Man of Stone: Finale

[x-gambit.livejournal.com]

Zakharov meets his final fate at the hand of X-Force, and a message is delivered. The game has officially changed.



What the fuck happened?

General Nikolai Alexandrovich Zakharov, formerly of the most powerful army in the world, now the master of an elite mercenary company with designs on conquer was not used to being thwarted. In fact, he wasn't used to any kind of resistance that he could not simply crush by being stronger, braver, and most importantly, crueler than. Certainly not the kind of man who was ready to flee from his own heavily armed and guarded compound, under assault from forces that he still could not put a name or a purpose to.

It had taken a pall mall flight down a carefully constructed and hidden tunnel, to an underground garage with a heavily armoured SUV waiting for him more than a kilometre away from the main base itself. Then a forty minute drive to a helicopter pad ostensibly attached to a local hospital, but actually under his pay. A half hour later, he was over his second border of the night, waiting in an airport with a false passport, so far disconnected from his compound that it was impossible that it would even be checked. After a three hour flight, and then train trip backtracking on his course, Zakharov had reached his hidden bolthole. He'd played with game against some of the best in the world, and had beaten them all. This place, known only to two of his most trusted men, and neither of them doing the complete details in any case, was safe. Not even the GRU or the CIA's best could have followed his best.

Unfortunately for Zakharov, in that detail, he was absolutely right.

It was a credit to his training that he didn't jump when he heard the sound of a glass being set down on a side table behind him; the tickle of the ice as it jumped on reaching the wood. He calmly touched an innocuous panel of wood on the desk, and part of it slid away to reveal an automatic pistol.

"If this is robbery, take what you already have and go. I've had a long night." Zakharov said, using his body to block his movements as he pulled out the gun, and then pivoted, bringing it up as fast as any professional quick-draw artist.

The figure sitting in the plush chair never moved, and he was largely lost in the darkness of the room. Zakharov could make out the relaxed pose, legs crossed and arms resting easily on the chair. "You have picked a very poor choice of targets, my friend."

{"I could say the same thing about you.} The perfect Russian surprised Zakharov, but the gun never wavered. Vazhin had been hunting him for a while now, the GRY Colonel harrying him like a terrier at his heels. Zakharov was one of the few credible military threats to the Russian government; still vastly respected and influential with the Russian army, despite being forced to 'retire' years ago. As well they should, since Zakharov had every intention of returning to Moscow one day. His men were doing their job well, subverting politicians and journalists, making deals with wealthy men and seeding just the right network of deluded would be terrorists who would take the blame for his wave of assassinations to decapitate the Russian state. Then, when Zakharov was 're-activated' to take control of the situation, the second wave of deaths would provide the political cover to temporarily suspend the fake democratic processes until they could 'stabilize the situation'. A new Soviet mandate, backed by his Crimson Dynamo forces, would quickly bring the troubled states back in line.

{"Well, if we are countrymen, that must make your more than a common thief. Did that dog Alexi send you?"}

{"No."} A picture landed on the table. It had been blown up from what looked like targeting imagery, showing a younger Zakharov, dressed in Soviet camo with Major's insignias, holding an infant over the edge of a cliff. {"Man of Stone. That's what they called you. The only man crueler than the mujahideen."}

{"Yes."} Zakharov replied. Was this man maybe a new ally, trying to show his worth in an overly dramatic way? {"It was the only way. Kill one or two of them, burn their shithole village to the ground; the next day the rest would be there, hounding your BMPs with their American supplied rocket launchers. Or sniping Hinds from mountain positions. Those men were invincible in their mountains, so the only way to defeat them was to force them to come down."}

{"I've read the report. The mujahideen scattered into the mountains as your convoy came up the road, as usual. Then you herded all the women and children left behind in the village, since they were not supposed to be touched in the fighting, and marched them to the edge of the cliff at the edge of town. Over a thousand foot drop, I read."}

{"More. It was higher."} Zakharov's tone held a note of relish at the thought. {"At first, they only risked a few sniper shots at the men, until the first line of woman and children were forced over the side. You could hear the howls echo in the valley. They're barely human, the swine. They once took my driver unawares. When we found Tanul, they had taken knives to his arms and legs, until he could move or avoid the blades. Then, they started flaying him. His penis and scrotum were found in his mouth, and they rubbed dirt into the wounds, before leaving him to slow bleed out, a final knife jabbed up his anus, to keep him from tilting over. I felt nothing as they fell screaming.}

{"When they started to come out of the mountains, you let the women and children flee, but one woman had handed you a baby before you tossed her over the side. She begged for you to spare its life. As the mujahideen fired all around you, you walked calmly to the cliffside, and held the child out at arms length, over the drop. Just as in the picture. That was what finally made the remaining hidden men leave their cover, and charge your position. And then you-."}

{"Let go."} Zakharov's voice went hoarse. {"Before the child had hit the ground below, I signaled my helicopters, which I had deliberately held back. Charging down a mountain side against a defended position, they were out in the open. My helicopters killed them all easily."}

["They called you 'Man of Stone' after that. A Hero of the Soviet Union, until, of course, you became a danger, and they retired you."}

{"Yes. I grow tired of the past. What do you want?"}

{"The past is why I'm here."} Another picture landed on the table, of the experiments taking place in the now destroyed compound. {"Cybernetically enhanced mutants. That's a tool of war. I also know that your test subjects weren't entirely willing; bought from Africa and Southeast Asia. Based on what I've seen, my guess is that you've got a coup on your mind, and Vazhin is inclined to agree with me. For once, our interests are the same."}

Zakharov cocked the pistol, shifting slightly to give himself the clearest shot. {"I'm afraid you'll be seeing Vazhin in hell next, my friend.}

"I don't think so. And Remy not you friend." Remy LeBeau leaned forward, the light catching his face for the first time. The Cajun was covered in mottled bruises, and the left side displayed a livid knife wound, not more than a few days old. But it was the calm purpose in those red on black eyes that defined his purpose. "You crossed de line, Zakharov. Mutant weaponization. Thought dat de word had gotten out by now dat anyone who feels like dabbling in dat particular area gets knocked back in line, by whatever means necessary. You broke de rules."

"You destroyed my compound?"

"Oui. My friends are very good. Dis is what we do, and we do it well. Now, you de last part of de message for de rest, Nikolai Alexandrovich Zakharov."

"I think not." Zakharov said, and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on the chamber, and his heart fell as the weapon only popped with the sound of the primer going off. He fired twice more, but to no greater effect.

"Dere are rules, and out here, in dis world, we're de penalty for breaking dem." Remy held up a single card, glowing purple in the dim light. "Whatever you do, we will uncover it. Where ever you run, we will find you. However you fight, we will beat you. No matter how much you beg, we will end you." LeBeau's hand flicked, and Zakharov fell heavy, only the soft, wet pop of Gambit's card destroying the front of his forehead made a sound.

"It's going to be a bad year to be a bastard."