Hi,Heletherel here.

This is the first of a series of chapters depicting Dragunov's back story. I thought that it would be important to include these flashbacks as a part of the story so that the future chapters are better supported. Warning- the violence gets kind of intense in these chapters.

I'll be writing more Lili chapters soon :)

Oh, and this chapter's song is "Self Deception" by Winterstahl. I always thought that industrial techno suited Dragunov's character well.

Four years earlier…

"Stand down! We're here to protect you."

Twenty-two-year-old Sergei Dragunov stared with an expression of evident dismay at the pile of torn down bricks, broken concrete and twisted metal that lay before him, blocking the road that ran along the Lake Bogorodskoe.

"We aren't handing over the town!" A loud, female voice yelled from somewhere among the masses behind the barricade. "Jin Kazama promised us that he would restore it! He's going to clean this place up, and give us good, safe jobs!"

"You've been lied to. Disperse or we will be forced to open fire!" Dragunov cocked his rifle and aimed towards the barricade. The rest of his unit did the same, tense with what Dragunov assumed to be apprehension.

"You're the liars!" An even louder, angrier voice called out over the wall. "You promised us aid long ago, and it never came! You're only 'protecting' us now because the copper plant is endangered!"

Dragunov began to cringe behind the sight of his gun. He could understand the frustrations of these civilians all too well. If only the Mishima Zaibatsu hadn't fucked up the world, he might not have to go through a standoff with the very people that he wanted to help. And this was about as close as they had ever come to a real firefight. The Ural Mountain region was proving to be more difficult than any other to pacify, especially Chelyabinsk Oblast. Resistance was to be expected, but Jin Kazama's reach had gone further and deeper than ever anticipated. It was said that the frustrated people in these towns had been issued weapons at the order of Mr. Kazama himself. Though, so far, Dragunov didn't see any.

Maybe I could fire a warning shot, Dragunov thought. It might just be enough to make them scatter. They're not soldiers, after all.

"Just leave!" A deeper voice yelled from down the street. The slight desperation in his voice gave Dragunov confidence.

I don't think they actually have any weapons. No weapons of any sort were found in any villages nearby. And if they did have any, they would show them off in an effort to drive us away…right?

Dragunov's finger was just beginning to tense on the trigger of his rifle when something cold, wet and heavy struck him across his chest and face and oozed down the front of his uniform.

The commander lowered his gun to wipe the revolting substance from his face, then stared at it as it dripped off his gloved hand. It was mud from the shores of Lake Bogorodskoe, oily and black with a cocktail of noxious chemicals. Drops of purple-red industrial discharge still clung to it, along with bits of sickeningly discolored foam.

"Why do you look so upset? You're no less filthy than this mud we live on!"

With a blank but open-mouthed expression, Dragunov looked up to notice a young woman perched halfway on top of the barricade, another fistful of poison clasped in her bare, upraised hand, ready to throw. There was a strange softness to her appearance despite her fury; something about her that reminded Dragunov of his sister back at home in the city, something beautiful and almost pure…but on her face was a grimace of anger as horrifying as the mud that bulged between her curled fingers and seeped down her pale, emaciated arm.

"You're poison incarnate!" She yelled.

"That's it!"

The second shout had come from behind. A rogue member of Dragunov's unit came running past him, weapon raised and ready to fire the moment he reached the desired range. There was bloodlust in his eyes. He had wanted conflict all along. What it was that Dragunov had sensed from somewhere in his unit had not been apprehension, but a sadistic yearning.

What the hell is he thinking?!

As much as Dragunov didn't want to show weakness to the people behind the blockade, he couldn't let a massacre unfold right here in the streets. A cringe came over his face; despite his desire for efficiency during these missions, he had always hated unnecessary violence.

After one crucial moment of hesitation, he called out to the running soldier.

"Halt!"

The rogue was about to do as ordered when his boot fell onto something metallic, well hidden behind an upraised chunk of road. An almost silent click sounded against the concrete. Dragunov's deep blue eyes went large with dread.

Oh, fuck!

Kazama had armed the civilians with landmines.

Dragunov had just opened his mouth to issue a far-too-late warning when the mine blew, punching him into the ground in a deadly blast of high-speed sparks and shrapnel that nearly knocked him unconscious. A moment later, the Mishima Zaibatsu's hate-hungry mercenaries were spilling out from their hiding place behind the barricade, armed to the teeth. Dragunov watched in stunned silence, unable to move as a slaughter unfolded around him. His mind was spinning; everything was going white….

Just before the road was engulfed in complete chaos, one of the attackers glanced down at Dragunov, realized that he might be alive, and shot him in the stomach.

Explosions everywhere. The ground vibrated from gunfire and grenades. Bullets and shards of twisted metal cut the air at every conceivable angle. There was the sound of breaking glass and the roar of flames.

Dragunov lay against the street, trying to gasp the breath back into his body through two misshapen pieces of razor-sharp shrapnel that had lodged themselves in his jaws. Their metal edges were pushing deep into his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and part of it was still hooked around his lip. Blood seeped through his jacket and mingled with the filth that covered the road. He wondered if he'd been shot during his short period of unconsciousness after the first explosion; he had no memory of it.

Tense with pain and fatigue, Dragunov pulled himself up on his palms, attempting, stiffly, to get his legs under him so that he might be able to stand. A deep, terrible ache pulsed from his side and he stopped moving, but only for a moment.

He was just beginning to rise to his feet, glancing around at the destruction that surrounded him, when a particularly close and powerful blast sent him flying at least three meters to the side of the road in a sea of sparks and debris. Rolling to a stop halfway down a short hill beside the two-lane strip of chaos above, he braced himself as chunks of concrete, dirt and metal landed on top of his face-down form before continuing on their path through the shore of the lake beyond and into its poisonous waves. He instinctively gritted his teeth against the series of impacts and the shrapnel in his mouth sent jagged streaks of agony through his nervous system. It felt like he was chewing on serrated glass.

I've got to pull out some of this metal.

Carefully, he rasied a shaking arm and tugged at the piece in his lip, pulling out a tiny, jagged metal barb that glistened with his blood. With worry, he realized that the area in which it had been lodged had gone numb. Slowly, he detached a few more ends from the top of his mouth and behind his teeth, each one an excruciating ordeal, and finally, the first piece of shrapnel fell out into his hand. But there was still the second piece to be dealt with, painfully jammed near the back of his mouth. It would be too dangerous to simply tear out with his hands. Worse yet, despite its size, it was partially blocking his airways. Not enough oxygen was getting to his head, and he was half-dead already.

Another nearby explosion sent a shockwave through the ground, shaking him with its force. He curled onto his side and braced himself with his arms over his head as more wreckage tumbled down the hill and into the lake, fighting to stay conscious through the terrible pain. Suddenly, a chunk of concrete, about the size of a small loaf of bread, pounded into his back, miraculously forcing the metal shard from his thoat. Relieved but in horrible pain, the commander spat out a mouthful of blood and breathed as deeply as he could, refilling his lungs. Blood strill trickled from his lips, and from the larger wound under his jacket, mingling with the ashen dirt beneath him.

"Commander Dragunov!"

A hand grabbed Dragunov's side and pushed him face-up. He reached out towards the figure that crouched beside him, unable to speak and hardly able to think. He was in so much pain.

Help me!

The words were in his mind but couldn't quite form. Feeling absolutely helpless, he grabbed onto the front of the soldier's uniform and held him tightly, as if he might fade away at any moment.

Help!

"Can you hear me?" The figure asked, unsure whether Dragunov had been deafened by the landmine. He was one of the soldiers under Dragunov's command, about twice his age and half his rank. "Can you hear what I'm saying?"

For a long moment, Dragunov remained silent, trying to make himself reply, if he could even remember how. Finally, a noise made it past his bleeding lips.

"A-h!"

The response was more of a loud breath than the intended "Da;" nevertheless, his companion understood it.

"Okay." The man took in a deep breath; there was evident fear in his eyes. He was no longer in the disguise of a soldier; he had become just as frightened and powerless as the citizens of this struggling town.

"There were mercenaries sent by the Mishima Zaibatsu hiding among the civilians, sir," he explained. "Before any of them see us, we've got to make it to that building up there. Can you walk-"

A gunshot cut off the older man's voice, and a spray of red mist popped from the side of his head like fine confetti. He'd been shot by a sniper stationed somewhere up in a building across the road. After jolting from the impact, he fell lifelessy onto a horrified Dragunov, pinning him to the ground but also providing a possible shield against the following series of shots. That sniper had zoned in on the two of them and was determined to kill them both.

As he hid underneath the soldier's body, Dragunov floated somewhere between awareness and terror-induced stupor. He began to wonder if he was just in the middle of a horrible dream.

A bullet tore straight through the corpse and punctured Dragunov's shoulder. He jarred and fainted almost instantly, an action which may have saved his life, for the sniper immediately moved on to other targets.