As the days drifted by in an unending haze of monotonous routine, a deep-seated, instinctual urge to explore began to awaken within the man. With each passing day, he felt the weight of confinement pressing down on him, little by little.
Over the course of two months, his wound healed, leaving behind only a dull ache to remind him of his failure.
The forest never improved; its atmosphere became closed and repulsive, as if it did not want the man's presence there anymore.
The once-familiar wildlife that used to roam freely began to vanish from sight, their presence becoming increasingly scarce until they disappeared entirely. The scarcity of food sources heightened the struggle for survival, creating a palpable sense of desperation. As the days passed, a growing need for change became evident, an urgency that hinted at the necessity for transformation and adaptation in the face of diminishing resources.
At last, he knew he could not stay. With one final glance at the decaying woods, he turned his back on the twisted trees and the shadows they cast. His small companion, ever-loyal, darted ahead of him, its tiny paws scurrying over fallen leaves, the man could hardly hide his joy in observing his little friend march forward. Together, they left the forest behind, the silence of its rejection a heavy weight on their departure.
For days, they traveled through the ruins of a world long gone. Nature had reclaimed the skeletons of cities, vines creeping over crumbling skyscrapers and shattered pavements. Yet the serenity of the overgrowth was deceptive. The quiet was punctuated by distant cries, followed by sharp bursts of gunfire. The land reeked of chaos, an unforgiving place where survival was a merciless game.
Whilst they were walking through one of these cities, little guy started to act unusual. The usually playful little guy would now stay tense, his tail puffed up.
"What is wrong, buddy?", The man asked, looking down at little guy, slightly concerned for his little friend.
As he went to pick him up he heard a noise coming from one of the buildings, "damn it", he thought, as he whipped his gun around.
The next second he heard footsteps behind him.
"STAND STILL MOTHERFUCKER!"
A rugged voice erupted, dripping with venom and seething malice.
Little guy bolted, scurrying under a pile of debris.
"I SEE THAT GUN ON YOU! HAHA! PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"
As the man turned slowly, he caught sight of a small group of bandits crouched behind the remnants of a collapsed building. Their rugged faces were partially obscured by dirt and shadows, and their eyes glinted with a predatory intensity as they focused their weapons on him—a chilling sight.
The silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant echoes of gunfire and the muffled sounds of war unfolding in the background, a grim reminder of the chaos surrounding them.
"Good day to you too," the man said calmly, his voice tinged with a hint of dry humor.
One of the bandits, seemingly their group leader, a wiry man with a crooked grin, barked a laugh. "You hear him, boys? Good day! On your knees, now. Chop chop!"
He looked around for any means of escape, in vain, he was lured out into the open.
"A rookie mistake, and now I'll pay for it," he muttered under his breath.
As the man slowly lowered himself to his knees his hands high in the air still holding his gun, the bandits cautiously yet with confidence approached him from the shadows, their weapons still locked onto him.
"C'mon, c'mon, drop that weapon comedian!", one of the bandits said holding back a smirk, as he hit the gun out of his hands.
"Don't break it, you hooligans", the man said, some more dry humor spilling out to calm down this tense situation.
The man raised his gaze to one of the looming bandits who stalked behind him, his weapon, an M70 Zastava rifle, glinting menacingly in the sunlight.
"Rock him Andrei", The bandit leader said.
"Try m-", The man tried to say before the bandit swung his weapon knocking him out almost instantly.
"Who is going to carry this bulky bulky thing, back to Big Boss?"
One of the bandits spoke, his words blurred but still understandable.
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A long, charred hallway stretched endlessly, its scorched walls pulsing faintly as if alive. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and burned flesh. The man bolted down the corridor, his breath ragged, each step resonating like thunder. From within the walls, a muffled, ghostly sobbing seeped out, as a faint lullaby played.
At the far end of the hallway, a blinding white light spilled out, casting an eerie glow on the silhouette of a small child, motionless and frail.
"NO! STOP! DON'T GO IN THERE!" the man roared, his voice cracking with desperation as he lunged forward, his outstretched hands clawing at the air. But the child moved with a somber inevitability, their small frame swallowed by the doorway's blinding radiance.
Sirens wailed, their deafening screech mingling with the man's frantic cries. The light grew unbearable, devouring all shadows.
And then, a deafening thud tore through the noise, silencing everything. The hallway fell still.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A few hours later, the man started to regain consciousness again, his mind groggy and disoriented.
As his senses sharpened, he took in his surroundings: a makeshift prison that exuded a foreboding atmosphere. The dim light revealed a single chair, walls stained with dark, dried blood. Rusty rebars lined up to restrict him from escaping, a claustrophobic and oppressive space.
Despite the harsh conditions, he noticed they hadn't bothered to strip him of his; worn grey hoodie, jeans, and gas mask.
Good, he thought to himself. As he sluggishly stood up.
Outside the cell, a group of bandits loitered, their attention divided between crude jokes and wary glances at their prisoner.
Among them was their leader, a formidable figure known only as the Big Boss. He was a rotund man, his girth accentuated by the tailored clothes that set him apart from his scruffier coworkers. Strapped to his waist was a Zastava M57 pistol, a Yugoslav copy of the famous TT-33, its sleek design reminiscent of the weapon once carried by the man's father, evoking a blend of nostalgia and apprehension.
The contrast between the leader's polished appearance and the roughness of his bandit crew painted a vivid picture of power and intimidation.
"Step inside and restrain him," Big Boss commanded, his voice cold and unwavering.
Four rough-looking bandits stormed into the dimly lit cell. They swiftly pinned him against the chair, forcing him into submission. The man made no effort to resist, which slightly unnerved the bandits.
What now...? I just need a moment of peace, the man thought to himself as he was slammed down.
As he looked up, he saw Big Boss slowly entering the cell, his figure emerging from the shadows. The dim light revealed more of his face, including a large scar running across his right cheek and up to his forehead.
"Boy," Big Boss spoke, his voice carrying an air of command. "What brings someone like you to these parts?"
The man stared back at him, his expression blank. His eyes betrayed nothing, as if an invisible wall separated them.
"Don't you know this place is controlled by bandits?" Big Boss continued, a smirk spreading across his face.
"Who are you?" he asked with a sudden edge in his tone. "What's your name?"
"Where am I?" The man ignored the question, brushing it off with calm detachment.
Big Boss's glare hardened.
"Where is my ca—" The man began, but was abruptly interrupted by a slap that snapped his head to the side.
His jaw clenched, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes.
Oh, these fuckers are gonna regret this, he thought, seething with rage.
"I think we got off on the wrong foot, son," Big Boss said, his voice steady but intense, his gaze unwavering. "Who are you?" The question was no longer casual—it was a demand.
The man looked up at him, emotionless.
"I don't know my name," he replied flatly, a touch of mockery in his voice.
Big Boss leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "That mask you wear," he said, his voice heavy with suspicion. "It feels... familiar. Like I've seen it before, all this chaos."
For a brief moment, the man's calm faltered. Unease flickered in his eyes.
Who is he? the man thought, confusion creeping into his mind.
Big Boss saw the shift and pounced. "Take off his gloves!" he ordered, his voice commanding.
The bandits wasted no time removing the man's gloves, revealing battle-worn hands, each scar telling a story of survival and resilience.
What caught Big Boss's eye was the tattoo on the man's left hand. A sleek scorpion, poised and dangerous, its tail arched as if ready to strike. The tattoo conveyed not only strength and resilience but hinted at something deeper, something that could hold significance.
The man glanced up at Big Boss, anxiety and dread creeping into his expression. He felt the weight of his fate bearing down on him.
"Boy," Big Boss began again, his voice quiet but filled with intent. "Where did you get that tattoo?"
A bandit, clearly clueless about the gravity of the moment, opened his mouth, but was immediately silenced with a punch from Big Boss that sent him crashing to the floor.
"ONE MORE FUCKING WORD!" Big Boss thundered, his voice echoing off the walls like thunder. The room fell into an oppressive silence.
The bandits stood motionless, sensing the danger in the air. Even the man remained still, his gaze fixed on Big Boss, despite the threat in the room. For a moment, he felt an eerie calm, as if he was accepting the inevitable.
"It was a random tattoo," the man said, his tone smug as he met Big Boss's eyes.
"You're lying to my face, boy," Big Boss spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "Eyes don't lie, boy."
"Tell me the truth," Big Boss demanded, his voice firm and unwavering.
The man remained silent, his stare unyielding.
"Soldier who always wore a gas mask," Big Boss finally broke the silence.
A ripple of confusion ran through the bandits. They exchanged glances, struggling to comprehend the unfamiliar words.
The man stiffened, his eyes darting down to the floor as he noticed Big Boss's own tattoo—one that mirrored his.
"Was he someone from our team?" the man wondered, unease creeping in.
Big Boss saw the flicker of recognition and seized on it.
"GasMaskDude, you did it! You've reached the top!" he declared.
The man's head twitched at the words, eyes snapped up, a mixture of dread and disbelief in his gaze.
"What did you call me?" he asked, his voice shaky but tinged with an unsettling calm.
"Gas, my boy, is that you?" Big Boss asked, his voice a mix of sorrow, joy, anger, and disbelief.
"Амире? (Amir?)" Gas's voice trembled, the name barely escaping his lips.
The bandits stood shocked, piecing together the connection.
"Unhand him, you fools!" Big Boss commanded, his tone sharp.
Without hesitation, the bandits stepped back. Gas slowly slid his gloves back on, avoiding Big Boss's gaze.
"Where did you go?" Big Boss asked, his voice softer but tinged with frustration. "You reached the top, commanding I.D.C 6... then you just disappeared?"
Gas, now standing before Big Boss, struggled to find the right words.
"What's I.D.C 6, boss?" one of the bandits asked, still confused.
Big Boss's eyes locked onto him with a dangerous intensity. He paused, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably before speaking.
"LISTEN CLOSELY!" Big Boss shouted, his voice crackling with indignation and pride. "I.D.C 6 was one of the most formidable groups during World War Three! I was their commander, leading them through chaos. And standing before you now is my most formidable lieutenant, the embodiment of our strength and terror."
The bandits stood, absorbing the gravity of Big Boss's words.
"On the east front, we charged tanks with nothing but rifles!" Big Boss continued, his voice swelling with pride. "We cleared kilometers of trenches in days. We were unstoppable!"
He paused, his voice shifting to one of deep sorrow. "Two days prior to the nuclear strikes, I deployed my men to engage in what we believed would be our final battle, one that we thought would alter the course of everything,", He paused again, "They all vanished, heroes."
Big Boss looked distant for a moment, then focused back on Gas, his voice thick with urgency. "But you... vanished without a trace. What happened to you?"
Gas, overwhelmed with guilt, struggled to hold back his emotions. His heart raced as he tried to collect his thoughts.
"When I reached commander," Gas began, trying his best to keep calm, "I got an offer."
Big Boss's face darkened, already sensing what was coming. "We were family, Gas," he said softly.
Gas lowered his head, the weight of his past pressing down on him. "I joined a mercenary group," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Big Boss stayed silent.
"What did you want me to do?!" Gas suddenly snapped, rage flooding his words. "We were dying! Our resources were cut, and it was the last straw when Ajdin died! He was my friend!"
"You remember that?", Gas continues, "Remember leading us into that suicide mission?!", He paused for a second, "It turned us all into animals, more than half of our team was whipped and the other half relied on war crimes to survive", he said, now calmly, with an undertone of pure rage.
The silence that followed was thick with tension. The bandits stood frozen, unsure of how to react.
Big Boss looked at Gas, his expression heavy with the weight of their shared past. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice steady. "How about we forget the past and move forward, boy?" he said, a confident smile creeping onto his face. "How about you work for us?"
Gas, after a moment's hesitation, nodded. "Alright," he said, his voice back to being steady.
Little guy appeared gracefully as he does, he followed the bandits back to camp.
Purring gently.
Gas was overjoyed to see his friend was safe.
The following day, Gas woke up to a sharp knocking at his door. Despite the noise, Little guy remained curled up on the pillow, his paws neatly tucked under him, fast asleep with his face buried in fluff.
"Gas, wake up," came a voice from outside. It was Andrei. "Big Boss has a job for you."
Gas shuffled to the door, his eyes as uninterested as his tone. "What is it?"
Andrei stood there formally, avoiding eye contact. "Hit list."
"So… bloodshed for pay again," Gas thought bitterly, his gaze hardening. The weight of the realization settled over him as a cold chill traveled down his spine.
Andrei cleared his throat. "He said to call him Big Bo—"
"Do I look like I care?" Gas cut him off sharply, his gaze piercing.
Behind him, Little guy stirred, letting out a high-pitched meow before stretching lazily. He blinked at the room, judged it, not worth leaving the comfort of the pillow, and promptly settled back down.
Gas glanced over his shoulder at the cat, muttering to himself, "Now I've got to worry about him following me."
Andrei handed over a piece of paper. Gas looked it over—an old, weathered scrap covered in hastily scribbled names, locations and images of the targets:
Сергеи Поповић
Мирсад blah blah
Jake something
David Mouse.
Gas chuckled faintly. "David Mouse? What kind of name is that?" But the humor didn't linger. His expression grew serious as his eyes scanned the room.
The walls, stained and cracked with age, spoke of years of neglect. Cobwebs hung in the corners, while the wooden beams groaned softly under invisible weight. The makeshift sleeping area, crafted from old planks, and long collapsed houses, carried a rustic charm—but its warmth was overshadowed by the chaotic noise outside. Bandits shouted and laughed, their voices carrying tales of debauchery.
Gas stepped back inside and shut the door behind him. Sitting beside Little Guy, he stroked the cat's fur gently. The barely audible purring was a small comfort amidst the bedlam. His eyes returned to the list's images.
A sudden intrusion broke his focus. The door creaked open without warning, and Andrei stepped back inside.
"You can't just do that," Gas said calmly, though his eyes sharpened.
"I know, I know," Andrei said, holding up his hands. "I just… wanted to set things straight between us." He hesitated before adding, "We'll be working together. Boss's orders."
Gas sighed, setting the list aside. "Don't weigh me down," he replied coldly, his focus drifting back to the paper.
Silence hung between them for a moment before Andrei asked, "What was the name of the mercenary group?"
Gas didn't look up as he answered, his tone flat. "If I told you, I'd have to burn this place down—with you still inside."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Gas finally looked at Andrei.
Andrei's face a mask of calm conviction.
After a beat, Gas rose and opened the creaky cupboard by his bed. Inside was a pistol—a Frankenstein's monster of a weapon, its upper half scavenged from a Beretta, its lower cobbled together from a starter pistol. He began disassembling with methodical precision.
"I was part of alpha assault group," he said, his voice even. "The Phantom, they called us. Most secretive soldiers." Gas paused, carefully removing the barrel of the pistol.
His hands moved with practiced ease, but his tone carried a weight that seemed to chill the air.
"We didn't leave witnesses. No loose ends." He looked up, meeting Andrei's gaze, as he slapped the pistol back together. "You would never get to see us, we worked at night. And if you did…" His words trailed off ominously.
Gas precisely raised his pistol with an eerie calm, aiming it at Andrei's head and mockingly closing one eye—as he moved the air seemed to grow chokingly tight, Andrei started to sweat slightly, but his stance appeared unimpressed.
*Click*
"Boom...", Gas said his voice a whisper, "But it doesn't matter anymore", He continued, "Most of us were whipped out in the nuclear strike and Sova bled out right at the bunker entrance", He said now with a hint of sorrow, "I think, I'm the only survivor".
They both paused for a moment to let it sink in.
"I could have saved him, I had time", Gas thought, looking down at the ground.
Then Gas stood up, left some food and water for little guy, picked up his AK, and left the room, Andrei followed.
"It's time for work," Gas said coldly, the metallic click of his lock echoing as he secured his room.
Andrei, leaning against the wall nearby, gave a small nod. "Right behind you."
The bandits' camp outside the sleeping quarters was a chaotic patchwork of decay and ingenuity. Old, abandoned buildings stood alongside makeshift structures cobbled together with wood and scrap metal. Each corner served a purpose: a grimy prison, a barebones gym, and an arsenal spilling over with rusted weaponry and ammunition crates.
Gas took it all in with a sweeping gaze.
"Amir never lost his knack for organizing chaos," he thought, watching a group of bandits go through half-hearted training drills. Their form were sloppy, their punches lacked power, and their motivation seemed nonexistent.
As Gas passed, he gave them a curt nod. The bandits nodded back, some mumbling greetings. One stood out, noticeably heavier, his movements sluggish.
Gas smirked under his mask, remembering Big Boss.
"Big Boss, Amir... didn't exactly stay battle-ready, did he?"
Andrei interrupted his thoughts. "Who's the first target?" he asked, loading shells into his shotgun with practiced ease. "Should we come up with a plan?"
"Plan?" Gas echoed, his tone steady, his eyes scanning the camp. "Plans are for people who leave witnesses alive."
Andrei paused, digesting the words. He knew better than to argue when Gas spoke with that deadly certainty.
After a beat of silence, Gas spoke again. "Mirsad. He's the closest. We take him out first."
"We go in, shoot him, get out," Gas said nonchalantly, as if he were discussing the weather.
Andrei tightened his grip on the shotgun. "Understood."
Gas took one last look at the bandits' camp before turning toward the shadows.
The mission had begun, and in his mind, there was no room for error—only blood and silence.
They arrived at nightfall close to where their first target stayed. His house was close to the forest.
"Perfect", Gas thought to himself, "This will be an easy job", He whispered to Andrei as they were getting closer to the house.
Gas moved silently through the shadowy parts of the woods, barely making any noise, Andrei followed suit, not so silently.
"Stay down", Gas whispered as a figure appeared in the window.
They abruptly stopped, waiting for the figure to move, It turned its head sharply towards the window, placing some sort of curtain over it.
Seizing the moment, they moved quickly. As Andrei dashed forward, he tripped on a gnarled root and fell to the ground. The thud echoed through the stillness just as a window creaked open, and Gas darted beneath it to stay hidden.
Suddenly, gunfire erupted, shattering the night with deafening cracks. As a primal scream pierced the chaos, Gas desperately crawled away to the side of the house.
"Dumbass," he hissed under his breath.
From his crouched position, he raised his gun toward the door. The faint shuffle of hurried steps reached his ears, his target burst out, silhouetted in the doorway. Gas didn't hesitate.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The shots rang out in quick succession, every round finding its mark. Blood sprayed like a macabre mist as the man staggered backward, crumpling to the ground with a hollow thud. A pool of crimson spread beneath him, staining the earth in a grotesque halo.
Gas rose to his feet with a slow, deliberate motion, he brushed the dirt from his clothes. His gaze fell to the lifeless body sprawled before him. The man looked to be in his fifties, his face twisted in a final grimace of terror.
Gas stared for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, he raised the gun once more.
BANG!
The bullet tore through the man's skull, ensuring there would be no return from death's grasp. Blood and brain matter spattered the ground, a grotesque punctuation to the deed.
DECEASED.
Gas exhaled sharply, his eyes scanning the area with predatory precision.
The surroundings were empty, the world holding its breath.
Gas came back around to see what happened to Andrei.
Andrei was slumped, his head lolling unnaturally, with a trail of blood leading from where he got shot to under the window where he sat.
"I don't want to be responsible for this", He thought while kneeling next to him, "What an amazing time to not bring my medical kit", he added.
"Fatality?" Gas said calmly to himself.
A bullet hole marred Andrei's thigh, dark blood pooling and seeping into the dirt; the flow was sluggish but ominously thick. It wasn't an artery—small mercy—but something vital had been hit.
"Not fatal... not yet," Gas thought, working quickly. He yanked Andrei's belt free and twisted it around his leg, tying it off with practiced ease. A makeshift tourniquet, buying precious seconds.
Andrei's eyes fluttered open, his breath shallow. A low groan slipped from his lips, tinged with confusion and pain.
"FUCK, MAN!" he bellowed, twisting weakly. "What... what happened?!"
"You got shot," Gas said flatly, his tone edged with a mocking chill. "Hold pressure here. I'll grab bandages." He stood, his movements swift and mechanical.
As he ran back into the old man's house, the interior was dim and suffocating, the air heavy with scent of dead flesh and gunpowder.
Gas rifled through cupboards and drawers, pulling out old clothes and cracked jars of God-knows-what.
His hands froze when he spotted a photo on one of the dressers.
The old man beamed alongside a girl and a woman, the image whispering of a life once cherished. Scrawled in the corner: "Волимо те, Мирсаде!" (We love you, Mirsad.)
Gas's chest constricted, a leaden weight settling in his gut. "No...", Regret clawed at his throat.
"He's just a boy"
Voices of the past spoke to him.
"Why do you always have to be so aggressive with him?"
Gas wasn't fazed by them.
"He just wants to be happy"
...
A faint whisper—fragile, ghostly—rippled through the silence: "Why?"
Gas's breath hitched. Every muscle locked, as he spun sharply, his boots scuffing the wooden floor, eyes darting for the source of the sound.
Nothing.
The room stood undisturbed, a tableau of frozen time: neatly arranged furniture, and faded pictures of landscapes hanging on the walls. Shadows pooled in corners, shifting subtly as if alive.
Gas froze, the oppressive quiet pressing down on him. His gaze snagged on a bottle of alcohol jutting from under the bed. Snatching it and the picture up, before he bolted back outside, his boots echoing through the dead man's house. He stepped over Mirsad's crumpled, lifeless form without a glance.
Coming back, Andrei was unconscious again, his head slumped to the side. Gas knelt beside him, uncapping the bottle and pouring the stinging liquid over the wound. Andrei flinched, a low groan slipping from his lips.
"Good. Stay awake," Gas muttered, tearing a strip from an old T-shirt. He soaked it in alcohol and stuffed it into the wound wrapping tightly around it as well.
Andrei stirred, his breath hitching, and leaned forward as the pain pulled him back toward consciousness.
"Don't move," Gas ordered, his voice sharp but steady. "You'll live. But if you pass out again, I'm not carrying your ass."
Andrei leaned back again, taking the liquor bottle, and he took a large gulp.
"You'll need that", Gas spoke mockingly with a chuckle in his voice, Andrei looked at him aimlessly.
They sat there in silence for a few minutes, regaining the energy to go back to the camp.
Gas was staring off into the distance fidgeting with his hands, "Is he dead?", Andrei asked, curiously, "Very dead", Gas said coldly.
"Our job is done", Said Andrei, scratching Mirsad's name off the list.
"C'mon", Gas began, "I'll help you back to camp".
As they sluggishly started to walk off Andrei caught a glimpse of the old man's open skull, "You rocked his shit, ", "Yes I did", Gas replied boldly as they slowly returned to camp.
Back at camp, Big Boss greeted them with open arms.
Gas handed over the picture. Big Boss studied it for a long moment, then nodded, a proud smile spreading across his face. "Good job, boys," he said, his voice booming with approval. He patted Gas on the back. "I could always count on you."
Big Boss's gaze shifted to Andrei's wound. His face hardened. "MEDICAL!" he shouted, and two bandits rushed forward, lifting Andrei away.
Gas stood there, his mind drifting. "Poor bastard should've stayed out of bandits' way," he thought. He looked down at the photo once more, the weight of it heavy in his palm.
Big Boss handed Gas a small bundle of ammunition. "Here," he said. "Your reward for your trouble."
Gas glanced down at the 7.62x39mm rounds, his fingers curling around them before shoving them into his pocket.
"Glad to be able to kill more", Gas thought sarcastically.
"That's not all," Big Boss continued, a smile creeping into his voice. "You'll also get fifteen hundred marks and a hot meal tomorrow."
Gas didn't respond, his mind already elsewhere, replaying the day's events. The haunting whisper still lingered in the back of his mind, but he knew better than to let it surface. Gas nodded and sluggishly went to his room.
Little guy was there waiting for him, meowing with enthusiasm that his friend was back.
"Hello, little man", Gas spoke to Little guy, petting him gently.
He sat down on his bed, staring at the gun before taking it to his hands. He disassembled it and began cleaning.
"This kid is just a fucking monster"
Voices of the past spoke to him.
"What the fuck is wrong with him?"
Gas wasn't fazed by them.
"He just wears that stupid fucking mask and scared other kids!"
...
"WHY?!", a raspy, male voice asked, Gas was shaken by it.
Taking a deep breath he calmly took off his boots and went to sleep.