Moscow, Russia
Irma Zolnerwichova’s body was all but decomposed as Fantasia arrived at the fountain. Swirls of violet energy stilled shimmered around her body long after she had taken that first step, her eyes vacant and her expression dull. Brown hair fell across her slender shoulders and the svelte body was clothed in the government commissioned, self-styled uniform that she wore as the heroine. Fantasia remained strong in adversity, but Erina Tsarkova crumpled.
Water splashed in the background but she heard nothing. Vanguard and Darkstar continued to bicker incessantly in the background but she tuned them out, falling into place on the fountain’s ledge beside the body of Irma. It smelled but she didn’t move, her face barely distorted in a grimace as she wiped at her face and caused the blood to smear over her cheek. She would have been fine if it had been her own to smear, she was a survivor, but it was not.
Fyodr was dead and she had watched it.
Even the thought felt vile and she gagged, unrestrained as she fell from the perch onto her knees. Eyes widened but no tears fell from them, she had cried and now she had to be resilient and pick herself back up. It was for Fyodr. Arms pressed around her own as she was lifted to her feet. Vanguard watched her. It wasn’t concern that etched his face but confusion, and she realized that he didn’t care enough to be concerned. She raised her head to Darkstar and she lurched forward as if to swipe the smug smirk off of the blonde’s face.
“Erina,” drawled the communist hero as he restrained her. The tone was a warning and held authority; she did not tolerate the assumption that she was less than him as she slipped from his grasp.
Laynia Petrovna’s icy stare surveyed her. “We have a mission to do. It cannot be hindered for any reason. Pull yourself together and report back what happened to you.”
Moscow was an old city; its buildings were mosaic and there was an antiquity that hovered in the air and it was where Fantasia had spent her entire life. It was always where she had spent her life with Fyodr. The fountain had been the place of their first date and the memories echoed around her, threatening to overwhelm her at any moment. Darkly she glared at her colleagues and she felt a sense of unity. Everything seemed to align in a sudden sense of clarity.
“I followed a clue and it led me to the representative of Earth. I ... I was too late,” she informed them.
“You mean that’s the remains of the individual we were sent here to save?” snarled Darkstar, her face clouding over. “Smashing start.”
“Little sister,” growled the brutish Russian in reply.
Fantasia stepped between the pair before a fight could begin. “Listen and stop this childishness: Fyodr Kragov is dead and he was a man that I had loved in the past. There was a connection to me but also a connection to a government official such as Irma’s connections.”
Darkstar and Vanguard quietened.
“He was the younger brother of Field Marshal Rheinholdt Kragov, the man who reinstated the Winter Guard. These people are the family of high-profile politicians in the democratic party.”
|
#3
JUL 10 |
 |
Red Warzone, Part Three:
“Revelations”
Kremlin D.F
Moscow, Russia
“Eat, heal and rest because we still have a murderer on the loose who needs to be brought to justice,” the voice gave an order that was instantly respected and no one denied her. Natasha Romanova, one of Russia’s greatest heroines under the alias of the Black Widow, had earned this respect by the bucket load.
There was more to the slender redheaded agent than initially met the eye. Her body was swathed in the black leathered uniform that she had worn for the entirety of her career as a heroine. Her arms folded as she watched the team that she was now in command of scatter before her. Natasha had never been the leader; she had been the sidekick and the team-player. Now she found herself on the frontline with more responsibility than she cared to imagine. It was frustrating and terrifying.
She had learned to cope.
Pacing her way forward, she remembered a comforting fact: back in America she was arguably the right-hand-man of General Nicholas Fury, head of S.H.I.E.L.D. In the years since her breakaway from her Soviet training she had risen through the ranks of vigilante justice with speed. It had been a progression from Daredevil’s sidekick to her induction as an Avenger. In the years since those events she had become one of the black ops agents of S.H.I.E.L.D and Fury had placed a lot of trust in her to get the job done.
Unfortunately that partnership had been cut short as her country needed her. Communist ideals may have fell on deft ears with the woman but she was still patriotic. As long as Mother Russia tried to rehabilitate itself, she would be there to aide its redemption.
Placing her palm on her forehead she sighed.
“Natasha?”
Her name came as a surprise but she turned her attention to the sound of the voice, her eyes narrowed like those of a cat. It was the young Red Guardian, who had taken his namesake from an acquaintance that she was all-to familiar with in the otherwise long-forgotten past.
“That mission...it...I...”
“There will be others. We will catch that rogue and she will be brought to justice,” Natasha assured him hurriedly, she was not the maternal sort of woman.
Anton shrugged.
“Get some rest, kid...you’ll need it,” she replied making her way from the room.
Watching the older woman take her leave, Anton dropped a mechanical device into the palm of his hand before he slipped it under the desk nearby. His eyes scanned the area once more as he too slipped from the room when he noticed that all seemed to be undisturbed.
His heavy breath echoed around the room as he exited.
Kremlin D.F. Director’s Office
Moscow, Russia
Vazhin may have been gallivanting somewhere across Europe but the work of the Kremlin still needed to be completed and that was a task that fell upon the shoulders of General Rheinholdt Kragov. Kragov had become an integral part of the Kremlin, the Russian equivalent of S.H.I.E.L.D, seemingly overnight when he had reinstated the Winter Guard programme, a meta-human super-team. It had been a one-track task; he needed someone to defend Mother Russia whilst he fought her battles.
It was his job as Director of the Militant Forces under the new Democratic government to see that this plan went smoothly.
In his eyes only Darkstar blurred this plan; she was a wild-card that was thrown in by Vazhin. Kragov had quickly learned that she was beyond his control as she was an operative of the Kremlin, one of their most senior agents, opposed to a member of the Guard. Allies had always been a sore spot with him after the betrayal of the Georgians in one of the most recent disputes.
Grunting as a knock sounded on the door, he watched one of his oldest comrades enter. Dmitri Bukharin was a man who had earned his respect; Bukharin had previously acted as the Crimson Dynamo but the mantle had since been abandoned; now he worked as the Kremlin’s key engineer but Kragov recognised him as an asset. Bukharin was a tall man with a strong face and slicked dark hair. Nothing was remarkable or handsome about him but everything seemed to fit into place from his bulging shoulders to his studious eyes.
“Dmitri,” greeted the General, “I was just about to call you. We have received some Intel on the lost Crimson Dynamo suit. Valentin Shatalov was careless after he was removed from duty but the suit has been recovered.”
“Good, it is a weapon and I am indeed happier now that it’s off of the streets,” replied his friend obediently.
Kragov paused.
“Is there more?” Dmitri enquired, his voice echoed hesitance.
“It was found in the possession of an eighteen year old boy,” Kragov continued. “His entire school was destroyed upon discovery and he has been reprimanded in the custody of the Kremlin.”
“It is unfortunate that such young a life has been ruined through the use of the suit but I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
Kragov cleared his throat. “This boy could be an asset. You have renounced the suit but that does not mean we shouldn’t have a Crimson Dynamo amongst the Guard.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want you to train this young man and make him battle ready,” smiled the General. “The Crimson Dynamo will march again.”
Water Fountain
Moscow, Russia
Vanguard returned. “The Kremlin located another sign on Mount Elbrus; there has been a flare of activity.”
“Is it another victim?” Darkstar, his sister, questioned.
The naked eye would not have considered the brutish, musculature build of Nikolai Krylenko to be related to the svelte and fragile figure of Laynia Petrovna in any degree. The twins were as different as the flickering flame of a candle and the chilled wave of the ocean. On the surface both were composed and relaxed with one another, for now, but beneath the fine veneer was a raging hell of anger and resentment.
Fantasia did not envy their bond.
“Mount Elbrus? Did Intel have any information on which it might be?” Her voice was shallow and weak; emotion had forsaken her.
“They had no more information than that. It was a flare of activity that triggered their interest in the area. They are waiting for us to proceed,” he informed them.
Nikolai was a leader, he did not take orders well and he was adapting to this change in position. He had known the circumstances when Natasha had approached him and he had accepted the challenge. Mother Russia was changing and he needed to become what the new Russia desired him to be. It was a challenge he wished to take part in but it was not an easy transition, Nikolai had always been a communist in both his actions and his ideals.
It made him feel out of place, as if he belonged in the past with that generation.
Fantasia’s eyes darkened. “So we’re back on the wild goose chase?” Shaking her head in annoyance the waves of chestnut hair shuffled around her. It shielded her from the gaze of her partners. “This is idiotic and we’re helping no one.” There was a low growl to her voice now, a violent undertone. “Democracy has already failed. The Kremlin has failed.”
“Watch it,” snarled the Kremlin agent, Laynia Petrovna.
Stepping up to the blonde, Fantasia continued. “Prove me wrong then, Darkstar. You’ll struggle with that. This system is as corrupt as the last.”
“I don’t know what happened to you,” snapped the svelte government agent, indicating the blood on the other woman’s clothing and skin. “I won’t tolerate these accusations. I did not spend this time building the Kremlin to this degree for you to knock it down at the first hurdle.”
Vanguard stepped between them, pushing them apart at the shoulder. His brutish forearms tensed with their force as he bared his teeth.
“We have a mission at hand,” he warned them in his deep monotone. “We don’t have times for these petty squabbles.”
“That’s rich,” retorted the brunette.
Vanguard interjected. “Just stop, Erina.” He dropped his arms and continued as she paced away from him. “Mount Elbrus is the destination. Can you get us there?”
“Of course,” she said in a small whisper, reminiscent of a small child. Fantasia’s eyes bore an expression he could not place, and he felt for her but there was job to be done.
Vanguard, Fantasia and Darkstar erupted in a blast of violet energies.
Kremlin D.F. Medical Bay
Moscow, Russia
“You may want to take a seat, Ms. Prikhodko.”
Sasha slid backwards onto the gurney that seemed to double as a bed. Her emerald eyes glistened in fear, almost as though she would break at the slightest touch. She had been a soldier and she had fought in the wars between communism and democracy yet it was only now that she learned to feel fear.
In the aftermath of the battle to save Illich Lavrov, Sasha had been sent to the organizations chief physician so he could properly assess her injuries.
Illich, also known as the Sibercat, was only a few beds from where she sat. He was hidden from view as the doctor pulled the curtains, allowing privacy. There was no comfort in the act; instead she felt every bone in her body ache as she watched the light fade from around her. With her baby-doll eyes and flowing red hair, pulled back from her face in a ponytail, she turned to the doctor.
“Bad news?” she whimpered.
He looked stern and composed, just as she had imagined him to. “Physically, you’ll recover from the affects of the battle. You’re body has suffered a lot and it now seems to be responding to the life of action you’ve involved yourself in.” He paused, his eyes scanning the clipboard in hand. “As we checked you over we discovered a small lump on the underside of your right breast and we thought it best to check for other ailments.”
Sasha gasped, her breath caught in her throat and she found herself unable to focus.
“Upon further tests it has become clear that the tumour, for it is indeed a tumour as we feared, is malignant. You have breast cancer, Ms. Prikhodko.”
“Malignant? What does that mean?” she burst with questions. “Is it serious? Can I be treated?” Sasha took another breath. “Am I going to die?”
“Unfortunately, that is a possibility,” the doctor informed her as the woman began to cry hysterically. “Malignant means that the cancer is dangerous and it seems to be far-gone. We need to run more tests but we have little hope for the affects of surgery. Chemotherapy is the best possible solution but, honestly, the chances of survival are low.” He dropped the clipboard to his side. “We’ll be referring you to the staff psychologist to...”
“No,” sighed Sasha slowly. “That is an awfully considerate offer but I won’t be accepting the counsellor. I was in war; I can take care of myself emotionally and physically. I would also prefer if my commanding officers on the Winter Guard project didn’t discover this.”
“You have full doctor-patient confidentiality but I would reconsider...”
“Nothing has changed.”
He continued. “But you’re seniors can’t help you if they don’t know.”
Sasha’s eyes presented clarity and he watched her helplessly. “No counsellors, no chemo and no letting people know. This is our secret, Doctor. My life won’t be changed by it.”
He resigned. “I wish you would reconsider.”
“I don’t intend to,” Sasha continued. “My life is my own.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t fancy your chances.”
The doctor bowed from the room and left her alone. She smiled as she looked down at her hands. It broke her heart but she wanted to die a fighter and not a victim. She had already watched her mother die like that.
Sasha whispered. “It’s been a good run, kid.”
Outside the curtain, Illich watched on. Concern marked his facial features as he learned the full extent of the young woman’s injuries. Compassion surged in him and forced him to play scenarios of war in his head, she was one of Russia’s newest heroes in the Age of Democracy but even as he sat there her star was fading, and finally it would extinguish.
He couldn’t allow that to happen without a fight.
Mount Elbrus
Mountains of Greater Caucasus
Karachay-Cherkessia, Russia
Stepping from the whorls of violet, the three heroes lunged forward into the snowy abyss that marked their arrival at Mount Elbrus. Fantasia purred slightly as the sudden drop in temperature swept over her but Vanguard marched ahead. His eyes were wide as they scanned the area around him, he found nothing suspicious and this caused the man to frown.
Nikolai clenched his fists at his sides; the man expansive musculature was well-hidden behind the mass of silver armour that clung to him. Temporarily, Vanguard allowed himself to glance at his stoic sister before he glared onwards.
Laynia was not the problem at hand.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack; he had no idea who or what to expect and that worried him. The situation summed up his very view of democracy. Governmental control, in the form of communism, had been a winning method in Russia for years and this very terrorist attack was only fuelled by the displeasure of a people who did not want to change their ways. Turning his head, he met his sister’s piercing glare. It was as if she could read minds,
Fantasia slipped beside him, her expression was manic.
“Don’t overdo yourself, sorceress,” he ordered her, steadying her across his shoulders.
“There,” called Darkstar from ahead of them.
Vanguard looked upward and saw the bundle falling from the side of the mountain. Second-checking himself, he could hear the screams and asserted it to be the victim. Darkstar’s power whirled around her hand as she prepared to transport him but Vanguard nudged her from his path, using his own repellent ability to shoot himself into the sky.
Propelling past the man, he allowed himself to fall back in line. Vanguard had learned about the dangers of failing to match a victim’s velocity. He reached out towards the elderly man as he screamed.
His gut ached as he was launched away from the falling and man crashed landed into the side of the mountain. Quickly recovering in a desperate attempt to save the man, Vanguard was stopped in his tracks. Just as the victim collided with the base of the mountain, and Fantasia’s screams echoed around him, he looked into the face of a long forgotten nemesis.
“It’s Firefox,” smirked the cyborg, brandishing his guns. “Or have you forgotten?”
Wrath surged through the communist.
Kremlin D.F. Detainment Centre
Moscow, Russia
As the mechanical doors slid open before him, Dmitri Bukharin composed himself. He was a tall man and he knew how to carry himself, in the past he had been vulnerable to the effects of life. Torn and broken down in the businesses of both heroism and villainy, but Dmitri had made a name for himself as a simple mechanic. His patriotic dreams had never left him but he felt better suited behind the scenes.
He carried himself with authority despite having become yet another lackey in the progressive world of democracy. Dmitri turned his attention to the young man in the cell ahead of him; he was slouched with his hazel-haired head bowed.
“Gavrilov?”
He caught the boy’s attention; Gavrilov tilted his head skyward and made eye-contact as Bukharin continued to approach him.
“Who’s asking?”
Bukharin growled in reply. “Hold your tongue, boy. You’re an arrested citizen; less cheek would be in your favour.”
“Then who are you?” snarled the youth. “Some has-been that no longer belongs on the field.”
“No, boy,” smirked Bukharin as he slid the cell-door open. “I’m your worst nightmare, you’re looking at your parole officer, hotshot.”
To Be Continued...
Previous Issue | Next Issue
Moscow, Russia
“Eat, heal and rest because we still have a murderer on the loose who needs to be brought to justice,” the voice gave an order that was instantly respected and no one denied her. Natasha Romanova, one of Russia’s greatest heroines under the alias of the Black Widow, had earned this respect by the bucket load.
There was more to the slender redheaded agent than initially met the eye. Her body was swathed in the black leathered uniform that she had worn for the entirety of her career as a heroine. Her arms folded as she watched the team that she was now in command of scatter before her. Natasha had never been the leader; she had been the sidekick and the team-player. Now she found herself on the frontline with more responsibility than she cared to imagine. It was frustrating and terrifying.
She had learned to cope.
Pacing her way forward, she remembered a comforting fact: back in America she was arguably the right-hand-man of General Nicholas Fury, head of S.H.I.E.L.D. In the years since her breakaway from her Soviet training she had risen through the ranks of vigilante justice with speed. It had been a progression from Daredevil’s sidekick to her induction as an Avenger. In the years since those events she had become one of the black ops agents of S.H.I.E.L.D and Fury had placed a lot of trust in her to get the job done.
Unfortunately that partnership had been cut short as her country needed her. Communist ideals may have fell on deft ears with the woman but she was still patriotic. As long as Mother Russia tried to rehabilitate itself, she would be there to aide its redemption.
Placing her palm on her forehead she sighed.
“Natasha?”
Her name came as a surprise but she turned her attention to the sound of the voice, her eyes narrowed like those of a cat. It was the young Red Guardian, who had taken his namesake from an acquaintance that she was all-to familiar with in the otherwise long-forgotten past.
“That mission...it...I...”
“There will be others. We will catch that rogue and she will be brought to justice,” Natasha assured him hurriedly, she was not the maternal sort of woman.
Anton shrugged.
“Get some rest, kid...you’ll need it,” she replied making her way from the room.
Watching the older woman take her leave, Anton dropped a mechanical device into the palm of his hand before he slipped it under the desk nearby. His eyes scanned the area once more as he too slipped from the room when he noticed that all seemed to be undisturbed.
His heavy breath echoed around the room as he exited.
Kremlin D.F. Director’s Office
Moscow, Russia
Vazhin may have been gallivanting somewhere across Europe but the work of the Kremlin still needed to be completed and that was a task that fell upon the shoulders of General Rheinholdt Kragov. Kragov had become an integral part of the Kremlin, the Russian equivalent of S.H.I.E.L.D, seemingly overnight when he had reinstated the Winter Guard programme, a meta-human super-team. It had been a one-track task; he needed someone to defend Mother Russia whilst he fought her battles.
It was his job as Director of the Militant Forces under the new Democratic government to see that this plan went smoothly.
In his eyes only Darkstar blurred this plan; she was a wild-card that was thrown in by Vazhin. Kragov had quickly learned that she was beyond his control as she was an operative of the Kremlin, one of their most senior agents, opposed to a member of the Guard. Allies had always been a sore spot with him after the betrayal of the Georgians in one of the most recent disputes.
Grunting as a knock sounded on the door, he watched one of his oldest comrades enter. Dmitri Bukharin was a man who had earned his respect; Bukharin had previously acted as the Crimson Dynamo but the mantle had since been abandoned; now he worked as the Kremlin’s key engineer but Kragov recognised him as an asset. Bukharin was a tall man with a strong face and slicked dark hair. Nothing was remarkable or handsome about him but everything seemed to fit into place from his bulging shoulders to his studious eyes.
“Dmitri,” greeted the General, “I was just about to call you. We have received some Intel on the lost Crimson Dynamo suit. Valentin Shatalov was careless after he was removed from duty but the suit has been recovered.”
“Good, it is a weapon and I am indeed happier now that it’s off of the streets,” replied his friend obediently.
Kragov paused.
“Is there more?” Dmitri enquired, his voice echoed hesitance.
“It was found in the possession of an eighteen year old boy,” Kragov continued. “His entire school was destroyed upon discovery and he has been reprimanded in the custody of the Kremlin.”
“It is unfortunate that such young a life has been ruined through the use of the suit but I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
Kragov cleared his throat. “This boy could be an asset. You have renounced the suit but that does not mean we shouldn’t have a Crimson Dynamo amongst the Guard.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want you to train this young man and make him battle ready,” smiled the General. “The Crimson Dynamo will march again.”
Water Fountain
Moscow, Russia
Vanguard returned. “The Kremlin located another sign on Mount Elbrus; there has been a flare of activity.”
“Is it another victim?” Darkstar, his sister, questioned.
The naked eye would not have considered the brutish, musculature build of Nikolai Krylenko to be related to the svelte and fragile figure of Laynia Petrovna in any degree. The twins were as different as the flickering flame of a candle and the chilled wave of the ocean. On the surface both were composed and relaxed with one another, for now, but beneath the fine veneer was a raging hell of anger and resentment.
Fantasia did not envy their bond.
“Mount Elbrus? Did Intel have any information on which it might be?” Her voice was shallow and weak; emotion had forsaken her.
“They had no more information than that. It was a flare of activity that triggered their interest in the area. They are waiting for us to proceed,” he informed them.
Nikolai was a leader, he did not take orders well and he was adapting to this change in position. He had known the circumstances when Natasha had approached him and he had accepted the challenge. Mother Russia was changing and he needed to become what the new Russia desired him to be. It was a challenge he wished to take part in but it was not an easy transition, Nikolai had always been a communist in both his actions and his ideals.
It made him feel out of place, as if he belonged in the past with that generation.
Fantasia’s eyes darkened. “So we’re back on the wild goose chase?” Shaking her head in annoyance the waves of chestnut hair shuffled around her. It shielded her from the gaze of her partners. “This is idiotic and we’re helping no one.” There was a low growl to her voice now, a violent undertone. “Democracy has already failed. The Kremlin has failed.”
“Watch it,” snarled the Kremlin agent, Laynia Petrovna.
Stepping up to the blonde, Fantasia continued. “Prove me wrong then, Darkstar. You’ll struggle with that. This system is as corrupt as the last.”
“I don’t know what happened to you,” snapped the svelte government agent, indicating the blood on the other woman’s clothing and skin. “I won’t tolerate these accusations. I did not spend this time building the Kremlin to this degree for you to knock it down at the first hurdle.”
Vanguard stepped between them, pushing them apart at the shoulder. His brutish forearms tensed with their force as he bared his teeth.
“We have a mission at hand,” he warned them in his deep monotone. “We don’t have times for these petty squabbles.”
“That’s rich,” retorted the brunette.
Vanguard interjected. “Just stop, Erina.” He dropped his arms and continued as she paced away from him. “Mount Elbrus is the destination. Can you get us there?”
“Of course,” she said in a small whisper, reminiscent of a small child. Fantasia’s eyes bore an expression he could not place, and he felt for her but there was job to be done.
Vanguard, Fantasia and Darkstar erupted in a blast of violet energies.
Kremlin D.F. Medical Bay
Moscow, Russia
“You may want to take a seat, Ms. Prikhodko.”
Sasha slid backwards onto the gurney that seemed to double as a bed. Her emerald eyes glistened in fear, almost as though she would break at the slightest touch. She had been a soldier and she had fought in the wars between communism and democracy yet it was only now that she learned to feel fear.
In the aftermath of the battle to save Illich Lavrov, Sasha had been sent to the organizations chief physician so he could properly assess her injuries.
Illich, also known as the Sibercat, was only a few beds from where she sat. He was hidden from view as the doctor pulled the curtains, allowing privacy. There was no comfort in the act; instead she felt every bone in her body ache as she watched the light fade from around her. With her baby-doll eyes and flowing red hair, pulled back from her face in a ponytail, she turned to the doctor.
“Bad news?” she whimpered.
He looked stern and composed, just as she had imagined him to. “Physically, you’ll recover from the affects of the battle. You’re body has suffered a lot and it now seems to be responding to the life of action you’ve involved yourself in.” He paused, his eyes scanning the clipboard in hand. “As we checked you over we discovered a small lump on the underside of your right breast and we thought it best to check for other ailments.”
Sasha gasped, her breath caught in her throat and she found herself unable to focus.
“Upon further tests it has become clear that the tumour, for it is indeed a tumour as we feared, is malignant. You have breast cancer, Ms. Prikhodko.”
“Malignant? What does that mean?” she burst with questions. “Is it serious? Can I be treated?” Sasha took another breath. “Am I going to die?”
“Unfortunately, that is a possibility,” the doctor informed her as the woman began to cry hysterically. “Malignant means that the cancer is dangerous and it seems to be far-gone. We need to run more tests but we have little hope for the affects of surgery. Chemotherapy is the best possible solution but, honestly, the chances of survival are low.” He dropped the clipboard to his side. “We’ll be referring you to the staff psychologist to...”
“No,” sighed Sasha slowly. “That is an awfully considerate offer but I won’t be accepting the counsellor. I was in war; I can take care of myself emotionally and physically. I would also prefer if my commanding officers on the Winter Guard project didn’t discover this.”
“You have full doctor-patient confidentiality but I would reconsider...”
“Nothing has changed.”
He continued. “But you’re seniors can’t help you if they don’t know.”
Sasha’s eyes presented clarity and he watched her helplessly. “No counsellors, no chemo and no letting people know. This is our secret, Doctor. My life won’t be changed by it.”
He resigned. “I wish you would reconsider.”
“I don’t intend to,” Sasha continued. “My life is my own.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t fancy your chances.”
The doctor bowed from the room and left her alone. She smiled as she looked down at her hands. It broke her heart but she wanted to die a fighter and not a victim. She had already watched her mother die like that.
Sasha whispered. “It’s been a good run, kid.”
Outside the curtain, Illich watched on. Concern marked his facial features as he learned the full extent of the young woman’s injuries. Compassion surged in him and forced him to play scenarios of war in his head, she was one of Russia’s newest heroes in the Age of Democracy but even as he sat there her star was fading, and finally it would extinguish.
He couldn’t allow that to happen without a fight.
Mount Elbrus
Mountains of Greater Caucasus
Karachay-Cherkessia, Russia
Stepping from the whorls of violet, the three heroes lunged forward into the snowy abyss that marked their arrival at Mount Elbrus. Fantasia purred slightly as the sudden drop in temperature swept over her but Vanguard marched ahead. His eyes were wide as they scanned the area around him, he found nothing suspicious and this caused the man to frown.
Nikolai clenched his fists at his sides; the man expansive musculature was well-hidden behind the mass of silver armour that clung to him. Temporarily, Vanguard allowed himself to glance at his stoic sister before he glared onwards.
Laynia was not the problem at hand.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack; he had no idea who or what to expect and that worried him. The situation summed up his very view of democracy. Governmental control, in the form of communism, had been a winning method in Russia for years and this very terrorist attack was only fuelled by the displeasure of a people who did not want to change their ways. Turning his head, he met his sister’s piercing glare. It was as if she could read minds,
Fantasia slipped beside him, her expression was manic.
“Don’t overdo yourself, sorceress,” he ordered her, steadying her across his shoulders.
“There,” called Darkstar from ahead of them.
Vanguard looked upward and saw the bundle falling from the side of the mountain. Second-checking himself, he could hear the screams and asserted it to be the victim. Darkstar’s power whirled around her hand as she prepared to transport him but Vanguard nudged her from his path, using his own repellent ability to shoot himself into the sky.
Propelling past the man, he allowed himself to fall back in line. Vanguard had learned about the dangers of failing to match a victim’s velocity. He reached out towards the elderly man as he screamed.
His gut ached as he was launched away from the falling and man crashed landed into the side of the mountain. Quickly recovering in a desperate attempt to save the man, Vanguard was stopped in his tracks. Just as the victim collided with the base of the mountain, and Fantasia’s screams echoed around him, he looked into the face of a long forgotten nemesis.
“It’s Firefox,” smirked the cyborg, brandishing his guns. “Or have you forgotten?”
Wrath surged through the communist.
Kremlin D.F. Detainment Centre
Moscow, Russia
As the mechanical doors slid open before him, Dmitri Bukharin composed himself. He was a tall man and he knew how to carry himself, in the past he had been vulnerable to the effects of life. Torn and broken down in the businesses of both heroism and villainy, but Dmitri had made a name for himself as a simple mechanic. His patriotic dreams had never left him but he felt better suited behind the scenes.
He carried himself with authority despite having become yet another lackey in the progressive world of democracy. Dmitri turned his attention to the young man in the cell ahead of him; he was slouched with his hazel-haired head bowed.
“Gavrilov?”
He caught the boy’s attention; Gavrilov tilted his head skyward and made eye-contact as Bukharin continued to approach him.
“Who’s asking?”
Bukharin growled in reply. “Hold your tongue, boy. You’re an arrested citizen; less cheek would be in your favour.”
“Then who are you?” snarled the youth. “Some has-been that no longer belongs on the field.”
“No, boy,” smirked Bukharin as he slid the cell-door open. “I’m your worst nightmare, you’re looking at your parole officer, hotshot.”
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To Be Continued...
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