November 4th, 1991

Zarezovsky, Kingdom of Falkheim

11:31 PM

The room was dark and smelled like booze, just as Mikhail liked it. He sat at a small wooden table, the dim light from a single bulb casting long shadows on the walls. The bar was nearly empty at this hour, which suited him perfectly. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily towards the ceiling. Mikhail was a man of habit, and this dingy bar on the outskirts of Zarezovsky was his sanctuary. He had been coming here since he “retired” from the Air Force eight years prior and as long as the rubles kept coming from his pension, Mikhail could drink in peace. Tonight was no different from the others as he poured himself another shot of vodka, the liquid burning his throat as he downed it in one go. As he drank, the bartender, Valeriy Sergeyevich, cleaned glasses before him. The two were close, having bonded over their shared time in the military. While Mikhail served in the Air Force, Valeriy served in the Army and was present at Greenbridge's sacking during the war. Normally he would let Mikhail drink in peace but today was different.

Valeriy finished drying a glass and set it down, leaning on the bar. "Mikhail," he began, his voice cautious, "you’ve been hitting the bottle harder than usual lately. What's going on?"

Mikhail grunted, not looking up from his drink. "Just the usual, Valeriy. Memories don’t stay buried for long."

“... It's about Tomas isn't it?”

Mikhail's grip on his glass tightened, and he finally looked up, his eyes dark and haunted. "Yeah," he admitted after a moment. "It's about Tomas. His birthday would have been today."

Valeriy sighed, leaning back against the bar. "He was a good man. We all miss him."

Mikhail nodded, taking another sip of his vodka. "He was more than a good man, Valeriy. He was my brother. We were supposed to look out for each other, and I failed him."

"You didn't fail him, Mikhail," Valeriy said firmly. "War took him. It wasn't your fault."

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Mikhail's eyes flashed with anger and pain. “We flew together. I should’ve seen it coming.”.he said as he held the cup to his mouth "and now he's gone, and I'm here, drowning myself in this damn bar."

Valeriy shook his head. "We all have our demons, Mikhail."

Mikhail did not respond as he drained his glass and stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. He fished some rubles out of his pocket and laid them on the bar, enough to cover his tab with a little extra for Valeriy. "I think I’ll take a walk. Clear my head."

Valeriy watched him with a concerned expression. "Hey…just be careful out there."

Mikhail nodded and put on his coat, feeling the familiar weight of his old service pistol tucked into the inner pocket, and stepped outside. The cold outside was a harsh contrast to the warmth of the bar, sending a chill down his spine as he felt the cold wind. Fishing another cigarette from his pocket, he lit it, the glow illuminating his weathered face as he walked down the dimly lit street. The city of Zarezovsky was a mix of old and new, rebuilt from the ashes of war but still bearing its scars. Even while walking down the street, he could still see the ruined remains of what were once houses and businesses that were bombed during the siege of 1980. Aimlessly, he wandered the familiar streets, passing a statue that commemorated the heroes of the Falkheim War. It was a simple statue of three men standing side by side, their faces stern and resolute. It had been commissioned by the residents of the city after the siege had been lifted and underneath the statue, Mikhail could make out the hundreds of names carved into the base of the statue. He paused, staring up at the stone figures. He could see the faces of his friends in the cold, unyielding stone. "We gave everything," he muttered to himself, "and for what?"

Mikhail continued his walk, the city's sounds fading into the background. He found himself at the edge of the river Zarez which snaked through the city, the water reflecting the pale light of the moon. He flicked his cigarette into the water and watched the ripples spread out, disrupting the calm surface. The air was crisp and biting, but it helped clear his mind. He leaned against the railing, staring out across the water. "What am I doing with my life?" he wondered aloud. The question had haunted him ever since he left the military. Drinking helped dull the pain, but it couldn't erase it. He knew he needed to find a purpose, something to give his life meaning again.

As he stood there, lost in thought, the distant sound of sirens reached his ears. Mikhail turned his head slightly, listening. The city never truly slept, and trouble was always lurking in the shadows. He pushed himself away from the railing and started walking again, his mind returning to the present. Mikhail made his way back to his small apartment some 15 minutes away. It wasn't the best all things considered but it made do. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of tobacco and old books greeting him. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door, then made his way to the kitchen to pour himself another drink. Sitting down at his worn-out desk in his room, Mikhail opened a drawer and pulled out a faded photograph. It was a picture of him and his squadron, taken just after the war began. They were young and full of hope, unaware of the darkness that awaited them. Of the ten men in the picture, 5 were dead, one was missing and the rest scattered across Falkheim. Mikhail traced a finger over each of the faces, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.

He took a long sip of his drink, the burn a comforting reminder of his current reality. The world had changed, and so had he. But somewhere deep inside, the fire still burned. He just needed to find a way to ignite it once more…somehow.

Yet as Mikhail pondered about what he could do, a young soldier on the other side of the country pondered the same thing.