelter—"
"I'll be the judge to that. Drop anything in your pockets! Do as I say!"
Aleksei laughed, thrilled, insane. "Is money what you are after? Here." He grabbed a handful of coins in his pouch, the gold shimmering with light in his palm. "Take it and stop being so goddamn paranoid for Christ's sakes!"
The light in the man's eyes changed, not doubting the monetary value offered so freely to him, but such emotion was quickly engulfed in pupils of dark ebony, wrath depicted in the curvature of his eyebrows. The lone wanderer gulped.
"Don't you dare take me for scum such as you, you filth!"
The soldier lunged at him, taken by a mad demon. Aleksei skipped drawing his knives altogether and just screamed whilst dodging left, lest his chest taste steel. He bent low, venturing into the soldier's personal space with a desperate cry and rushing for it with a tackle that would have made his old man proud. The sword clattered away, the pair tasting floor and clay in their faces.
In his fury and confidence, the charcoal boy had taken him for a peasant devoid of any sort of training in personal defense and paid dearly for it, both now in the ground, one beneath the other.
Locked in a perpetual state of fight-or-flight, Aleksei's instincts took hold and seized the moment. Taking advantage of his upper position, he drew the closest knife at his hand and proceeded to stab with vigor, blood sprinkling his face with crimson and sin each time it tasted flesh.
"FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU—!"
The breastplate, while not of premium quality nor worth, could possibly offer resistance to pointed steel. Aleksei had suspected, during the very few moments of their interaction, the boy could have been wearing some sort of additional protection beneath it.
Taking such an essential piece of information to his heart, he didn't aim for the internal organs sheltered bellow layers of muscle, fat, and bone.
Instead, he aimed for the eyes, the nose, the cheeks and the mouth. He aimed for plunging iron into every possible opening available in the cranial structure of the offender's face.
A mess of sounds and noise came to life, a piercing shriek of pain and despair numbing his ears as he gored the boy alive, the squelching and the gurgling barely perceptible with it.
Fourteen stabs later, and a mess of a human life extinguished on the floor, Aleksei fled the scene with no afterthought of the event, not until he had long since passed the city's precincts into the wild, the presence of Gus no longer hunting his thoughts.