DISCLAIMER- Far Cry and it's characters and unique places therein, is a vision of publishers, Ubisoft, developers, Ubisoft Montreal, and producers Crytek. Under the Copyright Act of 2015. Also, protected under this Act, is the law of Fair Use, meaning Hammering the Sickle, Vostochnyy Parooski and Zapadnyy Parooski, it's odd places and characters contained within, is the idea of one, die-hard fan, The Khaos Jester (Kristopher J. Adams). Pirating ANY of the aforementioned items, is admissible and WILL, be used in the court of law. Cover Art by a very talented artist, whom I shall find the author to and post proper contribution where it's needed.

Author's Note- It's good to be back. Enjoy, as always, I am here for your entertainment.

Special Thanks- Publishers Ubisoft, developers Ubisoft Montreal, and producers Crytek, for bringing to life such a brilliant series. R, a knowledgeable adviser, & D, go to cheerleader, Dvnprt. To the Dms Family, a constant inspiration. Dedicated to 391, this one's for you, doll.

A Far Cry

Hammering the Sickle

Prologue-

A winter so infamous, it halted not one, but two selfish dictators. No ally to this chilling wrath, far more than evil it fells. For some odd found reason, he decided to come here in this harsh time, to Russia. One of the largest, highly elevated, mountainous countries of the Eastern World. Smacked right into the harshest age of the year, Adam Burgess had come home.

Adam sat on a long bus cramped to the brim with people. The bus sat in the middle of four, two in front another two in back, heavily armed and armored escorts. One could guess he stepped into what another could call a rebellion. He had met the band of rebels while hitchhiking on a cold, deserted road. He at least managed to flag them over and offered to pay for a lift.

The convoy was transferring a group of beaten civilians out of a war torn Western Russia. Though he was waived of the fee, incredibly grateful, Adam charged onto the bus full of warm bodies. The rebels introduced themselves as, Ognennogo, and they told him it was a shit time to be touring. Adam couldn't find the meaning in the name, he had long lost his heritage to the Americas. It may have been his home country but he didn't remember a wink of it.

Whilst minding the hardened, yet frightened individuals, Adam pulled a small collapsed note free from his inner jacket pocket. It was his mother's deathbed scrawling. She had birthed him in Russia but moved to America when he was only a babe. A reason never foretold, until a clue scratched itself on some parchment:

"You are a king, my son. Forgive my lack of attention. The Bear has done this. The Throne is yours. Take it back."

- Mom, I guess

Adam's mother had always been cryptic, even when she wasn't falling off her gourd. He mostly raised himself. While his mother enjoyed her crack, he saw himself to school. Even coming to the point to slinging stolen goods from his mother's store, only the green stuff, she would mix in concoction, whilst he was high school to pay the bills. Some how, his mother was always well supplied.

Adam always figured he had come from Russia. His mother would never tell him about his heritage but she gave subtle hints; chatting silently on the phone with someone in the language, when she thought he wasn't around or speaking about the country in her sleep.

Adam was raised American, red, white and blue, true and through. He worked at a local diner, an honest and good person despite his past endeavors. Do not mistake him. He has enough bad to get things done, when the good is just not good enough. He had quit his job and scrounged enough paper to see himself to this torturous cold land. His boss was a dick anyway.

Adam kept telling himself that as he shivered the note back to its place. Even with the packed heated units, the cold cut its way into the bus. He turned and scratched at the frost on the window. It took some doing but he managed a peek into the outside world.

Suddenly, Adam saw something flash against the light drifting snow. He heard, heard through all the chatter and engines, a loud, yet faint whistle. An explosion erupted from the front most GAZ Tigr, annihilating it and everyone inside. Another whistle, "RPG!" he heard a rebel roar, moments later the rear most Tigr found itself in inferno, sending shrapnel chopping into the other rear Tigr, he heard screams from the armor and more rogue shrapnel came shattering to the back windows of the bus.

Everyone was screaming now. A rebel yelled, "Eto Drako! Peremeshcheniye! Tank?!" Adam turned just in time to a wild blur approaching the front of the bus, where the cry had originated. Sure enough, a large painted black and red camouflage, T-90 armor was crushing the last most frontal Tigr underneath its treads. He turned to the back, as instinct foretold, a twin T-90 followed suit of the first and devastated the final most escort in similar fashion.

The bus door banged open, "Vse ot avtobusa, teper'!" the driver roared. No one moved, who could blame them, they were all terrified. Tanks idled at their flanks. Now, dozens of soldiers gathered at both sides of the bus, armed to the teeth and looking inhospitable. One could hear helicopters chopping overheard. Adam swore he could hear a faint jet engine as well. Some soldiers started to shoot out the other windows alongside the sides of the bus. No one was hurt, screaming, but unharmed. "Get. Off. My. Bus," the driver commanded, before long, one by one, each person stood, starting from the front, lined up and began slowly, ever so slowly, stepping off the bus, where they were dragged into a group by the soldiers.

Adam took his turn and rose up into the line. He couldn't help himself, he kept turning his head to look out the now, windowless, windows. The soldiers just stood there in tight knit lines, neatly, all in rows. Merely holding their weapons, never taking their gazes from the bus, unless the ones carting off the civilians into the group. The armor at the bus' flanks hadn't moved an inch.

Adam reached the front of the bus, despite the freezing temperatures, he was sweating. The last person in front of him stepped off and was torn away. Slowly as possible Adam took the two steps off. As soon as his foot hit the ground he was pulled off to the side, away from the group, and his hands were bound behind his back. He was shoved forward, onward into the of soldiers. He heard a cry and the sound of someone hitting snow.

Adam turned back and a man from the bus was groveling on his knees to a soldier. The uniform brought his weapon up and harshly beat it against the innocent's face and then kneed him back into with the rest of the group. "Otpravit' eti lokhi v shakhty!" the officer directed and stomped up to chat with a soldier staying with Adam's own personal guard, it seemed, a moment later the officer found something to laugh about from the soldier he conversed with.

"Vynesti!" a soldier called. The soldiers herded the group turned prisoners to the back of a heavy transport engine due south, the tanks spun north up the road. The remaining soldiers packed into a GAZ Vodnik to each themselves and split both north and south.

Adam was, again, pushed forward by a soldier still on his six. At least a pack of a dozen soldiers still sat and watched him. He was suddenly blindfolded and then pushed more harshly onward this time.

Adam heard the soldiers part around him, chattering their native language. Whispers of intrigue followed him as he was lead, trudging on through cold, dense snow. The pack and Adam only had to walk a short chilling distance.

A loud bang, a door was kicked open. "Welcome to Russia!" a resident accent hailed, "and get rid of that fucking blindfold," the blinding disappeared. Adam didn't have time to take in his surroundings. A large form had already turned heel and was inside a small building, laid before Adam.

Once more, shoved into the building. The lights switched on, a stainless steel table with two similar fashioned chairs sat in the middle of the large floor. Crates lined the walls and the soldiers followed Adam inside. The building was well heated and welcomed by all. The form he had saw earlier, now sat at the table across from the empty chair, which Adam was sat into. The soldiers took off their gloves, warmed their hands and rested themselves on the crates.

Adam studied the man before him very closely, he carried a seemingly, familiar face, he knew this man. The brute of a human cracked open a bottle, Adam assumed vodka, took a long swig and slid it over to Adam. "What's wrong?" the man asked passively, noting Adam unreasoning the potato-water, "don't like the drink?"

"My hands..." Adam hacked to help clear his throat, "my hands are bound," he said clearly, yet meekly.

"Chto?! Are you fucking serious? Iz bav'tes ot nikh!" the man roared at the soldiers, Adam's bonds were quickly cut, he messaged his wrists gratefully, "Der'mo Iisusa! This is my brother..."

"Huh?" was all Adam could mutter.

"Of course you don't know," the man gazed at him through dark brown eyes. He had a dark full, fuzzy beard, with a mess of medium-short brown hair. "I am your brother, Adam. Blood by blood. Through and through. You are Butonvik."

"But-on-vik?" Adam questioned, cocking his head and gazing quizzically back at the man.

"What? N'yet! Buu-toan-veek! It's your name too! Learn it," the man snatched the bottle back and took another long swig, he wore black clothing fitting to the according weather, "who do you think you are," the man gasped and tilted again for another go.

"Adam Burgess," the young man cringed.

"Burgess?!" the man chortled through his teeth, "you think your name is Burgess?" he seemed in hysterics now. He slammed the bottle to the table and started pounding the sleek silver surface with his fist. "I am Drako," the man gasped for air, "Butonvik. You are Adam Butonvik. We are brothers of one son of bitch, Buton Savnov. Crime lord to all of Rossiya."

"Butonvik...?" Adam thought, he admired the bear of man before him. The shockingly realization is he resembled closely to this man. Without the beard, not quite built as such, but still fit. He had him greatly in height and build but this man was his brother.

"Butonvik," Drako gave his long lost brother a broad smile. The smile went as quickly as it came, "search him," he stated. A soldier removed Adam's backpack, another stood him up and began thorough pat down and seizure of all the contents in his clothes, including the note. All of which was turned in Drako.

The soldier with the backpack turned the bag over and spilled the contents to the floor. Namely fruit and given supplies, his pink toothbrush! All, rested on the ground. "Are you fucking serious? Idyot! You bruised his fruit! Come here!" Drako, obviously furious, snapped his fingers and pointed to his own boots. The soldier solemnly stepped over and removed his helmet. Drako's reach was just out, the slap was felled lazily to the soldier's face, "come here!" The soldier bent over and offered his complexion, this time Drako backhanded him hard enough enough to send the soldier among the lowly surface with the fruit. Drako pulled some money from one of his many coat pockets and tossed the cash over to the grounded soldier. "Go buy him some more. The good shit. None of that market dung."

Drako placed the classic face palm and rested his arms on the table. "The hospitality..." he seethed, "I am sorry. I've been a rotten host. Namely, thanks to these fucks!" He chided his men and pulled a pack of cigarettes, lighting one, he also offered Adam, which the brother promptly declined. Drako sat in a deep thought for a moment, before turning to the pile of lint and the small note settled in it. He snatched the paper and freed his spectacles and looked down through his glasses at the parchment.

Drako sighed and gave Adam a solemn glance. He lit his light and settled the note over the fire. When it was well flamed, he let it fall to the floor. "Our mother..." he put his glasses to the table, "as I sure you know, was a useless, crack head. Abusing everything in the books. I should know too. I fed her habit. Do not give me that look, she was a venomous whore and deserved to die like the snake." Drako frowned at Adam and shook his head, "she would call me always, when she was at her highest peak. Pay, no, attention to her, Adam. As you always have. We can still, very well be, brothers. Come with me and you won't have to take back anything."

Drako held out his hand across the table, willing Adam to take it. Adam was hesitant, naturally. "Why I should I?" he asked keeping his hand in tight nervous fists.

Drako smirked, "Father always prided you as Hammer. Right then, when you were just born. Yet, he wanted another son to call Sickle. Leaving his first born broken and shunned. I won't deny you, like I denied him, like he denied me. I reached farther than he could have ever imagined. Sure, Russia, is divided into anarchy and democracy, but I control it all.

Vostochnaya Rossiya: A place for the hard and by the wealthiest side. I rake in billions a year alone with the west part. Zapadnaya Rossiya: A place that gives back to the country. Keeping the land fed, prosperous, and in comfort.

You cannot have one, without the other, brother. I have struck a balance like this world has ever seen; and it never will. Do not worry about politics, this is why democracies have presidents, fat cats, and the people. So, I just pay all those fat fucks on capital hill to work for me and handle all their other operations. I am the money. Natasha and anyone forth coming is my helping hand. Them and congress shit-eaters. Along with many others. Why the hell is it all so complicated... and weird?" Drako asked curiously cocking his head over, squinting his eyes and finished with his persuasive speech.

Adam was startled, beyond astonished, this man had one the most largest, well armed, countries of the Eastern World, right under lock and key!

"Now, Adam, I hold my hand to you, again. I will show you control, beyond even that of your wildest dreams. Please, be my brother in this." Adam, still so hesitant, slowly reached out. Drako grew a slight smile. Several crashes happened at once, followed by loud hisses.

"Kurit'!" a soldier cried out. There must have been several smoke bombs, the entire building was filled with blinding grey inside moments. Adam stood coughing his lungs free from his body. Someone patted him and began dragging him away.

Adam was thrown back into this ice cold world and a helicopter currents beat against him. He looked up at a man stepping out of the chopper whence it reached its hover zone. The man even more built than that of Drako walked forward and slapped Adam on his shoulder, nearly bulling him over. The young man wheezed and rarely had time to catch his breath, before being shoved, again, toward the flight vehicle. "We are the Fireheart," the man called into Adam's ear, he guided him onto the helicopter, which promptly took off.

"Welcome to Russia, Hammer!" The man seated himself, then slamming the sliding door behind them. "Brother of Sickle, I am Viktir. You can either fight with Fireheart or get the fuck out of Russia!"

Author's Note: I'm Only Joking!

Translation Page (From the big G. Best I got, sorry.):

Eto Drako! Peremeshcheniye! Tank?! - It's Drako! Move! Tank?!

Vse ot avtobusa, teper'! - Everyone off the bus, now!

Otpravit' eti lokhi v shakhty! - Send these fuckers to the mines!

Vynesti! - Move out!

Vodka - Very little water

Chto?! - What?!

Iz bav'tes ot nikh! - Get rid of them!

Der'mo Iisusa! - Jesus shit!

Rossiya - Russia

Idyot! - Idiot!

Zapadnaya Rossiya - Western Russia

Vostochnaya Rossiya - Eastern Russia

Kurit'! - Smoke!