Post by Harbinger on Jan 10, 2013 23:52:08 GMT -5
Thick fingers tapped idly to the desk, his eyes scouring through the document's words as if he could find some secret text, if only he looked hard enough. But there was nothing more to see. He'd read the document five times over, and the lack of information to be had was frustrating as always.
The door knocked three times, and he set the paper down flat on the desk. He stood up fast, brushing other files over that one and straightening his uniform up fast to be fit for inspection. It was an old habit, but one they still hadn't worn off now that he was one in charge.
"Come in, comrade," Staff Sergeant Val Nemov said in his commanding bass.
The handle twisted, and what looked like a fresh recruit walked in with a thick stack of files under his arm.
"Sir," the youth snapped a salute quick and crisp, "I have the files you requested, sir."
Nemov gave him a quick nod.
"Good. Thank you, private," he said, his interest in black ink already spiking again. His hopes, however, remained pessimistically low so as not to disappoint himself - again. A person can only read about lost traces so many times before one gets the picture. &
"Place them on the desk," he ordered even as he moved back to sit in his chair behind the wooden furniture. The young soldier followed the direction swiftly, setting them down and then trying to tidy them up a bit. The neater stack was turned around to face the older of the two, with another file looking him back in the face.
"Operation: Ranger?" Nemov questioned, picking it up to look more intently at the highly official font - the kind of font someone could get killed for reading, if they didn't have the right authorization. "I didn't ask for this."
"Sir, I was told to give you that, sir," the private replied, sounding nervous.
"Told by who, comrade?"
The young soldier shifted awkwardly on his feet.
"Sir, he didn't tell me his name, sir. He looked very official, sir."
Nemov's eyes narrowed in on the private, taking a moment to judge him further.
"Very official, private? We take orders based on who looks the most official?"
The youth kept his gaze straight forward and past Nemov's shoulder, a soldier still standing at attention.
"Sir ... He looked like an agent, sir," he clarified.
Nemov plopped the file down to his side before he simply said, "At ease, soldier. You don't need to be afraid of me."
The private's stance changed, but he was quick to reply, "Sir, I am not afraid of you, sir."
Nemov leaned back in his chair, lifting his right leg to cross over the left knee.
"Then you're either very brave, very foolish, or very talented, and I doubt two of those."
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted," he said with another nod.
"I've heard others call you 'Harbinger,' sir."
"Have you now?"
"Sir, yes, sir. I've heard of the Harbinger before, sir. He's supposed to be a powerful warrior, sir."
"And that scares you?"
"Sir, no, sir!" the soldier said adamantly.
"Then what, soldier?"
"Sir, have you fought against the terrorists, sir?"
"Yes," he said back like it wasn't worth asking.
The soldier paused for an added moment.
"Sir, could you tell me what it was like, sir?"
"Are you hoping for a war story, comrade?" Nemov asked frigidly.
"Sir, no, sir!" the soldier said fast. "I've heard you're a survivor, sir. I want to know how to survive."
"They didn't teach you that in Basic?" the senior officer asked.
"Sir, I would value your experiences more, sir."
Nemov couldn't tell if that was just flattery or not, but he accepted that answer anyway with a slow exhale.
"The terrorists don't fight like soldiers, comrade. They won't face you, they won't stand in formation, and above all, they will not fight with honor."
The private's gaze softened a moment, looking almost sad as he asked, "They really have no honor, sir?"
"They will attack from surprise. They will kill in the dark. They will use whatever dirty trick they can, whatever sly spell they know. They will teleport behind you and stab you in the back. That's one of the elves' favorite techniques, and you can be sure they'll try it on you if you live long enough."
"How do you defend against that?" the youth asked, sounding both less nervous and less like a soldier. He added a second later, "Sir."
"With difficulty," Nemov replied. "Rolling forward, twisting to the side, shooting behind you blind ... they may work, they may not. I won't lie to you, son: surviving is a special skill of mine and not one you're liable to pick up without any magic yourself. The best way to survive this conflict is to not be in it."
"Sir, I want to do my part, sir!" the soldier said with determination and fire, catching the battle mage in an unexpected intensity of patriotism that wasn't .
"You lost someone, didn't you?" Nemov asked, guessing the answer before it came.
"Sir, my uncle, Corporal Bagrov, sir. His unit was tortured and killed by Undesirable No 2. Sir."
Nemov nodded along just once more.
"My condolences, comrade."
"Sir, my uncle was a good man. A good man. I don't care if I die in the line of duty, but I want to survive long enough to put a bullet in the eyes of that monster, sir."
The officer gave a long sigh.
"If you face that 'monster', a bullet probably won't do it. You should run."
He may as well have stabbed a hot iron into the new soldier.
"Sir, I am not a coward, sir!"
"Tactical retreat," Nemov clarified. "You stand no chance against a mage of his caliber. Throwing yourself at him would just be throwing your life away, and that doesn't do your uncle any good nor honor."
"… Sir," the soldier said it, his expression softening as his voice almost became a plea. "I'd have to try, wouldn't I, sir?"
The officer took a moment longer to think, to try and come up with some way to answer that might satisfy the youth without giving him delusions of grandeur or reckless desires. "No" would cut his legs out from under him, and soldiers need their legs - metaphorical and literal. "Yes" was equivalent to assisted suicide.
"When are you off duty, comrade?" he finally thought to ask.
"1800, sir," he answered, a small mark of confusion on his face.
"Meet me on the training field at 1830. We can work on your 'survival' techniques then."
The young soldier's whole demeanor warmed up with a broadening smile.
"Sir, yes, sir!" he beamed.
"You're dismissed now, private."
The soldier gave a firm nod, his voice more than a little happy as he chimed back, "Thank you, sir!" and strolled out.
Nemov watched him go, thinking on the matter only a moment longer before he turned back to the new stack of reports.
The door knocked three times, and he set the paper down flat on the desk. He stood up fast, brushing other files over that one and straightening his uniform up fast to be fit for inspection. It was an old habit, but one they still hadn't worn off now that he was one in charge.
"Come in, comrade," Staff Sergeant Val Nemov said in his commanding bass.
The handle twisted, and what looked like a fresh recruit walked in with a thick stack of files under his arm.
"Sir," the youth snapped a salute quick and crisp, "I have the files you requested, sir."
Nemov gave him a quick nod.
"Good. Thank you, private," he said, his interest in black ink already spiking again. His hopes, however, remained pessimistically low so as not to disappoint himself - again. A person can only read about lost traces so many times before one gets the picture. &
"Place them on the desk," he ordered even as he moved back to sit in his chair behind the wooden furniture. The young soldier followed the direction swiftly, setting them down and then trying to tidy them up a bit. The neater stack was turned around to face the older of the two, with another file looking him back in the face.
"Operation: Ranger?" Nemov questioned, picking it up to look more intently at the highly official font - the kind of font someone could get killed for reading, if they didn't have the right authorization. "I didn't ask for this."
"Sir, I was told to give you that, sir," the private replied, sounding nervous.
"Told by who, comrade?"
The young soldier shifted awkwardly on his feet.
"Sir, he didn't tell me his name, sir. He looked very official, sir."
Nemov's eyes narrowed in on the private, taking a moment to judge him further.
"Very official, private? We take orders based on who looks the most official?"
The youth kept his gaze straight forward and past Nemov's shoulder, a soldier still standing at attention.
"Sir ... He looked like an agent, sir," he clarified.
Nemov plopped the file down to his side before he simply said, "At ease, soldier. You don't need to be afraid of me."
The private's stance changed, but he was quick to reply, "Sir, I am not afraid of you, sir."
Nemov leaned back in his chair, lifting his right leg to cross over the left knee.
"Then you're either very brave, very foolish, or very talented, and I doubt two of those."
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted," he said with another nod.
"I've heard others call you 'Harbinger,' sir."
"Have you now?"
"Sir, yes, sir. I've heard of the Harbinger before, sir. He's supposed to be a powerful warrior, sir."
"And that scares you?"
"Sir, no, sir!" the soldier said adamantly.
"Then what, soldier?"
"Sir, have you fought against the terrorists, sir?"
"Yes," he said back like it wasn't worth asking.
The soldier paused for an added moment.
"Sir, could you tell me what it was like, sir?"
"Are you hoping for a war story, comrade?" Nemov asked frigidly.
"Sir, no, sir!" the soldier said fast. "I've heard you're a survivor, sir. I want to know how to survive."
"They didn't teach you that in Basic?" the senior officer asked.
"Sir, I would value your experiences more, sir."
Nemov couldn't tell if that was just flattery or not, but he accepted that answer anyway with a slow exhale.
"The terrorists don't fight like soldiers, comrade. They won't face you, they won't stand in formation, and above all, they will not fight with honor."
The private's gaze softened a moment, looking almost sad as he asked, "They really have no honor, sir?"
"They will attack from surprise. They will kill in the dark. They will use whatever dirty trick they can, whatever sly spell they know. They will teleport behind you and stab you in the back. That's one of the elves' favorite techniques, and you can be sure they'll try it on you if you live long enough."
"How do you defend against that?" the youth asked, sounding both less nervous and less like a soldier. He added a second later, "Sir."
"With difficulty," Nemov replied. "Rolling forward, twisting to the side, shooting behind you blind ... they may work, they may not. I won't lie to you, son: surviving is a special skill of mine and not one you're liable to pick up without any magic yourself. The best way to survive this conflict is to not be in it."
"Sir, I want to do my part, sir!" the soldier said with determination and fire, catching the battle mage in an unexpected intensity of patriotism that wasn't .
"You lost someone, didn't you?" Nemov asked, guessing the answer before it came.
"Sir, my uncle, Corporal Bagrov, sir. His unit was tortured and killed by Undesirable No 2. Sir."
Nemov nodded along just once more.
"My condolences, comrade."
"Sir, my uncle was a good man. A good man. I don't care if I die in the line of duty, but I want to survive long enough to put a bullet in the eyes of that monster, sir."
The officer gave a long sigh.
"If you face that 'monster', a bullet probably won't do it. You should run."
He may as well have stabbed a hot iron into the new soldier.
"Sir, I am not a coward, sir!"
"Tactical retreat," Nemov clarified. "You stand no chance against a mage of his caliber. Throwing yourself at him would just be throwing your life away, and that doesn't do your uncle any good nor honor."
"… Sir," the soldier said it, his expression softening as his voice almost became a plea. "I'd have to try, wouldn't I, sir?"
The officer took a moment longer to think, to try and come up with some way to answer that might satisfy the youth without giving him delusions of grandeur or reckless desires. "No" would cut his legs out from under him, and soldiers need their legs - metaphorical and literal. "Yes" was equivalent to assisted suicide.
"When are you off duty, comrade?" he finally thought to ask.
"1800, sir," he answered, a small mark of confusion on his face.
"Meet me on the training field at 1830. We can work on your 'survival' techniques then."
The young soldier's whole demeanor warmed up with a broadening smile.
"Sir, yes, sir!" he beamed.
"You're dismissed now, private."
The soldier gave a firm nod, his voice more than a little happy as he chimed back, "Thank you, sir!" and strolled out.
Nemov watched him go, thinking on the matter only a moment longer before he turned back to the new stack of reports.