CALLSIGN; KESTREL.

[Post-Splinter Cell: Blacklist Kestrel.]

[the-splinter-cell]

“I didn’t risk my life saving your ass just for you to start a war. Start talking.”

Surely Kestral didn’t actually want to start a war? Bitter as he was he wasn’t a war mongerer, right? Maybe he just needn’t some motivation.

“If you’re not feeling co-operative I have a cosy cell on-board Paladin for you. Right next to Kobin. Remember him?”

[kestrxl]

It was a bluff, for the most part. He’d entertained the idea of trying to do something similar, but Kestrel was not entirely certain he could start a war. Even if he had, there was no guarantee the war would fulfil his ultimate goal of destroying Voron. 

“Kobin. The name is familiar, saw him onboard Paladin.” 

Memories of being shot by Kobin were still foggy, he wasn’t entirely certain that it was him who had shot him so long ago, but he had his suspicions. 

“I don’t know anything about an attack on the embassy, Fisher. I could ask around. Get in contact with certain people. But I’ll want something in return - stop sending your men to track me.”

It had become more of an annoyance recently, though some of the early agents that had been tracking him were quite useful. Much of their equipment was butchered and violated all so that he could use it himself, the OPSAT he carried on him now was one such example. 

[the-splinter-cell]

“Is that so? Sure you haven’t got any friends in Voron?”

You don’t do that kind of work without making any ties, right? Fisher had a long list of favors he could call in from various agencies.

“You’d help me because you owe me, and you don’t wanna see innocent people hurt.”

[kestrxl]

“Friends.” 

It elicited a small laugh from him. Sure, he knew people, some Voron, some from his time with the Russian Special Forces. But Kestrel didn’t trust them anymore, though it was arguable that he trusted them in the first place.

“I owe you? Hm.” 

It was true, but Kestrel still only saw Fisher as an escape route. That said, even an escape route needs to be secured. 

“Maybe I want to see an attack on the embassy. I have information on both you, and Voron. Would it not benefit me more to orchestrate a war? Profit off selling your secrets to Voron, and selling Voron secrets to you.” 

[the-splinter-cell]

“Intel. Heard about a possible attack on the U.S embassy in Moscow, heard you still have ties there.

[kestrxl]

“You heard wrong, Fisher.” 

It could be a lie, Kestrel wasn’t entirely certain of his own ties anymore. 

“Why would I help you, anyway?’

[kestrxl]

the-splinter-cell.

“What are you after now, Fisher?”

[the-splinter-cell]

                              I am Sam Fisher                                                          I am a Splinter Cell

[the-splinter-cell]

                                                   Dossier                                                    Rules                                                    Verses

[kestrxl]

You’ve probably noticed this by now, but I haven’t been active lately. I want to be, but fuck, dude. I’ve been pretty depressed for a while now, in truth, I don’t really remember the last time I was actually happy, but that’s neither here, nor there. It comes and goes, but right now? Well, a couple of weeks ago, I had a job. It was my first one, and after two panic attacks, one on the first day, one on the second day, I was pretty much fired. I don’t honestly remember much of my last day there. Since then, it just sort of kept going down hill. I haven’t had to motivation to write anything, everything I’ve written since then has been forced. 

There’s also something about this place. Well, no. It isn’t just this place. In just about everything I’ve been involved in, I’ve never felt welcome. In about 90% of things I’ve been involved with, I basically had to invite myself to them. And that just isn’t nice. It isn’t a good thing, maybe it is for other people, but for me it just makes me feel unwanted. 

I’m going to stop here, and just say that I haven’t been active because of stupid shit I should be able to deal with, but can’t. So, I’m sorry to everyone who’s waiting for a reply. I’d say I’ll get to it soon, but I don’t know. I might get over this tomorrow, or I might never get over it. 

This isn’t a notice of hiatus, just an update. I’ll be fine, I’ll get over it. 

[schadenfreude-medic-deactivated]

kestrxl

[kestrxl]

"I thought I had my fill of Russian agents with Spectre. A pleasure to meet a fellow professional."

"Kestrel, a... pleasure, Frau..?” A disingenuous tone, with forced pleasantries. He had to at least make an effort to be friendly to this masked German, a weak effort with no sincerity behind it, but an effort nonetheless. 

[pierssureshotnivans]

butcher.

[kestrxl]

Itpierssureshotnivans:

It was all too familiar to Piers. No longer surprised or even disturbed by these kinds of creatures, he just took it in his stride. There was always a slight variance in the bigger ones. It wasn’t as simple as a headshot taking them out as they had different points of vulnerability. Sometimes a thinner layer of skin on the back or an exposed organ or two. The trick was to work out how to hit them and where. What worked, what had no effect. Know that and you could dispatch them with relative ease. At the call to distract their enemy, Piers raised a brow. So his companion had a plan? Interesting since he didn’t seem like much of a team player. Following orders was ingrained in Piers, and with only momentary hesitation, he complied. The creature ahead of them advanced and Piers lined up his first shot. Precision aiming and impressive firepower saw a round arc through the air and pierce the hide of the enemy’s chest. As expected, it did little damage but it was enough to cause milky eyes to focus on Piers rather than Mikhail. Another shot followed, to the leg this time in an attempt to slow its progress.

Something whizzed past Piers’ head and he wasn’t dumb enough to pause and question what it was. The ringing was a good indication that it wasn’t a rock or stone. Before Mikhail got to the second syllable of cover, Piers was diving for just that. The explosion rattled his bones and a rain of detritus battered down on his head. A few seconds later in finding his hiding spot and Piers would have been in trouble. Peeking out from behind his barricade - the cab of a truck, now decimated by the blast and little more than a hunk of twisted metal and partially melted glass - Piers saw their enemy lying on the ground.

As effective as the blast was at creating a sizeable crater in the asphalt, the damage rendered to the BOW was disappointing. Scorch marks visible on its torso when it hefted its bulk into an upright position, and splinters or wood, stone and metal decorated its extremities. But it was still standing. Weakened, hopefully, but still posing a risk. Piers scrambled out from cover, gun blazing to take advantage of the creature being stunned. Shot to its neck, cheek, side of its head and it staggered uncertainly.

"Got any more explosives?" There wasn’t much that could withstand repeated blasts and since bullets were proving ineffective, at least at this range, Piers looked to Mikhail for further support.

He always had a plan. Even if he didn’t, he’d still order people around. It didn’t matter who it was, unless they proved themselves to be superior, he would give them orders. He ordered his friends in the military around, he even ordered Archer around. Funny, every single one of those people died – would Piers be the next of his misfortunate partners to fall?

It didn’t appear so, as he was at the very least sensible enough to do as he demanded. His cover fared just as well as Piers’, being distorted and twisted by the fire and flames of the blast. Glass shattered, metal was twisted, and flesh burned, or worse melted – unluckily, none of that happened to the beast. Superficial wounds covered it, superficial to it that is, as a blast like that would have killed any normal human.

It was anything but, taking both explosion and bullets from Piers’ rifle. Unfortunately, they would have to rely on the latter. Mikhail had only been hunting one man, and that didn’t generally require explosives, it was pure luck that he had the one. He had other types of grenades, yes, but none explosive. Flash and smoke grenades, he had, but no fragmentation or high explosive.

“Het, no. Smokes, flashes, flares, yes. Nothing as big as that,” Kestrel called out to his partner, emerging from behind his burned and twisted cover. Ideas ran through his head, knowing that he couldn’t rely on the BSAA operative to figure something out despite the fact that he had more experience with these types of things. The flesh nearest to the blast must’ve been damaged somehow, even if just made more brittle and crisp.

“Ankles,” he cried. “If you can hit them, destroy them!” Destroying the ankles and thus making the beast’s walking unstable was the best he could come up with on the spot. It would, at the very least slow it down, or keep it off its feet. “Knees too, не важно. Bring it down!” It was the best plan he could come up with, that wouldn’t likely lead to their deaths. 

They could always run. That was always an option and perhaps the best option if that plan didn’t work out. Kestrel had smoke grenades, and flares which could be used. If anything, the flare could distract it and the smoke could cover their retreat. 

“Or run. You think it can run?” Honestly, he didn’t want to find out and so hoped that after the explosion, the monster’s joints would be more vulnerable.

[kestrxl]

Interview

ssamuraiedge

If only Chris could read minds - a useful skill in any sense, but it would set any paranoia at ease to know this man interviewing him was not the man he appeared to be. Something in the eyes gave it away, but he couldn’t pick at the precise feeling it was that put him at such an unease. Chris was no hero, only war-weary and unfortunate, but never could he be so selfish to put himself ahead of others. There was little good to be found in surviving without making the countless deaths around him mean something. Death would be a pleasant end to all the suffering if it was a death that meant others could live. To put your own survival before anyone else’s - an unthinkable moral choice he could never begin to fathom. America was as corrupt as any land, no patriotism to be found in this soldier - protect the ones you love, your family, the innocent, that’s all that matters in this line of work. A certain clash of ideals should he ever meet the real man behind Valentin.  Idly, his gaze drifted to what his company wrote - Russian, as expected, but still far neater than anything he could scrawl no matter the language. The comments he received so far had been pleasant, however, an affirmation that he hadn’t been rambling or otherwise boring. Conversation came easy in his youth, full of arrogance and loud words, but nowadays it was filled with self-doubt and uncertainty. “Of course. Raccoon City was where Umbrella - a pharmaceutical company - had their home base, so to say. Me and my partner, Jill, we worked for the Police Department in Raccoon City, a group called S.T.A.R.S uh - special tactics and rescue services. June 1998, we got a mission to go investigate the mountains nearby after reports of cannibalistic homicides - our second team arrived there first and were promptly murdered by Umbrella’s creations and so were most of our team inside their laboratory. We blew up the lab and it’s creations, all bio-organic weapons created through a virus and left to uncover and destroy more of their operations. Not long after the virus escaped into the city, another laboratory beneath the Police station, and the city was overrun with undead monsters - only five people survived. Eventually, the government called for the city to be destroyed.”   Chris was cautious to leave out any mentions of his sister - friend or not, whoever this journalist may be, he was unwilling to put Claire in any sort of risk because of his rambling. Pausing to sip at his coffee, a sigh escaped - it was easier to talk about now, but still sore. “The Virus was named The T-Virus, and it caused people to turn into zombies, created mutated creatures, all sorts of monstrosities. Then more were created, G-Virus. Since then people have been using these to create more weapons, to attack more cities. There were only two antidotes, one for each, and they were used - there’s no vaccine against these. China, 2012, was the result of an attack by the National Security Advisor Derek C. Simmons and his protege Ada Wong. The city was infected with the C-Virus.” A grim tone to go with the admission of failure - not just on him, but the D.S.O too. “Simmons worked for the D.S.O, worked for the President. You’d have thought someone would have figured out what he was up to, huh?” A smile formed, attempting to take the dour edge off the conversation, but it aided Chris little.   "There’s been numerous attacks over the years. Spain, Africa, Antarctica even. Every time a new strain appears. Destroying the creatures it makes is hard work, but something we’re good at. We’re military, not scientists though." A shrug fell from his broad shoulders, because despite everything the B.S.A.A had saved lives and that was something to be proud of.

He was no man, this Mikhail Loskov. A traitor and a rat, is all he is now. Betraying his motherland, betraying his friends, all to survive, of course but that doesn’t make him any less of a traitor. He’d never see himself that way. Mikhail was too arrogant and proud to ever think so. They were the traitors, Archer betrayed him, and yet he continued to live. Voron betrayed him, and yet his life was forfeit in his homeland. He survived the streets of St. Petersburg, he survived it all. Clearly he must be delusional superior to them, or else he would be dead. 

Where most men of pride would show off, Mikhail could not bring himself to betray his own paranoid habits, keeping what he wrote a secret, despite the fact that it was just what Chris was saying translated into Russian. The notepad was tilted up slightly, in an attempt to block Christopher’s line of sight. Everything he was told of was similar to that which he experienced a while ago. It was all still a bit revolting to him, but he was getting more and more apathetic towards it. The thought of obtaining a weapon to create those monstrosities to use against Voron had crossed his mind at least once since having first seen them. It would be a fitting end for those bastards. Forced into a purgatory of being alive, and yet only alive to spread the disease, and to devour their own friends and family. It would take everything from them, and by God if that didn’t sound wonderful to Kestrel, who normally didn’t consider himself a sadistic man. 

 However, the possibility of innocents being killed was not a thing he’d be fond of. Kestrel would be fine with being labelled the terrorist who bombed D-6, killing dozens of military and government personnel. He could call himself a hero for the murder of corrupted politicians and generals. But to mindlessly execute civilians for his own cause, that’d make him as bad, if not worse, than the dogs of Chechnya. He could never find it within himself to stoop so low. 

 Raccoon City must haunt him like Grozny haunted Kestrel. Grozny was where he truly became so detached that he cared only for himself. Even on the streets, he held his father’s ideals to heart. It wasn’t wise to help others on the hard streets, they’d shank you soon as look at you, but it was hard turning down a child looking for bread. That said, it was equally easy to beat an older man into submission for his bread. 

 “You never think men of power will be traitors,” a small pause, Mikhail looked up from his writing to look Redfield in the eye. “But it must be easier to stab a man while he doesn’t look, than when he can defend himself,” his voice was harsh, speaking from experience now. “And to keep power over others, men would shoot their own loyal dogs.” There was, for once in the entire conversation, a glint of emotion in Mikhail’s eyes.

 He missed Voron, despite its flaws. He missed Archer, despite his betrayal. Most of all, he missed his life.

 As soon as it came, it was gone, and Kestrel was cold once more. His eyes went back to his writing, making sure every Cyrillic letter was properly aligned with each other. He took pride in that small thing, as he took pride in all his work. A thing he believed all men should do. “You do what you can, I’m sure.” Mikhail began, looking up to the Captain again. “There were just those two viruses, t-Virus and… g-Virus? How were they move from people to people? Er, transferred.”

[pierssureshotnivans]

     Independent Piers Nivans           You should follow me.                Roleplay with me.                     I don’t bite.                          Please.                                 ❤

                                                                                Also, I have a great ass.

[kestrxl]

BEGIN. CONNECT. GUIDE.  FILE. 

[pierssureshotnivans]

butcher.

[pierssureshotnivans]

No, it was to show off. Luckily Piers had the skills to back up the demonstration of arrogance. For someone who had entered young adulthood believing that he possessed no skills nor attributes that would ever take him anywhere in life, he left basic training as an incredibly confident and self-assured soldier. Though his arrogance was tempered somewhat over the years, he maintained his pride in his abilities. It would sound boastful of him to say so, but these pitiful creatures were small fry in comparison to some of the enemies he’d faced. Right up to, and including, the one which snuffed out his light. In the heat of battle, Piers lost all sense of time. The world around him seemed to slow and it was only by way of the fallen corpses that he could mark the passing seconds. By instinct, he advanced, pushing forwards, evading, turning, spinning, shooting. Intuition told him where the next enemy would rise and expertise put it down. The only pauses in the barrage of shots were to reload, then he started up again. They were attracted to the noise, alright, and mindless in their pursuit. Even animals had the sense to turn tail and run when faced with insurmountable odds. But not these infected. They kept on, relentlessly and dogged. Pitiful was right, Piers thought. Even the J’avo had demonstrated some semblance of thought. Mikhail’s observation comes not a moment too soon. Close to the freeway meant close to salvation although Piers felt certain enough that he was more than capable of seeing himself and his charge safely through the quagmire of infected peril. But anyone who, like Piers, played video games as a hobby knew, you could never progress to the next stage without first of all facing the boss battle. There was always one, at least. A mutation which went beyond the rest. A little stronger, a little bigger, a little smarter, a little deadlier. It rose up ahead of them, muscles contorted out of proportion and bulging grotesquely. In life, the man must have been a larger than average fellow because in death, and virus-initiated transformation, he was gargantuan. Standing at least eight feet tall and half as wide, he was a case in point for Piers’ overpowered weapon. A handgun might slow him down but would, ultimately, cause little lasting damage. The sight caused Piers to skitter to a halt, the muzzle of his rifle lowering a fraction as he revises his strategy. Thickened hide, no doubt a hardened skull, and limbs like tree trunks. It wouldn’t be easy to take down, unlike the enemies they’d faced so far. Eyeing Mikhail, Piers called out a question: “Are you up for a challenge?”

[kestrxl]

It’d be a lie to say Kestrel wasn’t as arrogant, if not more. Always certain that his way was the proper way, giving no regards to how difficult or suicidal that way may be. His was a more quiet arrogance, rearing its ugly head with his speech – ‘do this, do that’ ever confident that the decisions he made were the proper decisions to take. It was almost a God given right, if there even was such a thing, that he was right. Would he still be standing there, if it was not? He should have died in Chechnya, along with his comrades – but he was singled out, and he survived. His very survival was evidence of that fact, realistically he should still be in Voron captivity being used as a source of information, but instead two men managed to free him from a heavily fortified Voron facility. And yet there he stood

.And there it stood; clearly illustrating that bigger was almost definitely horrifying. It was bigger than any living thing he had seen, and he wasn’t entirely certain if it was alive. It certainly lived as some things did, hunting to survive, in a way parallel to Kestrel’s – survive, hunt, kill. Luckily though, Mikhail didn’t spread disease, or whatever it was that created these monstrosities. Just one more thing to determine, knowing they were created by biological warfare was not enough. And it would never be enough; there was nothing in this world or the next that would satisfy Kestrel, not anymore. 

But he had no desire to discover what the next world held for him, and so he would have to deal with this challenge. Nodding to his companion, he would have to come up with some strategy to topple this goliath. In most circumstances, he would have the tools to bait and trap his opponent – a favoured tactic of his. But hunting a single man meant he didn’t need much of what he usually had. Still, he had a few hidden away in his bag. Noise makers and flash bangs were somewhere in his duffle bag, and they could at least distract the mutant. 

“Distract it,” he ordered, releasing his bag. It smacked the asphalt, a rattle coming from within it as several different tools knocked against each other. Eyes and firearm locked on the now approaching goliath, one hand rifled through the bag knocking things about as he searched for his favourite. Identifying it with his gloved fingers he pulled a baseball sized metallic ball from the bag. It had a speaker on the top, but inside of it, inside of it was what made the device truly dangerous – a block of semtex, albeit rather small due to the size of the device. It was still enough to do damage if anyone was too close. 

 Despite the fact that he had never played ball as a child, Kestrel had good arm for throwing. The ball landed less than a metre ahead of the BOW, and began emitting an obnoxiously loud ringing sound, akin to that of a fire alarm. It worked, the creature stopped to determine where the noise was coming from. “Cover!” The Russian barked another order, and made a dash for cover behind an abandoned car. The explosive went off then instant he was safely behind cover, without a second glance to see if Piers had gotten behind something. After all, he was disposable to Kestrel.

[pierssureshotnivans]

butcher.

[pierssureshotnivans]

"Yessir, I can take care of it…"

[kestrxl]

Some people, namely his captain, had suggested that Piers was a little overly attached to his rifle. Larger and heavier than the average sniper rifle, it was a testament to Piers’ upper body strength that he was able to weild it with such ease, although it was modified to cut down some of the heft. It had an impressively greater range than the standard sniper rifle and packed a hell of a lot more firepower. In unprepared hands, the recoil alone could be significantly damaging. Piers’ use of the weapon was as unconventional as could be and still raised eyebrows amongst his colleagues. 

With the kind of smirk that suggested he might actually be enjoying this - a chance to show off was something he never passed up - Piers switched from his handgun to the rifle. That he could use the gun standing, rather than the more customary lying prone on the ground position, was also an impressive feat. When he’d first started to use the rifle in the training grounds, people had called him crazy and the bruises he incurred during those first few months certainly backed up that assessment. But Piers was driven. He wanted to make his mark upon the organisation and superiors, so he stuck with it, endured through the dislocated shoulders and heavy contusions to become a master with his anti-materiel rifle. Enemies stood little chance against the might of Piers’ weapon. The ordnance used was more appropriate to piercing armour or the bodies of tanks rather than human flesh and the effect was devastating. Not so necessary when dealing with enemies like these - reanimated corpses - but when confronted by true mutation - thickened skin, shells in some cases, the vast size of some BOWs - the destructive properties of ammunition was vital. Far too proudly, Piers began picking off the enemies in the distance. Each loud shot rang out, marking the fall of one of their enemies. In between, as he reloaded, Piers gauged his follow up shot and swiftly dispatched the next. Clearing the path ahead, Piers gestured for Mikhail to follow and hurried on. Where before Piers was all efficiency and professionalism, now a little cockiness shone through. Something for which he was well known amongst his peers and squad.

 It was as if there was a spectre appearing before him. The confidence that shown through his smirk reminded him of Archer; even the idea of mastering an anti-material rifle seemed reminiscent of Archer’s attitude, though he would have only done it to show off. Something Kestrel wouldn’t have put passed Piers, though he didn’t know everything about him, that didn’t prevent him from making assumptions of his person, or to compare him to Archer.

 If it wasn’t to show off though, it perhaps meant that these monsters were stronger than they had appeared. Although these ones didn’t look it, there could always be more, ones that required the usage of such a weapon. It wasn’t common to see an anti-material rifle used against flesh and bone; in fact he hadn’t truthfully seen one in action. Voron had trained him in most forms of combat, but they used him more for infiltration. Something as heavy and loud as an anti-materiel rifle didn’t go well with sneaking into a building.

 He did worry about the noise these infected seemed feral and predatory. It would be a lie to say that they didn’t worry him, but it’d also be a lie to say he couldn’t hide his emotions well. The idea that a large group would discover the two had dug its way into his mind the first time he made contact with the infected, they were animalistic and animals often grouped together.

 Fear kept him in line, and it kept him in the moment. It didn’t take Piers’ gesture to get him moving, as soon as he saw the monsters dropped, he got moving. His movements were fluid and swift, not as fast as a sprint, everything was a marathon for him and so he jogged. It wasn’t as fast as he would normally move; carrying most of his gear over his shoulder slowed him down. But it was as necessary as staying with the BSAA operative. He couldn’t lose his equipment to have it found and reported; just as he couldn’t leave Piers for fear that he would report encountering a survivor in odd clothing, who had said he was in the Spetsnaz.

“Not far from the freeway,” Kestrel spoke up, breaking the silence after several minutes of evading infected whilst moving towards the edge of the town. He could see the exit onto the freeway now, meaning it’d only be a few minutes until they reached the edge of the quarantine. “Are there others? Of you, your organisation. Your team, perhaps?” He could figure that there would be more, but Mikhail knew that accurate information was better than his own assumptions.

[kestrxl]

source. 

[kestrxl]

Interview.

[ssamuraiedgearchive-deactivated]

Protect. Chris could understand that. it was why he’d started on this path, to protect people so no one would ever have to endure what S.T.A.R.S had back at that mansion, to protect his remaining family in the form of his little sister. It had been many, many years since then, but the ideals had remained the same. Save lives, route out bio-terrorism. Being a hero never came into it, despite what people had said about him - and if they knew the truth, all of his failures and the ways he’d gotten more people killed - they’d disagree too. “Yeah - I think most people would do anything to protect their home, their loved ones.” Whilst he understood the benefits of rambling on about the things he’d been through, what he’d witnessed, the idea didn’t sit comfortable with him. Back in his mind, the possibility that remembering these things in order to talk about them would leave him with an unfortunately-timed breakdown in front of a complete stranger. Not as embarrassing or as damaging as an episode in front of an entire public audience, but an idea he didn’t particularly wish to expand upon. Chris couldn’t say anything about inspiring people, whilst he hoped to make people realise the threat they faced, he cared more about doing the right thing instead of reputation - Russia had been home to an Umbrella laboratory, he remembered that much, and wondered how much of the black-market-bioweapons trade they took part in. For now, he’d follow the hints given to him - stories could be expanded upon later, but it was easier to answer questions than to pick and choose at what memories were appropriate, and most of all safe to recall. “Right, yeah. B.S.A.A, it stands for Bioterrorism Security Assesment Alliance, founded in 2003 and funded by the United Nations at the request of the U.S.A. I can’t disclose the current Director, given it’d most likely make them a target - you understand, obviously - but it was founded by one of the former Directors, myself and my partner Jill Valentine amongst some others. Our Headquarters in is London, but we’re stationed all around the world; Europe, North and South America, East and West Africa, Middle and Far East and in the Oceanic Region.” Idly, his hands wanders to his own glass of water - taking a sip on occasion between his words, sparing glances to his company but not enough to watch his reactions to everything he said. “Oh, right, I should probably clarify. Our duty is to track down and neutralise, combat and prevent bio-organic weapons. I don’t know what you know of Raccoon City, but that was one of the biggest biological attacks by Umbrella. Most recently, the attacks in China were related to bio-terrorism too. That’s what we’re trying to prevent.”

[kestrxl]

 How selfless of him.Mikhail was quite the opposite, as he was in the military solely because he hadbeen conscripted. But it gave him reason to live; he was given something to dowith his otherwise meaningless life. Had he not been conscripted? He would have gone on as he had, surviving on the streets. His life would have been without purpose, and would have likely ended without one. And since then, his purposes have always been selfish ones. Killing to continue his own life, and to, as he liked to put it, maintain stability in whatever region he was in. Never once was he the bad guy, he was always the protagonist in the story. Everyone else, all the traitors he’d killed, even his former partner, they were the antagonist. They were the dark to his light.

 “Those who would not are traitors to their land,” by that definition, Mikhail would never be the traitor. His only loved one left was himself, and he had lost his home when Voron betrayed him. That too, was his way. Snaking his way through life, redefining things to fit his purposes; it was better than the alternative, he found. Twisting his words, violating his own morals to keep himself alive; which is all it did, keep him alive. It destroyed him internally, but all his life he was taught to never show it. Showing anything was being weak, and being weak meant you were not long for the world.

 And survival was everything to him now. Perhaps it had always been that way. He had always cared more about survival than anything. Reputation was nothing; he could not care less about what people thought of him nowadays. It made it easy for him to act certain ways in order to act as somebody else, to become at this moment, Valentin Nikolayevich Anlov; who ought to be writing down what Captain Redfield was saying.

 Nodding silently, he only began to do so around the point when Chris had made mention of his partner, Valentine. The words on the page were immaculate; each letter in his print was done with excruciating care, all aligning properly with the lines on the paper and with each other. It was all of course in Russian, making it impossible to read without knowing the language. Due to the detail he put in each word, it took time to write, and it would be such a shame to let it go to waste. Which, is what will happen to it in the end; in the end, once the interview is concluded, Kestrel will just discard it like trash. It won’t have meaning then, it only matters now because it is what he should do. Or rather, it is what Valentin should do.

 As he listened and copied, he drew slight parallels between his work in the military and the work the BSAA did. His job had been to track and eliminate terrorists and insurgents in Chechnya; they hunted terrorists of a different sort. In all honesty, Mikhail knew nothing of Raccoon City, or of the terrorist attacks in China. During the latter, he had still been in Voron custody being used as a source of information on Third Echelon.

 “Interesting,” finally beginning to speak once again, after Christopher had spoken his share; ‘interesting’ was an adequate description of how he felt about the subjects his companion had spoken briefly about. Not knowing very much about them, he was interested. But maybe describing those subjects as interesting wasn’t too respectful. “Knowledge of those two are… Less than adequate. Could you perhaps tell of terrorist attacks in Raccoon City? Or in China? I don’t know very much about them. Only what you read, you know. It would be good to have information about them from you, мой друг."

[pierssureshotnivans]

butcher.

[pierssureshotnivans]

“Spetsnaz?” To be fair, it should have been obvious to Piers that Mikhail wasn’t an average civilian. Appearance alone should have told Piers that much, but when his attention was so absorbed in what was going on in the town, he had a tendency to overlook smaller details initially. Focus, he called it. Tunnel vision, other people said. It was both a blessing and a curse at times. An area for improvement, he told himself. “Special forces, right?” 

Operatives were required to have at least a basic knowledge of various military cells all over the globe. It helped to know who was friendly, who were potential enemies and from whom the BSAA might encounter resistance in times of trouble. Having someone with that kind of experience with him could be both a good and bad thing. Civilians were troublesome, but fellow soldiers could be worse. It didn’t engender instant trust but rather invoked wariness in Piers. He was careful not to show it, however.

“Good to have you on side. Guess you haven’t been in a situation like this before, huh?” Not many people had, which was why the BSAA was necessary. “A lot of operatives came from other branches of the military. Some came from law enforcement or other agencies. We’re specialised, I suppose you could say. We have a number of very capable men and women.” There was a distinct note of pride in Piers’ voice and he spoke with the kind of conviction that suggested he truly believed in what he was saying. 

A countdown began in Piers’ earpiece and conversation suddenly became far less important than making it out of the drop zone. “Listen, we can talk more later but for now, I think we should probably hurry it up.” Cocking his head, he listened for the first sounds of engines in the skies. As long as none could be heard, they were safe, relatively speaking. Except for the reanimated corpses, rising up ahead of the two men. “After consideration, I think that maybe we should start running.”

[kestrxl]

 “Yes, counter-terrorism,” technically he had been counter-insurgency while in the military, but the words meant the same to him. Insurgency had the capability of being positive, such as in the case of a revolutionary bent on toppling an oppressive regime. A terrorist could arguably do the same thing, though the word didn’t exactly bring out the most positive of feelings. Not many people would say a terrorist is a good person, especially so in recent years. And if the destruction Mikhail was witnessing there and then, was as he assumed, the work of a terrorist, it would be doubtful that even in the future when people did as they often did with history, they would not revise the word to mean something of positivity. Positive things may come of it, but the countless lives lost to it, would at the very least deter the logical people from revisiting the past to put a positive spin on it.

 If what Piers was saying was true, then the BSAA would be one of the only thing people could say was a positive outcome of these recent terrorist attacks. They, though mongrel-like in terms of operatives and their origins, as Piers had said, were perhaps a benefit to the world. Perhaps the one good thing to have come from the terrorists, however many people like Mikhail would never admit that such horrible people, and atrocious actions would ever create any sort of good. Nobody liked admitting that situations such as this could give birth to any sort of good.

 The situation they were in was unlike many of the things Kestrel had seen. Not even in Chechnya, where he had been forced to witness the torture and execution of his comrades. There was purpose to that, as much as he hated to admit it. The Chechens had reasons to do what they did, but the usage of biological weapons in terrorism, in Kestrel’s eyes, could only be for the purpose of sewing chaos in the fabrics of society.

 “The situation is… unusual. ” An understatement at its finest, but in his words was very little. Unlike when he gave his name, his voice was stable, if quiet. But his quietness was not a show of fear, if anything it was a show of training. Unlike a certain partner he had in the past, Kestrel spoke very little, and more softly, contradicting his hoarse voice and accent. But even if this situation was unlike the things he had seen, he recognized hastiness when he saw it in Piers.

 “Run, then talk later,” his words came out more like an order than anything. Knowing only that they were leaving the town meant little to him, as he would have done that himself. But being with Piers was now almost expected of him, or so he thought. It wouldn’t be wise, in his opinion, to simply leave him. Of course following him had its own negatives, being that he didn’t know whether or not he’d be registered in some sort of list. However, whatever reason Piers had for leaving must have had something to do with the sky, as he had looked to it as if listening for something. And Kestrel wasn’t fond of waiting around to find out what Piers was looking out for.

 There were still obstacles in their way, such as the shambling infected ahead, too far to hit accurately with a pistol, but not far enough away to neglect. It was hostiles like those, being too far away that is, that made Kestrel almost wish he carried a larger firearm; however, those were bulky and as such made it difficult for him to be as quiet as he needed at most times. “More of them ahead,” he informed, knowing very well that Piers had eyes to see them. “Too far to hit accurately with this,” Kestrel motioned to his suppressed handgun. “Yours?”

[kestrxl]

Interview.

[ssamuraiedgearchive-deactivated]

"Wow, really? I didn’t think anywhere still did that. I guess it has it’s benefits though, right?" Chris knew little of the Russian military other than what he had seen travelling through, and most of that had been Umbrella forces at the time, armed with BOW’s at their disposal. It was stereotypical of him to assume, however, and so believed what Valentin told him - there was little reason to doubt given to him, after all.

That was something that often got the best of him, trusting people at face value, believing that they were who they said to me - and so many times it had come back to bite him in the ass, but his heart was still as soft as ever despite how bitter he had become. Giving people the benefit of the doubt was an unfortunate habit he couldn’t quite grow out of - maybe one day it’d work in his favour. He was not so blind however to not realise that this was a bad trait to have for anyone in his line of work, and caused more trouble than it had been worth on most occasions but regardless, old habits die hard.  Fetching the jug of water, cold enough thanks to the chilly temperature of the room, he paused to pour a glass for his guest and offering it over, taking a seat behind his desk. Truthfully, the whole ordeal seemed out of place, a man like him sat in a fancy office with a desk and a stack of paperwork. He preferred to be active, out in the world doing things - pushing papers never agreed with him, but there as little choice in the matter nowadays. Some things needed to be done, an unpleasant task that came with being Captain and co-founder of the organization. “Oh, haha, you flatter me. I’m nothin’ special, just a soldier is all. I’ve got some interesting stories but that’s about it.” The tragedy of Raccoon City had been a big thing back in 1998, and as the years went on things only became stranger and strange and he was unlucky enough to be caught in the middle most times. An awkward smile, genuinely polite, remained on his face as he mused for a moment on his awful luck. "Please, just Chris is fine. There’s no need to be so formal. Really though, your English is fantastic. I imagine it’s pretty hard to learn yeah, but you’re doing a lot better than a bunch of Americans I work with. Even I can’t understand them, and it’s their first language." One particular soldier of his in general was a pain to try and understand, but he admired the effort that must have gone into learning such a difficult language. Chris had picked up pieces of several here and there, but not enough to be fluent in any - more brawns than brains, just as his appearance showcased. "Sorry, I’m rambling a bit aren’t I? I’m ready to start this interview whenever you are."

[kestrxl]

 He had to think about that for a moment. Had it truly had any benefits? Of course, it had made him strong. It gave him purpose. Strong. Had he really become strong, thanks to the military? In purely physical terms, of course it had. Anyone taken from the streets and given a home would be made strong, solely because they had consistent meals. They were no longer scavengers, and had the luxury of more than a meal a day. Psychologically, he had become distant. Though it’s arguable that he was always that way, or at the very least he had been since age six. Whether or not it had benefits, he would say it had. To him, it gave him the benefit of having a purpose. In the military he was not a parasite on society, he gave back to the land that was his home. It became a mutualistic relationship, he gave his life to protect his home, and in return the home fed him and gave him housing.

 “Many places still do. But things change, perhaps one day, no military.” Were Kestrel not acting, he’d have given a laugh at the thought. But instead, there was hope in his words. Hope that he would never have, and would generally consider a waste of energy. There was in no way, in his eyes, that something like that would ever happen. “There are some benefits.” He went on, “You are made strong. One thing they are good at, destroying cowards.” Destroy was perhaps too harsh a word, but it was fitting in his experience. The Russian had seen very few things as harsh as his country’s military life. “And you are made to be protector. If war comes, you can protect home. Is there no better reason than that?” Posing the rhetorical question, he took the glass offered to him, and took a drink before placing it on the Captain’s desk. It would probably be the only taste of the water he’d take, a poor habit to have. It was part distrust, fearing that there would be something in it, as unlikely as that was, and other part desire to conserve resources, a habit he had picked up on the streets.

 “I’m sure you would understand,” an empty statement, knowing only little of Chris he couldn’t make an accurate assumption. And as he had said, he was only a soldier, dutiful perhaps and only that. Doing his duty without truthfully caring about those affected, not unlike Kestrel. Maybe that was just him injecting himself into his idea of what made a soldier, a soldier. “Perhaps you tell me of stories. Would be good for the story. You could become hero to people; inspire us cold Ruskies to join war on your terrorism.” “And your rambling, would make story long. Good thing, maybe only one story to explain all questions. Then interview is short, you get to go back to work, and I home.” His words became almost dismissive at the mention of home, as if he wouldn’t want that. “Or you tell me of this man, you can’t understand, as example of men under your command. I get idea of them, put them into story.” Again, he was dismissive in his words. Kestrel didn’t care for any of them, he just cared for the information he could gather from Chris, and his descriptions of other members of the BSAA.

 “Yes, on to interview…” Getting back to what he was supposedly there for, to interview Captain Redfield, he went on. “Tell me about the BSAA. What letters stand for, when it was founded. General things like this.” Mikhail would go through the general first, and then to the specifics. That was his plan, at the very least. It seemed typical for interviews. He thought it did. Honestly, he had no idea how those were conducted. But he couldn’t let that show, so he kept questioning. “Who is the director? Were they founding member? Who are founding members?” Maybe that was a bit much.

 Maybe it wasn’t enough. It was, at the very least, something. And if it was too much, a couple more lies about who he was wouldn’t hurt. An amateur reporter would make mistakes, and would be disorganized in their questions, and a non-native speaker would in general be disorganized. Wouldn't they?