IZHMEK Mechanical Plant/refortified fort, Izhevsk, Russia

November 19th, 1991, 04h01’

56.8619° N, 53.2324° E

It was uncommon for a man not on patrol to trudge along the corridor at four in the morning. Anyone living in that complex yearned for much-needed sleep, which made the incident slightly more uncanny. Yet sleep wasn’t a concern for Captain Maksim Maksimov. He knew better than anyone that four a.m. would be the best time to attempt murder.

For a seasoned assassin, Maksim was an impassioned suitor. He would stare at his own shaky hands after every slaughter, wondering how and why he always found himself caught up in this last resort.

That fat fuck was a good person. He thought. No, that ‘fat fuck’ had a name. Veniamin.

Veniamin was obedient and convenient to have around. Maksim didn’t intend to end the young bloke’s life, but he later learned to dismiss personal feelings while working for Artem Dzyuba.

“I’m not as young as I was, Comrade Maksimov. I need a capable right-hand man,” Dzyuba once told him. “If you serve me well, I’ll make sure your life is protected for as long as I live.”

Artem Dzyuba was always a man with a plan, and Maksim was the type of man who always wanted to be part of it.

Even a man like Dzyuba won’t abandon a righteous servant who has followed him for twelve years and counting.

Maksim tapped his fist on Dzyuba’s office door. Knock. Three seconds passed. No answer. Knock. Dzyuba coughed quietly from inside, acknowledging Maksim’s secret signal. The captain unlatched the handle and pushed the door inwards.

Maksim walked in, noticing that Dzyuba was in the middle of signing a death agreement. The commander glanced at the captain as he stacked the paper on top of a small pile of death notices and pushed it aside. “Not many soldiers left to die,” he remarked.

“Forgive my tardiness, Commander. I’m one minute late.” Maksim saluted him with a light bow.

Dzyuba was unconcerned today. “How are you dealing with the big man?”

“He’s exterminated, as you asked. I threw his corpse outside of the north-eastern gate. People will assume he was trying to escape.”

Dzyuba traced his slender fingers along his lower lip. The tips of his nails were full of scabies and his lips were chapped—both an unpleasant feeling for him and an unpleasant sight for Maksim. He turned to the belongings he’d looted from that vault, meticulously concealed behind layers of black sponges. Before him were a couple of pistols, a revolver, a rifle of some sort, a bulletproof vest, a platinum prosthetic arm, a belt of unknown application, and a few encrusted, obsidian-colored boxes made of unidentified material and which were impossible to crack open—even after he fired an entire magazine directly into it. Dzyuba had never seen any of those weapons before in his forty years of service. They seemed to be far more advanced than anything he had gotten his hands on.

After staring at the black boxes for a bit longer, Dzuyba concluded that they have must been those indestructible boxes made by the infamous Dr. Timur Karenin. He recalled a story where it took one ton of Semtex to crack one open. He first heard about these mythical containers from an old friend, Boris Zhukov, who once served as the Republic’s Prime Minister. That is, until Zhukov’s failed coup d’état and forced ex-communication, which conveniently happened the same time as Dr. Karenin’s disappearance a few years back.

Dr. Karenin’s creations included the ‘flamethrowers with white rocker arms’ Vronsky talked about, the enhanced human mutation technique, and the self-driving fighter jet—not to mention the hundreds of other projects he proceeded with in secrecy, of course. The enigmatic doctor announced his one-sided partnership with the Republic, then immediately went into hiding, sheltered and sponsored by an equally enigmatic organization called the Silver Vanguard, who had been at war with the Republic ever since they existed. Although they were vastly outnumbered at all times, they kept pestering on like a pebble under the Republic’s shoes, leveraging their superior technological advantage. Dzyuba could only assume that Dr. Karenin had played a role in establishing this balance.

The box was very carefully concealed. Dzyuba noticed another coating behind the walls only when he looked at the part that was torn out in the corner.

Someone was inside that vault for sure, Dzyuba pondered. That person—that filthy rat—must have tried to take his belongings with him, but time probably wasn’t on his side.

The safety latches were the problem. Every single weapon and every single box were protected by the same dashboard similar to the one on the vault. The only difference was the size of the dashboards.

That fugitive must’ve known the code, right?

If Dzyuba couldn’t catch the runaway intruder, all of the gadgets would be rendered useless.

“Pardon me for the question, but I’m not sure why you needed a ring,” Maksimov said as he pursed his lips. “In the last three attempts, you sent me to that warehouse to acquire practical tools. But this ring—I just can’t wrap my head around it. I was hoping you would enlighten me.”

Oh, Maksim, you juvenile dimwit, thought Dzyuba as he looked down at the source of the faint light on his finger. At night, it shone a suspiciously bright white, and Dzyuba had to cover the ring with a pair of thick gloves to prevent the glow from leaking out.

The intruder brought only the most essential belongings. Dzyuba couldn’t even find an extra set of clothes. But that rat brought this mini fusion reactor with him. Surely, if the intruder was still out there, he would come back for it.

“You’ll know why soon.” A vague smile appeared on the commander’s face. Maksim was used to his mind games. Once again, Dzyuba challenged him to probe his thoughts. The captain would often take a guess at the riddle, and occasionally, he would get it correct. When he got it wrong, though, he would have to wait until Dzyuba’s plan came into fruition.

“Vronsky will be here in a few hours,” Dzyuba commented as he held the ring in front of Maksimov. “We’ll see if he looks at it. If he does, then it must mean he knows exactly what this is. In that case, extract what you can from him. Then,” Dzyuba held his other hand to pretend to slit his throat with his thumb.

Maksimov pursed his lips harder. He was well aware of how ruthless Artem Dzyuba could be— after all, that was how he acquired the position he was in. And so, Maksimov knew not to get on the Commander’s nasty side. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but think that a person who had nothing to do with the matter was being pulled into his spiral of absurdity.

The guilt started to settle in as his thoughts twisted in the tangles of his mind. “Are you sure?” Maksimov asked. “We have no concrete proof that it’s him.”

Dzyuba’s voice was stolid. “I’d kill five innocent men to exterminate an offender.” He rubbed his wrist like a light infantryman warming up before a big battle. “He’s a skilled fighter, Maksimov. Be careful, or he may leave a scar or two.”

“Commander, Sir.” Maksimov inhaled, “He won’t touch the hem of my shirt.”

“Confident, are we?”

“I’ve never failed.”

“And I hope you never do.”

They gave each other a sound handshake, just as they did every time Maksimov set forth in his task—sure to succeed. It was their 43rd handshake.