A/N: Another speed-write! So yeah, comes with the other potential mistakes that accompany a speed-write. Hope you enjoy as usual! Maybe Sergei will make it out of one of my stories and not be covered in the blood of his enemies. Maybe.
He stepped inside the tent alone, wiping his brow; the August heat outside of St. Petersburg was quite intense, despite the fact many of the less-knowledgeable people around the world thought Russia tended to be cold all the time.
A smear of blood appeared where he wiped. This was not uncommon for the huge man.
Sergei Dragunov had just gotten finished quelling a small uprising; these would spot the landscape every so often. The Mishima Zaibatsu's covert operatives were still causing issues; Russia was a big country, and they were still around, even after the tournament. No one was able to bring them down, yet. They were more scattered, to be sure...but they were still dangerous.
Sergei was more dangerous, however, and he just showed another small group of them this fact in horrifying detail. There were perhaps eight or nine, but they were not being particularly prudent this afternoon. Sergei was able to get the drop rather easily. One tear gas grenade sent them scattering. Turning one's firearm against him, the rest he simply mangled in close combat, as he usually did and preferred to do. He would use any weapon necessary for the job, but whenever possible, he fought barehanded. It was a test of skill, and he liked to make sure his enemies were dead. He felt he could do that more efficiently up close.
He looked it, too. Some of the blood was his; he did take two knife wounds. They weren't terribly deep, but they were deep enough. Most of it belonged to the enemy. He stripped off his fingerless and now stained Kevlar gloves-it was too hot to wear much more, and removed the likewise blood-spattered vest; also made of Kevlar, to at least give his torso some protection. The cuts were on his arms, as he went in with just his tank top under his vest. The temperature nearing forty degrees Celsius in the sun; it was far too hot for a heavy jacket. Some people still went for the heavier gear, but Sergei did not fear his opposition. He knew he would come out victorious, even if he took some wounds in the process.
He kicked his large, steel reinforced combat boots against the side of the table a moment, knocking some of the blood that had dried off of them of onto the ground. They were about as bad as his gloves.
Massive head wounds tended to bleed a lot.
Sergei, as his nickname usually told, tended to leave behind carnage that was quite loud and clear that whatever was going on reallyought to stop, or else more would likely meet their brutal demise.
A few of his men-who had stopped in briefly-looked nervously over in his direction before leaving the tent. He said nothing. Sergei quite did not mind the fact his men were wary around him; it kept them in line. They knew he had killed even his own before for stepping out of line. It sometimes confused them; he was a man of immeasurable brutality, yet they watched him snap the neck of a man who tried to terrorize the opposition. They were non combatant, and thus not a threat. Sergei would kick in the head of an enemy without a thought, but he would not harm anyone who he was not charged to take out. He wasn't what one might call a good man, but he was respectful to those who were not the enemy, or those he had not been tasked to kill. He had to assassinate scientists and the like before, which were non combatant, but that was simply a job. He had no issue with bystanders, and kept his own men in line when it came to them...on pain of death.
There was a person who had not been afraid of his brutal tactics, and he was quite amused to discover it was a near-eighteen year old young woman who he had guarded over the summer.
Who subsequently ended up becoming much more to him than just a charge.
He looked around for a moment, seeing himself alone again. There were not too many men here. He pulled out a canteen of water to take a long drink; while vodka-or coffee-would have been preferred, it was hot, and he needed the water more. He would have some later. He took a cigarette out, lit it, and inhaled; he blew out a long stream of smoke and sat back in the chair. He examined the fresh knife wounds on his arms, knowing that she would have probably tried to insist on immediate care for them. With the cigarette still in his mouth, he began to clean them somewhat with a cloth that was nearby.
In about a week, he would be seeing her again.
His superior had called him in. Mr. Rochefort, of Rochefort Enterprises-who was set up in a trade deal with some of the Russian military involving oil, both had enemies in the Zaibatsu; and his daughter, Lili, would be in Berlin, working with a branch of the company and living mostly on her own in an expensive place. Only a few basic guards and servants would be with her. Sergei had done such a good job that Mr. Rochefort had offered much more money to the military for what was basically a job as a mercenary bodyguard; he would be gone for an undisclosed amount of time.
Sergei had accepted the job; it was his duty to listen to his superiors. He could continue to fight the Zaibatsu covertly, anyway...and he suspected some would try to find either of them while they were there. He was secretly glad, though.
Lili Rochefort meant more to him than any human being ever had. He barely knew his parents, the foster families he had lived with were utilitarian at best, and his men were the equivalent of co-workers. The one girl he had been with as a teenager-he had been younger than Lili-lasted but a couple of months and was nothing serious. He moved on, devoting his life to combat.
While Sergei was not a sentimental, caring type, Lili meant a lot to him. They had an affair while he was there that lasted about eight weeks; it was an intensely physical one, but it did not lack in other aspects, either. He sometimes would remember that first night very well. He did, from time to time, find himself missing her-so when the job came up, he was secretly glad.
However, he was prepared for her to have perhaps moved on; he would be fine with this. He was not too attached. But he could not lie, he hoped she would perhaps be interested in revisiting some things again. Even if they never moved beyond 'affair'-which, truth be told, they could not, given their situations-he enjoyed it. It was one of the few things outside of combat or the military that he had enjoyed. He hadn't thought much of it in the nine months he had been away, though at first there was a very, very tiny part of himself that felt almost a bit...empty after he had left.
He took another drag of the cigarette, unbuckling his knife and tossing it onto the table. It had some blood on it as well; he did utilize it once in the battle-driving it into a man's temple-but he had wiped it off before re-sheathing it. If he had to use a weapon other than his body, a knife was preferred to a gun.
He took a final puff of the smoke, smashing it out in the dirt under his heel. The compound had been on the outskirts of the city, as most of the more secret ones were. They were usually disguised as something else. There had not been many here at this time; they had set up their camp a couple of miles away and went in as to be a bit more covert. A few men with him had shot some of the guards; Sergei took care of the bulk of them. His superiors knew that was what he was best at...and what he enjoyed.
Wiping more sweat from his brow and finishing his water, he chuckled again to himself. Lili would have hated this. Not the exciting part, but the heat and the dirt. Lili, for all she liked her street fights and scrapping, was still quite refined and maybe a little spoiled; she hated being dirty and sweaty.
Well...for most things. She got over it for bedroom activities, he recalled. A tiny smirk played across his lips; it was one he would usually just show to her.
Regardless of how he lived his life now...he was quite glad to be getting another chance to see her.
Sergei stood to go toward the faucet they had connected to the spare water; he refilled his canteen before cleaning the dirt and blood from his arms and hands. There were a few cuts there, as well. He then took the small medical kit and began to clean the nastier knife wounds on his arms so he could dress them. Despite being more adept at killing than healing, he was a professional soldier, and he did know how to handle basic field medicine. None would need stitches; they would leave scars, but he would wear them with all the rest.
One week.
He finished cleaning and sanitizing his wounds; he would bandage them back at the base, after a shower. He kicked his boot against the table again, thinking to himself that cleaning up after battle would be so much easier if men didn't bleed so much.
He looked out the small window of the tent, wondering what sort of situation would be waiting for him in Berlin. He was used to the unexpected.
He checked his watch, seeing that it would be time to get back to the base soon. He grabbed his gear, walking out and throwing it into his large, armored jeep. Thankfully, it was a newer model with air conditioning. Sergei could stay anywhere-snowdrifts, deserts, and everything in between; and he would do so without a single word complaint...not that he spoke much anyway. He simply did not care where he was. He could adapt with frightening ease.
Still, he remembered when someone taught him that perhaps enjoying a comfort now and then wasn't such a bad thing.