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[Pyro]

The man crawled through the field blinded with snow. His arms grew tired and half frozen as he forced his body through the snow covered field, his mind racing with possible ideas. Why had this treatment fallen upon him? Those answers would have to come later if at all, for right now he had to find some shelter to ease his now horrid condition that the snow was not helping at all.

In the wake of his crawling he left only a dented path that was filling up as the snow continued to fall heavily from the sky, and blotches of blood from the three bullet wounds in his chest. His revolver, shotgun, and his very own favorite pistol with his personally engraved silencer had been removed from his person after he was shot, and now he was struggling for a life that should never had been in danger. All they were doing was holding a hostage, how had this gone wrong? How had his comrades turned on him so quickly, changing sides for one hostage who thought himself to be a self proclaimed genius?

All he knew was that now he was down his weapons, and as he crawled the chances of his survival slowly dropped as the cold of Russia took their effects on him. His body finally dropped limp as his face dug into the snow and his hands began to cover with snow. His instincts were telling him that the time was near, and they had rarely ever failed him before. The last of his might was pushed into flipping his body over, the snowflakes falling from the sky onto his face and into his mouth. His time had come, and his mother was right. The Mafiya would be the death of him, she was right since he was sixteen.

"Oh my God!" A voice echoed into his mind. "ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"

"I'm shot..." He coughed through shivering teeth. "How the fuck do you think i'm doing?"

Even though he was Russian, he spoke English fluently. He had been born in Russia, legally a citizen to English born parents. He could speak both Russian and English with accents better then people who grew up in those areas. He was a master of accents and could imitate people almost to a T. This is why the Mafiya were so inclined to keep him around, but since the development of technology there was no reason to send one man on thousands of missions that could easily used a huge man and a voice disguiser.

"What's your name?" The voice asked.

"I am Maxim Vasha." The man replied to the voice, looking up into the white snow. "Help... Please..." With that he slipped off into unconsciousness, never knowing whether or not he were to wake again. Top Hitman for the Mafiya, considered dead by the same people he had killed for so many times, and now he had a chance to start a new. He could continue under his name, just presumably dead. The Mafiya had made a grave mistake thinking that Maxim couldn't take a few bullet wounds, he personally thought that he had proved himself more times then that in the eyes of the Mafiya.

To start a new? It sounded like a great idea, to live a clean life and maybe find a family. He had always been too busy with hits to find a family of his own. Maybe a cute girl, the cutest of the girls in the world came from Russia. He remembered that he had a number at a bar a few weeks ago of a girl named Kate, maybe he would call her... No... To start new would mean to live life clean. He had no troubles living life clean, aside for the job. He killed, he refused to go back to the cubical or the desk life.

He awoke with a warm sensation next to him, not even daring to open his eyes. He was not aware of his surroundings, and if they thought he was still asleep then he could listen in and learn somethings of whoever had rescued him. Maybe they were good, maybe they were hired to find him by the Mafiya to see what he remembered. It was all possible, you opened up your mind as a Hitman. Though all of the rest of his days would be a mystery Maxim knew one thing, The Russian Mafiya will pay. Vladamir Czar would answer to Maxim, and if anybody stood in his way he would kill them... Friend or foe.

[Dragon]

"Ваши указания не работают." (<-"Your directions don't work.")

"What? What the fuck does that mean. Listen," i dramatically enunciated my words as if talking to a 3 year old and explaining quantam physics "I'M. DANTE. I. WAS. JUST. TRYING. TO. GET. TO. THE. AIR PORT. WHERE. THE. FUCK. IS. THAT?!"

"Вы - идиот." (<-"You are an idiot.")

"Jesus, i just can't win in this goddamn country." i said to myself. "I'D. LIKE. TO. SLEEP..." I rested my face on my hands and made snoring noises. "A. ROOM?! DO. YOU. HAVE. A. ROOM. FOR. ME?!"

The guy gave me an impatient look. "Да, да это заканчивает прямо там!" (<-"Yes, yes it's right through there!") With an aggravated look on his face, the man started pointing to his left where there was apparently a room full of beds.

I threw down some ridiculous amount of money on the counter and walked off towards the beds. There was a curtain between the room with the man and the bed room. I swept it aside to see in the third bed down on the left, a guy heavily bandaged around his chest.

"Damn, wonder who he pissed off." i thought to myself. "Probably made fun of the russian guy out there."

I opened the breif case i was carrying with my hits inside of it. It probably wasn't wise to do this around people. "If he tries anything, i'll just punch him in the chest." i mused to myself.

I pulled out the report sheet and looked at the info of the guy with the contract on his head. "No known name to the organization......... blah blah blah... head of the Russian Mafia..... blah blah blah... take him and anyone who gets in your way... blah..... Okie dokie. Let's do this."