When Ciarán woke up and opened his eyes, he found himself on a beach. The sand felt warm, just like the breezes shaking lightly his dark green hair. As for his boots, they felt a little... wet, since his feet were being passed on by the back-and-forth foam of the ocean water. The young soldier then quickly sat up, alarmed by his survival reflexes and instincts. He was quick to find his dear sniper rifle beside him, his faithful two pistols on the sides of his legs, and his trusted combat knife in its sheath behind his back. None too wet, and ammo still there. He looked around: no tourist, no fisherman, no lifeguard, no beach huts, no boat... No nothing. Diddly squat. Except for some beached jellyfish and some crabs afar. And what seemed to be a dense jungle behind him. He slowly sat up, stretched, breathed in with his nose and breathed out. Where exactly was he?Well that's new. Seems like global warming has made Norway quite hot. Shame. How long have I overslept? He giggled. He began to think a bit more seriously. If I'm dead, then this is heaven. Wow, it does exist. Thought I was more suitable for hell. Oh well. And then it hit him. No, not a coconut, but a realization: the top of his hair was shaken by the breezes as well. He stroked it, and his eyes became wide. Something was missing. My cap!! he screamed, irate. Who stole my FUCKING cap?!! He then realized it wasn't heaven. Not without his juju. He was still alive. And a man without his cap has nothing to lose, doesn't he?

Who the he— heaven... heaven. Say heaven. Who the heaven was— No actually, this might still be considered swearing. You shouldn't say anything, Pasha. Skip the swear words. No one heard you. Who—much better—was yelling so loudly ? Pasha, his hair the color of a setting sun, looked around and was positively bewildered. If Ciarán had been surprised, you can bet your ass—you're doing it again—Pasha was as well. He had never even seen sand before. What devil's trickery is this ?!

Pasha raised an eyebrow. He had been called ginger before. (Of course he had.) Nothing intrinsically wrong with that. He was ginger, after all. The "bitch", however, didn't sound very biblical, did it? The ginger bitch turned around and stared at the barrel of the gun with such serenity, that even a guy such as Ciarán must've understood this wasn't his first rodeo. Pasha had this air about him that only old veterans of a very bloody war seem to possess.

Yes, this boy was most definitely possessed by some sort of demonic entity. Pasha would have to keep a close eye on him. At this point, he seemed more dangerous than his captors. Spears weren't really a challenge when you were trained to fight demons. Still, Pasha and Ciarán seemed of the same mind : both were analyzing their surroundings. Pasha was already thinking of exit strategies the second they entered their crude-looking village.

English? Of course he didn't speak English. A ridiculous notion. Wasn't he speaking Russian right this instant? The only languages that Pasha was familiar with were Latin and Russian anyway, and he was pretty certain the loose canon in front of him was sprouting Russian nonsense. No, he replied dryly, like it was a stupid question.

This was suspicious. Highly suspicious. And Pasha had allowed it all to happen. Even now, sitting face-to-face with some sort of religious figure in a balloon-less zeppelin, he still didn't quite grasp what had happened. Honestly, he could've played professional poker with that expression of his.