Edit 12/22/16
Going through this fic again, and editing it, because the original version was a mess of typos and grammar mistakes. As I re-read each chapter, I had to cringe at some parts because it was just... terrible writing, in my opinion. I'm amazed that some people enjoyed it but, hey, I have to thank these lovely readers for their unconditional support! I am so sorry that I stopped updating all of a sudden and discontinued the story, but I'm hoping to deliver some sort of conclusion so it doesn't remain unfinished.
I posted this two years ago, actually. The idea came to me when I was reading Vladimir's biography and learned that he had served two tours during the First Chechen War, which I suppose made for an interesting story line. I haven't seen any Makarov fics exploring that topic so, hopefully, I can do it right.
A foreword to the readers; this is not a Makarov love story and there's no romance. If you were expecting such a thing, then you'll be severely disappointed.
Warnings:
This is a fic meant for a mature audience and contains violence, gore, abuse, coarse language, and death. While the game itself is violent and deals with adult themes, I still feel the need to warn those who wish to avoid reading this kind of material.
I do not intend to neither romanticize nor mock the sad and true misfortune of the Chechen War. Also, take into account that this is not a reliable account of the events that transpired during this conflict. Despite I did my research to maintain some level of accuracy, my knowledge can only go so far and reality, unfortunately, always goes beyond fiction.
English isn't my first language, but I try my best.
Disclaimer:
I do not own Call of Duty Modern Warfare or its characters. They all belong to Activision and Infinity Ward. No copyright infringement intended. This story was written for entertainment purposes.
Part I: The Fog of Death
It all started when a former pilot of the Soviet Strategic Aviation led the revolution of the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria, declaring the country's independence from the Russian Federation in 1991— with the aid of some of the Muslim states and the implicit support of the West. It was a time of political transition after the recent fall of the Soviet Union, and a time of struggle in which the tensions between the leaders of both sides became antagonistic, leaving no place for negotiations to appease a conflict that was eroding Moscow's control over Chechnya.
Amid civil conflict and fight for power, conciliation was never reached as opposition groups emerged and tried to overthrow Dzhokhar Dudayev's government, without much success. Separatism was strong, the Chechen economy was collapsing under a poor administration, and the organized crime was growing at an alarming rate. In this state of affairs, Boris Yeltsin issued an ultimatum that Grozny refused to heed and, then, an attack to restore "constitutional order" was launched. On December the 1st, 1994, the bombs began to rain down upon Chechnya, Grozny being the primary target as it was the place where the presidential palace was located. It was on the 11th that enemy forces invaded, in an effort to preserve the territorial integrity of Russia, beginning a war that was opposed by many in the government and military, as it was considered criminal in conception and execution.
As a result of this the Deputy Minister of Defense of Russia, and last commander of the 40th Army in the Soviet-Afghan War, resigned in protest, arguing that it would become a bloodbath— as did another general. Hundreds of Russian professional soldiers and officers refused to take part in the operation, too. Eighty-three of them were convicted by military courts, and the rest were dishonorably discharged.
However, many others called the Chechen cause sedition and carried out the nightmare that would cost the lives of thousands of people. If Russia allowed Chechnya to separate, it would show the world how weak the Bear had become. It would mean the loss of valuable resources in a time they needed them the most. They could not lose Chechnya when it held key access routes to the Caspian and the Black Sea, and trade-routes with other trans-Caucasus countries. What was even more important, Chechnya controlled vital oil and gas pipelines, oilfields and refineries, as well as chemical and engineering industries that provided a supply of building materials. The other reason was political, since only Chechnya and Tatarstan refused to ratify the Russian Federation Treaty out of all the former Soviet republics. To Russia, Chechnya was the chance to show that she still was powerful enough to crush and subdue her enemies with an iron fist. The Minister of Defense, General Pavel Grachev, had boasted he could defeat Chechnya in a couple of hours and assured it would be a bloodless conflict that wouldn't last even a month. However, it was a test the Russian armed forces hadn't been prepared for when they encountered unexpected resistance, and the hostilities carried on for longer than anticipated.
But maybe it had started way back before I was even born, with two centuries of resistance to Russian rule— which began with their expansion during the 19th century, in a race with the Ottoman empire. It was a period of constant uprisings that reached their peak in a war of forty-seven years. This conflict caused terrible losses when the Russians responded with the destruction of Chechen villages, scorched-earth policies— in an effort to reduce Chechen resistance by starvation— and ethnic cleansing, by expelling Muslims from the Caucasus to the Ottoman empire. If that hadn't been enough, Stalin's deportations in 1944— for accusations of collaborating with the Germans during the Second War— resulted in the death of nearly 100,000 Chechens in a historical genocide that would forever be engraved in our minds.
The history of my people was covered in blood, but it wasn't the past what I dreaded the most. It was the present, the now and here, what I could feel and breathe— what I could suffer and remember in days to come. It was something I could fear, more than anything else, when every moment I fell deeper into the abyss of insanity.
Whatever were the motivations and reasons that drove this war, and fueled the hostilities on either side, I learned that an armed conflict was never worth the price it demanded— the destruction and suffering of so many caught in the middle of a vicious confrontation. No mercy was spared to anyone, and innocent people were murdered left and right. Those who meant no harm, those who couldn't defend themselves, were shown a cruelty and brutality I had never thought possible nor could I ever imagine until then. I understood none of it but, then again, perhaps I'd been too young to realize the world wasn't the peaceful place I had believed it to be. It became a nightmare I wanted to wake up from; an ordeal that had begun to drain my willpower, as the fog of death eventually made it into the small, and remote, village that I lived in.
I was trying to fetch water in the bank of the river, early in the morning, when I spotted their shapes moving in the vegetation and the shadows crawling towards me. My hairs had stood on end and I could feel the threat of peril in my gut, then— hear the whispers in the wind that carried the smell of terror and blood. It was as though I could see, for the briefest of moments, the face of doom itself— feel the teeth of horror sinking in my flesh as my heart stopped beating at the realization that ruin was unavoidable. Terrified, I had taken off running to find my mother, who was plowing the soil, and sobbing I told her we all were going to die that day.
It happened, but not in the way I had expected. I died— died on the inside— the moment I crossed paths with him, and my life turned into a series of 'what-ifs' with the longing for justice that would probably never come. Ever since the enemy arrived, this place had turned into a cemetery and I knew we only were walking corpses by then.
Cooperation. That was all they required, or at least what they claimed to want from us. Still, much of the interaction with those men was certainly meant to end in disgrace. They knew very well they had the upper hand, and that defenseless civilians would comply with their every demand so as not to suffer in their hands. Despite my hopes for this situation to improve soon, the odds weren't on our side.
They had hardly been, as of late.
"Where do you think you're going?"
My heart skipped a beat at the deep commanding voice I heard, as I felt a big hand grab a firm and rough hold of my arm to turn me around. I had the hunch this day wasn't going to end well for me when I left my house that morning, and footsteps followed me to the outskirts, but I had hoped it would go uneventful— wishful thinking on my part, I had to admit. As dread overwhelmed my body and mind, I stared into hazel disdain that meant misery for my pathetic existence. I was certain I would know the agony of pain, for I recognized it— the ill-mannered and crude glare forever unchanging wasn't something I could easily forget.
Boris was his name, and I knew him to be the beast that slit my neighbor's throat after he was blamed for supporting and leaking information to the Chechen rebels. We had been forced to watch how they tortured the poor man before he, and his relatives, were executed in the most barbaric of ways.
It was supposed to be a lesson— a reminder that they wouldn't tolerate insubordination or sedition of any kind. That night, I watched them go unfazed at the blood and pain, eyes shadowed by perversion as though they were the sons of the devil himself. I wondered many times how they could be so insensitive before the suffering of others, but there was no explanation that could suffice. The wickedness and iniquity in their souls went beyond any human understanding, and back then I wasn't sure if I would ever come to comprehend the nature of such hatred. It was a malice that didn't let me sleep and I spent long nights on watch, crying in silence as the mourning faces of those that no longer existed haunted me— praying for a miracle to happen.
But God had vanished from these lands and no one knew where he was.
"I... I'm just... heading for the river to bring some water for my family, sir," I stuttered, legs trembling and voice breaking at his massive frame looming over my much smaller one. He had to be the scariest man I had ever seen in my life and the perpetual gnarl on his lips, accompanied by the scar on his cheek, made him look all the more disturbing. His large hands could break my bones if I so much as dared to move an inch, and I had no doubts about that. I'd watched him do it before, seen the satisfaction on his face as his victims howled and begged.
His eyes narrowed and, all of a sudden, the empty buckets I carried hit the dirt as I was backed against a wretched tree. "That'll have to wait, girl."
Before I knew it, his hands were roaming all over my body, and I felt like crying at those menacing words but didn't have the courage to let a single tear fall. Even knowing that it would be futile, I still prayed for him to leave me alone but he seemed to have other ideas and I was paralyzed with fear . We were alone and all Boris had to do was drag me behind the bushes so he could have his way with me. Soldiers had done the same with other women before and I knew that, even if I screamed at the top of my lungs and begged for aid, nobody would come to help. Only my mother would dare lift a finger for my sake, but it would be all in vain. Everyone was too scared to do something as that would bring about their deaths, or a worse fate, and I couldn't blame them for that. I was certain I would have done the same in their place, run to hide like the coward I was. I'd lost count on how many times I'd hidden with my little sister, hearing the sobs and screams from our poor mother who was left at the mercy of those wolves.
It terrified me to share the same fate, and I'd succeeded in steering clear from it so far. But no such luck with the beast who now held a knife against my throat, making an ominous hushing sound that meant for me to be quiet. I couldn't breathe or move, scared that the tip of the blade would bury in my skin, but my eyes began to burn as the cold metal slowly slid down my collarbone to the front of my blouse, cutting it down in a swift move. Even then I didn't dare scream, but tears were falling and my teeth gritted painfully when he began to slide the garment down my arms, exposing my chest. At this point, I was trying to muffle sobs of hopelessness and he merely chuckled at my distress, enjoying the way terror gripped at my heart.
"Easy there. You behave like a good girl, and you may enjoy it."
I closed my eyes and braced myself for the worst— for him to grab a fistful of my hair and toss me to the ground to make me familiar with a new way of torture. It was bound to happen, sooner or later, but I wished no one had to go through such horrible agony. That was all there would be left for me; shame, and the horrid memories that would remain with me until the end of my days. His hands disgusted me, made me feel dirty and libeled but I was unable to fight for my life, to escape from my predator whose sadistic gaze was fixed on me, and I could only hope it would all end soon.
The scrunch of boots against the dirt made me aware that we had company and my heart sank at that prospect, for I knew about the horrible things they did to women. If there had been a slight chance of escaping, now I knew there was none. I opened my mouth to plead, but my voice was lost and the knot in my throat smothered me— it was then I wished I would have lost consciousness and not feel a thing.
"What are you doing?" It was cold, the way those eerie words drifted in the chilly air. The sour and spooky low voice left an uncanny sensation of dread clinging to my back, and I didn't have the courage to look at the newcomer. I wasn't brave enough to open my eyes for fear that he would be the last thing I saw. Maybe if I tried hard enough, I could picture happier days in my mind but, despite my best efforts, my world of joy always became tainted with blood.
"Sir?" I could have sworn I perceived a hint of panic in Boris' voice, which didn't provide any comfort at all. Something told me that his comrade had to be a nightmare himself, if he could control the barbarian that was molesting me.
"Was I not clear enough? I ordered you to keep watch on the borders." Each bitter word was laced with venom and was spoken calmly, as though he didn't have the need to raise his voice. That was the fact which scared me the most. "Leave the wench alone and don't test my patience. Go back to patrol. Now."
"Right away, sir." Boris was off me in the blink of an eye and, with a shake, I let out the breath I was holding. The relief of the moment was enough for me to recover from the shock, if only a little.
"Wait. Come here." There was a rapid rustle of clothes and I warily opened my eyes, finding that my assaulter was nowhere to be seen. Throwing a glance to my left, I spotted Boris talking to the other male but his massive back blocked my line of vision so there wasn't much I could look at. Either way, I didn't care. The only thing I had in mind was getting the hell out of there before they had the chance to notice my disappearance, so I tried to collect myself and fixed my clothes in a hurry. Bending to pick up the buckets lying on the ground, I risked stealing another glance from the uniformed men and finally saw the owner of the chilling voice.
The shady flicker of his pale eyes matched the despondent tones of grey in the sky, and the expression on his face wasn't friendly in the least. He was truly displeased, and for good reason. After all, the threat from the Chechen fighters hiding in the mountainous areas couldn't be overlooked and it made them feel in jeopardy to a great extent. Knowing that they were unnerved by the resistance actually made me feel a tiny hope that things could change for the better, and that the fighters would free our village.
The man murmured something in Boris' ear and, despite I heard no word, it didn't seem to be pleasant conversation as the latter nodded tersely and left in a rush. As Boris departed I made haste but, when I intended to flee from that place, the man with the pale eyes turned around with a frown. Pointing at me with a gloved finger, he rudely beckoned me to come closer— which I did, feeling my stomach churn and the knot form in my throat again.
Boris scared me, but this man made my blood run cold as he roughly grabbed my chin, turning my face from side to side as if he were inspecting some kind of merchandise in display. "Where are you going, girl?"
His expression was hard and hostile, fingers burying in my skin as I fumbled to give an explanation. "To the river... to fetch water." My voice trembled as I hurried to finish the sentence with a choked 'sir' for good measure.
"On your own?" He arched an eyebrow and, at such a close distance, I noticed that his eyes were mismatched— shades of green and blue staring sharply at my grey ones from above high cheekbones.
"My little sister is ill with fever, and mother can't afford leaving her now, sir."
"Don't you have a water well in the village?" He pressed for an answer and I felt the tears sting my eyes once more.
"Yes, but we still need go to the river," I explained, almost standing on the tip of my toes as his grip fluctuated from tight to loose. "We can't waste good water just to wash our faces or other chores, sir."
After a moment, his hand released me and I almost fell to the ground with an unceremonious tumble but managed to hold up. Rubbing my jaw with care, I thought about the marks his fingers had undoubtedly left on my face but guessed that had to be better than being beaten or raped. If I managed to get out of this relatively unharmed, then I had to count myself lucky or blessed by God.
"Who is your mother?" His bicolor eyes were fixed on me, again, standing out from the whiteness of his skin. It was a stark contrast against a pair of dark eyebrows and his stubble laced with some traces of flaxen facial hair.
"She's Nuura Abramov, sir." I tried to keep calm, fighting off the threat of a disastrous mental breakdown. The faintest and briefest of flashbacks played in my mind, then, and I recalled seeing him that night of executions standing before the people with an expression of satisfaction and conceited victory.
Traitors are not to be spared. Those had been his words before he turned his back on everyone, and signaled his comrades to proceed with the brutal punishment that followed. He might not have been the one to torment these people but he allowed those demons to make them suffer, without batting an eye. The fact I was this close to him terrified me to the point I was ready to pass out. My sleep-deprived state didn't help at all and, as I felt the last ration of food I had consumed earlier ascend in a burning rise, I tried not to empty my stomach before him.
"Where do you live?"
As soon as I answered his question there was strong suspicion in his gaze. His nose scrunched in a grimace, and his lips drew an unsmiling expression that had me praying he would dismiss me soon. I desperately wanted to continue with my daily chores — more than that, I wished to be left alone. However, his questions never seemed to end and his stare turned into a glare, causing my body to tremble and cramp.
"I don't want to catch you doing things you shouldn't be doing, or talking to people you shouldn't speak to," he began in a low voice, leaning closer so he could whisper in my ear. "You know what will happen to you and your family if I do, right?"
I could only nod, feeling miserable, while casting my gaze down. "Was that all you needed from me, sir?"
He smirked this time, no doubt amused at my apprehension. I could feel him shamelessly eye the sliced blouse that I had tried to keep together with my fingers, in a last effort to retain some dignity, but I still felt very much naked under his unsettling gaze. What did it matter, anyways? He had the chance to see everything to his heart's content when he was interrogating me, and I had been too scared to even care.
A hand reached to pat my shoulder, as though we were old friends and had just made casual conversation— a fact that couldn't be further from the truth. "Go on, girl, before I change my mind."
He needed say no more. I gave yet another pathetic nod, ran to pick up the buckets and turned to disappear in the woods. The coldness bit my damp cheeks as I fled. The wind wiped away the tears that blurred my sight, and I never looked back— terrified that he would live up to his promise.
That night I didn't sleep either, thinking about my encounter with him.
I had heard that his name was Vladimir. He was the quiet one in the group, his strange colored eyes were always deep in thought, and his men seemed to fear him just as much as they admired him— in some strange, twisted way. I didn't know his rank but there was no doubt he was their leader as everyone followed his orders without showing the slightest hesitation or remorse. If Volodya wanted white to turn black, then it was only a matter of time until he got what he wanted.
And that was how my ruin started.
Much of this information is found on Wikipedia and other sites. No, I'm not that smart lol.
