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* This story has no current active writers. Any of the characters can be used by other writers. Alexander sat on the steps outside the barracks, a half-smoked rollup hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he stripped, cleaned and reloaded his TT-33. The heavy Russian pistol had served him well, but he still wished he'd been able to bring a sniper rifle. The soldier locked the clip back into place and leant back, sending a cloud of smoke up into the freezing night air. In the barracks behined him the British soldiers talked - many of intact and unbombed towns back home - Alex had never seen even a village that had not become a rubble-filled warzone. He had been told he was here to provide some experience in urban warfare to the British occupationary force, and from what he'd seen they'd need it. Their war was different to his - larger scale and less mobile. Less personal too. --Alexander Heklic The British voices dissolved into senseless chatter, moving farther into the barracks. Alexander was no longer able to pick up on their words. It almost seemed as if they hushed themselves. Talking about the foreign soldier, perhaps. Although he had yet to make introductions, they all knew he was here. The barracks were nothing more than converted flats. Before and during the war they were likely the homes to middle-class families. Now pushed out of the British Occupation zone it housed the thousands of British troops still stationed there. The sun was setting behind the barely visible skyline of Berlin. Orange clouds radiated in the oncoming darkness and a few stars could be spotted amidst the clouds. The sudden presence of combat boots fell into his vision as he cleaned his weapon. An inspection of these boots would reveal an officer for the British Military. Although he hadn't learned the ranks or symbols used by the Brits, the many decorations on his kaki uniform suggested he was a commanding officer. A trimmed black mustache, dark sunglasses despite the hour, and a uniform cap kept few of his features visible. Those that were visible protruded with militant confidence. "Are you Heklic?" --Laveaux 09:08, 9 December 2005 (CST) The TT-33 slid back into it's holster as Alexander stood up and saluted - slightly unsure if it was necessary, indeed somewhat unsure whether this man was temporerily his commander. Still, it seemed pruent to err on the side of saftey, had he known more about the class that produced most of the British army officers he might have taken the smoking rollup out of his mouth as well. His hard eyes searched for the Brit's and locked with them, "Alexander Heklic reporting for duty. I understand I'm to advise and assist you as regards urban warfare activities."[/i] --Alexander Heklic "You are about two years too late for that, Mr. Heklic. Forgive me, I don't know your rank." He lit a cigarette. "Come. Walk with me." The crisp night was hardly hospitable enough for strolling, but it was clear this man wanted to speak in privacy. Away from the prying ears of the soldiers inside. "I am Captain Riker of the Royal Marines. One of the few units here in Berlin. I'll be your commanding officer, before they decide to transfer you again. I understand you will also be reporting to your own officer. I trust we will be in communication, somewhat frequently." --Laveaux 09:08, 9 December 2005 (CST) Alexander smiled grimly, "There's always a war on somewhere Captain." He drew heavily on his ciggarette, "I do have a superior in Berlin, but I only need report to him on a monthly basis - and not necessarily in person. Coming from a guerilla background gives us in the Yugoslav army slightly more...autonomy than your troops might enjoy." He looked around after a little while, then drew on his ciggarette again - as if pondering his next statement, "If I may speak freely Captain, what did you want to say that your troops cannot hear? I believe we are out of earshot now." --Alexander Heklic Reiker paused and then removed his sunglasses. Startlingly brown-black eyes peered out in what could only be described as unconcealed rage. "I brought you away from the men because I don't want them to see a fracture in the ranks. Your presence here is not wanted, desired, nor is it proper. It is an insult to the men in my command. Bureaucratic nonsense has demanded that you be here and like a good soldier I will obey, but I don't have to like it. "I don't want to hear a word out of you that is not directly a response to a question out of me. You are a smeg-eating communist and the moment you are out line I will have you falling so high and fast out of a bloody bomber plane you won't know what bloody ocean your crashing into. "If my men disrespect you, I don't want to hear about it. If I do hear about it, you'll be praying to whatever bloodless god you worship that my foot be surgically removed from your ass. "I hope I make myself clear." --Laveaux 09:08, 9 December 2005 (CST)
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