That day, Captain Dmitry Bandera woke before his 04:30 alarm ever had the chance to go off.
He'd been only twisting and turning in his bed anyway, feeling more restless than usual. Almost as if he had already known that in a few hours, a ballistic missile would change his life forever.
Or at least, the way he saw himself in it.
Which wasn't surprising, considering—
Surviving that direct hit had him rethink everything he knew about the supernatural.
Made him reassess his life goals, his purpose, the meaning of it all.
Because no. While the strike came out of nowhere, with no air-raid sirens to warn them—
And despite what the brass later told the press, trying to milk the event for propaganda, it was no dud. Not a stray missile, either. The warhead hit a valid, albeit hidden, military target.
And it went off with a huge bang.
In the hotel's courtyard. Dead center. With him and all his recruits out in the open.
When they gathered for that stupid interview, but—
They all survived.
How? Why? It should have been impossible.
Was it all a dream? A nightmare?
He wouldn't have blamed anyone for thinking that.
But his old 24-hour watch broke from the impact, its hands stuck at 19:39 for the rest of his life.
And he kept wearing it as a memento that he should have died that day, but was instead reborn.
Corny much?
Yeah, well. Wait until you learn more about the Captain.
Okay, let's backtrack a bit.
Dmitry Bandera was born on Ukrainian soil in 2003.
As a kid, he watched how the people of his country overthrew the corrupt government. An almost bloodless revolution, pushed by aging celebrities, cheered by the West—
And already at that moment, he had decided to become the champion of justice.
A patriot. A freedom fighter. An action hero.
All the things other kids his age would spout at that time as well.
But Dmitry somehow never grew out of it.
He was still too young to pick up arms when the Russians first invaded. Though he enlisted as soon as he could, he was too late to see the frontlines.
Well, it was a bit naive to think they'd give him a rifle and tell him to dig a trench there.
But that was all he ever wanted. Let nothing pass.
Heck, he might have even got to live his dream—
If not for his parents cursing him with better-than-average looks.
That might have sounded like a good thing, but it wasn't.
Not for Dmitry.
He never cared about picking up chicks or getting random people's attention.
All he wanted was to fight.
To die for his country like a true patriot. Or at the very least, protect it with honour.
Stand up for the ideals he believed in, no matter how corny that may have sounded.
So, when they made him the poster child of patriotism, rather than letting him become one—
Yeah. Okay. He should have seen that coming.
He spouted so much heroic nonsense that the brass immediately singled him out for PR stunts.
And from there, he had a straight path leading to the US, training abroad.
Dmitry had become the face of cooperation between the West and his reformed country.
The symbol of Ukraine that broke its Soviet-era ties to join the modern society. He couldn't even complain. It was a great opportunity, and there was a lull in the fighting, anyway.
He wouldn't throw away a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
The best of the best taught him small-unit tactics and grand strategy at West Point.
Besides, once he graduated with high honors, his country would put his skills to good use, right?
RIGHT?!
Well, sort of.
When they finally did, he had to record propaganda videos day in and out. Explain how poor and weak his beloved country was, to garner attention to their cause.
Repeat his own childish ideals over and over about fighting for freedom and justice—
Things the military had never actually let him do. And thus he could no longer believe in.
Not with a clear conscience, at least.
But he was neither stupid nor ungrateful.
Dmitry understood the importance of his job better than anyone.
He did everything he could to secure the Western help his country depended on.
Meanwhile, he dreamed of fighting on the front when the time was finally right.
And then, the Russians did him the honor of invading his home for the second time. That's when he put his heels down and requested his immediate transfer forward.
Surprise, surprise—
The brass rejected it.
Dmitry was ready to desert and fight against their orders. Court-martial him if they wanted.
But they didn't. And odd as it may have sounded, he had to thank the Russians.
When they launched a daring attack on Kyiv itself, it threw the brass into chaos. His higher-ups threw everything at the wall in their panic to see what sticks—
And that finally, FINALLY included Dmitry as well.
He was lucky to the extremes, and eager to test it, too.
He gathered a small force, and since he was pretty famous by then, the people followed. He would lead them from the front, too, but not headfirst into danger as the brass expected.
Well, sure, his delaying tactics were unorthodox and risky, but they were necessary.
He bought only enough time for reinforcements to arrive—
Stunning both the invaders and his own men.
Those strategies he learned in the US worked, and his efforts to prove himself finally paid off.
The Russians?
After they were only a mile away from total victory, they had to pull all the way back to the border. He and the brave men fighting by his side turned their gamble into an absolute disaster.
They have overextended, leaving their flanks wide open—
And the Ukrainians have shown no mercy in exploiting it.
Of course, it would have been a lie to say Dmitry alone turned the tide.
He, and many others, were in the thick of it. But only the victory mattered. And he was sure the brass would finally take notice of his skills and send him where he belonged—
Which they did.
The only problem was that their idea of where that was could not have been further from his.
They made him the Hero of Kyiv.
The handsome, the fearless Captain Bandera.
And he spoke perfect English?! Well, that left them no questions about where to send him next.
The International Legion of Ukraine.
And sure. Leading like-minded people into battle from all over the world would have fit his idea as well. But that wasn't his job, of course. It was to handle their media coverage.
To ensure they were all seen, heard, and supported.
Oh God. He hated the press so much.
So, SO much.
But he had to admit. Attracting volunteers helped his country a great deal.
A lot more than if he grabbed a rifle and dug himself a ditch.
He would have never slacked off on this job, no matter how much he despised it.
So, when this kid arrived in the evening of that day to introduce himself as Konrad Halstadt—
Captain Dmitry Bandera put on a well-practiced smile to greet him as well.
"An interview? Oh, great, we do need the publicity."