To say the next three days were hectic was an understatement.
It wasn't the first time Dmitry had to push propaganda 0-24, but his involvement was never this deep before. Like, he had to talk about a failed missile attack against a civilian target—
Whereas he was there to witness it in person, knowing that neither claim was true.
"The Russian mass strikes have also reached Kyiv on Friday evening. Our anti-air defenses had shot down sixty percent of the incoming threats. But three of them still caused minor damage."
What an utter nonsense.
There was one missile. One. And it came without a warning.
They shot down fuck all, and the target was as military as it could get.
So no matter how many times they tried, nobody could convince him that it was a dud.
Like, he saw the thing explode right in his face at 19:39.
And yet—he was still alive. They all were.
No casualties apart from the weirdo journalist.
The kid, too, had collapsed, drenched in his own blood—
But it didn't seem to come from anywhere in particular.
They have rushed him to the nearest hospital and examined him in every possible way.
Turned out, he was as healthy as a human being could get. He had no internal or external injuries, except the coma that nobody could explain.
Thus, the brass decided they would file away Friday evening as a failed strike aimed at a civilian.
Genius.
But no matter how much they tried to cover it up, the strike gave him no rest.
Forget the nightmares and the nonsense his higher-ups tried to feed him—
That kid, Konrad? He stared a fucking ballistic missile down, and made it explode mid-air.
Like, what the actual hell was his deal?!
He didn't have portable air defenses on him. Not that they would work anything like that. And once the threat was gone, he'd collapse as if he had taken the brunt of the impact in his stead.
None of this made sense.
Including that stupid inquiry of finding a random dude without a name for his story.
What kind of a journalist would travel thousands of miles into a warzone, without—
Well, whatever.
He had no right to judge the kid who saved him and all his fresh recruits.
And, as dumb as it sounded, Dmitry actually became obsessed with that story. He thought it might have had something to do with the strike. With this stranger who saved him.
And, of course, the more he dug into it, the less he seemed to find.
Despite not having to deal with all the red tape or OPSEC like a normal person.
He was an army Captain, after all, with plenty of connections to leverage.
But neither his branch nor the National Guard heard of anyone enlisting from Japan. Ever.
Sure, their whole screening process was hot garbage these days. They were desperate for anyone willing to volunteer on their own, and they wouldn't want to scare them off.
But even they would have heard about this Strelok guy if he ever existed.
And he found nothing whatsoever—he, Captain Dmitry Bandera.
So, of course, a random kid from the Japanese press could not, either.
The most sensible thing would have been to give up, but he couldn't.
Dmitry ended up visiting all the local pubs in case someone heard something.
Which was a long shot, but he had to try.
It was a nice change of pace after all the press conferences the brass forced him into.
Not because he wanted to get drunk. No.
Well, he had to, but only because that was the easiest way to earn the locals' trust. The fact that he could no longer sleep after a missile attack had nothing to do with it.
Nor that he was completely fed up with his higher-up's bullshit.
But it was not in vain. Right from the start, he had identified a dangerous new foe. And without him, Vodka might never have suffered such heavy losses in the next two days.
Meanwhile, someone who could—and did sleep through it all was Konrad.
Dmitry visited the hospital often to keep an eye on him, but nothing changed on that front.
A pale kid in bed, looking nothing special.
But, well, if he checked in right after drinking, he would come up with some wild theories regardless. Like, what if he were actually a Russian spy?
They never found the kid's IDs.
All he had on him were a bunch of random business cards.
He could have picked those up anywhere, but he had nothing that said he worked for the press.
And they couldn't unlock his phone. He had that guitar case, and Dmitry's men even joked about keeping a gun in there. Did they ever check it, like, with a metal detector and everything?
He never even took a look at what was inside.
But the moment he decided he should—
"My Guitar," Konrad shouted, jumping up confused. "Did it break again?!"
"Holy fucking shit, kid," The Captain panicked, too, but for a different reason. "It's behind you."
People in a coma shouldn't have woken up like this.
He watched him sleep for about an hour already, and now he almost had a heart attack.
Mind you, Konrad never asked what happened or where he was, either.
"Oh, thank the spirits," he mumbled instead, unzipping the case to run a finger across the strings. Yeah, it did look like a guitar all right. And Dmitry wanted to check it anyway.
But what he didn't expect was a fucking sword to come out from behind, only a second later.
The Captain scrambled for the door and his sidearm—
Which he had left in the office.
Right, because it seemed like a bad idea to have it on him while getting drunk in a pub.
Wait, was he still under the influence?!
He already aired his head out, and he never got wasted enough to hallucinate—
But then, this kid also destroyed a ballistic missile while he was sober. And right when he expected him to leap forward and cut him down with that sword for whatever reason—
"W-what the actual fuck?" Dmitry mumbled, watching him rub his face against the blade.
Like it was his freaking girlfriend, or something.
Hands frozen on the door handle, he saw the whole mystery become twice as nonsensical.
"Ah, shit, I needed this," Konrad sighed, color returning to his pale face.
Then, as if he had only noticed Dmitry staring at him, the kid froze, too.
Things got awkward, fast.
"H-how long was I out?" he asked, as if he already knew every other detail. "And, um, any casualties? Wasn't sure if it would be enough, but I already overextended myself—"
"So it was actually you, then?!" The Captain yelled, letting go of the handle.
Not that he had any solid evidence, other than this weirdness.
But catching himself, Dmitry straightened his back to bow even deeper.
"I don't know who you are, or what you did," he mumbled, staring at the floor. "But despite anything everyone said so far, I know you saved my men and me, and I thank you."
And with that out of his system, he could focus on the next most important thing.
"So where the fuck did that sword come from?!"