[Glimpse] The Soldier from a Bygone Era
Apr 8, 2021 9:19:06 GMT -8
Riley Sorsa, Wayland, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Apr 8, 2021 9:19:06 GMT -8
Maks watched from afar as he sipped his vodka. The Soviet behemoth of a man was clad in the black uniform of an EMT in a corner of the well lit small establishment. He frequented this bar for a sole reason.
Natasha Bortsov, the bartender. She was a bubbly girl. Early twenties. Red hair, bright blue eyes. Freckles. Short. Now many may think his reasoning for frequenting the bar was romantic in nature.
It was not.
The Ogre knocked back his glass and finished his drink.
She was his descendant.
His great granddaughter.
Maks was unsure how to approach her. Her great grandmother was dead. Her grandmother nearing. Her mother was back in the motherland.
Maks refulled his cup.
Sip.
The baseless taste of his drink clung to his tongue as he swished the clear liquid around his mouth.
What was he supposed to say?
What could he say?
Was there anything he could even say to her?
‘Good day, I’m your great grandfather, I may be young but that is due to the fact I got taken on deployment and was in a magic plane where time did not flow right for over sixty years?’
Worst case he gets throne into a Sanitorium, or an Asylum as they called them now.
Sip.
‘You do not know me but we are related. How? Oh I’m your great grandfather from the USSR.’
Would not work.
Sip.
‘Hello, I am Grandfather. Do not let youthful look fool you.’
That would go over well.
Ever since his return nothing made sense.
Long drink. Finish.
He had left the Hedge out near upper Washington and the advancement in tech caused a near total mental breakdown.
TV’s had color. Phones could be used anywhere and were supercomputers. What would take an entire room to do, could fit in something the size of his pinky nail. To top things off, they put a man on the Moon, granted it was the Coporatist pigs who won the race, but a man on the Moon.
The Moon!
That was not all that had nearly stopped his frozen heart. His beloved USSR was no more. They had dissolved in the early 90’s. It may have not been the best country, but it was his country. He loved it.
It made him him.
He poured another drink and took a long drink then topped off his cup once more.
Maks got a tattoo, even that technology had improved, of the sickle and hammer to never forget who he was at his core.
A Soviet Bear.
The ex-combat medic toasted his glass as Natasha looked his way with a smile. The tables around the large Russian were empty. Likely due to the unsettling nature of him. He did not blame them.
Maks had seen his fair share of combat, and even worse during his time on the other side. It had left him scarred and that showed. He was a survivor. He did what was required to keep living. Even if it was taking a life.
He just hoped he could make enough of a difference to fix his sins and see his Lord when he died. Its why he took this job.
Penance.
Sip.
After he arrived, got his bearings and caught up on history, he was the last of his group that had escaped together, he began to search to see what was left of his family. His cousins were old and feeble now. His parents long buried. But the fling he had that night in Aktau had resulted in two generations. And she had given the children his surname. Natasha was the only one in the United States and he was able to track her down through the use of the new site called ‘Facebook’.
While on his trek down here, he saw signs. Signs left by his kind. The Changed. He established contact upon arrival to the city and took their oath which was for 366 days. Logic based. He preferred it that way.
The stoic man then located the bar whose name he had written on a scrap of paper at the beginning of his journey to find those of his lineage. Now only one question remained as he brought the drink to his lips in that small bar.
What was a man out of time to do in a situation like his?
Natasha Bortsov, the bartender. She was a bubbly girl. Early twenties. Red hair, bright blue eyes. Freckles. Short. Now many may think his reasoning for frequenting the bar was romantic in nature.
It was not.
The Ogre knocked back his glass and finished his drink.
She was his descendant.
His great granddaughter.
Maks was unsure how to approach her. Her great grandmother was dead. Her grandmother nearing. Her mother was back in the motherland.
Maks refulled his cup.
Sip.
The baseless taste of his drink clung to his tongue as he swished the clear liquid around his mouth.
What was he supposed to say?
What could he say?
Was there anything he could even say to her?
‘Good day, I’m your great grandfather, I may be young but that is due to the fact I got taken on deployment and was in a magic plane where time did not flow right for over sixty years?’
Worst case he gets throne into a Sanitorium, or an Asylum as they called them now.
Sip.
‘You do not know me but we are related. How? Oh I’m your great grandfather from the USSR.’
Would not work.
Sip.
‘Hello, I am Grandfather. Do not let youthful look fool you.’
That would go over well.
Ever since his return nothing made sense.
Long drink. Finish.
He had left the Hedge out near upper Washington and the advancement in tech caused a near total mental breakdown.
TV’s had color. Phones could be used anywhere and were supercomputers. What would take an entire room to do, could fit in something the size of his pinky nail. To top things off, they put a man on the Moon, granted it was the Coporatist pigs who won the race, but a man on the Moon.
The Moon!
That was not all that had nearly stopped his frozen heart. His beloved USSR was no more. They had dissolved in the early 90’s. It may have not been the best country, but it was his country. He loved it.
It made him him.
He poured another drink and took a long drink then topped off his cup once more.
Maks got a tattoo, even that technology had improved, of the sickle and hammer to never forget who he was at his core.
A Soviet Bear.
The ex-combat medic toasted his glass as Natasha looked his way with a smile. The tables around the large Russian were empty. Likely due to the unsettling nature of him. He did not blame them.
Maks had seen his fair share of combat, and even worse during his time on the other side. It had left him scarred and that showed. He was a survivor. He did what was required to keep living. Even if it was taking a life.
He just hoped he could make enough of a difference to fix his sins and see his Lord when he died. Its why he took this job.
Penance.
Sip.
After he arrived, got his bearings and caught up on history, he was the last of his group that had escaped together, he began to search to see what was left of his family. His cousins were old and feeble now. His parents long buried. But the fling he had that night in Aktau had resulted in two generations. And she had given the children his surname. Natasha was the only one in the United States and he was able to track her down through the use of the new site called ‘Facebook’.
While on his trek down here, he saw signs. Signs left by his kind. The Changed. He established contact upon arrival to the city and took their oath which was for 366 days. Logic based. He preferred it that way.
The stoic man then located the bar whose name he had written on a scrap of paper at the beginning of his journey to find those of his lineage. Now only one question remained as he brought the drink to his lips in that small bar.
What was a man out of time to do in a situation like his?