If I Could Change the Weather
All was quiet. A blanket of snow draped the landscape, caressing the branches of the tall, sturdy evergreen pine trees. The deep covering of white lay untouched by human hands, and there was a certain beauty in seeing nature that had yet to be corrupted. Even the dark clouds rolling overhead, warning of the coming storm, had an innocence to them. The only noise that broke the soft silence was the train as it rattled on, the clicking of the wheels on the rails creating a rhythmic pattern: click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. It was this predictable, recurring beat that had lulled most of the other men in the train car into a much-needed sleep.
The peaceful atmosphere given off by the countryside couldn't have been any farther from the truth, though.
The icy gray of the heavens spoke of the mood much more honestly- not even the slightest ray of happiness had shone down lately, leaving everything cold and depressed. It was this sky that mirrored so perfectly the agony playing out on one man's windowed reflection.
Adjusting his sitting position slightly, the man let out a long sigh, a whisper of the insurmountable turmoil that ate away at him, and almost unconsciously, he reached for the hat on his lap. He lifted it up gingerly; it was as though he was afraid it might turn to ash and blow away from him forever.
To any observer, the hat didn't appear to be anything out of the ordinary; it was a beaten-up version of the generic, military-grade ushanka given to all soldiers of the Red Army as part of their uniform, the kind with the Soviet pin on the forehead and the earflaps. There had to be hundreds of thousands of them, probably more. In fact, there were at least one hundred on this very train, all on the heads of the weary men so eager to make their way home. The only thing that appeared to be different was that this particular man had two of them: one on his head, and the other in his hands.
The man gave the second ushanka a very critical look-over before flipping it over and fiddling with the tag on the inside. Holding it between two of his fingers, he mumbled the name written on it aloud.
"D. Petrenko."
The trees outside whizzed by as the train sped on, and he returned the hat to his lap mechanically, wincing with discomfort as a spasm of pain spread through his bad shoulder.
He wasn't used to feeling this… old. His limbs must have weighed at least one thousand kilograms apiece, aching with every movement, and each time he took a breath, he felt as though he had to struggle for air against a heavy mass crushing his chest. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought that he was forever carrying his wounded squad-mates to cover in the heat of battle.
It's over, Viktor, he told himself, even his thoughts carrying an unprecedented weight. He turned his gaze to the other men in his car, the comrades he had been fighting with for so long.
There was a bond they shared that couldn't quite be put into words, a brotherhood that only soldiers could understand. It was the kind of trust that went along with fighting side-by-side for weeks, months, or even years, knowing that the man beside you would take a bullet for you. It was something a civilian could never understand, and perhaps, a feeling no one should ever have to. As he thought about this, how strange it would be to leave behind this war-torn existence, the only one he'd ever known, and about all the men he'd fought beside and would gladly give his life for, a new, fresh surge of guilt ran through him.
Unconsciously, the Red Army Captain clenched the ushanka tightly in his fist.
The sky was broken up above them, a mixture of weak sunlight and dark clouds raging.
What? What had happened to the train? Breath forming a cloud in front of him, Viktor spun on his heel, incredibly conscious of the weight of the ammo for his pistol, a Tokarev T-33 with a flashlight attachment, in his thick jacket. Hadn't they just been going home? Even his comrades, whom he could have sworn were just snoozing lightly in the train car, were suited up for the icy cold of the Arctic Circle and ready for their next objective, looking to Viktor for their orders!
There was a massive, ice-locked ship ahead of the squad, and a certain gloom hung around it; it was a dark, ominous feeling that only one who had seen this scene a thousand times before could have recognized. It took a moment for the familiarity to settle in, and it wasn't the setting that helped Viktor figure it out; it was the ushanka.
Or, rather, it was the face of a young man, the original owner of the second ushanka, that made the Red Army Captain realize what was happening, and he felt his heart drop into his stomach.
"Reznov," the young man standing beside Viktor began, "Dragovich and Steiner are talking like old friends… I do not like this." There was a note of concern in Dmitri Petrenko's voice as he addressed his close friend and senior officer.
"Nor do I, Dmitri… Be on your guard," came the reply, issued from Viktor's own lips, not that he had any control whatsoever over his actions or, for that matter, anything else that was about to happen. What he wouldn't sacrifice just to give one cry of warning to his friend, to stop his squad from obeying the General's order to enter the ship!
The General in question, a proud, suspicious man who carried the same number of years as Viktor's thirty-two, was Nikita Dragovich, the commanding officer of the group. As soon as he'd given instructions to a nearby unit, effectively dispersing them, the General had begun conversing with his captive, the Nazi scientist Friedrich Steiner. It was hard to call the German a hostage, though; he was unbound and free to walk about, quite unlike the other POWs who were tied up and presently being executed. Perhaps that was part of what troubled Dmitri and Viktor; Steiner was being treated almost as a guest.
However, that wasn't the only thing that was off. There was something terrible about the smug expression on Dragovich's face as he listened intently to Steiner; it was as though they knew something that no one else did, and watching the two men talk so casually had sent a chill down Viktor's spine. He had been about to mention it to Dmitri, but his friend had brought it up first.
Dragovich gave the order for Viktor to take his squad into the ship as soon as Colonel Lev Kravchenko had finished executing the prisoners. The Colonel was another shady character, mainly because he was Dragovich's lapdog, doing whatever was asked of him. Viktor didn't fully trust either of the two senior officers, but being a soldier loyal to his army, he reluctantly took orders from them anyway. However… if he had known what they were planning to do, things would have been very different.
With a strong sense of leadership that the Red Army Captain would never again hear in his voice, he called out the names of his men. The Viktor reliving the scene, however, prayed it would end. Begging with himself, he inwardly cried, It's over now, it's all over!
His plea fell on deaf ears.
The nightmare sped on, snippets of Dragovich's and Steiner's conversation reaching Captain Reznov's ears as he and his squad-mates led the way. They were here to locate and capture a dangerous chemical called Nova-6, a deadly nerve toxin. With the knowledge that the Western Allies were snapping at their heels for the chance to get their hands on it, the Russian squad moved quickly and efficiently through the interior of the abandoned ship.
And there, at the end of a maze of hallways sat a sealed off room, which made Steiner begin to mutter eagerly. As the creator of the toxin, he was clearly excited to show off his creation, despite the fact that he was about to concede it to an enemy whose country had just soundly beaten his a few months before.
"Reznov, open the door," Dragovich commanded as soon as the men had reached the end of the hall, and Viktor found himself responding to his General's command. As he walked forward to do so, a beam of light hit Steiner, and the SS insignia on the German's hat shone with a tainted, evil glow.
Viktor opened the door separating the squad from the cold grasp of death with only a little difficulty. However, if he had any control over his body or actions, Viktor would have taken the pistol in his hand, and spun on his heel right now to shoot Dragovich, Kravchenko, and Steiner at point-blank range. It would be the end of their miserable lives, and seeing as this act would still be considered treason at this point, probably the end of Viktor Reznov's as well, but he wouldn't have minded. To die like that, even if it meant that he would be deemed a traitor and would forever lose the respect and trust of the soldiers loyal to him, would be worth it if it meant that their lives would be spared.
Everything went downhill so quickly after that, too quickly, a flurry of disaster that couldn't have been stopped by anyone, and as Dragovich announced that he wanted to see the effects of the poison firsthand, the real nightmare began. An evil smile was present on his face, and the meaning of his words quickly became very clear as he turned on Viktor's small squad.
"You cannot be serious, General!" the baffled voice of Dmitri caught Viktor's ears, and every ounce of his body screamed for Viktor to do something, anything, to stop this from happening, to stop Dragovich and Kravchenko and Steiner from doing this to his squad… but there was nothing to be done.
There were six men present who were loyal to the Motherland, two who were willing to betray Her, and one who was merely a hostage. Number-wise, Viktor and his men had the upper-hand on the two Red Army officers and their captive. The only thing his squad didn't have was a plan.
However, before Viktor could even begin formulating one, a second group of Russian soldiers came waltzing in, which struck him as odd. They had been explicitly told to wait outside for this squad's return, not that he wasn't glad for the arrival of some help. This interruption could be what saves…
Before Viktor could finish his thought, things went from bad to worse.
Giving a nod to Dragovich, the leader of this second squad locked the heavy door that separated this room from the previous one, closing the Russians off from the rest of the world in their very own icy Hell.
Viktor's heart dropped. Whatever advantage they had had in numbers was long gone now- they had to be outnumbered at least two to one.
This new squad moved incredibly fast, and within the blink of an eye, the six men were surrounded, staring down the barrels of their own allies' guns. From the corner of his eye, Viktor could see the expressions on his squad-mates' faces: there was nothing but shock written all over them.
It wasn't until right now that Viktor realized something very important: he had been lied to. Initially, he had believed the story as it was told: Dragovich had asked for the finest men available, and he had chosen them- Belov, Vikharev, Tvelin, Nevski, Dmitri, and himself- because they were all survivors of the Battle of Berlin (not to mention that they were all friends), and arguably had some of the best marksmanship in the Red Army. Aided by Viktor, Dmitri himself had hung the Soviet flag over the Reichstag, despite his extensive injuries, to signal the Motherland's victory, and the other four had survived the front lines with them! Now, with Dragovich just waiting to subject them to Nova-6, Viktor could see the real reason these men were here with him had nothing to do with their accomplishments.
It was the perfect strategy, and, his mind whirling, Viktor wondered in retrospect if Dragovich had planned it this way. The General and the Captain had never gotten along, due to a series of false promises of reinforcements made by Dragovich at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War. While waiting for backup that was never coming, Viktor's squad had been slaughtered by Germans during the Siege of Stalingrad. Though Viktor had remained grudgingly loyal to his superior officer despite their problems, he had reported him for making the promises, citing the elimination of his squad as the chief reason for disciplinary action to be taken (though none ever was). As for Kravchenko, his loyalty lay not with the Motherland, but with Dragovich: Kravchenko followed the General around like a dog, doing whatever was asked of him.
Dragovich, however, had had something else in mind: all along, his aim had never been to remain loyal to his country and the Red Army. Viktor had known nothing of it at the time, but in hindsight, it all seemed crystal clear: Dragovich had planned on using his military power and status to take over the Soviet Union and afterwards, who knows what else? With a weapon as powerful as Nova-6 in his grasp, the opportunities for hostile takeovers would be endless. The only hitch in his plan was Viktor. Despite the fact that no true disciplinary action had been taken as a result of Viktor's complaint, Dragovich's superiors had kept a slightly closer eye on him, which had made it much more difficult for the General to continue working towards his final goal. Preparations for his takeover of Moscow now had to be made in a painstakingly covert way.
To the General, Viktor was a threat, a roadblock that had to be overcome- even if the Kremlin didn't take the Captain's complaint too seriously, it was clear that Viktor was watching Dragovich's every move. Despite the Captain's violent streak, the thirty-two year old had a powerful sense of right and wrong, and would continue to stand in the way of the General's merciless pursuit of power. In order for Dragovich's plan to succeed, something had to be done about Viktor. He couldn't just outright kill the Captain, though that would be the easiest route.
And the problem wasn't just Viktor Reznov, either. He had made a few friends during the Great Patriotic War that shared his morals, so even if Dragovich eliminated Viktor, he would have to deal with them afterwards. When those men found out that something happened to their beloved Captain, they would all insist on finding out exactly what had happened to him. No doubt their own investigations would eventually lead them to suspect that their General had played a role in Viktor's death. Instead of having just one grievance filed against him, Dragovich would have an additional five to add to that, and if the Kremlin saw that many complaints? It was doubtful that the General would be able to explain that away.
"Project Nova," which was the codename for the current mission, had proved to be the perfect excuse: it was an extremely dangerous assignment, and it provided Dragovich the opportunity to rid himself of all six thorns in his side. If the enemy didn't kill Viktor and his men, the General would. All Dragovich had to do was comprise one of his allotted units with Viktor's men, and the other with men loyal to himself, men who would never turn him in, and his plan would be set.
This was the reason why Viktor had been assigned to this Special Forces unit, and why Dmitri had been redeployed to it after recovering from the injuries he sustained in Berlin. It was, after all, a dangerous mission, and while Dragovich's superiors may have bought his cheap story about needing these certain, talented soldiers, the truth was that he needed an excuse to dispose of them. After killing his own men, Dragovich would simply have to report back that the squad had been regretfully eliminated by a group of Allied soldiers searching for Nova-6, or something else believable, but equally as false. Steiner would never tell (not that anyone would ever believe the word of a Nazi captive over the word of a respected General anyway), and perhaps he was even being offered some sort of deal for all of this. Steiner's excitement over reaching the Nova-6 chamber had been a little strange…
Viktor and his men weren't just here to help Dragovich capture Nova-6 before the Western Allies did.
They were here to die, and they were here because of Viktor, because the General viewed the Captain and his men as a threat to his plan.
It was all Viktor Reznov's fault.
With a cold smile that seemed to agree with Viktor's thoughts, Dragovich spoke, breaking the silence that had seemed to last eons.
"Drop your weapons."
No one moved.
"I said, drop your weapons," his voice was cold, but his fiery temper threatened to overcome his cool demeanor. Before he could get any angrier, Kravchenko lifted his gun above his head, and let loose a few rounds into the ceiling.
"Next time, that will be your head," he announced sadistically, pressing the barrel of his gun against the underside of Belov's chin, and without so much as a sound, the terrified young private tossed his weapons to the ground. The rest of the squad did the same. The icy clatter of knives and guns falling to the floor still chilled Viktor's blood, and he spit as he tossed his pistol.
"You svoloch," he growled, though Dragovich paid him no mind. Instead, he gave a nod to the leader of the second squad, who lowered his gun, and Kravchenko next to him did the same.
First, they turned on Belov and Vikharev.
As the men grabbed the Red Army privates roughly, it quickly became clear that this was really about to happen. This was no nightmare they could just wake up from, a bad dream they could escape from with nothing more than a bad aftertaste.
Belov and Vikharev, being the youngest and newest soldiers, were caught somewhere between resisting their captors and complying as they were forced into a gas chamber, their basic training still fresh in their minds. The drill sergeants had repeated incessantly that senior officers were never to be disobeyed, under any circumstance, and seeing as these men were acting on an order from General Dragovich… their confusion was displayed all over their features, but Viktor could do nothing but watch as he tried to come up with a plan, a gun still trained on his chest.
Boot camp could never prepare a recruit for something like this; nothing could. All the drill sergeants could do there was prepare a draftee to fight the enemy, a man across the field; what, then, if the enemy came from within? What if the demon a soldier had to face was a highly respected general from their own army?
There was terror in Dmitri's eyes as Steiner and Dragovich turned on him, but he was a little older and knew better- even if Dragovich was his general, he knew this wasn't right. "REZNOV!" he cried, calling out for aid from his superior officer, someone he should've been able to rely on for help, as he battled against his captors.
That crossed the line.
Refusing to stand by idly any longer, Viktor charged at the General and the scum of a Colonel without so much as a whisper of a strategy, but he was stopped.
Foolishly, he hadn't given a thought to the fact that he and the two remaining privates, Nevski and Tvelin, were still surrounded by the second group of soldiers. Two grabbed Viktor, one savagely hitting him over the head a few times with the butt of his gun. The Captain went limp in their arms, fighting for consciousness, and he heard Dmitri yell out his name again, this time in concern.
Everything was blurry, and Viktor was caught between falling into the darkness that lay waiting for him and fighting against it… what point was there? He was nothing if he couldn't protect these men, these righteous soldiers whom he would give his life for without even a glimmer of regret. As Captain and their senior officer, it was his duty, but… there was nothing he could do for them…
Viktor was aware that the two soldiers were holding his arms behind his back tightly, and that he was on his knees, but the throbbing of his head stopped him from knowing much else. He could hear bits and pieces of the conversation as he slipped in and out of consciousness, but nothing he could make sense of.
He felt his jaw being jerked upward suddenly by a gloved hand, and Viktor tried to focus his gaze on the face that was leaning over his. He couldn't, but the man's voice cut through his mangled mind like a warm knife through butter.
"Where is your Motherland now, Reznov? Who will you send a complaint to this time?" With a soft chuckle, the speaker, unmistakably Dragovich, spit on the injured captain, and for the shortest of moments, a semi-conscious, confused Viktor wondered if he was in Nazi captivity during the war as the two soldiers began dragging him.
With a forceful shove, the soldiers practically threw Viktor into the gas chamber, his face connecting heavily with the metal grating on the floor. His head was pounding, but the noise of frantic knocking on what sounded like glass made Reznov sit up. He had to think of something… these men were part of his squad, and it was Viktor's duty to protect them.
As he sat there concentrating on the floor, his vision began to steady, and it was only another moment or so before he could see and think clearly again, thanks to the adrenaline pumping though his veins. Viktor was only vaguely aware of the pounding in his head, but he ignored it in favor of standing up and surveying his surroundings.
There were two separate gas chambers; each currently contained three of the six men. Seeing as there was enough room for all six men to be in the same one, this seemed slightly strange, but Viktor safely assumed that this was done so that Dragovich and Steiner could watch the Nova-6 gas work during two separate trials; he wondered in the back of his mind if there was a measure of cruelty in it as well, if this was done so that during the first trial, the second group waiting to die would be forced to watch their comrades meet their end.
As Viktor stood examining the situation, he caught the eyes of Dmitri, who was locked up in the chamber beside him. He was no longer trying to get Reznov's attention through the window; now, he was trying to bust his way out by throwing his shoulders heavily into the door. The look Dmitri sent Viktor couldn't even began to express the terror he was feeling.
The sickly noise of gas spraying out of the overhead grates made the young Dmitri pause, horror reflected in his eyes, and Viktor felt his breath catch in his throat. A thick, greenish-yellow smoke descended from the ceiling, and almost immediately, the three men in the next-door chamber began coughing, grasping their chests for air.
Viktor pounded on the glass separating the two chambers. He could hear his voice yelling something, but he had no idea what it was; his eyes were trained on the grates that were releasing the airborne death. Viktor knew that there was nothing he could do, but he wished more than anything that he could change that.
Dmitri saw his best friend yelling, and even as the nerve toxin began to take effect and necrosis began, he made his way to the window and pounded on it in the same fashion, terror and panic reflected in his eyes as blood pooled around them, an expression that would haunt the Red Army Captain for the rest of his life.
How close to Dmitri was he right now? The boy could have been no farther than six centimeters from him, the only thing separating them being the thick glass, and there was nothing he could do. Six measly centimeters …
Dmitri shouldn't have even been there. This was Viktor's fault! If he hadn't submitted that complaint, hadn't insisted that disciplinary action be taken, Dmitri and the others would have been finishing their tours elsewhere. Yes, Dragovich would have come up here and gotten Nova-6 either way, but at least then it wouldn't have been at the expense of Dmitri's life!
Something prevented Viktor from looking away as his closest friend began to die, a mixture of guilt and horror, as Dmitri's skin blackened and he continued coughing violently, struggling for air. He suddenly stood upright, grabbing his stomach roughly, and as the toxin continued to ravage even the healthiest of bodies, he began coughing up blood and vomit, though it certainly appeared that pieces of internal organs were in the mix.
"DMITRI!" he heard his own voice yell, but the young man never heard him… Dmitri stiffened suddenly, his knees wobbled beneath him, and he collapsed face-first onto the grates on the floor. Only a moment later, both Belov and Vikharev did the same, and there would be no movement on the other side of the glass ever again.
Dmitri Petrenko was dead.
The young man who had, at just eighteen years of age, assassinated a German general in the injured Viktor's place to avenge his family and friends at Stalingrad, who had risked his life for the Motherland and defied death countless times, was gone.
The true Hero of Berlin, the sole reason that the Soviets had captured the German capitol at the end of the war, that fearless private who had hung the victorious crimson flag over the Reichstag that fateful day, even as he bled heavily from a point-blank pistol round, was dead.
Defying all odds, the young man had recovered from his heroic wounds… just to die like this? Like some sort of lab rat?
"Oh my God…" a voice from behind Viktor startled him out of his stupor, and tearing his eyes from his late friend's form, he turned around to see the other two soldiers ghostly white and shaking. Nevski stood, eyes wide, his jaw hanging open in shock, though Tvelin had a slightly different reaction- he appeared to have gotten ill at the sight of his comrades suffering such an agonizing death.
Dragovich and Kravchenko, both smiling maniacally, turned on the second half of the squad.
This is it…
Viktor Reznov was to die a failure.
It had been his job to protect those men lying lifeless no more than a meter away from him. They were his responsibility, and he had failed them. It was his fault that Dmitri, Belov, and Vikharev were dead… all the things he had done wrong in the past half hour flashed through Viktor's mind: he should have avoided the blow dealt to him by the man in the second squad in order to rescue his soldiers, should have pulled out his pistol as soon as Dragovich announced he wanted to see how the gas worked, should have picked up one of the discarded weapons and, in a suicidal fashion, taken out as many of those bastards as he could before they gunned him down… Three of Viktor's men were dead, and it was simply because he hadn't been able to protect them! That was his best friend lying dead in there, along with two other honorable, brave men who deserved more, so much more, than a death at the hands of their own General!
They weren't the only ones he had disappointed… Tvelin and Nevski were about to die, too, for the same sad reason as Dmitri, Belov, and Vikharev. What sort of Captain was he, Viktor Reznov, to do nothing while his squad was annihilated again? He was their senior officer, and he had done nothing to save them! He didn't deserve to live, not if he couldn't even save five of his own men… Viktor, at that moment, would have gladly taken the gassing six-fold if it would have meant that he could save his soldiers.
Just as Steiner prepared to release the gas on Viktor's half of the squad, one of the treasonous soldiers from earlier burst back into the room, yelling about the British coming. The words were barely out of his mouth when an explosive round tore through the room, connecting with the top of the gas chamber Viktor and his comrades were trapped in.
"Let the British finish them off!" Dragovich cried, quickly leading Kravchenko and Steiner out of harm's way, by leading them deeper into the ship. He escorted them out of the room, but not without one last angry look over his shoulder.
Through the debris created by the well-timed British assault, an escape route from the gas chamber was found, and Viktor didn't even have to give his orders twice: Nevski and Tvelin began to take on the SAS soldiers as soon as they had scooped up a discarded weapon from the pile on the floor.
The Russians were heavily favored in this battle, seeing as they were both used to the below zero temperatures in the Arctic Circle and already knew the interior of the ship. As an added bonus, the opponent appeared slightly confused as to who they were fighting (naturally, they had been expecting an SS squad, seeing as this was a German secret base).
Reznov's men began fighting their way back through the ship, and, his mind in overdrive as he tried to figure out how to save his two comrades, he began to come up with a plan.
The ship, and all the Nova-6 in it, had to be destroyed. No one could be allowed to leave with that toxin, and no one else deserved to die that way. These British men? They were no doubt the same, with their own corrupt leaders and those who would do anything for power. Even if the flags were different, the methods would be the same: given Nova-6, any man would go power-hungry. No one should have possession of it.
Despite the ammo shortages that had plagued all the Soviet soldiers during the Great Patriotic War, Dragovich and his superiors had made sure that the Special Forces soldiers being deployed to the Arctic Circle were well prepared for this mission, and this token of kindness would be the General's undoing. Viktor had been given a powerful explosive charge, and in the room previous to this one, there was a large gas container that had fueled and heated the ship before it had been abandoned in the ice. The explosion from the charge would no doubt start a fire, and that fire combined with all the oil in the engine room would create an explosion large enough to destroy every inch of the hell-bound ship.
"I will arm the explosives. We will plunge this vessel into the depths of Hell! We cannot let either side possess this terrible weapon," Viktor yelled to his men, and the two terrified soldiers called words of agreement back to him. Scared and betrayed by their own General, they were quick to follow their Captain's plan, to cling to some ounce of normalcy and order in all of this madness.
"We don't have all day, Reznov!" Nevski called back after a moment. "Plant the charges!"
There was something about sticking that explosive to the oil barrel that pleased Viktor- maybe it was knowing what that explosion would do to all those on the ship when it went off that made him smile coldly. Dragovich, Kravchenko, and Steiner were no doubt hiding deeper within the ship, so when the explosion went off…
Shaking his head, Viktor stood up, and he and his men continued onward. As he was leading the way, the want for revenge began to flood his mind; it was a desire for justice for all those that had senselessly died.
"Four and a half minutes left!" he called to his men as they rounded another corner, nearly to the deck of the ship. Their progress towards an escape, however, was hindered by the fact that soldiers of multiple nationalities were already fighting here; it was a battle royal in which the winner would claim Nova-6 for his country.
It was hard for Viktor to concentrate on picking off the other soldiers blocking the escape from the ship, though; every time he tried to concentrate and aimed down his sights, the images of his comrades' lifeless bodies would begin haunting him, a reminder of his failure to protect them. Something within Viktor was urging him to go back, a compulsion he knew he couldn't fight forever; it was as though he had an uncompleted objective waiting for him down below.
He tried to shake the impulse from his mind. Viktor had men right here who needed him, Privates Tvelin and Nevski, and they were still alive. The Red Army Captain could still help them. Dmitri and the others were…
In the thick of battle, Viktor could have sworn he heard the young man's voice calling out to him. Perhaps Viktor should've chalked it up to the trauma getting to him, but the images of what had just happened continued to plague him, floating in front of his eyes menacingly, pleading him to go back. It took the longest moment for him to succumb to this strange urge.
"Keep fighting, my friends!" he urged Tvelin and Nevski beside him suddenly. "I have to get something."
"Wha-Reznov, wait!" Nevski cried.
"Just go!"
He turned on his heel and ran back, well aware of how little time he had. However, even if he didn't make it out, dying here wouldn't bother Viktor in the least. He had lost everything; his closest friend and his trust in his country and the patriotism his bleeding heart once had were all gone. There was nothing left for him- he had no family or friends waiting for him. What was he to do? Complete his tour, return to his hometown, and pretend nothing had ever happened? His family was all dead, so what was there for him to go home to? His haunted memories of all the men he had failed to save? He had lost an entire squad back in '42, most of his squad today, and many honorable, good men in-between. He could spend an entire lifetime and then some mourning them, and it still wouldn't be enough.
By the time he reached the room where his best friend lay lifeless, Viktor knew he only had a little over three minutes left to get out. It was clear that the British had wreaked havoc here during the fighting, more so than he had realized at the time, and the gas chamber where the Nova-6 had been released was open, allowing whatever gas had remained inside it to escape into the air.
Cupping his hand over his mouth for good measure, Viktor took and held in a deep breath, and entered the room.
He couldn't see any of the yellow-green gas in the air, which was a good sign, but as he crossed over to where his friend lay, he fought to suppress a gasp, just in case.
There was nothing left; the fighting had, as Viktor thought about it, consisted of quite a few explosive rounds tearing through the room, and as a result, caused a large amount of debris to fly around. In fact, he couldn't see anything of Belov and Vikharev's remains (though the gloved hand sticking out from under some of the rubble may have very well been one of theirs).
Viktor turned his late friend onto his back, unthinkingly removing his hand from his mouth and allowing himself to breathe again. Though Dmitri's body appeared mostly intact, the remnants of the terrible fate he had suffered still ravaged his features. If Reznov hadn't known any better, he would have thought that the young Dmitri had been badly burned, which brought on a different wave of guilt and regret over another soldier the two men had known. That private, a pacifist named Chernov, had died a hero facing down a Nazi flamethrower, and he was another man whose fate Viktor wished he could change.
For the first time in his life, as he crouched beside his almost unrecognizable friend, Viktor wished that he hadn't saved Dmitri from facing a second bullet that day back in May, so that maybe Dmitri could have died like the hero he was, and not like this.
Dmitri's gaze was focused intently on the ceiling, and as Viktor knelt beside him, he felt some part of himself dying. His hand shaking ever so slightly, he placed his fingers over his friend's unseeing eyes and closed Dmitri's stiff eyelids. For the longest time, Viktor's hand remained there, frozen over the boy's face, as if he was trying to shield him from what had happened. Dmitri had been nothing more than a child… Viktor gladly would have exchanged fates with the boy, or transferred his own life to him, if it meant that Dmitri could have a second chance.
Viktor didn't have time for all this thinking, not with the charge's timer counting down the two minutes until the explosion just one room over. The poor boy was long gone, and there was nothing he could do for him now. Viktor noticed a smear of blood on Dmitri's blackened cheek, and in a fatherly gesture, he gently wiped it off.
"I'm so sorry…" his voice came out as a soft whisper, and though no amount of apologies would ever allow Viktor to forgive himself for this, he knew it was time for him to leave.
He was no man. A real man would have been able to save not only Dmitri, Vikharev, and Belov, but all the other men who had died under his command over the past few years: his entire squad back in '42, the writer Private Chernov, and so many others. Viktor had only been able to save Nevski and Tvelin, and that had happened through sheer luck: without the arrival of the British, they too would have met their ends because of Viktor's weakness. He wasn't sure what he was, but he certainly knew that he didn't think of himself as a man.
There was no time to dig the bodies out and give all three honorable men a proper burial, but Viktor needed something before he left. Without thinking, he grabbed his friend's ushanka, and ran.
By the time he reached the deck of the ice-locked ship for the second time, he was very much aware that the charge would be detonating within thirty seconds. Viktor was about ready to jump off the edge of the ship to get away from the blast (in what would probably end a suicide), when he noticed a thick rope a little farther down that appeared to lead safely to the ground. Seeing as he was the only man left alive on deck, Viktor assumed Nevski and Tvelin had already fled, probably heading back towards camp to radio home for help. He started to hurry over to the rope, but a firm grasp help him back.
Startled, Viktor barely had a chance to react as he was shoved roughly to the ground, his face connecting with metal grating for the second time that day. He grabbed his pistol, ready to shoot over his shoulder at whoever had attacked him, but he felt the barrel of a gun press down against the back of his neck.
"Think you're funny, do you, Reznov?"
He didn't have to turn to see who the voice belonged to.
"Dragovich," Viktor growled.
The General yanked the pistol from his hand and pulled him roughly to his feet. Dragovich moved his PPSh-41 so that it pointed directly at Viktor's chest, pressing the barrel right up against his coat, and Viktor could have sworn he felt the icy metal chill his skin despite his many layers of clothing.
"Do you think this will stop me?" he gestured to the boat. "Did you think I would let you bring a charge onto the ship that would become your grave?" Viktor breathed in sharply. "It was a dud!" Dragovich laughed.
"But… I suppose I should thank you. Your men did rid this vessel of those pesky British men," the General paused again, looking to something on the deck of the ship a few meters away. "Though I'm sure he would have a lot more to say about those SAS soldiers." A cold laugh followed this statement, and Viktor followed his gaze.
Lying eagle spread on the deck was Private Tvelin, and Viktor felt his breath catch in his throat again. The young man's sightless, blank stare was fixated on the sky, and he lay in a puddle of blood that appeared to have originated from a large wound in his shoulder, just above his heart. Viktor didn't need to check for a pulse to know that another of his men had died on his watch, and he felt his heart drop.
"Oh, and what is this?" Dragovich asked, though Viktor's eyes hadn't left Tvelin's form. "Who's ushanka is this?" Viktor had forgotten that he was holding Dmitri's hat. "Drop it."
"Make me," Viktor growled back. It was all that was left of Dmitri, all Viktor had left of him, and he wasn't going to give it up that easily.
Dragovich shook his head. "Such rebelliousness…" he remarked, and he released Viktor just long enough to punch him in the gut. Immediately, the Captain buckled over in pain, though he kept a good grip on the hat. Dragovich, however, had been planning on Viktor putting up a fight, and followed up the punch with a well-placed kick that left Viktor on the ground, shouting in agony. Needless to say, Dragovich took possession of the ushanka.
"D. Petrenko?" the General read aloud. "Petrenko, Petrenko… can't quite picture him," Dragovich muttered, a sadistic delight in his voice. "Which one was he again, Reznov?"
Viktor was sure Dragovich was doing this to get a rise out of him- everyone in the Red Army knew who the true Hero of Berlin was! "You asshole..." Viktor replied through clenched teeth, and he made a move to sit up.
Dragovich saw this, and instead of allowing the Captain to get up, he delivered a second below-the-belt kick to Viktor, who let out another loud yell. After a moment of deliberation, he awarded a few more kicks to the same spot for good measure, just to ensure that he seriously injured the poor man, and that Viktor wouldn't try to get up again.
The General spent what seemed like days, perhaps even years, watching Viktor writhe in pain at his feet, beating on the downed soldier mercilessly with a barrage of attacks he had no chance of defending himself against. His pain kept Dragovich entertained, and it seemed that Dragovich thought this was the next best thing to subjecting Viktor to Nova-6. The General's aim was clearly to put his nemesis Viktor in as much pain as possible before killing him, and there was no doubt in either man's mind that Dragovich was succeeding.
"…You don't need this," the General decided suddenly, still laughing with amusement, and Viktor, who was still balled up in extreme pain, could do nothing but observe as Dragovich chucked the ushanka over the edge of ship, watching it disappear as it fell to the ice and snow down below.
Moisture clouded Viktor's eyes as he watched Dragovich do this, as all he had left of his best friend vanished, though he couldn't be sure if the tears were from the overwhelming grief of losing Dmitri, or the agony from the General's cruel beating. Perhaps it was a mixture of the two.
Brushing his hands together, Dragovich remarked, "Well, that takes care of that."
Grabbing the injured Viktor by his collar and pulling him to his feet, Dragovich stabbed the barrel of his PPSh-41 into his captive's side, commandeering his attention away from the throbbing of his entire body. "Let's get down to business now, Reznov. You may have avoided death down below, but there's no one to save you this time, you rat." Dragovich's face was only inches from his, close enough so that Viktor could smell his rancid breath.
If the charge was a dud, Viktor was going to die very soon at the hands of the General, a death he would nearly welcome as a reprieve from all this pain. If it wasn't, the explosion would surely kill the both of them from this range. Faced with the prospect of death no matter what, Viktor struggled for the words that would allow him to stall, to keep Dragovich busy long enough to see if maybe, just maybe, the charge would detonate…
"If you kill me, no one will be able to defuse the charge, and you will die with Kravchenko and Steiner," Viktor replied through clenched teeth, pain still coursing through his body. Truth be told, he had no idea where the other two men were, so it was a shot in the dark, but this response seemed to amuse the General.
"What did I tell you? It's a dud. If it wasn't, it would have gone off a long time ago."
The General had a point. It had most definitely been longer than thirty seconds since Dragovich had ambushed Viktor- he had spent at least five minutes on the ground being beaten- so if the charge hadn't gone off yet, it was highly unlikely that it ever would.
Dragovich adjusted his grip on his SMG, and Reznov heard him click the safety off.
So this is how it all ends…
He had allowed himself to be captured by the enemy so easily… couldn't even take revenge on one man. He truly was a failure.
"BASTARD!"
A third voice cut in suddenly, and a shot went off. Dragovich dropped Viktor, letting out a rather loud yelp, his eyes fixed on the unexpected wound. The bullet had grazed the General's shoulder, missing Viktor's by nothing more than a few centimeters, and blood was dripping down the front of his uniform. Both Viktor and Dragovich turned to see the speaker, though neither was expecting what they saw: the shooter was one of the men that had been loyal to Dragovich until right about now.
"Reznov's charge may have been a dud, but you supplied us with working ones, didn't you?" the young private prompted.
Viktor's heart skipped a beat, hope shining through the clouds above them. All he had to do was stall Dragovich and keep him on the ship long enough for the charge to detonate!
The new arrival smiled proudly to Viktor as a testament to his change of heart. "When you said you needed our help, General, you never said anything about killing our friends, you no-good, son of a-"
Without even the slightest hesitation, Dragovich turned angrily and gunned down the young man mid-sentence, taking his eyes off the Red Army Captain for the shortest second.
Viktor always kept a knife in his boot. It was something he had for emergencies only, a well-kept secret for use in situations where he was left without a gun and needed to fight. With a stab of guilt, he wished he'd thought of using it sooner.
Ripping the knife from his boot, Viktor threw himself at Dragovich, knocking him onto his back so that he was sitting on the traitorous man's chest. The General's PPSh-41 skidded uselessly out of his grasp.
"YOU… WILL… PAY!"
Viktor held the blade of the knife against Dragovich's neck, pressing down just hard enough to draw a little blood, and the General sputtered, the smugness leaving his eyes as he struggled against Viktor's grasp.
"What are you doing? You don't want to do this, Reznov…" Dragovich begged, terror lighting up his eyes. The tables had turned on him rather quickly and unexpectedly, and it was clear that the General hadn't made any sort of back-up plan for a situation like this.
Taking the blade away from his throat, Viktor laughed.
"You're right. I'll let the explosion take care of you."
He appeared to be sincere about it for a moment, but instead of getting up off the General's chest, Viktor eyed him carefully.
"Do you think I am stupid?" Viktor began. "If I walk away from you, you will grab your gun and shoot me in the back like the rat you are. I have other plans for you." In lieu of elaborating further, Viktor plunged the blade of the knife into the General's chest.
The man yelled out in pain, but Viktor never even heard him- Reznov was so wrapped up in exacting his revenge that he took notice of nothing else. Every wound he inflicted on Dragovich was made to avenge someone: one for himself and the life he could have had, where he could trust his country and reminisce with old friends from the war, something he would never do now; one for each member of his squad back in Stalingrad that had been slaughtered while being forced to wait for reinforcements that weren't coming; and one each for Belov and Vikharev and Tvelin and that private that had just died moments ago after betraying the General, who were so young and had so much to lose. But, most of all, Viktor wanted to avenge Dmitri, a true hero, and the life he could have, and should have, had, one where he was honored by his country for his countless heroic and selfless deeds. The General stood no chance against Viktor's barrage- he pushed weakly against the Captain, but it was too late for him.
Not even a hint of a smile crossed Viktor's face at his victory, but he stared the dying General directly in the eye, and said clearly, "That is what my Motherland does to mudaki like you. There will be no complaints this time."
He didn't know what he had been expecting, but as he watched Dragovich bleed out, no vindication or satisfaction filled him. In fact, Viktor highly doubted that any action he took from here on out would leave him feeling as though he had properly avenged any of the men he hadn't been able to save. It was a weight he would carry on his shoulders until the day he died, serving as a memory of all the soldiers who lost their lives prematurely because he was an incapable leader.
Somewhere in-between watching the General's pale face turn a sickly, dead gray and watching a flashback that consisted of the faces of the men that Viktor hadn't been able to save, he remembered the charge.
Jumping for the thick rope that he had spotted earlier, he skidded down it. He didn't know why he was running, since he had nothing to live for, but he attempted to escape nonetheless, and in retrospect, Viktor assumed that a self-preservation instinct had merely kicked in.
But… he wasn't leaving without that ushanka. His mind blank and unthinking as he searched for a glimpse of the hat, Viktor hadn't slowed himself down enough as he slid down the rope from what would have been a fourth or fifth story fall, and he hit the ground hard. Dazed, he didn't move for the longest moment, and as he sat there trying to remember why he was even bothering to run, he caught sight of the hat, sitting upside-down and crumpled in the snow.
His self-preservation instinct kicked in again, and it forced Viktor to get to his feet, grab the hat, and start running desperately despite his extensive injuries. This intuition explained why he had no thought but to sprint - to put as much distance as possible between himself and the deadly explosion before the charge went off. For better or worse, he didn't get quite far away enough, though.
As the deafening explosion sounded off, debris shot out in all directions. A large piece of metal skewered Viktor's left shoulder, and with a shout, he fell to the ground, his face hitting the snow, the cold providing a numbing relief to his already bruised and beaten body.
He was aware of the hot sensation of blood seeping out of his new wound and of his hand clenching the ushanka, but then, blackness...
Viktor woke with a start, letting out a yell and jumping to his feet in the train car. Alarmed, a few of the other soldiers turned to see what was happening, and after a moment of silent staring, they turned their gazes away. They all knew his story, the tale of Captain Viktor Reznov, the man who killed Steiner and the traitorous Dragovich and Kravchenko.
They knew all about how he survived the blast to tell the tale thanks to Nevski, who had gone back to be sure the ship was destroyed and discovered his superior officer unconscious and on the brink of death. In what was deemed nothing short of a miracle, Captain Reznov had pulled through, after spending a good deal of time fading in and out of consciousness and yelling out what had initially been deemed random names. Upon closer inspection, they turned out to be the surnames of different soldiers that had died while serving under Viktor.
His comrades knew all about how the hospital's staff had proposed sending him to a military-owned mental hospital to help him overcome his severe post-traumatic stress disorder, though Reznov had passed a psychological evaluation and refused their offer. Various nurses had explained to him that the violent way he woke up from sleeping was far from normal, but the stubborn thirty-two year old would have none of it. After a month, his tour of duty ended and he was discharged from the military base's hospital, and here he was now, homeward bound, though he felt not even the slightest bit of excitement over it.
By now, these men were used to seeing him wake forcefully from sleep- many friendly faces had visited him while he was recovering, and even those that hadn't had heard about it by now. In a way, they all understood; they too had seen the horrors of war up close and personal, and they sympathized with what he was going through, though they could never understand the full extent of it. It was a brotherhood that no one should ever have to enter.
"We're almost home, Reznov," Nevski said to him. He was seated across the aisle, and Viktor's cry appeared to have woken him, judging from the tired yawn that escaped from his lips as he spoke.
"Hmm," was the reply.
Viktor again lifted up the ushanka gingerly, examining it. Despite the extensive wounds he had received when this had happened just over a month ago, very little blood had gotten on his late friend's hat. Perhaps it was some sort of miracle or a gift from God as the nurses had suggested, but Viktor no longer believed in such things.
No god would kill a boy as young and innocent as Dmitri… a pang of guilt flashed through Viktor again as he wished for the umpteenth time that they could have switched places, that it could have been him who had met his end that icy cold October day. Viktor was older than Dmitri by a decade, and had been through so much more trauma during his lifetime, so for a god to allow him to die would be perfectly acceptable… Dmitri had been nothing more than a child.
The station was just up ahead, visible despite the light snow that was falling, but Viktor felt nothing, not even a whisper of excitement at getting to go home, something both he and Dmitri had once dreamed about. As the train pulled up to the platform, though, everyone else fell into an anxious, excited silence as they examined the faces on the other side of the glass, and then, a flurry of motion began.
The train had no sooner stopped when everyone rushed out, eager to meet up with family and friends they hadn't seen in who knew how long. Many of the men immediately ran to their loved ones, and began hugging and talking right there on the platform, not even bothering to wait to start catching up over the warm meal that would be made at home for them. No one left the platform; instead, they remained there, introducing their brothers-in-arms to their families.
Viktor scanned the crowd; he was looking for someone, a person he'd only seen in a picture and heard stories of. This was a difficult duty he'd taken onto himself, something he felt required to do, perhaps to give himself a little bit of peace. The fact that no one was leaving was making this even harder than it had to be, not that anything could make it easier.
After a moment, he spotted the person in question off to the side, and immediately walked over to her. She was a young woman, no older than twenty-two, and she looked calm and confident, though Viktor sensed an underlying anxiety as she scanned the crowd.
"Sasha Petrova?" Viktor asked aloud, and startled, she turned to look at him.
"Yes?"
She had been standing off to the side of the platform in the snow, and hadn't paid Viktor any mind until he had spoken to her. She smiled politely, but he could sense her discomfort. After all, she had no idea who he was.
"My name is Viktor Reznov," he began, but his voice caught in his throat.
How could he tell her this? She looked so innocent, so young… he had almost prayed she wouldn't be here today, that somehow, maybe someone had told her the truth. Censorship, of course, had kept her from knowing, though: the truth about the corrupt Soviet general's deeds was not something the Kremlin wanted the average citizen to know about. Sasha smiled patiently, though awkwardly, and she was clearly waiting for him to continue.
Viktor tried to talk, but he couldn't force the words out. He didn't know how to start, how to explain to her what had happened, and it was partially because part of him didn't want to: telling her would mean that he was really gone.
Sasha looked him over, sizing him up.
"He spoke highly of you in his letters," she remarked carefully, when it became clear that Viktor wasn't going to say anything else. "I'd love to sit down and have dinner together one night, the three of us."
A spasm of pain crossed Viktor's face before he could stop it, an expression that mirrored the face that one makes just before starting to cry.
Something changed immediately in Sasha's demeanor, and she eyed the ushanka carefully.
"Where is he?" she demanded. She sounded angry, but there was a quaver in her voice that no amount of courage could hide. "Where is my fiancé?"
"I'm so sorry," Viktor muttered, and taking one last look at the hat, he handed it to her.
Sasha in took her breath sharply as he pressed the ushanka into her arms. She fumbled with it at first, but she flipped it over and examined the tag, the "D. Petrenko" written on the inside in her own loving handwriting immediately meeting her eyes.
She made a strange noise, and fell to her knees, right into the snow.
"No, this can't be happening! No! I won't let it!" she cried loudly, and some of the nearby families turned to see what the ruckus was. The soldiers, who knew what Viktor was doing, shooed them away and took this as an opportunity to take their leave of the cold of the station.
"He was the bravest man I've ever met," Viktor continued. "He spoke very highly of you as well."
"NO!" she sobbed, burying her face in Dmitri's ushanka. "This can't be real! He was fine just a month ago! He said so in his last letter!"
Viktor crouched down on the ground beside her, balancing so as to not get the seat of his pants wet, though Sasha was no doubt thoroughly soaked by now. He didn't know how to tell her that he had been holding onto the latest letters she sent to Dmitri, unable to write back and inform her of what had happened. Other soldiers had offered to do so for him, but Viktor had blatantly refused. He had to tell Sasha himself.
Viktor's heart ached for the devastated woman; she displayed outwardly the very inner pain he had been feeling since that fateful day in late October.
"We're supposed to be getting married next year! He can't be dead! You were supposed to keep him safe!" she screamed, somewhat muffled by the hat.
"I know," there was a grave note in Viktor's voice, a regret mixed with guilt.
He should've been able to keep the young man safe... this, having to tell Sasha that Dmitri was dead, was happening because Viktor was an incapable leader. He never should've been trusted with the lives of other men. A real captain would've been able to save his soldiers and stop that bastard Dragovich, but Viktor? He had been useless and weak when his squad had needed him most. He was no man.
"What happened to him? Why didn't anyone tell me? When did this happen?"
"…Just a month ago, Dimka was killed in action," Viktor told her, using the diminutive form of their mutual friend's name. It was a term of endearment, and when off duty, it was what Viktor had called Dmitri, and in return, the young man had called Viktor by his as well. It showed more than anything else how close they had been. "It is… a very complicated story," he admitted with a sigh. "All you need to know is that he was a truly honorable man, the kind of hero that would make anyone proud."
He couldn't tell her the truth, not now, maybe not ever. It was too hard to tell her what had happened, too hard to admit to himself that it had happened at all. The atrocity of it was just too much to bear.
Sasha fell against Viktor's good shoulder suddenly, and, startled by the contact, he jerked backwards slightly. She didn't seem to mind, though, and she just sobbed against him, so he put his arm around her awkwardly, kneeling in the snow beside her.
"Why? What did he ever do to deserve this?" she cried. "This wasn't supposed to happen, not to him!"
"He didn't deserve it," Viktor told her. There was a strange sensation in his chest as he tried to find the words to console the young woman, his own eyes blurring with the first tears he'd unmistakably shed for Dmitri, the only tears he had shed in years. It was a feeling of lightness, like a weight was being lifted off his chest, and for the first time in a month, he didn't have to struggle to breathe. Viktor fought his tears back, though Sasha showed no such restraint.
After a long moment, he continued, "I heard a story once. My father told it to me before he was killed by the Nazis, when everyone I knew was sacrificing their lives for the Motherland at the start of the war…" Sasha said nothing to even hint if she was listening or not, but Viktor continued regardless. "He used to tell me that good people die young because the god in heaven misses them and wants them back."
He wasn't a religious man, not anymore; he was telling this to Sasha for her benefit and hers alone. From what Viktor had heard about her from his late friend, he had gathered that she was very spiritual.
"If this is the case, he was so honorable and brave that we were very lucky to have Dmitri at all, no?" he continued, looking up to the sky. The snow had begun to come down a little harder now, and he squinted to keep the flakes from falling into his eyes.
"And look," he continued, "it is snowing now. They say that if rains after you die, the heavens are mourning your loss too, and since it is too cold to rain..."
Viktor was no longer sure what he was saying, or if it even made any sense. He wasn't sure who really needed comforting anymore, whether he or Sasha was in worse shape.
Dmitri Petrenko… he was only twenty-two years old. He had had his whole life ahead of him: a warm, cozy life surrounded by friends and family like Viktor and Sasha, a happy existence where he could be proud of what he had accomplished when he had served the Motherland during the Great Patriotic War… but instead? He had met a cold death in the Arctic Circle just a month before his tour of duty was to end, and he had died for nothing. And it was all Viktor's fault.
Sasha lifted her head up from Viktor's shoulder, her face blotchy from her stormy tears. "The heavens have control over this! They have no right to mourn his death with snow! They shouldn't have let something happen to him in the first place if they were going to miss him so much! Maybe they should just give him back!" she screamed, clearly beside herself with grief, as she looked up to the sky. Turning back to Viktor, she continued, "Change the weather. Make them give him back!"
"If I could change the weather, I would," Viktor muttered gravely as she started sobbing anew.
It wasn't the only thing he would change, either.
How pointless war seemed to him… all it caused was death and pain, and right now, between Sasha and Viktor and the families of all the other men Viktor felt he had let down, there was more than enough to go around.
After another few minutes, Viktor led the distraught Sasha to her car, where they bade their final goodbyes. She drove off into the snow, braving the storm, and he?
He wandered across the lot to wait for a taxi he'd forgotten to call, shuffling his feet through the snow, before disappearing forever into the storm.
A/N: 'Sup? This is the first fanfiction I've written in a REALLY long time, so no flames please... Constructive criticism is always welcomed. =) One note for everyone- Diminutives in Russian are shortened versions of one's name, used by close friends and family. It's kind of like a nickname. For example, as used above, Dmitri's diminutive is "Dimka," so his family and close friends (such as Viktor and Sasha) would call him that instead of calling him "Dmitri." However, since Viktor and Dmitri also had a professional relationship (as opposed to just a personal one), I kept it so that Viktor referred to him as Dimka only when off-duty. Everyone following that? ^^"
Translations of Russian words used:
Ushanka (ушанка)= Russian hat with earflaps
Svoloch (сволочь)= Russian word for "scum"
Mudak (мудак)= Russian equivalent of "asshole"
Mudaki= plural of "mudak"
Any questions, let me know. And, of course, please read & review! ~Ace1339~