Author's Note

Disclaimer; I do not own any characters but my own, and do not claim ownership of said characters. All rights go exclusively to the owners of those properties.

This story is a part of the Riftiverse by Sleepysaurus Rex.
Discord; /invite/riftiverse
Hopefully that works.
Moving on, this is my first work, and generally my first foray into creative writing. Critique is welcome, but be civil, please. Upload schedule, as of current, is essentially "whenever I can find time and energy," which is unlikely to be too often or consistent given my current personal situation with education. Hopefully, this goes well and all. And for anyone who decides to put in the time to read? Thank you.

Chapter 1-Kontraktniki

Privyet, I'm Medic-Rifleman Grigory Poznetsov, and opa, do I have a story to tell!

My story begins in 2017, in the Russian Air Forces, VVS, airbase of Khmeimim. I had arrived there well over a year prior, and still hadn't yet adapted to the hot, dusty, shit-scented air of the Syrian city of Latakia.

You see, I was a Kontraktniki, a Russian volunteer soldier, a professional compared to the Prizvannyy, the drafted conscripts. I had signed up in 2015, eventually being selected as a Medic-Rifleman, a low-level trauma medic. I spent a mere few days doing the Army's medical training, but I caught on quickly and gained some relevance as a Yefreytor, a step above the rest of my Motostrelki, or mechanised infantry, squad. While in training, I had met a friendly Kazahk by the name of Viktor Musin whose family had moved to Kaliningrad in the closing years of the Union, before the terrible 90's.

We arrived late in 2016, aboard a rusty, rattling old Il-76 that should have left the service years ago. Landing on the broken slabbing, we stopped and I heard the noise for the first time, the noise that will haunt my dreams as long as I live. The rising, screaming sound, like a banshee from the blue, of the indirect fire siren. Thankfully, for the first of many times, the rebels missed entirely, hitting an old farmer's hut a kilometre away.

It should probably have served as warning that that was the first sound I heard in that godforsaken nation.

That day was certainly not the first thing on my mind the 17th of December, 2017, however. It was late in the afternoon, and I was heading out of the mess after lunch. The base was positively vibrating, as much as warweary Russians do. After all, it was late December, and it would not be long until the 7th of January, the Nativity, what we Orthodox call Christmas. Who knows, someone might have managed to "reappropriate" some of the Officers' good liquor.

As I walked out, I could see Viktor walking by on the other side of the walk.

"Hey Musin, have you seen the Serzhant recently? The Mladshiy said he wanted to talk to me, the bastard!"

"Nope, haven't seen him, Poznetzov."

Ah, damn. I'd have to go searching for him.

As I started to walk towards the control tower where Serzhant Volskoy had his office, I heard Viktor yell back at me.

"Oy, Poznetzov, while you're headed there, do you think you can take this requisition order? Serzhant signed it earlier, the Pulemetchik is worried about his backup supply for his RPK. The BMP is over by the gate. Looks like we have an operation tonight, eh?"

The sly bastard! I barely caught the comment about ammo, and I decided to take look at the order.

"I guess I coul… Oy flyface! He wants a whole damn can? Ah fuck, you owe me, man!" I yelled after him, but he was already most of the way over to the mess.

And so I got stuck walking myself and the soon-to-be-very-heavy requisition over to the tower.

The tower itself was a fairly tall concrete structure, with a few offices inside, our Serzhant occupying one of them a couple floors up, and the armourer having one in the basement of a hanger next door. I walked all the way up the steep, slippery from dust, steps to the Serzhant's office, where I walked in, and was promptly yelled at for dragging in dust.

"Oy, Poznetsov, the hell are you doing? I just had the damn room cleaned! Ah, whatever. Sit down."

I took off my ruck and sat down, and waited while he lit up an American cigarette he had filched from god-knows-where, so he could say his piece.

"Poznetsov, tonight, we're taking an interpreter in the BMP to interrogate a set of possible rebels over on the west side of town. Personally, I hold some fears as to his reliability, as I haven't seen the little shit since he photographed the front gate for what he says is his blog. You heard of those, Medic-Rifleman? I don't understand people. Anyway, do you know where Musin went? Kazakh bugger was supposed to deliver the ammo across base for pinching a pack of my favourite cigarettes while my back was turned."

Well, that was a slick one he pulled. I wish he would stop getting himself caught, but I suppose it isn't important either way.

"I have not seen him, Serzhant."

"Damnit. Just pick up your rifle and all while you're going past the armoury, would you? I have a damn bad feeling about that interpreter. Regardless, you're dismissed."

He was really worried about the interpreter, wasn't he? Whatever his thoughts, I should probably get moving.

"This soldier will comply, Serzhant! I'll ensure I locate Musin for you, Serzhant!"
"Very good. Now get your moondusted boots out of my office!"

I scrambled my way out, grabbing my ruck on the way by. It was a beautiful new Attack 2, and I'd be chewed out by the quartermaster if I lost it.

I made my way over to the hangar, and stopped by the armoury, going through the form after pass after form after requisition order to get my rifle, ammunition, and the sloughed-off on me requisition fulfilled.

I decided that it'd be easier to just stuff the heavy ammunition in my new ruck, and after clipping my privately-purchased (With a significant portion of March's pay!) OKP-7 carrying case onto my rig, slinging my rifle over my shoulder, I made my way towards the gate. On the way, I saw Viktor, leaning against the mechanic's shop door, waiting for me.

"HEY, Musin!" I yelled over to him. "Get your Kazakh ass over here!"

He made his way over, meeting me in the middle, by the gate. As we neared each other, I heard a whistle, and more frighteningly, the sound. The sound of death, screaming out from the tower. I saw Musin look over me, and I looked up. Growing from the size of a tennis ball, and then larger, to the size of a human head, it flew over my head and landed close behind me, right against the garage door, next to a stack of badly-stored BMP running gear bolts.

I felt the awful blast, and in an odd, detached sense, felt myself thrown to the ground with cold spots in my back. I could see Musin, a hole in his throat, and I looked down.

It was to be the last conscious action I made, and I saw some fist-sized holes torn through me, with the head of a bolt protruding from the front side of my 6B47.

Then, nothingness. I was shrouded in darkness, not a light in sight, and yet, I could see my body. As if in a highlight reel, I saw the medics approach my body, and then being loaded into the zinc coffin. After that, I was, as they say, Cargo 200. Dead, sent back to Saint Petersburg, where my mother and father received my body and the small pension of an Yefreytor.

Then, all of a sudden, I could see a small ball of light in the darkness. Confused, but with no other ideas, I grasped the light, and held on tight. I felt an electric pain, like my flesh was burning itself away, worse even than death itself. I have no clue how long it went for, but eventually, I blacked out.