(I added some stuff to the end of the post, Reecie, so please take a look at it)<br/><br/>St. Petersburg, Russia...1905. The winter froze the landscape, old buildings and windows being covered in a thin layer of frost and snow. Anyone with any common sense can be seen wrapped up in thick clothes as they walk through the freezing streets of the city. Horse drawn carriages brought people from place to place, and armed men often motioned them along nervously, sensing a storm coming from the wells of the city...<br/><br/>Vasiliev stood on guard duty outside the royal palace in the center of St. Petersburg, looking off somewhat absent-mindedly; there were reports of more protests inside the city, but hell, there had been plenty in the past week, so why worry? The people of St. Petersburg cried for a petition against a number of the Tsar's actions, as did many others, while the Tsar stood firm on his actions, not ready to appease the people. But Vasiliev would rather have full on democracy than let that man stay in power; he hated monarchs and Marxists alike, for all he wanted was freedom...but such thoughts were treason, so he forcibly repressed them in his mind, his gaze dancing across the buildings surrounding the palace. Despite his suppression of thoughts, the idea of just...running away from it all was appealing; he'd head west if he could, off to one of the few standing, powerful democracies in the world: America. Yes, this sort of idea would grace his mind a number of times a day, and almost every time he glanced at a world map. He had heard a lot about the distant country during his visits to his brother, whom always regarded America as the birth place of freedom, and the only true democracy, having visited some time ago for reasons unknown to Vasiliev. Still, his constant glorifying of the country had piqued Vasiliev's interest...and now it's all he could think about. His mind wandered once again, somewhat captivated by the idea of having a nice, quiet stretch of land under the clear skies of a far more forgiving climate. He'd have a pretty wife, a plethora of children...it was almost like a tall-tale to him by this point.<br/><br/>Yet these pleasant thoughts of a distant land and bright future were shattered by shouts from inside the palace. "The protesters are headed this way! TO YOUR STATIONS!" Vasiliev sighed...they were coming yet again. He grabbed his rifle and left his spot just outside the front doors and neared the gates of the palace, where other men had already began to line up. After about five minutes, all the men had been set up (All of the couple hundred)...now all they had to do was wait.<br/><br/>And wait they did; it seemed every single man in the line was somewhat effected by a level of anticipation. What if the protesters got violent? Would they arrest them, or even worse, SHOOT them? Thousands of questions bounced inside the heads of the soldiers, especially Vasiliev as they stood firmly in line, ready to meet the protesters head-on. One thing was certain about the situation: not a single man would get inside the palace while the soldiers were there.<br/><br/>Then, they appeared, at first slowly, but then a large mass of people began to pour from the innards of the city, shouting out a number of chants which seemed to clash together in the air, chopping up the messages of the crowd. Some of the guards seemed nervous, but their CO quickly strode up behind them on horseback, calming them with his presence. "Stand your ground, men..." He said sternly, watching the crowd and his own men closely. Suddenly, though, another man rode up to the captain with his own horse, a letter in his hand. His expression was grave, and soon, the captain shared this expression as he read the letter. "Are you sure this is from him?" He asked. To which the messenger replied with a solemn nod before riding off toward the other officers around the palace.<br/><br/>Vasiliev had only caught a brief glimpse of the exchange, far too distracted by the crowds outside the palace to pay much attention. Yet what the Captain said next was beyond surprising. "Aim!" He called out, some of the men looking up at him in confusion. Vasiliev's heart sank at his Captain's orders. "Aim?!" He shouted back. "What the fuck do you mean, aim?!" The Captain stared down Vasiliev, it was clear neither of them were fond of the orders. "I SAID AIM, SOLDIER!" He shouted, nearly croaking...almost as if he was holding back tears. Vasiliev did as he was told, raising his rifle with untold amounts of reluctance. He pointed the barrel of his Mosin Nagant toward the crowd, as did his hundreds of comrades lined up next to him. Suddenly, his eyes fixated on a woman standing the crowd...his unlucky target, no doubt. Before he could adjust his aim, he heard "FIRE" get shouted, causing his finger to jump on the trigger. His rifle jerked upward and back from the recoil, his round flying directly at the woman. It was unclear as to where he hit her...a lot of blood went up into the air at that moment.<br/><br/>Even with his experience in the Russo-Japanese war, Vasiliev never thought he'd have to do such a thing as horrid as this....he watched as the protesters began to scatter in panic, and as they to receded into the depths of the city, they left behind a number of dead bodies, and those too gravely wounded to carry, though it was clear that they did try to help some of the wounded, despite the state of panic they were in. Vasiliev was frozen in place for a moment, his barrel still smoking from the expended round, his heart nearly stopping for a moment...then he dropped his gun. He ran toward the bodies (as did other soldiers), searching frantically for the woman he had zeroed in on, hoping to god that he didn't kill her.