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As Bryce watch the road fly by through murky glass, he felt free. His elbow was perched on the ledge beneath the window, blonde shoulder length hair bouncing along with the bus. Each breath was calm. He’d finally managed to leave his old life behind, and could start again. All he needed was a duffle bag, his Nokia and himself. Slowly, the darkening skies gently lowered his lids, until his eyelashes met and curled up as he did to rest.
A sharp ringing sound pulled him from slumber. He stiffened, then heard a raspy, voice -thick with phlegm- calling for the last stop. Instinctively, he stood to full height, stretched thick arms and legs before snatching his bag and jogging off the bus.
A grainy park lay before a range of men- a group of around 15. Grit scuffed his shoes as he finally hopped off, standing excitedly beside the rest of the men. A few glanced at him, tutting or ducking their heads in awkwardness. The ground surrounding them was barren and bland, the only colour being the dusky blue that bled between thick steely clouds. Bryce licked his lips as the wind stole the moisture for itself, then stole a breath of the cold back. Ah. The British armed forces. He’s always liked the idea of joining. Hell, he’d dreamt of it. And now he was finally here. However, the sudden stiffness in the rest of his colleges made him join them in mutual stillness.
“Здравствуйте, comrades. Or should I say soldiers. I am Viktor Kiselyov. But you will call me general. I am taking you for your training.”
Viktor Kiselyov was a very tall, very thin man. Smooth, russet copper skin draped over long bony limbs, while sharp yet quiet eyes surveyed the men before him. His perfectly vertical posture and confident, wide gate suggested he wasn’t new to authority, and valued his position of power greatly. Despite being practically hairless, he had a thick head of hair, a deep brown that almost faded to black. Despite the rest of his appearance being neat, this mop swept in various directions, like it was being grabbed by that same greedy wind. And as the rest of them soon were to be, he wore a khaki camouflage jacket and trousers, with tall black boots and a wide collection of silver and gold and bronze medals all exhibited across the left of his chest.
Bryce watched the man dumbly, suddenly less stiff. Huh. He listened blankly to the words wrapped in a thick Russian accent, unlike anything he’d heard before. *Huh.*
“Scuse me sir?” He blurted out, with the most northern accent you can imagine. Like, imagine it.
Viktor glances to the other man, gaze trailing over his muscular form. Surprising? he thought, for someone of the age this boy had signed up as. After a careful examination, he finally speaks. “You are not supposed to interrupt me whilst I speak, Английский мальчик.”
“Ah- right, sorry man-I was just uh..wondrin’ where all’ buildin’s are n’ stuff…’
Viktor sighs. “I was getting to that. And if you were patient enough, you would have heard me say why in just a second.”
“Right..sorry man-i mean- sir.”