The Last Command

Chapter 6: Cold War

'2,000 METRES TO DESTINATION. BEGIN DESCENT NOW.'

"Alright, alright, keep your hair on," I mutter irritably, pulling myself out of the slight stupor I'd fallen into after a so-far uneventful flight and peering out of the canopy. The glimpses of the ground below I catch in the cracks between clouds look the same as they did on my way into Yakutsk, where I took a pit-stop while figuring out how to set the navicomputer to accept specific co-ordinates rather than place names. Plus, I needed to go to the ladies' room. Oh, don't look at me like that, you know how long I've been on the move for without stopping? I'm not a machine. I just do a good impression of one.

'1,900 METRES TO DESTINATION. BEGIN DESCENT IMMEDIATELY.'

Okay, okay. I push the control stick forwards to tilt the nose down, before Geoff gets any more irritable with me…

Yeah, I gave the plane a name. It's been like a loyal little donkey, or a pony, and if I'd had a pony when I was younger, I'd have called it Geoff.

…Anyway. The clouds part like curtains ahead of me, and still all I can see is white, a gently rolling sheet of white moving under me, like a giant treadmill. Of course, this is Siberia – you don't get much else here apart from snow. Couple the adverse conditions to the realization that any blotch on the sparse landscape can be picked up by satellite observation with ease, and you're left with little incentive for any discerning superpowers to build anything of importance here…at least, not on the surface. Or not without a convincing disguise. Something like, I don't know…something like that dark structure suddenly looming in the distance. I can make out a long, thick cylinder jutting out from either side – an old oil pumping station? Smart. A relic now, thanks to the world finally outgrowing fossil fuels and settling on nuclear and geothermal power solutions, but since tearing the things down was too much trouble for fairly little gain, it's not unusual to see them still standing.

'DESCENDING TO 800 METRES…'

Now this is where it gets interesting. I've got skis for landing gear, on a surface that offers virtually no traction, there's no way I can possibly slow down to what most pilots would call a safe speed before touchdown, and if I don't slow down fast enough after landing, I'll plow straight into my intended destination.

'DESCENDING TO 600 METRES…'

The countdown really isn't helping, if I'm honest. Still, pressure makes diamonds, right? Now, think, woman…

'DESCENDING TO 400 METRES…'

"Just shut up already," I snarl between gritted teeth. Now, assuming I can keep the angle of descent as steep as possible until the very last second, without chickening out and pulling back on the stick too early, this crazy plan might actually work. Or turn me into a Jackson Pollock painting across the inside of the canopy.

'DESCENDING TO 200 METRES…'

Either way, this is gonna suck.

'100 METRES. IS YOUR SEATBELT SECURE?'

Was that a joke? The flat, listless delivery of Geoff's computer actually brings a smile to my face, before –

Thwump! My head collides with the upper canopy, and suddenly I can't hear anything over a dull ringing in my ears; pure instinct lets me keep my grip firm around the wildly shaking control stick, forcing it to remain steady whilst the skis, having cleaved through the soft snow, dig into the harder ice below, hard enough to leech off some of Geoff's momentum. Just like I planned.

…actually, no, it isn't. I planned for it to work a whole lot better than it did, and now I'm heading straight for the target building like a one-ton steel arrow. With my every move still feeling sluggish and uncoordinated through the fog in my head, I wrench the stick to the right, and miraculously there's still enough air passing across the wings for the guidance flaps to make a difference; Geoff rears to the right, turning its nose away from the building, and – no! The plane overbalances and starts to rear up on one ski, still heading for the building, except now the canopy's set to take the brunt of the impact, right along with me – oh, I can actually see the individual bricks now –

Silence falls. I can't even hear myself breathe. Don't know if I am breathing anymore.

Then battered metal moans, and my stomach flutters as gravity drags Geoff back down onto his landing skis with a muffled whump. The HUD flickers out of existence for a moment, before giving me one last cheery message –

'DESTINATION REACHED. HAVE A NICE DAY!'

Not likely, boy, but thanks all the same. I pull the helmet free from my head and shake my hair loose, then lean back against the cool metal of the fuselage whilst the ringing in my ears subsides and the tired ache in my bones fades away. Well, that wasn't exactly my best work, but at least I'm down, and in one piece…not sure if I can say the same for Geoff just yet, poor thing. Now, all I need to worry about is making it across, what, twenty feet of ice and opening a door, then work out exactly how I'm going to shut down this damn computer node…thing. How hard can that be?

Reaching down, I pull the canopy release lever and – Christ, that's cold! Now that I think about it, every time I've been to this region before I've always been kitted out for the weather, not stuck with my regular combat gear. The armourweave is supposed to have superior insulation properties, according to various tests, but you can't really test for the kind of temperatures you encounter in the field. Plus of course I had to ask for the bare shoulders and midriff when I was getting it tailored. Jurgen told me it was a stupid idea…should've listened to him. "If complaining could keep me warm, I'd be toasty right now," I manage to chuckle between rapidly-cracking lips, then strike the release switch across my chest to release the flight harness, and push myself up out of my seat and over the side –

Fwump! A good four inches of snow gives way beneath me as my legs, still stiff from the flight, nearly buckle under me. The wind shrieks like a flock of crows – a murder of crows? – and scrapes at my exposed flesh with tendrils of chill, whipping up a tornado of snowflakes so torrential I can barely lift my head to look around…

"C'mon, out of the plane…"

Who said that?

"Nina, help your sister before she falls."

Oh…oh no. Not now…

The wreckage around us is torn and twisted, like the inch-thick steel of the hull was little more than plastic and polystyrene, and reaches up to the ash-grey skies like the clawing fingers of some massive, terrible demon. Looking over my shoulder, I see that it's not freaking Dad out half as much as it is me, as he turns his back on the whole scene and looks to the horizon. There're some figures moving out there, but at this distance they're just dark smudges in the murk –

"Hey, dreamer, I don't wanna hang around here all day!" Suppressing a sigh, I turn back to the task at hand, reaching up and around my sister's body, suspended at a sharp angle from the ground by the seat she's still sat in, and unclip the belt around her waist. She falls with a little "oop" and I catch her arms, though she lands nimbly on her feet regardless, with practiced ease. I give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and she smiles, then raises her hands to hug herself tightly as a staggered breath leaves a cloud of vapor around her mouth. "It's never this cold when it snows back home."

I open my mouth to respond, but Dad beats me to it, his words sounding haunted and grim to my ears.

"That's because our home is sacred, and this place is damned."

It's the same…this place, it's just the same as that barren, pitiless stretch of Alaskan wasteland was 30 years ago. A cold and desolate stretch of hell, where the gods of fate looked down at me and laughed as I lost the one last remaining link to my humanity, to my heart…I can't be here, I-I can't deal with this right now…there's dampness soaking through the knees of my suit, and I look down to find snow, but not white, no, it's red, tainted by blood, his blood. I feel a single, warm tear roll down my cheek and raise my hands to wipe it away – but there's blood on them, too. From where I cradled his head in my lap, and it felt so light, so hollow, and I knew then that he wasn't…he was never going to…read to me again, or scold me for leaving the table early, or laugh that deep, warm laugh of his when Anna and I tried to sneak up and take him down, only to get shaken off and laid out gently in a heap of splayed limbs and embarrassment. That was Richard Williams, my father. The best man in the world.

And he's dead. He's been dead for decades now, you sobbing idiot, and if he could see you now he'd disown you. So shake these morbid little dreams out of your head, stand up and get across to that damn door. C'mon, one foot in front of the other, it's easy, just…just keep your balance across the snowdrift, don't worry about the cold – you'll be numb long before the hypothermia kills you, so it'll be nice and painless – unless something grabs your foot and drags you down into the frozen hell beneath you.

"No!" I cry, the sound muffled and distant, whilst I thrash and kick wildly at, at…I blink, and there's nothing but snow crumbling under my blows. Did I just trip on a rock? I close my eyes and give my head a good shake, swallowing down the cloying citrus taste in my mouth. Take a deep breath, Nina, you're not losing your mind, it's just...just...

A trickle of falling snowflakes tickles my cheek, and I open my eyes to a somber red sky above, before wiping the snowflakes away – except they're solid, and refuse to relinquish their grip, oh god, it's a hand, swollen purple with frostbite at the fingertips, cast in deathly white pallor elsewhere, and there, on the third finger, a simple gold band, the wedding ring, the one he never took off...

And with a lurch, daddy's head snaps into view, peering down over me with cataract eyes and black, necrotic veins criss-crossing his face like a spider's web. There's no warmth or recognition in his expression, only a shadow of despair – and as his mouth drops open and a lonely, hungry moan floats out from his throat, only then do I realize how much I need to move, fast.

I blink away the nightmare image – but it doesn't want to leave just yet, instead reaching out to catch one of my arms at the wrist, then he – it – dad – drags the arm in close and brings it up to his head. His touch is firm and yet pleasantly soft, and the little girl in me giggles, content. Then his hot, diseased breath prickles my skin and I snatch my hand away with a yell before he can sink his yellowed teeth into my flesh. Through eyes suddenly stinging with tears, I catch a glimpse of the door leading down, my target, and after lashing out with a grounded kick that didn't feel like it hit anything at all, I get my feet underneath my body and push up into a running start – one that turns into a stumble after two steps, and then I'm face-down in the cold and damp again, sneezing as slush gets in my nose, where - ?

Looking over my shoulder, I see him, still there – and standing now, pulling himself up like he's suspended on strings, one kneecap snapped so badly the foot under it is pointing in the opposite direction, and yet he still moves forward, his mouth dropping open to moan longingly, one arm reaching out to me. I…I want to…I don't know what I want…

"Go away, daddy…" The words stumble over my trembling lips as I crawl backwards through the frigid terrain, no idea where I'm going, just – just away from him. He shouldn't be here. I don't want him here, I don't! "LEAVE ME ALONE!" The rising edge of panic in my voice just seems to inspire him to move faster, while I, I don't seem to be moving at all – because the stiff surface at my back just won't budge. Reflexively, I strike it with the point of an elbow, and get nothing but funny-bone tingles up my arm in return. That's not snow, or ice. I can break ice. What the – it's the wall of the bunker. I'm there! Scarcely believing my own luck, I roll over my shoulder and rise to my knees, fingers scratching the old, rusted iron shell for purchase – where's the damn door handle? It's got to still be here, it's got to…

The trudging footsteps behind me are getting louder. I don't want…I can't die now. Not yet.

Snow's getting in my eyes, can't see what I'm doing. Something under my fingers, and I pull – no, that's the edge of the door. Fuck! Is it higher? Lower? In the middle somewhere? There! Almost wilting with relief, I grip the handle with both hands and simply flop down, letting my body weight pull it open…all of a few inches, forcing me to get back up and brace my back against the building so I can push it open the rest of the way with one leg. The effort makes my muscles scream in protest, but with an all-too-real-even-though-it-can't-be undead dad getting way too close for comfort again, a little cramp here and there is the least of my concerns. I just – need – this – damn – door – OPEN!

Screeeek!

The rusted hinges shriek like – oh, who cares what they're like, just get inside, now!

As I step out of the cold, icy wasteland and into the equally cold and yet somehow comforting bare corridor, I catch one final glimpse of Da – its pale, ghostly face before I pull the door shut and twist what I can only assume is an old-fashioned deadbolt into place. It's over. Unless my education on all things zombie-related is severely out of date, there's no way that thing is getting through three inches of steel.

…

Or, maybe it's not even gonna bother trying. What, it just gave up? Doesn't seem right. Actually…nothing about this seems right. I was fighting (okay, running away from, whatever) a zombie, for crying out loud. A zombie bearing the face of a man who died far, far away from here, and was buried quietly in Dublin. And where did all that blood come from? And why do I taste oranges?

Wait. Oranges…that's usually fentanyl, right? Originally a medical drug only, but I've heard of plenty terrorist groups using it in gas grenades, since it's got potent knock-out properties. Except I wasn't under gas attack there, I'd have heard it – in fact, I can't remember being exposed to anything like fentanyl in years, not since –

"Shit, of course…" It hits me like a ton of bricks. The dead coming to life, the snow…just like the hallucinations from Lana Lei's toxin darts on the Amphitrite. I can still hear her scratchy voice huffing about how I killed her dorky boyfriend, then that horrible piercing laugh…and fighting through those visions, I felt like I was moving through water, every step taken and punch thrown draining me, to the point where I could barely keep my eyes open. 'Course, I kicked her ass in the end, and put the whole incident behind me, but it seems that, even after more than twenty years, I can't catch a break, and her poison is still in my system. Or maybe it did something to my brain, something permanent, and now I can't go anywhere similar to the freakish nightmare world she dragged out of my memories without suffering a relapse…I don't know. I don't want to think about it.

Okay, topic change. Where am I and why hasn't my moment of confusion earned me a few bullets in the skull from whoever's on guard duty?

The walls in here are solid concrete, a few hairline cracks from years of weather-related stress but still sturdy. There's a single bare lightbulb above me, which illuminates the first dozen steps of a staircase going down into impenetrable shadows. And over the muffled howls of the wind outside, I hear…nothing. Not a peep, not a beep, and certainly not any scuffed, hurried bootsteps of panicky soldiers rushing up to greet me. I might just be completely home alone in this dump. Drawing my knife from its sheath, finding reassurance in its weight, I slow my breathing and begin to descend into the unknown, counting my steps as I go. Five…ten…fifteen…you'd think that simply building their super-secret bunker out here in the middle of nowhere would be enough for the Zaibatsu, but no-o-o, gotta make it underground, too…twenty-five…

I'm up to forty-two before my next step strikes even ground – and the next second, I'm blinded by the harsh light that floods the room. Motion sensors, I suppose. The technology itself doesn't surprise me so much as the fact the power's still running after what has to be at least ten years.

Once my eyes adjust to the light, I can see the room is a dead end; there's no more doors leading into further offshoots of the facility, and this single chamber doesn't have the facilities for staff to sleep in. All that's here is a heavy-duty equipment locker, a bank of what I'm going to assume are mainframe computers, and a high-backed chair with a headset sat on it. No prizes for guessing which one the precious network node is, but that locker is giving me a good feeling, and I've been travelling light since Tokyo; a good firearm at your side is always comforting. Slipping my knife back into its sheath, I step over to the locker and pull its stiff doors open –

"Oh, come to mama…" Someone was stocking up for winter. There are four rifles mounted on a rack, Tavor TAR-21s by the look of it, plus two MP5K submachine-guns and a bandolier loaded with frag grenades. Even better, there's a couple of folded-up parka jackets, and I grin like a big kid on Christmas morning as I unfold one and throw it over my shoulders, slipping my arms through the thick sleeves and zipping it up the front. Doesn't make much of a difference down here, but if I'm gonna go topside again – something I'm already dreading – it'd be nice to do it without turning my shoulders into big blue ice blocks. I stare longingly at the TAR-21s, but as it stands, without a proper harness for the things, I can't afford to carry them around, so instead pick up the SMGs – much more portable – and sling the bandolier over one shoulder. I feel better already. Now, let's see what this computer's all about.

Judging by its outer shell, this thing's probably not running on Windows 2038. Other than a couple of slowly pulsing blue LEDs, any actual sensitive components are buried beneath glossy obsidian paneling, tinted enough to render their contents invisible. There's something almost eerily oppressive about the machines as they just sit there, humming quietly to themselves, lights pulsing in sequence…my hands tighten around the SMGs instinctively, but shooting probably isn't the way to go here; even assuming the machines aren't bulletproof, there's probably some sort of backup or failsafe routine to protect the systems and data if their hard drive is lost. Which means I'm going to have to use all my hacker skills to shut this thing down permanently. Coincidentally, I don't have any hacker skills. "Maybe I'll strike lucky, and there'll be a great big 'delete' button somewhere…" Dropping the guns on the floor for a moment, I pick up the headset and slump into the chair, wondering why on Earth an engineer would honestly choose what looks like a colander covered in loose wiring over a good old mouse and keyboard, before I begrudgingly slip it on over my head and…and…

…Oh look, nothing happened. Can I go home now?

I will not stop you if that is your wish.

Gee, thanks…wait, what the fuck? "Who said that?"

I did.

"Yeah, that's not really an answer…" Looking all around the room, I can't see anyone, not a trace, not even a faint shimmer of optic camouflage. But the voice was definitely there – a woman's voice, soothing and cultured…

I am not in the room, not physically.

Oh, riddles now, great… "So, what, you're in contact via the radio from another bunker?" And how the hell did she know I was looking for her? There's nowhere to hide even the smallest of cameras in this bare room –

There is no need for radio, nor cameras. I am broadcasting directly to your frontal lobe through the headset's synaptic upload facilities. If I were to have a physical form, you would find it, currently, right in front of you.

"In my head? I don't think I want you in my head." The only thing that fits the 'right in front of me' bill is the fancy computer…oh. Ohhh, I get it now, it's one of those…

If by 'those' you mean a fourth-generation artificial intelligence construct, then yes, I am one of those.

"Don't tell me I hurt your feelings – or whatever software you have instead of feelings…"

Vocalization is not needed; I can copy your thought patterns and interpret them into words with near-one-hundred percent accuracy.

…Spergle niddlebump keeyernin fudooyah.

Dialect unrecognized, please try again.

I was joking. So…you got a name, computer?

My serial number is MN-320-89A. My designation is Mishima Zaibatsu Strategic Guidance Core Two. However, my creator often referred to me by the name of his deceased wife, for the reason that we spent so much time in one another's company. That name was Sylvana Bosconovitch.

Bosconovitch…I should've guessed.

You are familiar with the creator?

You could say I was another of his 'projects'. Suffice to say he didn't show me quite the same affection. And I'm not here to reminisce about some Russian geriatric, anyway.

No. You came here to destroy me.

Uh…before this goes any further, can I just say that, that I think you're a wonderful…person…and that I really don't think this has to be quite so serious, I mean, not to the degree that any sort of retaliation would be warranted, uh…

There is no need to worry over your own safety. I am incapable of inflicting direct harm on any human being.

Thank Christ. Okay, so you can just shut yourself down now, right? Nice and easy. I could do with a lucky break about now…

I'm afraid I can't do that, Nina.

Knew it. I don't get lucky breaks, ever. Alright, tell me where the 'off' switch is, then.

There is no 'switch' as such. I require a direct command from the user – that being you.

Well, okay, shut down.

Command not registered. Insufficient force applied.

What the hell does that mean? Do I have to kick you while I'm telling you what to do? Because believe me, I'll do it, and you won't like it one bit.

Physical strain is not necessary. My command interface will only register a user prompt if it is delivered with sufficient willpower. This is to prevent the system from responding to careless or wandering thoughts.

…Shut down.

Negative input.

Shut. The fuck. Down.

Negative input.

Fuck's sake - !

If I may offer a suggestion…?

Please.

Try not to think of this task in literal terms. Humans, I have observed, are capable of greater feats – both mentally and physically – when they feel a personal connection to their assigned task. Think of something that triggers strong emotional resonance within you, and the memory – if sufficiently vivid – will create a strong enough impulse of thought for the shut-down command to compile.

I'm…not really comfortable looking at my past. Especially not now.

Then we have reached a quandary.

…Wait. I think I know what to do.

That is pleasantly surprising.

Shut up. Concentrating. Now...it's a widely-held belief that people in my line of work don't 'do' emotions – they cloud your judgment, breed frustration, and can leave you paralyzed at times when immediate action is all that stands between you and an undignified death. Me, I think that's solid advice, but every so often, I can't help but let my hair down in battle – and funnily enough, most of those times always seem to involve the same person. Anna. Last time…

"You're mine now, witch!" Her insane shrieking demanded a response, but I kept silent, partly not to disrupt my focus but mostly due to the lingering effects of a chop to the windpipe sustained two minutes earlier. All around us, a small but frenzied crowd presses against the scaffolding of a building still under construction, for now serving as a cage to keep our battle contained; some of them seem to be on my side, some don't, although none of them know our names. To them, I'm just 'blondie' or maybe 'ice queen'. Funnily enough, they call Anna the same names I call her. 'Slut', mostly.

It's the fifth Iron Fist tournament, or the fifth in our lifetimes. Unbelievably, it took us this long to come face-to-face in an official capacity; before it was always sneak attacks in dirty alleyways, or car bombs, or stolen clothes, or…you get it. But this time, we fought our way through the tournament with the sole goal of meeting each other again. This time, we both knew there had to be a decisive victory on one side, and a shameful, agonizing loss on the other. And in the end, after fighting flat-out for half an hour, our blows becoming steadily less co-ordinated as time marched on and our clothes stained dark with sweat and blood…I proved what I had known for years. That I am simply better than Anna.

She fluffed one final jab and I kicked her legs out from under her, catching her extended arm as I did so, before trapping her neck under the crook of my free elbow and standing over her back, using my weight to force her body down even as I pulled her head back. She pounds at my arm and ribs with her one free hand, but there's no real power behind the blows, not enough to faze me…and as I peer over my shoulder and look down into her vivid blue eyes, I can see her resolve break. She knows it's over.

Now…I know, when this happened 'for real', I let her drop and just walked away, because…well, I don't know why, honestly. It just felt right. But what if I hadn't?

Losing myself to the memory completely, I think of the well of bitterness and hatred born from our battles over the years, anger powerful enough to survive nearly two decades of deep freeze treatment – and suddenly I can't crush Anna's throat hard enough. Her eyes widen further than I've ever seen them go, and she tries to say something, but her voice is so tiny and inconsequential it's barely a squeak, and it pisses me off to think that the legacy of our family could be somehow tied into this shameful, spineless whore - !

Bone doesn't break as easily as some people like to think. It's alive, it resists your efforts just as much as straining muscles – or the target's determination to not letting you win. My head feels like it's going to split open and I'm gritting my own teeth together so hard I can taste warm, coppery blood leaking from my gums…but a few seconds later, her neck snaps with a muted crack; as perfunctory as the closed bracket at the end of a line of code.

Shut down complete.

"Ugh," I groan, with my actual voice now, as I slump in the chair, reaching up to pull off the interface helmet then dropping it to the floor. The computer's lights have all turned off, which I'm taking as 'objective completed'. Whoop de doo. God, that was…that was a lot more trouble than pulling the plug out the power socket. Really should get going, need to keep a safe lead over any possible pursuers…but I'm feeling very light-headed, it's…it's not safe to fly like that…

"I'm just gonna…" I mutter before a yawn cuts me off. "…gonna catch some shut-eye for a minute."

I mean, where's the harm in that?

…

My eyelids feel like they've been gummed together as I open them. That's my first clue that something's wrong. Then, with a start, I pull back the Velcro patch on my wrist and check the multipurpose watch/depth gauge/Geiger counter underneath – which, aside from telling me I'm 20 feet below sea level and surrounded by safe levels of background radiation, also makes it clear I've been sat in this chair, snoring for all I know, for three and a half hours.

"Shit shit shit," I hear myself hissing as I scramble out of the chair, almost falling straight down to my knees before the pins and needles wear off, and I dash for the stairs – no no no remember the guns you stupid woman – so I dash back for the SMGs, then make for the stairs, taking them up two at a time, heartbeat pounding in time with every echoing footstep, cursing myself for being so sloppy all the way. My eyes remain fixed on the door to the surface, half-convinced it'll fly open any second, and there'll be some Russian soldiers or JACKs, hell, maybe Heihachi himself in that stupid sumo diaper thing he was wearing a year or two back…but it's shut and it stays that way until I reach the top and pull it open myself, crouching down and aiming the SMGs in a wide arc as that cruel wind howls for my blood again. Nothing moves save the still-falling snow; no soldiers, no robots, and thank God, no zombie-dad. Maybe the hallucinations are triggered by environmental stimuli; it's still freezing up here, but the parka does its job, so I don't feel nearly so cold. Or maybe it's just because I was expecting it this time. Tricky to tell one way or another, and I really don't have time to work it out. I need to get out of here now.

Walking back over to the plane – what did I call it, oh yeah, Geoff – I do some quick mental arithmetic; G-Corp's finest commando teams' best readiness time is 4 minutes 10 seconds, or it was last time I spied on them, at least. The nearest base they can use for deployment is in Abu Gharib, and with a light transport helicopter they could make the trip from there to here in, oh, 50 minutes. Total time 54 minutes and a bit. I've been here for nearly four hours. They're a no-show. Which means, they don't know I'm here. Good, but who else might know?

And that is exactly what I think about right up until Geoff explodes.

The pressure of the heat blast catches me before I hear the explosion – which means I hear the muzzle report of the gunshot that set it off first, and even as I'm bowled off my feet I'm filing it away as an armour-piercing round, likely fired from a Barrett M50 or some more modern equivalent and –

"Gnnf!" The ground catches up with me before that thought goes any further. The ice might as well be stone – hell, it's maybe harder than that, and the impact drives the air from my lungs in a flash. I lay flat and take a breath, feeling the material of my leggings growing damp from the ice, not to mention my skin prickling up on direct contact with the surface, shrapnel from the blast having torn holes in my gear. Wait, the blast –

"Geoff, dammit!"

Sitting up, I tell myself I don't need to look at the wreckage, but I do anyway, hoping for some sort of miracle – like maybe the bullet hit a fuel drum that happened to be floating in mid-air a good ten metres away from the plane. Of course, that didn't happen. Geoff's little more than a bundle of twisted, burnt-out steel scraps surrounded by a ring of fire, a ring I crawl towards on all fours as the realization drops a two-ton weight in my gut – I'm stranded, alone, in the middle of Siberia, no transport of provisions…oh yeah, and there's a sniper out there waiting for me, which I just nearly forgot. "Crap," I curse to myself, then look around for cover – and seeing no better options, scramble towards the nearest snowbank. I manage all of two steps before the booming cry of the Barrett rolls across the plains again, the shock causing me to falter in mid-stride…

Paff - !

A cloud of snow is kicked up in front of me as the bullet hammers into the ground. My faltering just saved my life, with the sniper trying to lead my movements – zero chance of being that lucky again, though, so I roll forwards and lay flat behind the snowbank, pressing against it and feeling reassured by the solidity of pure ice. It's likely been frozen like that for twenty years or more, so there's no question of its bulletproof properties.

Trouble is…what now? I can't stay here indefinitely; even if the parka keeps the cold at bay, I'll need to eat or sleep eventually. If I don't, the enemy will find it easy as pie to sneak forwards and catch me dozing or drowsy, and that'll be that. And I can't move from this spot without appearing in the open, and against a pure-white backdrop I'll stick out like a sore thumb, then kapow, no more pretty blonde hair or head to mount it on. Speaking of whom, this mystery sniper – if they're alone – probably has their own vehicle nearby, or at least some means of calling one in. That's my one and only ticket out of here, and that means I need to go on the offensive. Which would be a lot easier if I knew where the hell the bastard is.

That, at least, I know how to fix. Slipping the knife out of its sheath on my thigh, I cut the left sleeve off the parka at the elbow – I'll miss the warmth, but I need a distraction and this is the best I can manage – and scrunch it up into a ball, before creeping carefully across to the edge of the snowbank. Taking a deep breath, I peek out from cover with one eye, leaving as little of my head out as I can – and throw the sleeve up into the air. The wind catches it, carrying it away – and boom, the sniper snaps at the bait, with the muzzle-flash of his rifle standing out against the snow like the only star in the sky. Perfect. Nipping back into cover, I do some quick thinking. Given the size of the flash and what I guess the caliber is, he's at least 100 feet away; that's about 90 more than I can cross without him blowing both my legs off. I need some extra cover…which I happen to be carrying on me. Pulling four grenades off the bandolier I stole downstairs, I coil my legs under my body and take a deep breath, ready for a crazy – no, suicidal – sprint. Then I pull out all four pins and throw the pineapples up and into the air in a wide arc, and leap to my feet, pulling myself up and over the snowbank just as –

Bam – POOM! A burst of bright orange fire flickers in the air above me – he actually hit one before it could reach the ground, helluva shot – but I don't let it faze me, raising one arm against the falling snow as I run towards his hiding spot, counting the seconds in my head, three…two, he could have a bead on me any moment – one. Then with a succession of muffled pooms, the remaining three grenades detonate on the surface, kicking up thick clouds of snow and shattered ice. I turn a little to the left to run straight towards one…and since I've still got all my limbs attached three seconds later, I guess it worked and the sniper's lost sight of me. He's got three possible targets in his scope and time for one shot at best, a shot he'll save until I'm closer and more visible.

Only if I let you fire, you dumb shit, I think, breath coming too short to let me say it aloud. With the cover of the cloud starting to thin out, I reach down to my hips and pull out the SMGs, leveling them forwards towards roughly where the target lies without stopping – hey, I can almost see him now, a darker-grey smudge amidst lighter-grey scenery. He – looks like a 'he', anyway – shifts his position, and I imagine I can already see my reflection in the lens of his rifle, before I squeeze both triggers and start fighting to keep my arms straight while thirty rounds spill from each barrel towards my enemy, now my target. He doesn't curse or yell or cry in alarm, but he backs up and attempts to sidestep as a storm of bullets churn up the ground around him. Meanwhile, I'm closer, closer – forty yards, then thirty, twenty – then, suddenly, I can make out a face. Pale, drawn, pursed lips with a scar running across them. Dragunov, my mind adds absently. He was in the last tournament, an eleventh-hour entry after Bryan Fury dropped out. He's either KGB or Spetsnaz, maybe schooled at the Red Room – a no-nonsense professional who never loses his head in battle, and under other circumstances, I might actually enjoy testing myself against him.

Right now, though, it's freezing, I'm tired, he has a loaded rifle and my SMGs just clicked empty. Without stopping I lift my arms up higher and swing, throwing both guns towards him; he ducks without thinking, which gives me a precious extra second to close the gap before I take a leap of faith – and kick out at his arms as he stands up straight again. A firm thwack followed by a brief clatter of metal on ice tells me I've disarmed him, before I land on ice myself, sending a jolt of fire through my back. No time to worry about that now. I snake my arms around his nearest leg and –

"Urgh!" My throat catches itself short and forces a cough – he was too fast for me, and drove his free heel right into my stomach. Even as I take a new breath, I can feel his hands clamp tight around my wrists and force me up into a sitting position, before he forces my arms to cross and tightens them around my neck – or he tries to. Me, I'm not feeling co-operative, so I slip my head down and under the attempted choke-hold, then push myself up to stand, turning to face him as I go. Up close, I can make out the glassy look in his eyes, and feel his exhaled breath warming my skin – then I forget those and focus on keeping my footing steady, as he piles his weight forwards, trying to overbalance me. I push back and dig my heels in…and I wish I could say that works, but my arms start to cramp in a matter of seconds – yeah, alright, maybe he's got me beat on pure strength…today.

Maybe.

So instead, without dropping my gaze from his eyes, I throw a short kick forwards with my right leg – and he hisses with pain before stumbling forwards, his weakened stance unable to cope with his own forward leaning. Breaking my wrists out of his grip, I tangle his arms up with mine and pull him down a little lower, intending to – dammit, he got one arm free! I tense up – "Gnnn!" – and the pointed elbow driven into my belly hurts a little less, but only a little. The blinding flash of pain still shakes me enough to make me lose my grip altogether – and he makes me pay for it, re-asserting his own hold then sweeping my legs out from under me even as he pulls me forwards, letting my own momentum flip me over and land flat on my back. I don't even get the chance to yell in shock before I feel his legs wrap around one of my arms, and a flood of dread rushes through my brain, lessons taught so often they've become instinct kicking into play – armbar hold, join hands to prevent hyperextension, roll over and get feet beneath you. He knows what he's doing, and he's still strong, but I follow the steps, keeping my trapped hand close to my chest and roll over, leaving him facing down as I push myself up – and, sensing the futility of further effort, he relents on the hold and rolls quickly away out of range, swiftly returning to his ready stance even as I slip into mine.

With a free second to think, my mind races through the implications of Dragunov's presence here. He's a Russian military loyalist and deeply patriotic in his own creepy, mute way, at least based on what I've read, and it's entirely possible the Russians would be the first to notice Geoff and I touching down here. But why send your best man in specifically to kill the intruder without recon first? It's a stupid move, unless they already knew it was me…hell, even then they wouldn't necessarily send Dragunov; they'd send a conventional army squad with orders to capture me. And the fact that they didn't means…Heihachi. He's already on to me, and that he doesn't have much of an army of his own doesn't matter if he's still got enough friends in high places. The right word in the right ear and a quick payoff, and Sergei here thinks he's doing the work of the Motherland by tearing my head off. Fucking politics. Can't do anything about that here, though; the look on Dragunov's face makes it clear he's not interested in anything I have to say. Fine by me – I'm past the point of talking this through.

We each take a cautious step forwards, but as he goes for another, I feint and lash out with a kick aimed high, that – misses? How the hell did he move so fast? Before I can get my leg back, he's taken a crouching step forwards that brings him to point-blank range and – "Guh!" – his elbow catches me right on the chin, smashing the upper and lower halves of my jaw together, something I barely get a split-second to register before it's replaced by a sharp tugging on my scalp, this asshole's pulling my hair, of all the stupid, catty things…I reach up to pull his hand away, but he sees a hole in my guard and pulls my head forwards into a punch that rattles my rattles the, I've, crap, ears ringing, can't think straight – my jaw threatens to dislocate as the back of his hand flashes across my cheek, and then a clubbing blow to my back makes the ground rush up to greet my face with a big, freezing-cold hug.

He relents after that, and I'm almost pathetically grateful for the respite. Through the constant thumping in my skull, I can just make out his footsteps crunching against the snow, retreating slowly – but not for long, probably just looking for his gun so he can really finish me off. I need to move, now, but the chill is slowing me down, and the ground is so soft and uneven, crumbling between my fingers as I claw at it, that – wait.

…now there's an idea.

My hand digs tightly into the snow again, curling into a ball, even as I hear the metallic clink as Dragunov checks his clip. I look around at the little clearing we're in, taking note of the thick snowdrift to my right, before slowly rolling over onto my back, trying to look as sluggish as I can, like I've resigned myself to my fate; his face betrays no emotion as he levels the long barrel of the rifle at me, leaving its business end barely a foot from my face. The smell of gunsmoke is fresh enough to make my nostrils twitch.

Then I lash out with the hand and, yep, throw a snowball in his face.

"Ah - !" That short exclamation of surprise is the loudest sound I've ever heard him make, and I don't mind saying I enjoy it – almost as much as I enjoy still having my head attached to my shoulders, as Sergei's a little too professional to allow for a reflexive squeeze on the trigger as he takes the hit. That kind of rookie move would've killed me here.

I give him as firm a kick in the head as I can manage before rolling to the side and pushing off the ground into an unbalanced sprinting step, heading straight for the snowdrift – if this thing turns out to be solid ice, I'm dead – and with the last step, I dive like a swimmer, arms out in front of me, cutting a path for the rest of my body through the blessedly soft snow. A bit of vigorous kicking digs me in a little further and – hopefully – conceals my entry point, and then I curl myself up, draw the knife from its sheath on my thigh and wait. Can't see a damn thing in here, but I can still make out the scuffing of leather on ice as Dragunov gets to his feet and moves, no doubt wondering where I am…wait, those steps are getting closer. Damn damn damn. Please don't be smarter than me, you mute bastard. Another few steps, still getting louder, and he's surely right on top of me by now; I shift to face my entry point, getting ready to move, praying that he doesn't let a few rounds loose into my hiding spot experimentally –

And I'm so busy praying I barely notice the next footfalls, light and hurried, too light to be Dragunov's. Where did they come from? They get closer, then there's the rapid scuffling of sharp movements, some heavy thuds, the clattering of the rifle falling to the ground, and the unmistakable slapping of flesh clashing with flesh.

Within ten seconds, it's over. Even so, I wait another fifteen just to be sure. I don't hear any more movements, and nobody picks up the gun. Might as well chance it…gripping the knife between my teeth, I wriggle out of my hidey-hole, pushing blindly through the ice until the freezing wind on my face tells me I'm free. My legs coil under me as I emerge all the way, and I take the knife in hand again – but as I look up, I find I don't need to bother.

Dragunov's laid out on his back, eyes shut. There's a trickle of blood coming from his nose, and a wide purple bruise forming on his right temple. I don't think he got either of those from me. His rifle's still laid on the ice a matter of feet from his unmoving hands. There are no tracks or signs of another person being here…but they were here. Hyper-professional military men don't just knock themselves out, after all. So, what, I have an anonymous benefactor? That's hard to believe, but I'll take the assist anyway.

A quick look around the area and I find Dragunov's transportation – a heavy-duty snowmobile resting atop a nearby hill, with the engine still running to keep it warm. That's my ticket out, and I almost leave right then and there, except…

I turn back to the man lying on the ice. If his bosses don't think he's in trouble, they might just leave him out here for six hours or more, by which point he'd be long-dead of frostbite or hypothermia. And sure, he was trying to kill me…but he was here under false pretenses. He doesn't deserve to die just for having puppets for superiors. Or maybe I really am going soft.

Whatever, my mind's made up. Heaving a sigh, I head back to him. Figure I can leave him by Geoff's still-burning wreck to keep him warm, and there's bound to be a radio in the snowmobile I can send an SOS signal through, not to mention a map or sat-nav; I've got to get to Australia next.

And at some point, I'd really like a nap, too, if it's not too much to ask.

Author's Notes

Yeah, so…hi again! Boy, that one took a long time. I've made excuses before, and beyond that…well, I've just been swamped with other stuff that needed writing, non-fan-fiction stuff, and this story get left by the wayside. Better late than never though, right? However, I am going to say that all further updates probably won't stick to any sort of schedule; all I can promise is that they will happen at some point or another. How vague can you get, right? ;)

Anyways…this chapter. A lot happens here, and a lot of it wasn't part of the initial plan. For example, the computer node was originally just going to be a computer, with no fancy trickery, but as I started writing that scene I found it to be quite dull, so instead I decided to make the system more of a sci-fi artificial intelligence, and make deleting chunks of it actually a stressful, taxing thing for Nina to do. As for the name…I don't recall Dr. Bosconovitch's wife ever being mentioned in any official Tekken media (do we even know if he had one?), so I just made up a suitably pretty and Eastern European-sounding name.

The whole 'zombie Richard' bit was – as I hope you all noticed – inspired by Death By Degrees, which I refuse to stop mentioning no matter how crap other people insist it is. The trippy boss fights with Lana Lei are actually the highlight of that game for me, and almost seem like a spiritual predecessor to the brilliant Scarecrow sequences from Batman: Arkham Asylum, with the gameplay complimenting a narrative device showing the tortured past experiences of the hero. Admittedly, it's a bit odd for a toxin taken by Nina some 22 years ago to still be in her system, but I'm thinking it's more like permanent minor brain damage caused by said toxin that still lingers. Again, it wasn't in the first draft of the chapter, but I added it when I realized that Nina would be fighting in the snowy wilderness here.

Oh, and Dragunov was in the chapter as well. I do like Sergei quite a bit – I mean, he has a scary face, a cool fighting style and is a mute Russian, so he's awesome three times over – and you might've been able to tell that by how dangerous I made him look, but actually trying to nail his personality is difficult when looking at him through someone else's first-person POV. Which, I suppose, is always going to be the case with a character whose main trait is betraying no human feelings.

And, uh, Geoff. Yeah. Not sure what that was about. It made sense at the time.

…um…reviews!

Claudiaeneri: Glad you like it! Sorry I couldn't keep Jin alive, but…well, I prefer him dead. He's more interesting that way. :P As to your question: I may not have phrased that part of chapter 1 very clearly, but what I meant was that Nina could feel Azazel's presence, or the effect he has on his surroundings, even without the Devil Gene. I am categorically saying she doesn't have it. Hope that clears things up.

Aegis Khaos: Not sure if you're still around, but I really need to get back to reviewing the last chapters of 'Kings and Queens' at some point soon. And yeah, totally agreeing with you about Lars, and about the Mishimas in general; it kinda deflates much of the tension in official Tekken stories when the members of that clan are depicted as being so much more powerful than all the other characters. Makes you wonder why the rest of the roster even bother showing up sometimes. Oh, and you liked the jet? Too bad, I broke it already. :D

Majinshirow: I WAS GETTING AROUND TO IT! GET OFF MY BACK MAN! JEEZ! ;)

And finally…

Next time (whenever that is): We skip a chapter (don't worry, nothing significant was going to happen save for hog-tying Marduk) to find Nina already landing in Australia without trouble, ready to fix the next network node – but the bad guys are catching up, and in force. It's not the getting into Sydney that'll hurt…it's getting back out again. Guest starring – dramatic music, please – Kazuya Mishima! And possibly someone else, too!