.

Maxim "Kapkan" Basuda

…

"Medic!"

"Lera, you alright?!"

It was an accident. Everyone was worried about her, as they rightfully should. Everyone, except the man who put her down. He expected her to have the stones of a soldier; otherwise she wouldn't have a reason to be here, so far away from home.

Once again, Max's knife flourishes had been a tad too strong, wounding yet another comrade. Whatever guilt he felt in the act, however, quickly gave way to anticipation and morbid curiosity. His shocked expression slowly became much more subdued. Valeria Melnikova was a greenhorn last time he'd trained with her- a doe-eyed, spirited kid eager to serve her country, like he was back in the day. Did she finally change? Did she take to heart everything he'd taught her all those years? His eyes maintained a low scowl, as they observed the erstwhile newbie get back on her feet.

'Newbie'. She didn't even have a fancy name to call herself with.

As callous as it sounded, this was a great lesson for her. An accident turned into an opportunity. She needed to know what Team Rainbow was all about, that it was a whole different level than their old unit in the FSB. The stakes were even greater, the enemies even more merciless. She would be facing psychos who would use the most callous methods to win. She would be fighting indiscriminate killers who wouldn't hold anyone sacred, women and children included. To beat them would require a similar level of tenacity. The kind that wouldn't balk at the prospect of knifing someone to death or planting a devious IED, if either meant saving a life.

At the very least, she did not have to learn this lesson the hard way, unlike how Max did as a young man. There she was, on the ground and grunting in pain, as blood continued to flow from the gash across her forehead. It was a far better prospect than residing an ICU, waiting for surgery from an AK round. The cut was not as bad as it looked, but that was no small comfort to the bundle of nerves on her face. Slowly, Lera brought herself up on all fours, all the while huffing heavily and fighting off the urge to let a single tear escape her eyelids.

"Someone get Doc down here!"

A few of the spectators went out of the training room to search for the Team's medic, presumably off doing his business in the infirmary this early in the day. The rest remained where they stood, gawking, as they waited for the knife-wielding instructor to call the whole sparring match off. But Max refrained, insisting instead to play the observer. In turn, a few pairs of eyes glared it him rather accusingly, seemingly to prove his cold-hearted nature to all. It took a different kind of person to remain undaunted by the sight of a wounded friend.

Seconds later, the whole room gasped in shock, seeing Lera slowly muster the strength to stand upright. Her eyes were not moist with tears. Her fists were clearly clenched. The blood was marring her vision, but she nonetheless turned to look at her sparring partner, who was all the more impressed by her grit. She trudged forwards, as if to have a word with him. Or perhaps to shake his hand. None of that mattered to Max: at last, she finally proved herself a warrior. He reached out with a slight grin on his face, relishing the success of his rather unorthodox tutelage. No doubt she would be a fine addition to the Team.

This was a moment that any teacher could only dream of. A moment that-

*Smack!*

He didn't see the haymaker that came from her right hand. Max was briefly startled by the attack, then reared to block his head with his fists out of instinct. It was an error. He left his torso open, which Lera saw as another prime opportunity. The wounded woman lunged at the brawny Russian with rapid fire fists, causing the latter to wince in pain. He felt a couple more jabs connect to his chest, more painful than he anticipated. Then, she went for his nose, giving it a solid bone-crunching hit. All of this in less than ten seconds; it was his turn to be down for the count. It was his turn to bleed.

She was filled with rage. Max took it as another good sign.

"Lera! Knock it off!"

"Break 'em up! Break 'em up!"

Within a few heartbeats, the unfortunate sparring accident had devolved into a two-man brawl. Everyone rushed into action, heedless of protocol, as they tried to stop either one of the fighters from getting seriously hurt. What happened next was a blur: pain, confusion, and surprise. 'Stupid, stupid man', Max derided himself. His body reeled from punch after punch, as his consciousness started to drift away into the dark yonder. It was such an embarrassing way to go, causing him to scoff un-ironically. He thought he would never be this careless again, but life had a wicked sense of humor.

Amidst the scuffle around him, he saw a knife, lying dormant on the mat. The redhead dropped it when she tackled him.

…

…

"Some fractures to the ribcage… mild swelling in the coastal cartilages… upper nasal bone is also broken."

Gustave droned on while he applied bandages to Max's chest and nose. The overhead lamp on the infirmary shone brightly, which was quite blinding to the bed-ridden man. But that was a minor inconvenience compared to the pain of being strapped onto a rough, thin-cushioned gurney. And it was not just the indignity of the 'training accident' that bothered him; Mike Baker was in his periphery, giving him a disapproving gaze, standing just beside the good doctor. The black uniform and English-style coat made him look like a foul-tempered geezer, more so than usual.

"Hmph. That all, Doc?"

"I'd say these are serious injuries, Thatcher …But I suppose the SAS would just call this a 'flesh wound'."

"Hehehe...", Max laughed.

"This is not a sitcom, ya twit. I said to use practice knives with her. It's the woman's first week for God's sake!"

"Da. But not her first time against me. And here I thought you've read her dossier..."

"That's not the bloody point! I've half a mind to report this to Six. She wanted no accidents!"

"Tch. Just do what you have to, dedka (gramps)."

Baker glared at his insolence, then left the infirmary with an imperious stride, firmly closing the door behind him. Of course he would report what happened to their esteemed Director, as was his unspoken responsibility. That would only mean one thing: another written reprimand sent to Max's cubicle sometime this week. Another one in a handful, which he unfortunately accumulated throughout his career in Rainbow thus far. It didn't matter. It would have if he was still the eager go-getter of his youth. Maybe he would try to get the memo revoked back then. Unfortunately, that young man had grown up a long, long time ago. As he should.

Flat on his back and reeling in pain on his chest and face, Max raised his head to gaze down at his latest batch of wounds. They were completely covered by straps of white, sterilized medical gauze, with the appropriate ointment and dressings already applied. They had no tinge of red in them, all thanks to Gustave's efficient handiwork and miraculous fingers. The good doctor was still cutting away at the bandages, careful not to further disturb the man's injuries and draw blood. After a couple of months or so, a fresher set of scars would adore the Russian's muscular chest, joining a canvass that perfectly illustrated the storied and incredibly turbulent life that he had led so far.

Burn marks across his sternum from a welding accident working at a factory in Kovrov. A vicious-looking claw mark from a polar bear, a danger of hunting alone in the Arctic. A gunshot wound to the chest and a few bits of shrapnel lodged into his left hip, a souvenir from his nightmare in Beslan. And those was just the scars he could see without a mirror's help. Each blemish pointed to a strong and resilient survivor- a trait that any hunter worth his salt was supposed to have.

"How are you feeling, Maxim?"

"Sleepy… stiff…", he replied in his typical drawl. "…What's gotten to the Old Man, huh?"

"*scoffs* He had an argument with Olivier in the Ops Room this morning. If Meghan didn't step in, those two would've punched each other."

Gustave was referring to Lera's partner in crime, a pompous little punk. Many of the recruits had been stirring up trouble recently, as colorful personalities tend to leave their mark. Thankfully, this was something that could easily be fixed with a stricter combat training regimen. Max now had an excuse to whip them all into shape, and he'd already made a few mental notes on which poor sap who would suffer in his midst first.

He smiled to himself. He had been a recruit once. He went through the toughest physical and mental training that the FSB could dish out. He barely survived the cut- a one-out-of-ten type of luck. After a hundred hours in Siberia and thousands of rounds fired, everyone else looked like a sissy. A weakling. And yet this time, he's the one in the infirmary, reeling from wounds he got fighting a doctor. If his old platoon Sergeant were here right now, a loud earful of demotivating words would be the least of his worries.

"Damn new bloods…", he sighed. "…Tough luck for us eh?"

"Hmm… A brave new world, certainly."

"I'd like to drink to that."

"Hey, no funny ideas. I'm not yet finished with you."

Gustave held a pair of shears between his white-gloved fingers, then cut another strip of gauze and placed it on the other man's nose. The bleeding from his nostrils had stopped a few hours ago, where a pair of cotton balls used to be.

"There. Done."

"Spasibo (Thank you)", he grunted as he slowly got himself out from bed. Naturally, the doctor made his disappointment known.

"Max, you should stay in bed!", he raised his voice. "Do you want your ribs to get worse?"

"Relax. Just one swig. Now, where did you hide your whiskey…"

With a hand clutching his sore, injured ribs, Max trudged his way across the small room in search for something that would quench his parched throat. He wasn't joking about the whiskey either; he needed a warm and bitter beverage to take his mind away from the pain. As much as he liked to play up the tough guy-persona, it was ultimately futile for him to hide from reality. Analgesics would only dull his senses, make him weaker in the long run. Ironically, Lera was quite well-versed in pain management; she should be handing him pointers right now, if she was only up and about.

Life definitely had a sick sense of humor.

The Russian opened up one of Gustave's medical cabinets, rummaging to find a half-empty, unlabeled bottle of spirits. The crude, old school way for doctors to dull the agony of the most grievous wounds. Max removed the slightly-loose top cap with his teeth, then spat it out in a nonchalant manner, before tipping the warm bottle on his lips, bottom-up. He felt a brief surge of elation, helping him cope with his current predicament. Gus, on the other hand, could do nothing but stare in silence and shake his head a second time. At this point, it was futile to tell a former Spetsnaz soldier what to do. Rather than go into a tirade about proper medical procedures, he changed the topic instead to something more pressing. He also wanted to satisfy his own curiosity, as it seemed.

"Care to tell me what went down back there?"

Max set the bottle down and looked back, rather confused.

"Nobody told you?"

"Tina said you slashed Lera's face by accident. Then, you let her tackle you and beat you to a pulp…"

Max glared back with half-hearted menace, letting his displeasure known to Gustave. Another woman had just slighted him by telling a horribly inaccurate story, whether in jest or not. Either way, it was one method to discredit his reputation as a vicious fighter. Or maybe it was just her ploy to get back on him for all those times he made her tap out in the fighting mat? Max made yet another mental note to seek out that slant-eyed Vancouverite once he got out from the infirmary. He now had even more reason to empty the bottle in his hand. Down the hatches, the liquid went.

"…I think she's exaggerating.", the doctor continued. "Still, if you've been careful, I wouldn't be here wasting my time."

Before the Russian could verbally defend himself, the other man went over to another spot in the infirmary, covered in a drab medical curtain. Peeling it aside, Max saw Lera's slumbering form. Her bed was just a short distance from his, all this time. But unlike him, the redhead with the stupid crewcut was still unconscious, probably kept sedated by the IV hanging beside. Her ivory-white training shirt was gone, replaced by a tanktop that was also covered in splotches of red. It seemed that she lost a great deal of blood from that wound. Just as before, concern and worry went out of the window. The Russian was satisfied to know that she was alright.

"She passed out from the pain; probably exacerbated by muscle fatigue and stress… She was throwing up when they brought her here."

"Hmph. Doesn't look that bad to me. Just bandage the wound and she'll be fine…"

"Fortunately, we do not follow your old unit's medical protocols. We're civilized here."

"Pfft. She'll live. That's all that matters."

"How could you say that?!", Gustave frowned at him. "Isn't she your friend?"

No. She was a student, Max said in his head. The next generation of a proud military tradition, who went out of her way to defy the odds and become stronger. She was a fighter. They were all fighters. As if the FSB wasn't bad enough, Max and his comrades signed up for a much more dangerous job. And while she suffered dearly for her initiation, the red-haired doctor did a great at giving him a thrashing he wouldn't soon forget. Nobody should expect anything less. The world had always been harsh on them; it's expected for the Spetsnaz to be just as severe.

At any rate, Max could rest easy knowing that his student had developed the same grit that took him years to build. Resilience and strength. Still had quite a ways to go, that much was certain, though at least she's already on the right path.

And that's when Max realized that he needed to do more. He was getting rusty. What was it that did him in today? Carelessness? Overconfidence? It would be very bad if he was lapsing back to the same old weaknesses of his youth. The same reasons why his 25-year-old self nearly died in Beslan. Today was just a sparring match, and yet he was already down for the count against one opponent. How would he fare against five or ten, all at once? And judging by current events, especially what happened in America recently, the odds would always be against him, no matter where he would go. Such was the reality of Team Rainbow, he reminded himself a second time.

"You'll lead a charmed life to not underestimate us, moy droog (my friend)."

"Uh-huh."

"Trust me. She'll be fine."

Max sounded so sure of himself with those words, but they were really only to shield his reputation. He's supposed to be one of the Team's toughest. This little incident at the training room should not be construed as him getting rusty. If he was, then a little self-evaluation should be in order. Another reason to spend more time in weapons training and close quarter drills, keep his edge as sharp as it could be. He needed to be faster and more precise; there's no use holding his own anymore by standing still. And he wasn't getting any younger either.

But that train of thought could be continued for later, as he felt the pain in his chest surge again. Scoffing at the poor woman for the last time, Max turned around and went back to his bed, knowing that he had to follow the good doctor's orders. As he laid himself down, he looked back in his mind on what happened in thd fighting mat. Swallowing his pride for once, he admitted that he still had his own weaknesses to contend with. Mistakes had been made, noted, and sworn never to be repeated. If he failed as a fighter and teacher, he would only be a liability to the rest of his comrades. That would be unacceptable. That would also shame Lera, whose determination should be repaid in kind. The poor girl went all out against him this morning. Swift, sharp, and unexpected.

Like a knife.

A knife…

…

"Finka…"

"Pardon?", Gustave raised an eyebrow.

"Finka… That's her new name."

If the girl wanted to fit right in with the rest of Rainbow, then she needed her own moniker. It sounded cheesy: a weapon for gangsters and thieves, when she's clearly from an upstanding background. And the good thing about her being knocked out and in bed, it meant she had no say on the matter. All in good fun and mutual respect, of course.

"Tell her that when she wakes up, will you?"

"Hmph. Sounds like you're picking another fight with her."

"Bring it on.", Max proclaimed with pride. "I do not mind a rematch."

He closed his eyes, waiting to drift himself to sleep. He smiled all the way, knowing that his job was getting started.

…

Author's Comments/Notes: Happy New Year everyone! The Holidays forced this on the back-burner for a while, so apologies for that. Anyway, we all know that Kapkan is responsible for Finka's scar, but I'm not really sure when that fateful accident happened. Finka's bio says it occurred during their service in the Russian military, but all the official artwork show it happened during their time in Rainbow. I decided to go for the latter since it fits my story better.

Echo's chapter is coming up next!