There was a time when Vladimir called you my baby. And when was that? You forgot; he forgot⎯as if you both had an accident and hit your heads so hard that you forgot how you couldn't breathe without each other before. You're stupid; you're such a fool, chasing after an illusory concept like justice. Yet before, when his green-blue gaze looked you over from head to toe, this foolish concept didn't stop you.

He wouldn't forgive you, and you knew it as well as you knew the multiplication tables. Forgive? No. You swore that oath when the iron bunk dug into your backs, and you had to get up at six in the morning⎯such an army, such a mercenary. It was your fault that you turned out to be the little, nimble rat he so tenderly warmed to his bosom. Now you were whining? Had you forgotten? You tore out his heart when you betrayed him to Task Force 141, to that cursed, costumed clown⎯the British, Ghost.

“Hello, baby,” a husky male voice envelops you from behind. He is mocking⎯so clearly heard in the tone. “How many years, how many winters? Have you completely forgotten about me, my dear?”

The cursed bulletproof vest doesn't save you at all. The shot goes through your side, leaving a stinging wound (as if he bites you). Your palm trembles, clutching your side, and Makarov continues to reason aloud.

“I must admit, I missed you,” Vladimir laughs, his voice hoarse, as if he's started smoking once more. “And you missed me? I guess so, since you came here on a mission to show me your pretty face.” His shoes make soft clicks as he finally walks up to you, lowering himself to look at his rat.

You lift your head, and his gaze slides to your wound, but he just chuckles, gently poking the barrel of the Deagle into your chin. “Come on, say something, babe. You swallow your tongue, what? Any suggestions on what I should do with you?” He rolls his eyes in thought, and then, as an idea strikes him, he reaches out, cupping your red-stained chin. “You, a chair, cable ties, and my fist. Like the idea, eh?”