m<a class="postlink" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4WlqxPzQ28">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4WlqxPzQ28</a>m<br/><br/>Was it sand, or was it ash, that swept and draped about his boots? Was the heat beaming down on his neck and back the Afghan sun, or a missile strike? Was it sweat falling in the crease between his nose and cheek, or tears?<br/><br/>Was the blood on his hands his, or theirs?<br/><br/>For a minute or two, the Russian stood there in complete confusion. His head sunk, staring at his boots as tendrils of wind-swept sand flitted over them. His arms laxly held his gear, his eyes hidden behind his gas-mask. He was completely unaware of various eyes staring at him, in varying stages of confused amusement at the soldier standing in the sun staring at his feet, unmoving.<br/><br/>This happened to Dimitri from time to time. Forgetting where he was. All it took was a moment to get everything back in order before getting right back to business. This wasn't Moscow. Hell no, it was WAY too hot. It wasn't the flames of conflagration that made him sweat, but that damnable sun. And besides, wouldn't everyone be running about screaming and shooting if it was?<br/><br/>Yeah. Yeah, that was then. But he was in the now.<br/><br/>Abruptly, he shook his head and straightened his posture. He remembered now. The orders. Report to the man in charge of this desert base for assignment.<br/><br/>....Now who in the Hell was<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>?<br/><br/>Almost comically, the big soldier turned his head around, forward, and then back the other way, his stiff armor not giving him as free a motion as he would prefer, making the motion completely clumsy. He didn't<span style="font-style: italic">see</span>anyone who looked really important - at least not right away. He'd have to ask one of these layabouts...<br/><br/>With a pep in his step, he began marching straight toward one of his new comrades to do just that, until he spotted someone else. A man in a brown trench coat, crossing in front of him. White shirt, black tie, pistols at the hip - yeah, yeah! Trench coats weren't standard issue....right?<br/><br/>"-Ey, Mr. Officer!" he shouted enthusiastically in a thick Russian accent at the man crossing the dusty street in front of him, before jogging up to the stranger. "Eyloh, you are man in charge yes? Dimitri is here now!" he declared expectantly, waiting for Roy to respond (the name of course, he could not yet know).