Connor fell off of a cliff.
Thanks to the blowback of a warhead shot by a drone.
And it was in those moments, as he fell with the ash and gunpowder blackened snowflakes that he realized how much more he would've preferred being hit by a truck while crossing the street. That would've been a much better death than a frosted warzone full of people who spoke a different language, respected different gods and followed the commands of a whole new set of wealth hoarding oligarchs.
He fell further.
The wind howled in his ears like starved wolves. It clawed at his exposed skin the same way. With canine claws and teeth. With hunger.
On the way down, he hit an outreaching of roots and branches solidified by ice and frosted earth.
It knocked the wind out of him— if any was there.
His Kevlar vest softened the blow. His combat-helmet surged forward and cracked his nose before falling off completely to fall with the rest of his grenades, ammo cartridges and walkie.
In a panick, he grabbed the branch and held on, climbing up slowly to stabilize himself—
Then he heard violent words spoken in Russian from the top of the cliff he just fell from.
His heart raced as he unholstered the pistol at his hip and took aim above.
Four heads peaked over.
Eight bullets fired from Connor's pistol in response.
Red mist splattered against the white backdrop of the sky as one of the infantrymen was hit square in the face.
The rest of his bullets missed. He was shaking, exhausted, and deafened by the blast in one ear.
Still, not bad.
He kept clicking until the slide of the pistol was cocked backward and stuck there with black smoke spiraling from the barrel.
He didn't have much else.
His left ear could hear them coming back— black boots crunching through white snow.
Connor could've stayed there. But human instinct was survival oriented. Even if that didn't make sense in context.
As the Russian soldiers came back to the cliff side with AK-57's aimed and firing, he jumped off the branch and fell once more.
The familiar Wolven wind howls were interrupted by the modern chaos of gunfire.
Whistling zips and pops blew past him.
Parts of his camo gear ripped and popped apart at the threading as bullets grazed him.
White-hot stabs erupted along his left shoulder and hamstring on his right leg where black bullets dug deep.
His screams were cut short as he fell into rolling down a hill of snow.
He died a trail red in his wake.
The cold on his steaming bullet holes was like a sensory overload straight from hell as he spun and sank and reached new levels of nausea.
But, somehow, either due to adrenaline or the will of a soldier, he was still able to hear the clutter of a soldier unit moving on foot.
Firing bullets, calling commands, breathing heavily.
Connor came to a stop beneath the snow and tried not to cry at the pain of his broken ribs, bullet wounds and aching joints. He tried not to cry in rage at the war he fought for people he didn't know. He tried not to cry at the death he faced above the snow.
Quickly, he unsheathed his knife. His lips trembled with a savage rage as the soldiers neared.
"….posmotri syuda…" One of them said as they approached.
Connor felt for his belt.
He had one more grenade left.
He unlatched it and pulled the pin, sticking it out a few feet before rolling over and covering his vital organs.
The blast went off in the soldiers faces and sent him rolling off to the left with the worlds most intense waves of spinal pain.
His adrenaline muted the worst of it.
In a terrified rage, he exploded out from beneath the snow with his knife drawn and descended on the disoriented and dismembered soldiers.
The blast did better than he thought.
The closest one to him crawled after his gun in the snow, sweeping up white piles to try and find it.
Connor all but fell on him as he slammed the knife into the back of the soldiers neck.
Blood splattered.
Bullets beat up the snow beside him.
He rolled to the side and lifted the soldier. His body shook as bullets bit past his Kevlar and cut up the flesh underneath.
His left ear was still ringing. He didn't hear the click of empty ammo, which gave the soldier a chance to charge him.
Suddenly the dead soldier was pulled off of him and another soldier with shrapnel in his face and arms stood over him with a pistol.
Connor lunged forward. A bullet ripped apart his ear.
He slammed his knife into the soldiers crotch.
The soldier screamed.
Connor left it the knife there and grabbed the soldiers gun-wielding hand to disarm him while flipping him over.
With top-mount gained, he turned the gun and fired into the man's face.
In the distance, another soldier crawled away with his walkie held in a shaking grip.
Connor raised the pistol and f—
He blinked and the world changed.
Suddenly he was in a field of tall-grass. It smelled like rare herbs and rain shined minerals.
Snow capped mountains stood immortalized in the distance.
A Saturnian ring circled the full moon gleaming overhead.
Ravens circled him.
Women of all form and fashion backed him.
Some were visibly human. Others had cat-eyes or ram-horns and wore silk dresses seemingly made of midnight air while others were massive and muscled wearing dense armors and wielding massive axes.
The earth tremebled at the arrival of something.
The wolves howled in embrace of something else. He felt the urge to join. And then words came shaped by the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard. Like silk wrapped in honey and aged by a time that spun on different wheels.
"Make history, Ravenheart."
He blinked again. The world was colder. Less beautiful— muted by global warming and planetary extraction. Bloodied by war and darkened by hate of a million things.
There were no more bullets in the pistol.
The small unit of flanking infantrymen were dead.
So was Connor.
He could hear the tank driving up the hill to his left.
He already had three bullet wounds, four broken ribs, a damaged spine and a blown off ear.
Even so, the anger was there. The anger at being little more than a cog in the machine. At the thought of his life being a literal number to lords resting over him. RESTING. While he burned and broke and bled.
Somehow. Against biology. He got up and turned.
The black tank with the red Soviet symbol rose like an armored barrel eyed titan.
The ringing of Connor's ears became the wolves howls.
He joined them this time as he ran at the tank head o—
He was blown to pieces from an artillery blast within a second.