ii. home is but a faraway dream

He adopted a few identities and went by many names, but most in the criminal underworld would come to know him as Sergei. In time, Vladimir Makarov became a stranger— someone he used to know, perhaps— and he sought to cut ties with his old life.

Whatever family he had, he left behind. It wouldn't do any good to remain close to them, considering the risks of his 'profession' and the fact some people wanted to settle scores with him. They would only get in the way and he doubted they would miss him at any rate. Not that his relationship with his relatives was strained, but everyone had their own problems to deal with and was trying to get by in this brutal recession.

He hadn't seen them since returning from Chechnya. His mother tried to get in touch, but he was never home— a lie, of course, he simply couldn't bring himself to open the door. Occasionally, he called to let her know he was still alive but their conversations were often short. He didn't want to tell her that he'd been discharged and the reasons why, didn't want to talk about what happened back in Chechnya. It was enough that she'd lost her husband in Afghanistan, better spare her the misery of her son being investigated for war crimes.

Dedushka was gone as well, fell down the stairs of the apartment block where he lived and hit his head. He was drunk after watching the news the Soviet Union was no more, outraged at the treason and incompetence of Mikhail Gorbachev that ultimately led Russia to political and economic disaster.

A year later babushka followed him to the grave.

Vladimir had just graduated from the Frunze military academy with the rank of captain, and was stationed in Berlin at the time when he received word of his grandfather's decease. By November 1991, he'd seen the last remnants of The Wall collapse— a proper analogy for what would soon follow for the Soviet Union a month later. He still remembered the television broadcast that evening, the crestfallen faces of his compatriots as they looked down and silently accepted their defeat— unable to do anything. The world watched as Gorbachev resigned and the red flag was lowered for the last time outside the Kremlin, at 7:32 pm time of Moscow on December 25th.

"Is it over for us, comrade captain?"

Someone asked him as if he truly knew the answer.

"Comrade captain?"

Was this the end? A mighty state, a military superpower with the largest nuclear arsenal and army in the world, that had defeated Nazi Germany in the Great Patriotic War, leader of the space race, a pioneer of the most important advancements in technology in the latest years, had just crumbled into nothingness before his own eyes?

It could not be.

But the Soviet Union was officially dead. It was a demise he'd seen coming and dreaded, yet he didn't expect this pitiful, almost pathetic ending.

Finally, at 11:44pm, the tricolor flag of the Russian Federation rose. A victory for democracy, the downfall of authoritarianism, the west called it. A betrayal to Russian people who wished to save their homeland, an opportunity for oligarchs to loot the country and line up their pockets with the silent complicity of those in power— destroying the future and dreams of many.

Nights of booze, gambling and whores couldn't make him forget how bitter he felt. In a world without prospects, without anything to fight for and believe in, it was easy to fall into a spiral of complacency and self-pity. If his father saw him in this sorry state, he would be ashamed. Even Vladimir was embarrassed.

Wasting his life away seemed like a good idea, at the time, until he remembered his mother probably wasn't doing so well.

Once he'd sobered up, he mustered the courage to do pay her a visit— not knowing if it was the last time he'd see her. In this business, you never knew so it would be good to take a few precautions.

Ivanovo was famously known as the City of Brides, since its textiles industries attracted many women seeking work from all over Russia. It was also the City of the First Soviet and a hotbed for bolshevik activity before the October Revolution. An important front city during the Second War, it was close to enemy lines and plans around its defense were developed. Its efforts in the war were invaluable, offering shelter and care to injured soldiers in the front as well as donating huge quantities of fabric to produce over twelve million uniforms.

It was at that time his grandparents met, too. Dedushka, a simple soldier then, used to brag that he'd married the prettiest bride of them all.

This was the place where Vladimir had spent his childhood, where he'd made many happy memories. A prosperous city in the past, the heart of textile production in the Soviet Union and part of the industrial golden ring around Moscow, Ivanovo was slowly falling apart with liberal reforms, budget cuts, privatizations, the lack of Uzbek cotton and closing of many factories.

It was difficult to ignore the widespread poverty and disillusion in everyone's gazes. The sight was depressing; homeless people begged for food in the streets, some even dug in the trash for a scrap of bread. Others tried to sell any vegetables they grew at home, trinkets, anything that could get them by one more day.

As a city lying northeast of Moscow, it wasn't strange that crime and violence had propagated. Drugs, alcoholism, prostitution, malnourishment and diseases became commonplace. People froze to death on the streets during winter and had no access to healthcare. They jumped from bridges to drown in the river, locked themselves up in their apartments to die of gas poisoning, or ended their lives on the railroads.

With just a backpack on his shoulder and a cigarette between his lips, Vladimir crossed the Uvod to the other side of the city. He'd never been one to smoke but since Chechnya he couldn't break the habit.

The last time he'd been in this neighborhood was before leaving for the war. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

The playground where he and his sister Tatiana used to play with other kids was full of weeds and in ruins. The buildings were decaying as well, and overall the state of abandonment was pronounced.

A small, old lady sweeping the entrance to the block greeted him rather affectionately. He was quick to recognize Mrs. Vera. She'd lived there ever since he had memory and worked in one of the many textile factories of the city.

Her back was hunched as she supported her weight on the broom. "I'm so glad you're back, Volodya. Your mother told me you'd left for Chechnya and I feared something might have happened to you there."

She couldn't even imagine...

It was a sore topic for Vladimir and it didn't help the woman teared up at the memory of her grandson, who had died in the brutal siege of Grozny.

"Tolya was about your age. I'm sure you could have been good friends."

Trying not to be insensitive at her loss, he gave her his condolences and some comforting words. Then excused himself and climbed the stairs, listening to the quiet sobs of the old woman.

Perhaps he should have tried harder. Perhaps he should have been more sympathetic for her sorrow but, honestly, nothing he said would bring her grandson back.

"At least your mother still has you."

Did she really?

After reaching his mother's apartment, Vladimir knocked on the worn door and waited.

Loud barking echoed from the other side and he had to suppress a smile. Nobody was home but thankfully the spare key he had still worked.

Their old samoyed bared its teeth at him as soon as he opened the door, ready to attack. What a good boy.

"Igor!"

At the sound of his voice, the dog stopped and tilted his head in confusion. When Igor finally recognized him, he was a puppy all over again— whining and jumping around his master, euphoric to see him after such a long time.

"Did you miss me, Gorya?"

Igor whined some more and placed his paws in his chest, as if trying to embrace him. Or jump into his arms like the big baby he was.

"So did I, boy. Where's mama?"

Nowhere to be found.

Well, bad luck. He figured out she'd be home during the weekend but maybe she went to see Tatiana. No matter. Vladimir didn't plan on staying for too long either way.

He fed Igor some canned food he'd bought. Poor old puppy was starving. His once beautiful snowy fur was dirty and matted, not to mention he was scrawny.

"Enjoy."

With Igor too busy devouring his dinner, Vladimir took a look around the apartment. Things were pretty much the same since his last visit. The same faded carpets hung on the walls, the wallpaper was coming off in some places and the bedroom he used to share with Tanya still had some of his belongings as a kid. He still remembered her jokes about how fortunate for her he was admitted into the suvorov, so she could have the bedroom all to herself.

The living room had the same old family pictures hanging on the walls. There was Tanya as a Young Pioneer in one of her many camp travels. Him as a cadet of the suvorov. His father and mother in their wedding. Tanya and him on the seashores of Lithuania, building a sand castle when they were little kids. Dedushka and babushka at the summer dacha with their grandchildren. Little Igor in the banks of the Kharinka when he was a puppy. Tanya smiling brightly during her graduation as a school teacher. Of course, mama couldn't forget to hang a picture of him during his graduation at the Frunze academy, a brand-new captain in the airborne forces. The newest addition was a picture of his little nephew, Ivan.

"He looks more and more like papa each day," Vladimir said fondly, causing Igor to whine at the reminder of his former master. "I know, I know. I miss him, too."

His mismatched eyes lingered on the portrait of his old man, and Vladimir wondered what would he say if he saw him now. His stern expression spoke of tenacity and strength, always unflinching and unyielding, yet his weary gaze was worn by years of endless war. It was said that a soldier never truly left the battlefield. Physically, he might not be there anymore but his soul remained behind, along with his fallen brothers that wandered those lands stained in blood. Day by day, he would relive those memories until nothing else was left, and only death would free him. Only then would he see the end.

The key turned inside the lock, and Igor was off to greet the pale, enervated woman that walked inside.

She was bewildered at the sight of him, perhaps he'd changed that much, yet it took her but a moment to recognize the excuse of a man that was her son.

"Volodya?"

She didn't expect to see him.

He didn't expect to be here.

"Mama… "

Rushing to him, she enveloped him in a tight hug— as if she would never get to do it again— laughing amid tears. "You're here, my dear son! Where have you been? I tried to contact you several times but couldn't find you."

He wrapped his arms around her, taking in her fragile form, heart aching at the sorrow that came over him. How could he have done this to her?

"I've been busy, that is all. Sorry for the trouble," he said quietly.

When he was not busy murdering people, he was drowning in alcohol in his apartment or making plans for his next assignment. He couldn't even make time for his poor mother. What a fine son he was.

"I was worried about you. We haven't seen hide nor hair from you since you left for Chechnya. I even went to the garrison to speak with your commanding officer but he said that you'd been transferred to the base in Balashikha. Why did you never tell me?"

He'd never told his mother he was in the special forces. It was something not even his own family was supposed to know.

"I couldn't, mama ."

She sighed and nodded in understanding, reluctantly parting from his embrace. "I know it's your job but that won't stop me from worrying. I lost your father in Afghanistan and I wouldn't be able to bear the pain of losing you, too."

He knew she was devastated, just like Tanya. Like he'd been even if he never showed it.

"Boys don't cry, Volodya," papa said, after telling them he would be sent to a faraway place called Ethiopia, to help its people protect their land from invaders. "A man must always be strong for his family and the motherland. You have to be, for mama and Tanya, when I'm not here, understand?

And then came Afghanistan. He was just a kid at the time. Of the five years his father was away, he only saw him twice and he never blamed him or hated him for that. Papa was fulfilling his duty. He was fighting for his homeland, he was helping build a better future for the Afghani. The Soviet military assisted people by building homes, roads, schools and hospitals for them and backed up the government against the insurgents in a conflict that extended for almost a decade.

Until Vladimir understood that the sacrifices of his father and many other men weren't wanted, needed nor honored.

He was proud of his old man, he'd always been. He knew that as a soldier, his father was willing to die for Russia, yet at the same time Vladimir dreaded the moment an officer would approach him and break the bad news. Nobody wanted to lose a father, a brother or a son to war. Nobody wanted to be told they'd never see their loved ones again, nobody was actually prepared to accept their last words were a letter that they'd kept on them just in case the worst outcome possible happened. He'd seen other cadets at the suvorov go through that harrowing experience, and despite his desperate attempt to keep the thought out of his mind he'd always feared that one day it would be his turn.

Maybe it was better that his father died. Most people didn't hold veterans of the Afghan war in high regard, nor those of the Chechen war. In many ways, it had been styled as the Soviet Vietnam and it was a conflict that many were comfortable to pretend never took place. Except for those that still lived traumatized by it.

"I know it must have been terrible for you back there, Volodya. I know it's the last thing you want to talk about but, remember, we're your family. We're here to support you."

It was thoughtful of them but they would never understand. He'd never been to share his turmoils or hardships, he'd never once even mentioned so much as a small complaint for his situation and kept any troubles to himself. Whenever he sent letters from Chechnya, he always told mama everything was fine, that he was with his men and she had nothing to worry about.

But she knew better than believing in his lies when he said he was well fed and rested. She knew he was not fine and that he only wrote those things so she wouldn't be concerned.

He'd gone hungry and cold; he'd been losing sleep for months, and there were times he no longer knew if he was awake or if it all was just a never-ending nightmare; he'd crawled through dirt and blood and guts— the stench of decomposing bodies, charred flesh and gunpowder clinging onto him until it was all he could smell day and night. The only reason he even started smoking was so he wouldn't have to breathe into that shit anymore.

Some days he was more a beast than a man, or maybe a beast in the shape of a man. When exposed to brutality and anger long enough, with your only choices being die or fight, it was easy to give free rein to the most primal instincts and go down a rabbit hole from which there would be no escape. It sounded strange, contradictory to those blissfully ignorant of the horrors of the world, but any remote semblance of humanity had to be forsaken if one wished to stay sane in the midst of this lunacy— otherwise you would be left broken.

As commander he had to push aside any hindrance that might have prevented him from being an effective leader or he risked the lives of his teammates and the mission as a whole. His enemies were not human, they couldn't be, he reasoned. They showed no mercy and if he stopped for a moment to think they had families or people that would mourn for them, then he might as well have sentenced his own men to die. It was cruel, indeed, but such was the way of war.

Zachistka after another, he hunted the insurgents and their collaborators down. He carried out his orders and did what he was supposed to do for Russia. Those traitors deserved to die and his mission was to wipe them out. But mama couldn't know about the things that happened back there. No, it would probably break her heart to see what he'd become.

"I know, mama…"

"I missed you so much, Vova. Will you be staying for a few days with me?"

If only...

He missed home, he missed his family, but he was a coward and couldn't bring himself to look his mama in the eye and pretend that nothing had changed— that everything was the same.

"I can't. Actually, I'm here to say goodbye."

Her smile dropped instantly. "Where are you going?"

He didn't reply.

"Will you come back?"

Would he? He didn't know.

But a lie wouldn't hurt.

"Yes, don't worry."

"Have something to eat before you go, at least." She held his cheek and studied his features, maybe trying to find the proud and imposing young man he'd once been. And he noticed his mama had aged in the time he was gone, wondering if he would return— fearing he never would, like papa. "You look skinny."

He wanted to say no but it was futile to argue with her. Maybe he would just humor her.

And so he found himself sitting in the kitchen, picking at a plate of leftover plov with a few scraps of meat and a generous spoonful of mayonnaise.

A luxury to eat, without a doubt, but he barely could swallow a bite. It's not like he was complaining. He had eaten some disgusting things before, from snakes to bugs and everything in between, so he wasn't very picky with his meals— and mama's food had always been the best, next to babushka's. But it bothered him that she was having a difficult time getting by, while he was throwing away his money, and it made him feel guilty for having been so thoughtless.

Mama sat by his side with a cup of tea and Vladimir tried to steer the conversation away from him before she made any questions.

"How's Tanya?"

"Working hard, as always. I visited her today and I would have stayed but, you know, big puppy over here was going to cry all night long."

Offended by that statement, Igor huffed from his place by Vladimir's feet.

"And Vanya?"

"He's fine, growing up like any other kid."

There was sadness in her eyes, in spite of her smile.

"She's not doing well, isn't she?"

With a painful sigh, mama lowered her gaze. "As well as she can be with a job that hasn't paid in months and a child to support. She's barely making ends meet, and heaven forbid anyone gets sick because there's no money for medicine The school gave her bottles of vodka as compensation, can you believe that? What are she and the other teachers supposed to do, eh? Open liquor stores at home? Every time I see your poor sister, her eyes are all puffy and red from crying so much. Her husband is in pretty much the same situation. I swear to God if he starts drinking, I'll make sure he won't be seeing Tanya or Vanya for a very long time."

"Why even bother with work anymore?"

"They have hope the situation will improve, Volodya. It's the only thing they hold onto."

He scoffed. "Things won't get better, mama ."

"Don't say that. We've been to hell and back so we can make it through this, too."

Foolish optimism or admirable fortitude? He couldn't say, but he wouldn't judge her either.

"Fortunately the factory where I work hasn't closed down. And though I don't see a ruble from them anymore, at least they give me some fabrics. I can sew some clothes that Vanya can wear or that we can exchange for groceries, and we also grow some vegetables at the dacha—"

"Mama, excuse me, but I have to go."

He couldn't stand it. He just couldn't. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"So soon? Why don't you stay for a little while? Tanya would love to see you. She's been so worried about you..."

"Maybe some other time."

"Are you going back to Chechnya?"

He paused, debating whether to tell her the truth or not.

It was no use. She would find out sooner or later.

"I'm not in the VDV anymore."

The news shocked her. "What? Why?"

"Please, don't ask."

"Are you in trouble? What will you do now?"

It was better she didn't know. He couldn't imagine she would be thrilled her son did killing contracts and other questionable jobs.

"You don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine."

Well, hard to know but what else could he say? Mama, maybe I'll be at the bottom of a river, maybe chopped to pieces in some dumpster, maybe shot dead in the middle of the street. Here's some money for your troubles. Stay away from me from now on.

"I only came here to give you this."

He grabbed the backpack sitting on a spare chair and placed it in front of her.

It was probably time he left already.

But things were never easy when a woman was involved.

"Where did you get all this money?" Her eyes were wide as saucers as she stared dumbfounded at the several stacks of dollars squeezed inside.

The surprises never ended with him.

"Don't ask, mama. Just take it."

"Don't tell me you've joined a band of criminals like all those veterans!"

His jaw clenched at the reminder.

"And what if I did? Does it even matter now?"

"What would your father think, your grandfather?!"

That he was a failure, a shame to this family. He had no doubts about it.

"They're not here. The dead don't starve or want for anything."

"This is blood money, Volodya. Someone died because of this! Who did you kill? Whose family did you destroy?!"

And then he snapped.

"Would you rather Tanya whored herself to feed her son? Or that Vanya got sick because he has no warm clothes? Understand, mama, the world we knew is gone. Either we adapt or we die. We're on our own now, no one is going to help us!"

Mama was in tears and he knew he had disappointed her, that he had hurt her. Honestly, what did he expect? Of course she would want to know where did he get so much money from and his silence would immediately give him away. She wasn't stupid. And he felt like an idiot.

"Where did I go wrong? Can you ever forgive me, Volodya? This is all my fault."

Her fault? No. This was his own doing. These were his own choices. He wouldn't let her take that away from him. When everything was going to hell, he needed to know that at least he had some form of control over his life— even if he made terrible decisions.

Crouching in front of her, he held her bony hands in his and then gently wiped her tears away. The years hadn't been kind to her, ever since papa was gone, and knowing that he was now the cause of her suffering made him want to rip his heart out. It would have made all so much more easy for him.

"You always were a wonderful mother, an excellent wife, an outstanding woman. The only force keeping this family together through thick and thin is you and you have my deepest respect and admiration, but don't take responsibility for what I do. I'm not a child anymore."

At his words, she broke into a new fit of sobs and buried her face in her trembling hands. She had always tried to make good people out of her children, she'd always wanted them to be decent members of society. It must have been heartbreaking for her to know that her wonderful son, her pride, her dear Volodya, was nothing but a murderer trading blood for money. A filthy mercenary that would kill whoever he was told for a handful of dollars.

How could he look her in the eye? How dared he?

In spite of this, part of him hoped she would still accept him, even if he was no longer that child she loved so much.

"Mama, hate me, disown me, curse me, but I beg you: think about Tanya, think of your grandson. Don't feel bad for some lowlife whose death was a favor to this country. I assure you, Russia is a better place now."

A small solace for her, perhaps. A way to justify his actions.

It was what she needed. Not him.

He didn't regret what he did. Not by a long shot.

He'd eliminated enough enemies in his life that aversion, or whatever negative emotions one might feel, whatever guilt would keep others awake at night, became just a distant reminiscence— a voice in his mind he snuffed out for good. Desensitization was a useful defense mechanism, after all. He couldn't even remember what it was like killing someone for the first time nor her dwelled too much on it.

"You always have words to convince me, Volodya," she said, tears spent as his rationale began to sink in. No matter how hard she tried to do the right thing, no matter how tirelessly she worked to make ends meet and provide for her family, in the end honesty didn't put bread to the table nor clothes on their backs. Not in this new world of kleptocrats, killers and whores.

"Only because you know they're true."

And she proved to him a mother could love her children, no matter how terrible, despicable and cruel they were.

All she needed to do was closing her eyes to the truth.

A/N:

I didn't think this would turn out to be so Vladimir-centric but well... that's how the chips fall.

Also, apparently, Sergei L. is an alias Vladimir used in the past as shown in a loading cutscene from MW3.

Also sorry for any inaccuracies, and mistakes. Please, no one should take this as a history lesson. There are probably many things that are way off and the perspective is pretty biased.