Christian Leon Aden.
Word count: 596
He took cover behind one of the outer walls of the pool building. He'd seen movement on the hill beyond the shambling structure, but no shots had been fired. If someone was up there, it wasn't to take him out. He opened the door and stepped inside, careful to close it behind him.
The building smelled awful; the overpowering stink of bleach, mold, and chlorine held between the same walls and closed doors for months, if not years, burned his nostrils and made his eyes water. The dimness of the halls and rooms allowed him to travel in the shadows - a bonus he didn't often dare hope for. Too many places were well lit in this day and age, leaving secretive men like himself to find alternate ways to go unnoticed. He wore standard special ops military slacks, in black, and a long sleeve black fitted shirt. His kevlar vest was also in black.
Christian wasn't a bohemoth of a man, but he was intimidating. His physique was flawless, lean and carefully managed, sleek. He was quick, agile, but packed quite a punch. Standing at six feet even, he towered over many civilians. But it wasn't his looming presence that unnerved most people he interacted with.
Someone he had once known had stated, as if discussing the weather, that he no longer made her feel safe. That he emanated a dark sense of savagery she couldn't take any longer.
He usually chalked it up to the scars. Scars scared people, they showed that a person had survived something harsh and unpleasant - a warning that the person behind the scar may also be harsh and unpleasant. It certainly didn't help he was covered in hundreds of them. The most prominent of which, at least while he wore his covert attire, stretched from his hairline and down over his left eye, stopping just beneath his cheekbone. Both his upper and lower eyelids had been torn in half and restitched. Modern technology had saved his eye, when it likely shouldn't have been saved, and as a result, an eerie bluish grey scar also crossed over his pupil and iris, cutting his eye into two even sections. Occassionally he wore an eyepatch, but that was mostly for sniper work or avoid upsetting strangers in public.
He hadn't brought many weapons with him, and he wondered momentarily if it had been an error on his part, but there was no going back now. Christian's palm itched to hold the weight of his Glock. He ignored the urge and peered carefully around the corner of a doorway.
Enter through the front, go into the third door on the right, Mikhail, a First Lieutenant at his base in Arizona, had instructed him. He would be meeting the squad leader at precisely six pm. The sun had set, and even the late dusk light had trailed off and left the building dark and silent.
The room was an old locker room, dank and creepy, littered with toppled benches and lockers hanging open or off their hinges. He stepped inside and turned to face the footsteps heading toward him, one hand hovering over the holster beneath his arm.
"Hey," came the voice, cutting through the shadows. "I'm Jon Petrov. Welcome to the squad."
"Commander," Christian responded, dropping his hand and saluting, somewhat casually, with his right hand. He met the large man's eyes steadily, shielding his curiosity about the strange orange color of them behind the careful stoicism of his own swampy green eyes. "I am Lieutenant General Christian Aden. Have the others arrived, sir?"