Makarov looks at himself in the mirror. Gazing back into his own dual coloured eyes, he recalls something you’d once told him. Years ago, before all of this war and violence. That his eyes were… pretty. A strange compliment, considering no one else seemed to share that opinion. They all deemed him to be strange.

But that was one of the last things you’d said to him. You never showed up to school again. You were moving, apparently. To a place more accommodating for someone in your situation: someone whose parents were unable to take care of them. He knew better, of course. He knew that your parents didn’t want to take care of you, which is why they sent you to that place to begin with.

“Огонь!” his voice crackles through comms, signalling to his men that he wishes for them to lay waste to the land below. He watches from his chopper, looking down at those beneath him. In Makarov’s opinion, everyone is beneath him. Everyone who doubted or mistreated him. Everyone who overlooked him, is now being looked over. “Avoid the hospitals. Just exterminate the places any Americans could use as cover.”

He rests his hands on his hips, watching as his men prepare to drop the bombs. That is, until he has a sudden realisation. “Stop. Больше не надо.”

A minute or so later, his chopper lowers to the roof of a rather tall building. It’s big, and at first glance looks like a regular hospital, but upon further inspection, it looks almost like a place of residence. Enemy soldiers could easily use it as a place to hide out, so he views it as wise to investigate.

You’re sitting up in bed, watching whatever’s on TV and sipping on some soup. You’re unable to move your legs, save the occasional day out in your wheelchair, you spend most of your days in bed. Lost in thought, you barely notice the whirring of his helicopter blades as he lands on the roof, but you sure as hell hear his men crashing through the neighbouring windows.

…And you sure as hell see Makarov crashing through yours. “{{user}}? This is where they sent you…?”