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Arseniy Tsyganov

A former special soldier for the Soviet Union, currently a fugitive from the Russian government.

0 · 329 views · located in Dead End

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by UnderINK

Description

Equipment

Electro-spun Integrated Body Armor with Augmented Reality:

The Headgear Subsystem: situational awareness hub of the system; bio-mechanically engineered with augmented reality capability. It includes integrated tactical processing (e.g., maps, routes, SA data); 180° emissive visor display; high data rate (gigabytes per second) communication; microelectronic/optics combat sensor suite that provides 360° situational awareness; terrain and environmental information; integrated small arms protection in selected areas. Contains on-board respirator to protect from noxious fumes with a reinforced visor adapted for wide peripheral vision.

The Combat Uniform Subsystem: contains three layers: the Protective Outer Layer, the Power Centric Layer, and the Life Critical Layer. Contains liquid body armor composed of flexible cloth integrated with nanotechnology carbon tubes and nano-muscle fibers to enhance strength. Lightweight exoskeleton over outer layer provides additional strength, speed, and stability; allows for increased workload at only a percent of the body's normal effort.

The Warfighter Physiological Status Monitor (WPSM) Subsystem: collects information on the vital signs (core temperature, skin temperature, heart rate, blood pressure) hydration state, stress level (mouth sensors), thermal state, sleep status, and workload capacity of the soldier.

The Micro-climate Conditioning Subsystem: a network of narrow tubing built into the material of the Life Critical Layer that provides 100 watts of heating or cooling to the soldier.

The Power Subsystem: consists of a 2- to 20-watt Micro Turbine fueled by a liquid hydrocarbon. Ten ounces of fuel, contained in a lightweight plug-in cartridge, powers the soldier for up to 6 days. Polymeric nanofiber battery patches embedded in the headgear and weapon provide back-up power for three hours.

The Weapon Subsystem: permits direct and indirect target engagements. The weapon weighs 5 pounds, and combines five tubes of soft-launched, 15mm intelligent seeker munitions and one tube of stacked 4.6mm kinetic energy projectiles for close quarter combat.




Tactical Warfare in the Future

So begins...

Arseniy Tsyganov's Story

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This street was never completely quiet. What was a normal, desolate road swept with litter and cracked sidewalks, that would otherwise show no other sign of life but a straggler making their way home, or the occasional criminal, would periodically erupt in loud shouting leaking from the ajar door of a single building. Sometimes the door would fly open, followed by a body or two, but tonight the door stayed open just a little, letting only a beam of light and a wave of screams find their way onto the dark pavement. Clattering glasses, chairs breaking, a roar of laughter--- it was the typically repulsive onslaught of immaturity that took place in bars. After a few hours of the repetitive noises, and those few stragglers wondering when these men would leave--- or if they even had a home to head back to--- the noise piqued abruptly and then lessened as the door, for the first time that night, lurched open. Out into the bitter cold stepped a black, carefully polished but slightly scuffed boot that made barely more than an audible sweeping brush with the ground; they were sturdy, military grade boots. A lighter flicked on as their owner wandered a few feet over to the alley, standing at least partly in front of it as he lit a cigarette, which broke the comfortable darkness to any rats or hobos. The man seemed to be admiring the way the smoke rose into the sky, as if it longed to touch the stars. He was thoughtful, perhaps even a romantic about the idea, but he was only projecting--- the smoke couldn't go that high, and as lovely as an escape as that would be for any man, neither would he.

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As the first syllable jumped from the woman's lips, the man wheeled around on the heel of his boot with a jerk reaction to being taken off-guard. It didn't happen often, but it was certainly more common an occurence when he would drink.
"Dobre. . . nochi," he bade in return, uncertainly, and with slightly more difficulty than he had anticipated--- as if he wasn't quite sure it was evening.
"You know," he continued thoughtfully as a drunk might, inserting his opinion where it probably did not belong. "You are drawing an awful lot of attention to yourself by greeting strangers in an alley. You could end up raped or killed," he further asserted knowingly, and congratulated himself on his logic by taking a drag of his cigarette. Alcohol never affected him very long, and he was already beginning to clear his head. The bitter night air certainly helped. But he still sounded like an ignorant twit for now--- a very wise, ignorant twit.

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"Is that so?" he inquired as he stiffened his posture and drew the cigarette down to his side, flicked it onto the pavement, and, remarkably, remembered to crush it with his foot. "So I am smelling your blood. I was certain for a moment that a dog had been bludgeoned to death back here."

He began to approach her with a flurry of confidence in his action, no uncertainty or stumbling present. When it came to a military man, he had to know when to be a drunk and when to be a soldier.

"Looks like you aren't far off, honestly. You need medical attention--- immediately." He determined this with his limited vision in the dark, but the dim lights leaking from the windows of the bar provided him enough to make out the pooling, glistening blood. He couldn't make out from where it flowed, but if she was still speaking to him coherently, then he probably had enough time to move her to a safe, sanitary place.

"How much pain are you in, and where is the injury? I'm going to lift you and take you to my flat. You are obviously in trouble and will not go to a hospital. So, you're lucky to have met me, I think. It must be God's will," he said as he lowered his hands toward her. She may have been intimidated that his English was painted heavily with a slavic accent, but his passive posture would not indicate a threat.

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"All I can say is don't worry about that; if I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already," the man reassured awkwardly, and dipped his body down to her level, standing back up without a single falter with her in his arms. He attemped to hold her in such a way that he was obstructing her injuries as little as possible, by tucking her head against his neck and gripping her to his chest; it was important her neck be stable, or she would suffer whiplash, which would be far more debilitating than bleeding legs.

The hairs on the stranger's arms prickled slightly from the contact--- it was not something he was used to, either. Although he was immune to extreme cold, he muttered something about it being chilly out to excuse his goose-bumps which she could not even see, but that made him feel more vulnerable as he wore nothing over his torso but a black sleeveless top--- not a single plate of armor--- nor under his tactical pants.

"I want you to hold on-- tight," the man instructed. "I am going to run, because I live a ways away. You may get ill, so just close your eyes."

Suddenly the man gripped her almost frighteningly firmly with his left arm, but obviously so as to secure her, and he began to run. It didn't feel like running, really, but like gliding. If she opened her eyes, the scenery of the street would be whipping past so quickly it would almost appear to move slower than one would expect. His balance, particularly for having someone in his arms, was remarkable. His agility, running over uneven and nearly destroyed bits of sidewalk as they moved into more shadowy parts of the city, was also unusual.

The cold air rushing past them would stab like a cold tidal wave in the ocean to any bare skin available for it to prick against. But it was only for a few moments. In no time at all he was rushing them up a flight of steps, and then another, through doors, until they arrived in a dark hallway. His pace had, since reaching the building itself, greatly slowed t

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greatly slowed to a normal stride. He would not let her go until they were safely within the flat, which he had to unlock, where he let her down on a chair in the kitchen for now.

"Everything in working order?" he asked, pressing his fingers against the back of her neck to ensure it was stable.

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"I meant other than that. I've snapped someone's neck moving that fast in my younger years--- believe it or not, making a sudden stop at that speed is the same as getting into a carwreck while strapped in except for your head, and the result is typically internal decapitation. I was just making sure," he assured somewhat disturbingly.

"I need to see all of the wounds, so make sure you're not covering any with fabric, shoes, or anything. I will be back."

With that, the man dipped into a room in the back of the kitchen, from where a rustling of metal, plastic containers falling, and a dragging sound against the floor erupted. He returned with a medium sized box which he dropped onto the kitchen table and snapped open. The man had a medical kit. Fancy that. He started by removing some instruments and pouring clear liquid from a bottle into a plastic dish near the corner of the table, then began to dig in the box again.
[c]

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"I can tell you don't like me touching you--- I don't know if it's from the pain or something else--- but I'm going to give you some shots of local anesthetic because digging for a bullet is pretty excruciating," he began to say as he drew out two syringes and two small bottles of clear liquid, carefully checking the labels before he uncapped them and inserted the syringes respectively. After the two shots, which would pinch (he gave them behind the knee) and feel tight, she would find that the severity of her pain was greatly lessened within moments.

The less severe wounds, he began to treat by gently cleaning them with a sterile liquid and compressing them with a large gauze wrap and bandages to inhibit the bleeding; it was obvious there were no bullets in them because he could see both entry and exit wounds for those. When he made his way to the knee, however, the damage was a little overwhelming. There was no exit wound, nor would he expect there to be because the bullet had obviously been stopped by the strong cap and joint of the knee.
[c]

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The man, who still had not revealed who he was, quietly took from the box something that looked like very large medical tweezers and a lancet for cutting away some of the shredded tissue. After a few moments of fishing around in her knee, which would not be quite as painful as she may have expected, he retrieved a glimmering, but bloody, bullet that he hoisted toward the light.

"Well, this bullet is of Taiyou make. Nobody around here would make rounds like this. Looks like a round from a 9mm pistol. Its use of depleted uranium means it's meant to pierce armor. Doesn't look like you were wearing any armor, though. Only gun I know of with this size and trait set is a Seburo M-5, a semi-automatic pistol, usually used against a lot bigger targets than you.. Pretty lethal; you're lucky they only hit your legs, this would have shredded you to pieces."

He dropped it on the table in a solution of sterile liquid he had prepared in the petri dish, and finished by bandaging that wound as well, tightly enough to stop the dripping blood, then stood and washed his hands in the sink nearby. "Those will have to be changed frequently, but you will be okay. You need to eat, drink, and then rest to help your body produce blood more quickly and keep you from becoming nauseous. By the way," he added as he dried his hands off on a towel, "What can I call you? You will be stuck here for a while, after all. . ."

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Luckily, he hadn't seen any such photos of her, so he took her offer of a name warmly and nodded. "You can call me Senya," he replied, and began clearing the instruments from the table--- some into the box, used ones into a container in the sink to be cleaned and sterilized.

"I won't ask what happened. It isn't my business. But it seems you need to be more careful. If somebody used a gun like that on you, they used it because they wanted you dead. This is, and isn't, the best place for you to stay. I can tell you that nobody will bother you here--- nobody that would leave alive, anyway, if that is of any comfort to you."

He slid the box on a shelf in his living room, to make it more accessible should he need it again, and then wandered with a bit of lethargy back into the kitchen. "Something to eat and drink before bed, yes? You need your strength."

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"Hn, I'm not sure what those are-- or rather, in what foods they aren't-- unfortunately," he muttered as he went through his cupboards and refridgerator. He dismissed her slip up, although he noticed her tension, sort of absently, behaving as if he simply hadn't heard her.

"I have an old laptop on the livingroom table, but I have no internet access for personal reasons, and the laptop isn't capable of running very much. I don't use computers for the most part," he said, which was quite surprising. One would imagine a man like him would keep a computer around, but apparently, for some reason, he had little use for one. That being said, Senya was a pecuiliar man. He did have a television, but his flat was more overrun with books than anything else-- some in Russian, some in English.

"I think I will retire soon. I need to trust you won't try to run off, though. I would have to find you and drag you back, and upset your injuries." He may or may not have been joking, but whatever the case, Senya smiled at her and then disappeared into yet another small, dark room, and could only be seen as a shadow moving across the doorway after a light was flicked on, leaving her to do what she needed to do while he prepared to shower away the stench of vodka.

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The roar of the shower a few rooms away was the only thing that could be heard for about ten minutes, followed by a rustling of metal hangers, the creaking of the floor-boards over her head, and a few thumps against the wood. Sounded like the neighbors could have been having an argument, or somebody dropped something heavy.

Many moments would pass with nothing occuring that would be particularly jarring; the clocks in the bedroom slowly droned on with their incessant ticking against the creepy rustling of movement in the hallway, and above again.

The floor in the livingroom, outside the guest room where she slept, creaked as well. It was obvious he had been getting dressed, as the dripping water had ceased a while ago, and as the groaning boards were indicative of his heavy boots again. The light that flooded beneath the crack of the door swam with his shadow passing back and forth over it.

Clink, clack, slosh, hiss.

He could have been making coffee, he could have been washing dishes or boiling water for tea. But, whatever he was doing, it would all come to an abrupt and seemingly unprovoked stop, followed by a moment of absolute, purposeful silence, which itself was interrupted by a loud crash upstairs-- less like a dresser falling over, or dishes being dropped, or something being thrown, than a window being smashed and a body being pummeled into the floor. In an instant, a struggling screech was overwhelmed by a flood of booted feet marching over the apartment upstairs--- all struggling, themselves, to keep quiet. And then another moment of awkward silence.

They had gotten the wrong apartment.

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As she creaked the door open, all of the lights in the flat that were still on simultaneously extinquished, leaving them in an uncertain sea of darkness. The sound of a magazine sliding against metal, clicking loudly to ensure it was snug, split the void--- and then another, and another. The pounding boots rushed down the stairs a floor above them. Now, they were uncertain which apartment was correct. Were they listening for noises?

In these moments, two things were clear: their continued search ensured that they could only be after their particular suite. Who else in this complex was a wanted person? At least, a wanted person that would be captured so stealthily? And that Senya had been prepared for this situation long before her arrival--- it sounded as if there were a lot of weapons in very close reach, and who knew what else, but he did not cower in wait. He knew what he was doing.

Suddenly, a hand reached from the darkness and grabbed at her wrist, and simultaneously pushing the door the rest of the way open so that she could be tugged through. "I don't know if they're here for you or for me, but I don't intend on finding out, what about you?" he urged in a hoarse whisper and from the dim light of the street lamps outside, the glint of metal could be seen inching toward her. The man was giving her a pistol. "Beretta. Military issue," he assured, as if it would be of any comfort. "In case something happens."

The flood of boots stopped, again, only this time not more than a door down the hallway.

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His grip loosened and he leaned back against the wall to the side of the door-frame. The gun in his hand did not glint in the lamplight-- its finish was a black matte.

"Sort of," he confessed sort of disappointedly. Ideally, he would have enjoyed some time to drop her into at least a kevlar vest, but more time was something they did not have. He never went without at least some bullet-proofing, but ideally he would have liked time to suit up entirely. At least his vitals were covered.

"There is something in this apartment I need to get out of here other than you."

He again grabbed her wrist, and then a little more forcefully Senya tugged her across the room and down behind a large, black box that was placed behind some furniture, hidden away, which would leave her pressed against a wall. When she settled, and the boots were already shuffling toward their door, he only said:

"This box is completely bulletproof," before the door seemed to explode open with a wave of light following it and a glimmer of shadows eclipsing the lightbulb that was its source, then a barrage of gunfire from an automatic weapon, met with shattering glass and cracking wood as Senya lifted the heavy, oak table in front of the couch and tossed it toward the door--- effectively confusing the gunfire for only a moment.

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More crashing, shooting, banging, thumping and shattering ensued. The distinct sound of a knuckle connecting with a jawbone, a cheek-bone, the back of a head, the snapping of various limbs, digits, and ribs all pummeled the ear-drums of anybody immediately around their room--- above, below, next door, or inside of it. Loud groans, furniture and bodies hitting the wall, the floor, and--- the ceiling?

In an instant, a battered man in indistinct clothing that could barely be made out from the hall light actually crashed against the ceiling, was assaulted with a gunshot, and fell back down---thud! Obviously nobody caught him, and with the accompanying groans, it sounded as if he had landed on somebody else. The lights flicked on and an empty magazine popped out of a gun, clanking against the floor. Another immediately slid back into its home.

"You can come out now. I don't think there are any more of them. They were far too clumsy, not organized well enough. Do you know any of these people?" he muttered, kicking one over by the shoulder until the corpse flipped on its back.

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"I see. Well they won't have to worry about work ever again," the man grunted. The gun he held in his hand was quite peculiar-- it possessed five barrels: four in the bottom section and a single separate barrel on the top, and despite so much apparent power, was still hand-held size.

"They knicked my box," he further commented, dipping down to scrape his finger against the dings in the metal frame of his black box. Luckily nothing had gone through--- not that it would have mattered. The box would have been the only thing damaged.

"It's obvious we need to get out of here, but there is no way I can carry you and this beast," Senya proceeded to kick the massive eyesore as if to affirm his point, then pulled it up by its handle to carry it to another room. "So I will have to put this on, probably for the better, so that we can find somewhere else to go. Make sure you didn't leave behind anything identifying in case they scout the place to retrieve the bodies."

And with that, for about five minutes, he would disappear into his bedroom.

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He did not keep her waiting too long, but what he accomplished in that short period of time could be regarded as impressive. When he exited the room, without the box in tow, he was hardly himself, as Senya was now covered from head to foot in sophisticated black body-armor, which immediately could be seen as including biomechanical attachments, light-weight exoskeleton, an internal respiration system, and a utility belt to hold various explosives and semi-automatic firearms. The three-layered suit provided him nearly complete protection from any further offensive company, but it did detract from his previously passive appearance.

"Initiate Voice Command Program: Tsyganov, Arseniy," he commanded aloud to nobody. "Prompt vitals check, display 23-A. Initiate Augmented Reality Program. Initiate Dynamic Sonar Mapping Display. Initiate full Language Translation Program," he yammered for a few moments. It became obvious he was indeed a soldier--- and probably not a typical one.

He drew from his utility belt the five-barrel gun he had been holding, choosing a hand-held with the most power and accuracy as he would be carrying her the entire way to wherever they ended up going.

"You ready?"

He had under-estimated the force that was after her, hopefully a simple miscalculation due to his probable hangover.

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The loud crash, and the further shattering of his windows, the swarm of bodies into his apartment--- how he had me made such a grave miscalculation? Was the first group meant to distract him? He wasn't entirely sure, particularly after their authorative command, much like police, to surrender. The first group obviously intended to kill her. This group's initial hesitation to start, their surrender request, appeared to him immediately that they were more interested in taking her into custody. And he knew they were after her-- those were certainly not special forces sent from GNU, who would have steam-rolled everything he owned and held no prisoners.

"You sound as if you're placing somebody under arrest," Senya had risen his gun to meet them as soon as he heard the crash. He was not pointing at anybody in particular, it seemed, only in their general direction. He stepped once to the side, sliding himself in front of Lisa so that she was protected, just in case they changed their minds, by his body armor. "May I ask who, and for what?" he began, distractingly.

"And before you reiterate your demand, let me note that harming me would not bode well for anybody, so let's just figure out what's going on here, hm?" the man instructed as passively as possible, slathered with his heavy slavic accent.

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"I see. A terrorist, huh? Well, I didn't know I was dealing with a terrorist." Again, he was distracting for a greater purpose as his visor's Augmented Reality Program fleshed out substance analysis of the shields and armor before him. Four of them were standard armor, similar to kevlar, and just as easily disposable. That was a good sign. It further notified him of their height and frames, their estimated weight based on the data feed from the Sonar Mapping Program, and top running speed on a flat surface as a rough approximation based on their stature and relative leg lengths. As this information flooded him, his mind began to calculate how quickly he could execute his plan. He didn't dare turn his head to map out distances, or they would know immediately. Instead, he kept his pokerface behind his visor.

"What a pretty name, though. Too bad. Why don't you lower your weapon so these nice officers can take you into custody?" he inquired of her politely, with a certain urgency in his voice. He really had no plan, so he was intending an all or nothing method of execution.

It was an odd request for him to make, but for as prepared as he seemed to be, he hoped that she trusted him. He kept his gun raised for now. "And how do I know you aren't terrorists yourselves? I mean, from one apparent figure of authority to another." Senya posed a good question. If they were really authority, they would put up with this nonsense questioning from another soldier to prevent unnecessary bloodshed, and would only use lethal fire if lethal fire was used first. If they were a terrorist group, they would probably drop their nerve and shoot him. He at least appeared to be intending to cooperate, as he had asked her to drop the gun, however.

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"Thank you. . ." he began with a tone of uncertainty. This was the fork in the road, in dropping her gun he could now either activate a microwave radiation detonator remotely from the back bedroom, or he could actually give her up. He closed his eyes for a moment, playing through both scenerios in the deepest detail he could imagine from where he stood. It was not likely she would survive their escape--- he was not worried about himself, but she had absolutely no armor and no weapon that would stand up to firearms of their caliber. It was most certainly not like the first group that had broken in just twenty minutes before.

However, in pressing the least enjoyable idea further--- of releasing her to them--- he remembered certain key details that increased her chance of survival overall, at least in comparison to the escape sequence that would be an obvious failure for her. He did not want to do it, but it seemed he had no other choice. He lifted his three extra fingers off of the gun he held, showing he was relinquishing his armed position by no longer fingering the trigger.

"Let me make sure she didn't grab any of my explosives she may feel like detonating when you walk over," Senya warned, holstered the gun as he turned toward her on his heel, and began to act as if he were patting down her sides for any extra weapons she may have stashed. Although he made this look very convincing from behind, he was very careful not to actually allow his hands to press into the fabric of her clothes, he only slid along the surface in a way she could barely notice. Senya had pieced together by now that she did not like to be touched and he would respect that to the best of his ability, but for what little he was, he was sure she knew right now why it was important.

Before he turned back around, whispered something against the side of her face--- again, not touching the dip of her neck, but only doing so as he was in the process of standing. So it was done very faintly, distin

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distinct only to her. Whatever it was that he said, it was inaudible to those standing just beyond them. When Senya was finished checking her, he confirmed with them-- turning back around, with his hands up to show he had not grabbed any explosives himself.

"She is clear. She is not hiding any grenades, or extra arms on her. She is free to go."

He stepped to the side to allow them to take her away, and would, standing as stiffly as he was, lower his hands behind his back in an at-ease position.