A/N: Okay, I know I said I retired after Winter's Embrace(ehm, maybe I didn't here but, well, I've mentioned it a few times around at least), but this one sort of was gnawing at the back of my head. It's just a one-shot sort of telling the story of how I pictured Sergei getting his scars and how it came about.

It does tie into the chapter where he mentioned in passing about how old he was when he killed his first man, but you do not need to read both stories to understand this one. Just take any mentions of the other story and no need to worry, basically.

Also, this story does not involve Sergei and Lili doing nasty things to each others' bodies at all so it's safe for work. :P

Anyway, hope you all enjoy!

–

Driving along the snowy road he was glad the actual snowfall had stopped-even though the heavy jeep was good at handling the roads, it was still a pain to drive in.

Sergei had left on his business; he needed to get to a base rather close to Ural Mountain range. It was late and the ice on the roads-which, being in the middle of nowhere, didn't get cleaned-could be quite dangerous. Luckily there wasn't much to run into if something went wrong, but it paid to be safe, particularly in his situation. Or so he liked to tell himself.

The heat in the jeep, coupled with his heavier field clothing-besides the warm under-layer, he had on fatigues, a coat, leather gloves and heavy boots-kept him warm enough, though the huge man had quite the tolerance for the cold. He almost welcomed it.

As he drove, though, something else was on his mind. He remembered Lili's words in the back of his head:

"Who was the first person that you killed?"

He remembered well. It was in training, and it was the man who had given him his first scars.

Sergei had come young into the military life; orphaned at a young age from an accident, he did not find much luck in adoption. Most families who tried could not handle the near-silent, moody and pale boy with the shaggy, raven-black hair who was considerably bigger and stronger for his age than most. At fourteen, he had ended up in a fight that left another boy around his age hospitalized; however, the foster home had agreed to hand him over to the military who had taken an interest in him. They could work with him. At the very least, he would function as a useful shock trooper when he came of age.

Oddly enough, Sergei had taken to military life easily-starting with military school of course. He didn't mind the structure, and he liked learning how to fight. What once was brawling soon became refined into the deadly art of Combat Sambo, and he learned quickly. He learned how to fight with a knife, how to handle weapons, and also tactics and leadership; despite his near-silence, he had a commanding presence even then. They had high hopes for him.

They did not know that they were refining the person who would soon become the 'White Angel of Death.'

Driving along the road, he had recalled those two and a half or so first years being routine, and he settled into it rather quickly.

Things changed, however, about halfway through his sixteenth year.

The unit he was training with got a man-roughly fifteen years older than he was. He was the youngest in the unit, being passed along quickly, though the men were in their early twenties, on average. The man, named Andrei, had a child of roughly ten himself and came late into the military. He also, for some reason, developed a serious bone to pick with Sergei, and the teen had no idea why. There seemed to be, from what he could tell, a hint of jealousy that the younger Sergei was just as far along as men who were five years or more older, and Andrei claimed that he was getting some sort of preferential treatment. He did not know the older man's reasoning to join the military, but he wondered if it was something forced, or if he was once disgraced and had to start anew. No matter the reason, Andrei seemed to go from annoyance to hatred after Sergei defeated him in the ring the first time.

Sergei sighed, pulling a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and lighting it on the black steel lighter he carried. He cracked the window a touch, shifting the gears to handle driving on what looked to be a bit nastier roads ahead. He was thankful for the floodlights on the vehicle to keep things visible. The night was clear as well, which likewise helped.

He rubbed the scar on his lip after lighting the cigarette, remembering how the entire thing came to a violent head.

–

Sergei had almost had enough of Andrei's taunting and attempts to get him into trouble; their sparring matches got more and more brutal to the point where their superiors had taken them aside, with Andrei nearly crazed in his hatred at this point. What started as seemingly just jealousy had gone much further, making Sergei wonder about the man's sanity. Did his parents do something to his family or something, he wondered? Or was this man just crazy? He almost feared for his boy, if Sergei would be one to know the word.

One night, after a particularly heavy one where Sergei had won yet again over the older man, Andrei had cornered him on the way back to the barracks.

"Why don't you speak?" he spat at the teen, who only glared at him with his odd, pale eyes through the hair that blew into his face. He tried to push by. Andrei got a murderous look in his eyes as he walked past...only to feel the man's hand on his shoulder. Sergei turned...and the flash of silver went in front of his eyes, across his nose. He could feel the wetness begin to drip down his face.

Blood? he could remember thinking. He knew if he didn't act, this man would kill him, and he didn't even know why.

"Speak!" Andrei seemed maddeningly frustrated. He wanted something-anything-to show he was afraid. He would beat him, leave him broken, and show them that he was not some special prize to be treated special; that he was simply a strange teen who happened to be good at hitting people. He probably didn't even have the experience Andrei had in the field before he was disgraced.

The second slash came, this time across his arms and chest; it was summer, so they did not have on their heavier jackets. Sergei thought if he did not fight back he would be killed; killed and carried off to be left to the wild animals. He did not know Andrei's only motivation was to break him.

His cold eyes finally flashed; he did not see his own expression, of course, but at that moment, Andrei's face went from enraged...to fearful.

He remembered very little of what happened after. He was scarred around a few more times, but didn't realize it. He rained punches onto the man, breaking his arm and throwing him down, kicking him in the face as he fell to the ground several times; blood flying off to the side, along with several teeth. He then sat down on his chest, pounding away with both fists.

It was there they found him, his fists dripping blood and Andrei dead; his face smashed in, exactly as he told Lili. He did not use a brick, or a stone, but his own bare hands. He did remember the feel of the bones breaking; that was something that never left him, but it was something he felt often and was used to it. He did remember Andrei's face; a mass of blood and gore, though not as bad as the man whose head he had shattered in the alleyway, truth be told.

Seeing the knife off to the side and the wounds on Sergei, and hearing his testimony after he had calmed, they believed that he was indeed attacked. He did need stitches on some of the wounds, in fact; they cut quite deep. He wore his scars, though.

No discussion was had within his hearing about the situation then or later. Not one person messed with Sergei again, not that anyone did before besides Andrei. In fact, people seemed to steer clear of him. He was fine with this.

Would be that it had ended there, Sergei thought to himself, as he snapped back to the moment, having thrown the cigarette out of the window and put it back up. It did end finally...but six years later.

He was in a small town-nay, more like a village-chasing down a lead on some sort of mission; he actually had forgotten at this point. It was late as he was heading back to his temporary quarters when he felt the familiar burning feeling in his shoulder; a feeling that he had felt once before down further on his torso. He had looked down, seeing the bullet hole, and managing to stay standing looked ahead...only to see a boy of about sixteen himself.

The boy didn't even have to tell him who he was. He could see it on his face, as he remembered what Andrei's son looked like when he was about ten. Sergei, no stranger to silence, also did not need the boy to say anything. He knew why he was there; in the back of his head, he supposed this might happen at some point.

But not now. The boy was too young. Too young to have hunted him down, though there he was.

As young as I was...

He ran at him, not taking more shots. He clearly wanted to kill him face to face with a knife of his own.

Sergei defended at first; his arm was numbing from the bullet. Sergei was crouched over somewhat. He moved a bit too slow; the boy's knife slid up his lip, from lower to upper, blood spewing from the wound, the left side of his face on fire...though he was able to bite back the pain, as always. He knew he had to act quickly.

He did not regret his choice. Then again, there was only one thing Sergei felt regret over, and that was only recently.

He reversed the next blow, getting the teenager in a sleeper hold. The boy tried slashing at his arm one more time, but the heavy fabric of his longcoat blocked the worst of it. He held his forearm tight around his throat, staring down. The boy looked up, eyes still full of hate.

"I will kill you. I promise."

He didn't much remember when he twisted his arm, or the snap afterward. He knew if he did not do this now, he would come back for him. If not now, then a year, two years from now. With a bigger gun. He knew the look in his eyes; it was the look of someone not about to give up.

It was painless, to be sure. While Sergei could be brutal or even downright cruel on the battlefield, he was quick and clean with this one.

When he set him down, he remembered he was gentle with the body. He sighed, wiping the blood from his face; it flowed freely from his mutilated lip, dripping onto his coat. Sergei was known for many things-besides his strength and ruthlessness, there was his incredible tolerance to pain. This was just another scar, one of many that he had and many more to come.

Nothing was much different in the end. He was patched up, and went on with his life. He thought little of Andrei-or his son, whom he did not even know the name of-again.

–

Sergei continued his long night drive, wondering when he would reach the base; soon, he figured. He would then be off on a rather long mission. He did not know why he started to remember. Perhaps it had been the happenings over the past days...or even the past year.

The scar itched again. It did that from time to time, even though it was about six years healed. Maybe it remembered, it thought. Maybe it remembered and wanted to remind him.

Not that it mattered. They were dead.

Their ghosts were dead as well. In conflict, Sergei Dragunov left nothing alive behind him.

All that remained were gallons of blood spilled over twelve years.

–

Yeah, like I said, just wanted to do a small piece, showing a bit of his ruthlessness even at a young age, and even when he was older toward someone who was yet as young as he was at the time.

I wanted to leave a bit of mystery onto his attacker's motives as well. I thought of a few things but felt that, being a mysterious man as it is, it fit him overall. I wanted the story to be more of a setting/feeling piece in any case, so I felt it wasn't quite as important. Everyone has their ideas on how he got his many scars...while some no doubt were simply from battle, I liked placing the bigger ones.

Anyway, again, hope you all enjoyed this short piece!