This is to be our last day in Hevhj. 

 

Papasha has started tearing down the Southern Checkpoint B barricade. 

 

We will depart for Subsector 1 in 1100.

 

…

 

It has been four days, hasn’t it, Captain? Felt like an eternity.

 

…

…

 

This is peculiar. I do not feel keen on returning to my original posting. To trade the historic dustiness of the catacomb for the sterility of the Nerve Center. 

 

There are memories in this place.

 

Lunchtime at Checkpoint A, the nightly walks to Northern Cliffside, Springfield’s gentle counsel and unyielding will, Skorpion’s earnest enthusiasm, Ingram’s reckless cocksureness, Nagant’s posed grand-motherliness, P7’s and Tiss’ crafty mischief, FMG-9’s exasperation, FAL’s arrogant provocation and 416’s stoic dignity, SVD’s thoughtless troublemaking, M14’s triumphs and tribulations, the Mess Hall meetings, Lev’s and Grigori’s fellowship, Dimas’ boyish irreverence, M4...

 

…

 

Executioner. And Oleksiy’s demise…

 

...

 

Much has happened here in the past four days.

 

Skorpion’s tutorship on the fist bump. IDW’s courage, tested by Vespid fire. 416’s strong leadership and her wrangling of her problematic teammates. 

 

M14’s undeserved remorse over the hurt she had unwittingly inflicted and SVD’s exploitation over the fact.

 

Memories of that accursed night...those baleful Yellow Eyes…

 

Springfield and Skorpion dragging me back into the light. 

 

…

 

I will miss the 0400 chirps, the feel of the cobbles under my feet, the sunlight filtering through the roof, the summer constellations hanging over the clear night sky…

 

I will miss Hevhj. 

 

…

 

The peppermint scent is too diluted. 

 

…

 

I had added the exact amount of crushed leaves as Springfield instructed. 

 

…

 

Perhaps I didn’t crush the leaves enough?

 

…

...

​

​

​

0513

 

Papasha hummed a merry folk tune as she pulled a lever. The engine thrummed, the Power Loader crouched and planted its dozer blade onto the cobbles.

 

“Sestra!” shouted Sudaev further down the road. She waved her arms front and back like an airbase flight director as portrayed in old war movies.  

 

Papasha cranked her levers forward. Ten seconds, twenty, the machine’s power reached its greatest extent. It gradually grew a hill of shovelled debris and doll carcasses. 

 

Deele shambled pass them towards us from the opposite lane. He was leaning far forward, his knees visibly buckling, his back burdened by a Jaeger’s carcass.

 

He nearly fell forward the moment he came to a stop. He inhaled deeply and greeted, “Hey...Pierre. Commander.” Another deep breath. “Fancy seeing you up so early in the morning.” 

 

Torrential sweat dripped down his bangs and rolled down his forehead. 

 

“Sudaev shook me up,” Pierre shrugged, then drank his coffee. “Wanted me to change out the loader’s pincers with a dozer blade.” He pointed at me with his pinky. “This one doesn’t sleep.” 

 

Deele’s smile was mask-like. He maintained his silence.

 

Pierre slurped up his drink, then pointed at the Jaeger and commented, teasingly, “Nice girl. Met her last night?”

 

“Nah,” Deele shook his head. “We met half-an-hour ago.” A moment’s pause. He craned his neck over our shoulders, towards the Town Square, and shouted, “Hey, 416!” 

 

The aforementioned T-Doll, arms folded and lips frowning, gazed upon us with narrowed eyes.

 

“Lend a hand?” 

 

416 remained still. 

 

“Pretty please?” Deele begged.

 

She turned towards the church and walked away.

 

“Quite the charmer, aren’t you, boy?” Pierre teased. Deele rolled his eyes. “She’s heavier than she looks,” he said, nudging at the Jaeger hanging off his back. “Help me? Please?” 

 

“I thought you would rather enjoy having her ample bosoms pressed against you,” Pierre, grinning, said before emptying his aluminium mug. 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Deele shook his head. “I had better.”

 

“Hah! He’s a womaniser, this one.” The tech foreman smirked. He clipped his mug to his carabiner and shuffled to his junior’s right side. “Let’s get her off your back. Fox, take the left side.” 

 

The stitchings stretched tight, the false knee buckled, the shoulder and chest struts tugged against flesh and bone. Her cold arm hung stiffly over the neck. She was heavier than Skorpion by about twenty kilograms. 

 

The toes dug into the cobbles. The servos whined, the false limbs struggled against her weight. 

 

“So, Deele,” Pierre asked in between breaths. “What’s so special about her?” 

 

“Just a regular Jaeger.”

 

The feet left the cobbles and stepped upon the creaking floorboards. The ‘operating table’ rocked violently upon receiving the carcass.

 

“Hey! Be gentle with her!” Deele cried, startled. 

 

Pierre grunted as he grasped his left shoulder and turned it around, clockwise, then anti-clockwise. Noting the bullet-hole punctured into her chest, he whistled. “Where’d you found her?” 

 

Deele, having pulled up the console connected to the table, replied while tapping on it, “Halfway point between Checkpoints A and B.”

 

“Closer to A or B?” The voice was hoarse.

 

“Exactly halfway,” replied Deele as he made another series of taps. Insectoid mechanical arms descended upon the carcass, in response to his commands.

 

“Snow or Svet’s handiwork, then.” Pierre whistled. “Shot her square in the core.”

 

“You are using Skorpion’s nicknames?”

 

He chuckled softly. “Less of a mouthful. Dignified too, unlike that other lass’. What did she call her?” Pierre circled the chair and approached the workbench behind the aforementioned technician. “Right. ‘Crabby’. So, Deele,” he looked over his shoulder towards the younger technician, “What are you going to do with her?” 

 

“I’m dismantling her,” Deele replied as he made one final tap. The appendages unfurled, revealing saws, pincers, wedges and other assorted tools. “See if she has any parts compatible with DSI-8’s.”

 

Three saw-tipped appendages positioned themselves over Jaeger’s torso, two to the right and middle of the collarbone, one to the right of the belly button. 

 

Pierre raised his kettle towards us.

 

“Care for a cuppa?” 

 

Deele heaved his tool bag onto the desk beside the operating table. He gave the kettle one look, then shook his head. 

 

The false hand extended a thermos cap. It shuddered under the growing weight of the offered coffee. 

 

The cutting arms retracted while another set of appendages, tipped with curved wedges, lowered the incisions.

 

“Think there’s anything compatible with DSI-8’s inside?” asked Deele.

 

“Maybe?” The senior technician unlatched his mug and filled it with coffee. “Obsolete or no, the model’s still Sangvis.” He gave his coffee a sip. “Why DSI-8’s, specifically?” 

 

“Personal project.”

 

The coffee tasted like syrup, with a hint of caffeine. 

 

“Huh.” Pierre raised his brow, then gave his coffee another sip. “Might want to look away, Fox, if you are squeamish.”

 

The wedge-like appendages pried the incisions apart. Chemical stench invaded the nostrils, fouling the mouthful of coffee inundating the tongue.

 

Swallowed the rancid brew, made an inquiry. “You can’t simply swap any parts between this DSI-8 and this Jaeger?”

 

Pierre broke into an amused chuckle. “You think it would be that simple but...no.” He ingested another mouthful of his drink and set his mug down. “Different production standards. Would be like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole.”

 

Foul taste still sticking to the tongue. Sink opposite of the table. Poured away the remaining coffee, drained it down the pipe. Went for the kettle, refilled the container. 

 

“The same with our dolls?”

 

The drink was thicker and far too sweet, enough to rot the teeth.

 

“Swapping parts between IOP doll models and their dummies? Yes.” He took another sip of his coffee. He continued, unaffected by the foul taste, “Not to say there aren’t any oddballs running around with old pre-standardised bits and pieces. Between Sangvis and IOP?” Pierre drummed his fingers, drank his coffee again, then exhaled, “...No.”

 

The false skin and flesh peeled away, exposing the metal plate underneath. It was encased in bone-like ridges.

 

“Different fittings, different drivers, different sets of nuts, bolts and screws. Well,” he pointed at the newly exposed chest-plate with his pinky. “Last chance to look away,” he advised.

 

Deele made another series of probing cuts with a coroner’s precision. He appeared to know but not know where to find what he sought. “Has to be a crack around here somewhere…” he murmured. 

 

“You can just cut apart the chassis,” Pierre suggested. Deele glanced at him, frowning. “No way,” he protested. “Might risk damaging whatever part I could use.” He pointed towards the opposite side of the table with his saw. “Why don’t you help me search for a crack on the other side?”

 

Pierre set his mug down, put on his work gloves, retrieved his tool bag and departed the workbench. He walked to the opposite side of the operating table and crouched beside the carcass. “You don’t really know where to find this crack, do you?” he asked as he rummaged for his tools, presumably the circular saw.

 

“I can guess,” Deele shrugged as he returned to his work. “There are only so many ways to seal the torso casing.”

 

“I suppose it is futile to salvage Sangvis carcasses for parts.” 

 

Pierre peered over the operating table for a moment. “No point. Nothing we can use from that pile.” He raised his saw and brought it closer to her skin. “We can sell them to the recyclers but the transportation…”

 

“I can arrange that.” 

 

All eyes turned towards the drone hovering in through the door. 416, who had followed the drone, disengaged and leaned against the left side of the door. The drone floated towards Pierre’s kettle, circled it three times, stopped, then wriggled in place. Persica, projected atop the drone, was hunching forward. Her eyes were narrowed, her ‘cat ears’ lowered, determined frown upon her lips. She had assumed a predator’s stance. 

 

Pierre and Deele stared at the drone, dumbfounded. 416, arms folded, looked on, saying nothing. 

 

“Oh.” The scientist’s ‘ears’ twitched and stood upright. “Right. This drone doesn’t have arms.” 

 

Pierre and Deele looked at each other and started performing a strange ritual. They nodded, bobbed and rhythmically shook their heads. After a while, the senior technician stood up, put on a nervous and somewhat confused smirk and called out to the drone, “Can you even drink through the drone?” 

 

“Right!” 

 

416 blinked. The drone had spoken too loudly and suddenly. 

 

“I can’t remotely drink the coffee.” Persica lowered her voice and muttered to herself. Something about ‘entanglements’ and ‘teleportation.’ A moment later, she nodded to herself as though having come to a conclusion. “Worth investigating further.” 

 

Turning towards us, she continued, “As I was saying, leave the pile of Sangvis units to me.” 

 

She paused, then glided towards the operating table. “This specimen is in excellent condition.” Her expression bordered between interest and apathy. “Hey, hey, hey!” Deele got up and waved his arms over the Jaeger. “I found her first! She’s mine!”

 

Persica looked towards him with that same expression. After a moment, she arched her brow and smirked. “Oh, my,” she cooed teasingly, “Such a womaniser at such a young age.”

 

“What are your intentions for these Sangvis units?” 

 

Persica’s smirk dropped into a frown as she turned towards the kettle. “Now, why is it taking so long for the coffee…” she muttered distractedly. “Oh!” her ears stood up. “The Sangvis units.” Her eyes focused on my person, a smirk formed upon her lips. “It’s for research purposes. I will be comparing and contrasting them to the dolls we are supplying to Grifon and determine how they correlate with differences in performance…”

 

“...And we just happen to have a mountain of disabled Sangvis units right at our door, ripe for your harvest.”

 

Persica blinked. The smirk turned into a bored frown. “I knew it…” she murmured. “Uncurious, just like Kryuger.” She smirked again.

 

It seemed her expressions were limited to a spectrum of frowns and a cocky smirk. 

 

“You should show more enthusiasm. This research will benefit Grifon and your company by extension. Anyway, this isn’t the only reason why I have contacted you.” A hint of excitement rising in her monotone. “I want you to hunt down…” 

 

A hint of life shimmered in her dead eyes.

 

“...A Ringleader dummy.”

 

All activities ceased. Deele, Pierre and 416 stared blankly at her. Her toothy smirk remained plastered on her face as she awaited a response. 

 

The cold mug touched my lips. The true cheek contracted. A second gulp hadn’t improved the flavour; the syrupy fluid had coated the tongue with sugary sediment. 

 

Persica’s ears lowered. “I’m not asking you to do anything bad…” She murmured, sounding disappointed and confused. “This is a private channel, and I do have old Kryuger’s permission to contact you directly…”

 

Deele leaned towards Pierre. “What does she mean with Ringleader dummies?” he whispered. Pierre whispered back, “I don’t know. Doesn’t sound like the pile of minions we discussed earlier.” 

 

“I heard that,” Persica announced suddenly, startling them. “That isn’t what I’m referring to,” she added huffily. “I’m referring to an actual Ringleader dummy unit.” Her smirk reformed, excitement rising in her tone. She sounded like a child confronted with a toy she had always wanted. Or a cat pursuing a frightened mouse. 

 

“There is one right here in subsector 2, and I want it.” 

​

​

​

0603

​

Springfield greeted us with a smile, warm as the sun-rays filtering through the roof. Her arms were wrapped around a crate of fresh produce. Back straight, shoulders unburdened, she bore her burden with ease. 

 

“Are we having an operation?”

 

“Yes. In the next hour or so.”

 

Her warmth waned, her smile faltered slightly. She appeared weary still, despite the sturdiness of her posture.

 

“I see. I will make us a quick breakfast.” 

 

Her right leg stretched forward, the start of a stride. 

 

“...Springfield.” 

 

She paused, still wearing that same warm yet weary smile.

 

“Are you certain you are ready to return?” 

 

She gazed upon her produce. All was silent. She closed her eyes and, a solemn moment later, nodded sharply and vigorously. 

 

“Yes,” she breathed. Her meadow-green eyes slowly opened. Her warmth returned. “Yes,” she asserted, “I’m ready to return to duty. Besides…” Beaming, she shook the crate, rustling the produce within. “The hearth needs tending.” 

 

“...I see.”

 

The drone’s turbines hummed softly. 416 kept her silence. 

 

Springfield cocked her head, gesturing towards the catacomb’s gate. 

 

“You should get back to work, Commander.”  

 

The moment we departed from each other, Persica started, “Ringleader dummies, not to be confused with the Sangvis minions, technically dummy links, by the way, are inferior copies of the original Ringleaders. Lesser hardware, more limited processors. They have their own digiminds, possibly a copy of the original’s neural cloud…” 

 

She paused. The sound of our strides swiftly interrupted the barely settling silence. The hollow crack of the tiles transitioned into the muffled stamps against packed dirt. 

 

Persica continued, sounding dissatisfied, “The digimind is a series of connections unique to each doll, built into their cores. The neural cloud is the data, behavioural programs, memories, everything which dictates how the digimind works.”

 

She paused. Her frown deepened. “Putting it on layman’s terms, the digimind is the mind and the neural cloud is a collection of memories, thoughts, personality, everything the mind does.”

 

Eerie blue ahead, holding back the dark. 

 

Skorpion and Ingram, behind the Tactical Map, shot up onto their feet and broke into salutes. Kalina, projected from the holo-communicator, hastily removed her mug from view. “Cetin! Sarge!” Skorpion cried, “Good morning!” 

 

Her right hand was tucking something behind her back.

 

Kalina, peering over their shoulders, widened her weary eyes. “Is that Persica?” she voiced her astonishment. 

 

“At ease,” I breathed. 

 

The two juvenile T-Dolls relaxed, though Skorpion was still hiding something behind herself. 

 

“Cetin!” Kalina’s tone conveyed her urgency. “What’s taking you? I have been trying to contact you for the past hour!” 

 

Skorpion grinned nervously. Ingram glanced at her but kept a blank face. 

 

Kalina’s bangs were rolled up. 

 

“Clearly not urgent enough, if you had the time for makeup and idle chatter.”

 

“W-what!” 

 

The eerie blue concealed the creeping blush very effectively. “Th-they are updating me on the going-on’s around here! Anyway, we have a problem on our hands!” 

 

She frantically gestured at the printer to the left of the table. “The Sangvis turned up in T06 an hour ago, and they are moving north-west, towards HVQQJ!”

 

False fingers flipping through the T06 printouts. Ten minutes intervals. Mass of red blips growing steadily at the foot of the manor. Approximately twenty to thirty units. 

 

0530, the mass of red blips embarked towards the north-west. Numbers swelled to approximately fifty units.

 

0550, they exited the boundaries of T06. Numbers, approximately seventy units.

 

“Did you see how they arrived at T06?”

 

Kalina’s mug disappeared off the edge of the projection. “No. It’s like they just appeared there.” Her face enlarged. She had leaned towards the Nerve Center’s holo-communicator. “What’s going on? I thought Executioner’s dead!”

 

“Executioner’s active,” Persica informed. Kalina blinked. It felt as though the colour had drained off Kalina’s face. The scientist, concluding this to be so, smirked, “Don’t worry. She is too far away to be of concern. This one is a Ringleader dummy.”

 

Kalina wore a confused look. “Don’t Sangvis minions disperse and revert to roaming protocols the moment they are disconnected from a Ringleader?”

 

“She meant a lesser clone of the original Ringleader.” 

 

Kalina blinked. “A clone Ringleader?” she sounded astonished.

 

“Yes. Executioner’s contingency.” 

 

“Witkin will want his ROI for lending me his satellites,” Persica instructed. “Recover her for us intact. Or as intact as you can manage. I want her core.” She looked aside, her ears perked up. “Oh, is the coffee ready?” 

 

It took her a moment to refocus her attention. She smirked, “Don’t worry. Lyco’s notes stated the dummy’s command capacity is less than fifty percent of the original’s, and her combat efficiency is about seventy percent. Considering you did eliminate her original, this shouldn’t be a problem for you.” 

 

She raised her mug, her projection winked out, the drone folded up and dropped onto the tactical map with a hollow clank.

 

“Did she…” Kalina's jaw was ajar. “Did she just disappear on us, just like that?” 

 

“Track the Sangvis, get back to me every ten minutes.” 

 

Kalina blinked. She recomposed herself, her expression turned severe. “Yes, Commander. Will do.” Her projection winked out. 

 

“416.”

 

The aforementioned T-Doll stood up straight and saluted. 

 

“Gather your team. Spread the word.”

 

“Understood.” She turned her gaze towards Skorpion and Ingram. She knitted her brow and exhaled. “...Team Vindicator. Get prepped.”

 

“...Team Vindicator?”

 

Skorpion’s chest swelled. She hit her sternum and announced proudly. “I came up with the name. Cool, huh?”

 

False eyes turned to her left hand, tucked behind her back. The false hand extended towards her. 

 

“The marker. Please.” 

​

​

​

0705

​

“How goes the defences?” 

 

Lev gulped down a bite of his MRE and replied, “Barricade’s done. Just sandbags and barbed wires but that’s the best we can do on short notice. Still working on the claymores. Might need to make some IED’s.” 

 

False eyes returned to Kalina’s printouts, grasped firmly in the false hand. 

 

T05, timestamp 0630. Sangvis close to the top-right corner of the printout, on the road directly towards Hevhj. Their numbers...two hundred units. Flipped to next printout. Timestamp 0650, area T04. Bottom-left edge of the printout, still on the road. Numbers...two hundred and twenty units.

 

They made no attempts to conceal their numbers or their trajectory. 

 

T-Dolls filing into the mess hall. FAL picked up an MRE pack from the crate by the iron gate, appraised it and frowned. Skorpion waved energetically at Sten. Ingram consumed her meal sulkily. 

 

“How quickly can you finish?” 

 

Lev took another bite off his MRE, then scratched his chin. “With Papasha, Sudaev and the Night Guard helping us, another half an hour. Packing up the base will take much longer. Four hours.” 

 

The Sangvis will arrive in approximately two hours at their current pace.

 

“How much time can you shave by abandoning the non-essentials?” 

 

“Aww, you want us to sleep on the floor tonight?” 

 

Lev’s boyish grin faded. His teeth disappeared behind his lips. “Two hours. We can only shave off two hours,” he replied, with a severe frown.

 

A plastic click. Chalk-white screen snapped in place. 

 

Skorpion once again made a face. Ingram was cleansing her palate with steaming coffee. Sten looked at them, then at her own MRE pack, before hesitantly twisted its cap. 

 

M14 glanced at Springfield who had slid into the seat beside her. She nodded and smiled warmly before returning her attention to the screen. FNC nibbled on the mouth of her pack. FN49 snuck glances at her, one hand on her own meal and the other holding a napkin. 

 

M4 sat at the back. 416 and G11 were on the opposite end of her row of benches, with SVD, SV-98, MG5 and MG4 between them.

 

The coffee washed down the throat. The caffeine flavour coating the tongue, and filling the nostrils. It carried a hint of cinnamon.  

 

“None of us are pleased to wake up to MREs the second morning in a row.” Thermos cap twisted in place. Container landed on the table with a hollow ring. “Fortunately, the ones responsible for our anguish will arrive in two hours. Lodge a complaint with them then.”

 

“Lame!” Ingram jeered. 

 

Skorpion nodded in agreement. She removed the pack from her mouth and said, “It’s lame! You should have said that after the briefing!”

 

A grunt, followed by more coffee. The projector flickered on. First slide, T05 - timestamp 0630. Second slide, T04 - timestamp 0650. A brief introduction delivered. Sangvis numbering almost three hundred as of the start of the briefing, led by Executioner’s dummy, moving towards Hevhj. ETA, two hours. 

 

Hands raised, doubts voiced and answered. Pierre assisted with the technical questions. 

 

Map of Hevhj projected on the screen. Crosses on Northern Checkpoint, Northern Cliffside and Southern Checkpoint A. Blocky lines at Southern Checkpoint B.

 

In the previous two slides, the dummy had a vanguard screen consisting of Rippers and Prowlers. A large force of Jaegers and Vespids protected her flank and rear. Team Vindicator, Skorpion insisted, would peel the vanguard away from the dummy and draw her into the Town Square. Team FAL and Team MG5, positioned in the houses flanking the checkpoint, will cut off her rearguard as soon as she was lured into position. Team Springfield and Team SVD will catch the Executioner dummy in their crossfire. 

 

“Team Springfield and Team SVD.”

 

SVD jerked suddenly. SV-98 frowned and shook her head. 

 

“You are to disable the dummy. Target her head and limbs. Leave the torso intact. Persica’s insistence.”

 

Springfield slowly stood up. “Commander,” she started. “It will be best if FN49 and I join up with SVD and SV-98.”

 

“They will automatically share the same network if they are in the same echelon,” Pierre advised. “Easier to sync their shots.”

 

“Kommandir!” SVD had shot onto her feet. “I will agree to this but only if you let me keep my position as team leader!” She glanced at Springfield with cold eyes. “I am not taking directions from a retiree of three years!”

 

“SVD!” SV-98 chided. 

 

M14 twisted her neck towards SVD. Skorpion crumpled her MRE pack suddenly, staining her cheek with the colourless goo. Ingram started coughing. FAL rose onto her feet, face red, mouth opened, about to unleash a volley of scathing remarks.

 

“You may use me as you please.”

 

M14, jaw dropped, gawked at Springfield with wide eyes. The Mess Hall fell into a deafening silence. 

 

Springfield continued to smile gently. “I agree to SVD’s terms,” she emphasised. 

 

SVD’s smirk would not be dampened by SV-98’s glare. “Good. Good.” She looked about, noting Skorpion’s scowl and FAL’s withering gaze. “You can have her head, Tovarisch Springfield.”

 

“...Are you sure about this? You are the more experienced sniper.”

 

Springfield beamed radiantly. There was weariness lurking behind her gentle face, a hint of rain on the sunny sky. “I’ll be fine.”

 

A sigh escaped. “...So be it, then.” 

 

Lev had tucked his napkin into his pocket. 

 

“Lev, anything you can’t move onto the helo, move away from the Town Square. You have one hour and thirty minutes. Extract via helo and return to Subsector 1 once the time is up.”

 

He nodded in affirmation. 

 

The T-Dolls rose from their seats. Skorpion and Ingram knocked their forearm. Ingram then headed for the exit while Skorpion skipped towards me. Sten glanced at Skorpion, then myself, before tagging along with the patchwork T-Doll.

 

Lev motioned at Pierre, who in turn put down his coffee and signalled at Papasha and Sudaev. 

 

Picked up the Command Tablet, tapped on the echelons tab.

 

Echelon 3...SVD, SV-98, Springfield, FN-49. Nagant Revolver as spotter. False finger hovered over the confirmation button. 

 

“Both of you are going to dismantle the Command Room.”

 

The words reverberated within my ears. The false eyes widened, the neck cracked as they tore away from the Command Tablet. 

 

“Pack everything but the Comms equipment. We need it to get in touch with you from Subsector 1.”

 

“Do not remove anything from the Command Room.”

 

All activities ceased, all present eyes were transfixed on my person. Sudaev lowered her right arm and closed her mouth. Murmurs erupted. “Excuse me?” Lev mouthed in astonishment. 

 

“Do not remove anything from the Command Room.”

 

“Look, Fox,” said Lev, rubbing his forehead, “The Tactical Map and its auxiliary equipment are the single most essential pieces of kit Grifon has in its inventory. If there is anything we most definitely should bring back with us, it’s that.”

 

“Does Grifon place greater importance on expenses over its Commanders’ ability to perform their duties?”

 

“What are you…” Lev’s mouth was gaping wide. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m saying…”

 

He closed his mouth. His eyes had widened. It seemed as though he had come upon a revelation. “You are planning to stay behind?”

 

“...Am I not supposed to?”

 

“Cetin!” Skorpion shouted in alarm. “If you stay here, Executioner could kill you! You have to leave!”  

 

“Listen to her!” Lev insisted. “You are the single most important person in this company. You should evacuate with us!”

 

Were they encouraging me to desert my post, abandon my people, just as Skorpion’s former Commander did?

 

“The Commander must remain at his station and oversee the operation to its conclusion.”

 

“What?” Lev blinked. “Where...How…” Lev buried his face in his palm. “Look, just do it with the Command Tablet, like when we first arrived here.”

 

False thumb hovering over the confirmation button. Tapped on it. Another tap, Hevhj winked onto the screen. The map lacked all but the most barebone of details unless further zoomed-in, limiting the view of the battlefield. 

 

“The device is inadequate. The Command Room stays. I will stay.”

 

“Cetin!” Skorpion tugged on my right sleeve. With red cheeks and trembling lips, she pleaded, “You are putting yourself in danger! Executioner’s coming here, remember?” She looked and sounded upset.

 

“I’m putting everyone at risk by not remaining here. I will not abandon my post.”

 

“...But…”

 

“The dummy is pursuing M4, not me. This will not be her first destination.”

 

She pursed her lips and tugged on the sleeves tighter. She wasn’t convinced.

 

A sigh escaped the lips. “Seal the entryway behind me.” False eyes turned to Lev. He had folded his arms, his expression was a confusing mix of emotions. “Lev, we do have surplus sandbags, don’t we?”

 

He shook his head. “This idiot…” He sighed. “Yes. Yes, we do have surpluses, but,” he raised his tone, his voice assumed a coarse quality, “that’s not the point!”

 

“We have an alternate strategy.”

 

It was Springfield, once again wearing that unreadable smile. SVD and M4 had followed close behind her. Springfield strode behind M4 and placed her hands on her shoulder. M4 blinked, as though shaken from a stupor. She looked at me, then at Springfield. Her expression was that of nervous doubt. 

 

“Inform the Commander of your plan,” said Springfield, gently but firmly. 

 

M4 shot me another nervous glance. 

 

“Come on, Tovarisch M4.” SVD slapped M4’s back, pushing her forward. “You do have a plan! Inform him and show him what you can do!” 

 

Another round of nervous glances from M4. Springfield smiled encouragingly, SVD showed her an upturned thumb. SV-98, who had joined her, looked indecisive on how she should respond to SVD’s behaviour. M4 sighed, slapped her cheeks twice, then looked straight into the false eyes.

 

There was uncertainty lurking in her dark brown eyes.

 

“C-Commander,” she started with a stammer. “I...I believe we can eliminate any risk to yourself and the Auxiliary Guard if we…” She began to deflate. 

 

“Don’t get cold feet now!” SVD goaded. “Come on, M4!” 

 

SV-98 scowled at her in response. M4 glanced at the two snipers from over her shoulder, redirected her gaze towards the false eyes and exhaled, “...if we move the battleground to the village to our southwest.” 

 

T03. Village by the forest at the north-eastern border of the zone, where we first encountered Executioner. 

 

“We can apply your original strategy to this village. I will lure the Sangvis in via a jeep. This will divert their trajectory away from Hevhj.”

 

“...You do not have dummies, and you are pitting yourself against between three hundred to five hundred Sangvis units.”

 

M4 looked aside for a moment. “They do not have Dragoons, and the Jaegers need to stop and take aim. I can outpace them. Also,” her dark eyes glimmered with confidence, “I have fought Executioner on my own. I can handle this and…” A small smile formed upon her lips, showing her wavering confidence, “I won’t be fighting alone, am I?”  

 

“There are three entry points into the village.”

 

“Executioner’s strategies are direct. She won’t think to divert her forces through all the entry points…”

 

“She showed flexibility yesterday. Split her forces into two, sent one to besiege us and pitted the other against you.” 

 

M4 fell silent. “...one MG to cover each entryway...if they are supported by Papasha, Sudaev, MP40 and FAL or Sturmgewehr...No, two echelons, one MG in each…”

 

“What about the forest path to the north?”

 

She blinked and frowned. “I don’t think she would do that, Commander…” She fell silent once more. Her fragile confidence had waned, her doubt had resurfaced. 

 

“She won’t use that path,” SVD stepped forward and interjected. Posture upright, eyes focused, she brimmed with self-assurance. “From what Skorpion, Ingram and FAL told me yesterday, Executioner’s direct and very single-minded.”

 

“Yet she knew to split her forces in an attempt to occupy us and retrieve M4.”

 

SVD grinned. She turned to bark at the Day Captain, “Hey, Lev! You were there with us at Southern Checkpoint B! Back me up on this!” 

 

Lev folded his arms and replied, “Tell him yourself. You have perfect recall.”

 

“He trusts you more than he does me, remember?”

 

With a sigh, he recounted, “Their formation was a mess. About ten minutes into the siege, their organisation broke down…”

 

“Jaegers in front with the Rippers, Prowlers falling behind the Vespids, entire groups marching right into the incendiary wall...” 

 

Lev scowled. “You just told him yourself!” 

 

The sniper merely smirked in reply. 

 

The Guard Captain clenched his teeth and exhaled. “Next time, I will ask Pierre to extract your memory files.” 

 

“Not without my permission, you won’t.” She peered towards Skorpion, “Isn’t that right, Tovarisch?” 

 

Skorpion simply cocked her head in reply. 

 

SVD continued, “The diversionary force she sent against Hevhj was a throwaway meant to buy herself time to capture M4.” Her teeth emerged from behind her lips. “She thought you a coward, Kommandir.” 

 

A sharp snort. Ingram coughed aside.

 

SV-98 scowled at her partner. Unaffected by the ferocity emanating from her, SVD continued, “Her ability to adapt is woeful. Took too long to direct her manor encirclement force to intercept Team 416…”

 

“Team Vindicator!”

 

A twitch on SVD’s brow. “...Team Vindicator and her resistance against Team FAL’s manoeuvre is clumsy.”

 

“I...I think…” M4 stuttered, “I think once the dummy sees me, she will attempt pursuit via the most direct path. Splitting her forces to cover the two entryways would be the most she would think to do.”

 

“Persica did say the dummy is less capable than the original,” Pierre pointed out. 

 

“Perhaps we can strike a compromise?” Springfield offered, firmly and confidently.

 

A sigh exhaled. “Fine.” False eyes returned to M4. The wavering light in her eyes belied her confident front. “Finalise your plan. Once you are done, we can discuss compromises.” 

 

M4 nodded. “I...I will.” Another stutter.

 

Another escaped sigh. “Thirty minutes. I grant you thirty minutes.”

​

​

​

0910

​

“Commander!” 

 

The tactical map painted 416’s pale visage in ghastly blue. She demanded, “Why is my team held back in Hevhj?” 

 

Village on the tactical map. Blue blips concentrated at the south-eastern quadrant of the village square. Tiss and her dummies had set down ammunition crates behind four MG5 dummies, all standing stiffly as though assembling for a parade.

 

“Your team is held back as a precaution.”

 

Caffeinated chill washing down the parched throat. The fluid was bereft of flavour. The cap rang hollow against the desk.

 

“Precaution, Commander?” 

 

416 folded her arms and arched a brow. Her scepticism was in full display. 

 

Papasha ran a loose wire from one barrel to another, on the opposite sides of the South-Eastern Approach. Sudaev did the same at the Eastern Approach.

 

“A precaution, in case the Sangvis decides to besiege us instead of pursuing M4.”

 

The thermos rattled. Steam rose from its cap.

 

Springfield, SVD and their dummies disappeared into the houses to the north and south of the square. M14’s took her position in the shophouse to the east, between the two approaches. P7 and Nagant Revolver, facing each other, were vigorously swinging their arms up and down. They seemed to be having a contest.

 

The nostrils caught an aromatic scent wafting from the cap.

 

“Is this part of your compromise with M4?” 

 

416’s glare took on a piercing quality. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

The coffee carried a hint of cinnamon.

 

“Isn’t it nice, Sarge?” Skorpion’s chair stopped rocking, her kicking legs falling still. Grinning cheekily, she leaned towards 416. “We are the honour guard.”

 

416 stared at her wordlessly.

 

“M4 to Command,” the headphones sounded. 

 

A jeep fast approaching the south-eastern edge of the AO. MG5’s mainframe unit on the ringmount, M4 at the wheel. The driver’s seat was missing its door. 

 

“Dust ahead. The Sangvis...I think. Approaching fast.”

 

Red blips winked onto the tactical map, rapidly closing towards the two overlapping blue blips. 

 

“Visual on Executioner’s dummy.”

 

The sprinting dummy centred on the micro-drone feed, barely concealed by a dusty screen. 

 

“Moving to engage.” 

 

The two overlapping blue blips stopped. The jeep had swung ninety degrees, exposing the driver’s seat to the stampeding horde. Muzzle flashes from the vehicle. M4’s shots sparked off a Prowler’s chassis, tearing off plating and puncturing tires. The Prowler yawed, skidded then violently careened back. 

 

A vertical shockwave cleaved through the dust screen and the Prowler. It missed the jeep, the vehicle had sped forward. M4 spun her transport towards the village and drove away. 

 

“M4 to Command. The dummy saw me. Disengaging.” 

 

The pursuing Prowlers picked up speed. Three were immediately cut down by MG5’s fire.

 

“416. Skorpion. Return to your stations.” 

 

416 lifted her gun, saluted, turned around and marched up the steps. Skorpion leapt onto her feet, skipped towards me and showed me her left forearm. She grinned. “Forearm bump. For good luck. Just repeat what Ingram and I did.”

 

A sigh. Raised the true arm, bent the elbow, felt the impact against the back of the limb.

 

“Break a leg. You don’t want to be yelled at by Sarge, do you?”

 

Skorpion showed her teeth. “We’ll all be back, safe and sound.” She spun around, made for the iron gate and pitter-pattered up the steps. 

 

“M4 to Team FAL.” The headphones sounded again. “Status on the IED’s?”

 

Papasha and Sudaev had disappeared into one of the shophouses. Their dummies were spreading out into the nearby alleys. 

 

“Team FAL to M4. The clever little misses have finished their bricolage. M14’s in position. We are ready for the cortège.” 

 

“M4 to Team SVD…”

 

“Already in position since fifteen minutes ago.”

 

The jeep swerved right, narrowly avoiding another shockwave. A volley of energy bolts struck the vehicle in the split-second between MG5’s fire, deforming its rear door and shattering its rear window. 

 

“M4 to Team SVD. Acknowledged. We are on the way. ETA ten minutes.”

 

“Team FAL to M4. Hurry up. I don’t want to keep Springfield away from the kitchen for much longer.”

 

Tiss jogged out of the alley and rejoined Sturmgewehr. They, and their dummies, then dispersed to their designated positions in the middle house at the end of the two approaches, alongside M14.

 

“FAL to Springfield. Any more ingredients for brioche, perchance?”

 

Another series of bright flashes struck the jeep. The rear door was hanging at its hinges. MG5, having finished reloading, twisted her gun towards the offending Prowlers and resumed firing. 

 

“SVD to FAL, I will hurl if I have to eat any more of your pretentious bourgeois cuisine. I want meat on the menu!” 

 

The jeep swerved right, hard, narrowly avoiding another shockwave.

 

“Springfield here. Focus on the mission, or we will all be having rations for lunch.”

 

The jeep had lost its door when it reached the upward slope of the South-Eastern Approach. MG5 sent three more Prowlers crashing into the closing throng. One of the rolling robots was cleft through by Executioner, who in turn repositioned her blade and launched a horizontal shockwave.

 

The attack sliced through the left side of the jeep, causing it to spin out of control. MG5 jumped off the roof. She avoided bisection by a hair. Her dummies shuddered to life and swiftly repositioned, even as the mainframe raced into the closest alley. 

 

M4 disembarked from the driver’s seat and fired three bursts at the closing dummy ringleader. Executioner raised her sword, intercepted the incoming projectiles, then fired her pistol. 

 

Her shots struck the road. She had missed, she was aiming for M4’s leg. 

 

The T-Doll fired three more bursts as she retreated up the road. She must have seen the Rippers and Vespids closing rapidly, as the headphones emitted her next order.

 

“M4 to Team FAL. I need covering fire.”

 

A sweeping gale blanketed south-eastern approach in dust and detritus. Two staggered tracer streams scythed down the road, cutting down the last of the Prowlers and culling the advancing infantry. 

 

“Team FAL to M4. Dieu merci pour moi.” 

 

Executioner continued her advance despite her newfound predicament. Slowly, at first, stalled by M4’s continuous fire, then swiftly the moment M4 turned to run. Within a heartbeat, she had closed the gap and was poised to strike. 

 

M4 spun around and fired another three-round burst, catching the dummy in her right eye and forcing her back. The dummy ringleader launched another shockwave in retaliation. She missed her opponent by a wide margin.

 

M4 continued to back away from the dummy, towards the village square, firing burst after burst as she did so. Executioner shielded herself, though more of the shots penetrated her guard and punctured her left shoulder and shin. 

 

She made a sudden lunge at M4. As though anticipating it, M4 sidestepped to her left and slammed her buttstock into the dummy’s forehead. Executioner staggered back. M4 then struck her right arm, frustrating her retaliation.

 

The red blips were separating from the main body and moving into the alleys. 

 

“M4 to Team FAL. Cover the Eastern Approach.”

 

Executioner sprung forward, ramming M4 with her right shoulder. They passed the barricade at the mouth of the South-Eastern Approach. The dummy ringleader then slashed upwards for her opponent’s arm, forcing her to back away.

 

The diverging Sangvis units were cut down by BAR, aboard Siskin 1, the moment they emerged from the alley. 

 

Blue blips moved out of the buildings to cover the mouth of the approaches. Three MG5’s at the South-Eastern Approach, two at the Eastern Approach, backed up by an even distribution of Tisses and Sturmgewehrs. 

 

The Rippers and Vespids continued to advance, heedless of the perforation of their ranks. Jaegers took their positions at the rearmost rank and were immediately engaged by M14. 

 

M4 continued her retreat, though she stayed close to Executioner. She countered her opponent’s swings with precise strikes to her sword-arm. 

 

The massive blade soared out of the dummy ringleader’s grip. M4 stalled in surprise and was swiftly punished with a right hook. 

 

Executioner then surged forward and kneed the sprawling M4 in the belly. The assault rifle clattered, the dummy ringleader had caught and twisted M4’s left wrist. She raised her right elbow, slowly, indulgently, triumphantly, and was subsequently swallowed by a dust cloud.

 

Two red clusters, twenty to fifty units in each, had vanished from the map. Two more winked out half a second later. The remaining Sangvis units charged up the Southern Approach and were in turn eliminated by Papasha’s grenades. She, her sister and their dummies then rushed out to engage the reeling Sangvis units. 

 

M4 kicked at the stalled Executioner, freeing herself. Before the dummy could stop M4 from regaining her weapon, Nagant Revolvers and P7’s had charged out of the surrounding houses and waylaid her. Executioner shielded herself with her right arm, snapped her pistol at Nagant and was struck in her temple by another burst fire.

 

“M4 to Team SVD…” Thunderous discharges interrupted her command.

 

Executioner’s blip winked out.

​

​

​

1107

​

SVD was smiling very smugly. “We’ve made it back alive.” The loud thud of the dummy ringleader’s carcass punctuated her proclamation. “And we’ve brought back the prize.” 

 

The carcass was missing half its head, its limbs hanging on fibres of carbon and alloy. Only the torso remained intact. 

 

The sniper rested her knuckles against her hips, her chest swelled with pride. Two seconds, three, she remained rooted on the spot. 

 

“She’s expecting praise,” whispered SV-98.  

 

Thoughts turned to the operation. Coordinated crossfire, Executioner’s life snuffed out like fretting candlelight in a windy night.

 

The nostrils exhaled, the false jaw creaked. “...Excellent coordination and coverage. Eliminated the dummy with a single volley. You and Springfield performed magnificently.”

 

Her face glowed, yet she remained unmoving.

 

Skorpion’s elbow bumped against the abdomen, her clenched fist peeked from behind her. 

 

SVD’s expression lit up. “Khorosho.” She nodded approvingly as we brought our fists together. 

 

She passed us by and was immediately accosted by SV-98. 

 

“You didn’t cause trouble for Springfield, I hope?” 

 

“Who do you think I am? A svolach? Of course, I didn’t.” 

 

“Hey, Commander! Commander!” P7 cried excitedly. Executioner’s sword dropped beside the carcass with a low clang. “We helped! Praise us!” 

 

A sigh as we knocked our knuckles together. “Give us a head pat!” She pointed at the spot between her ears. “Head pat!” 

 

“Give us a head pat?” Nagant sounded indignant. She puffed up her chest, hit the spot below her left collarbone and proudly declared, “I am an esteemed officer from the days of yore! A head pat is beneath me!”

​

“Come on…Head pat! Head pat!” P7 demanded. She raised herself on tiptoes and thrust her head upwards with a hop. 

 

Skorpion’s elbow once again bumped against the abdomen. 

 

Raised the true palm, pressed it against the cowl, felt the finely-woven fabric brushing against the skin. P7’s ears twitched and flicked as she purred contentedly. One of her strange cross-pupil opened to peer at Nagant. Her lips curled up, forming a mischievous, self-satisfied smirk. 

 

Nagant Revolver’s cheeks crimsoned like a sudden fever. She ground her teeth, threw her arms up and exclaimed aloud, “I’m going to look for Dimas! He must hear of the accomplishments of his babushka, he must!” 

 

“...Barracks.”

 

She dashed off, brushing past Pierre before I could speak further. 

 

“Mighty fleet for someone with such short legs,” commented the Tech Foreman as he closed towards us. He stopped, looked at the carcass and whistled. “Ho. Not a single bullet in the torso. They even recovered the sword.”

 

Another bump, this time against the palm. “Scratch the back of my ears this time,” P7 demanded. 

 

“Oi, P7!” Skorpion reprimanded. “That’s greedy! Hey!”

 

P7 scampered out of Skorpion’s reach, bolted for the church, stopped at the halfway point, twirled towards us and taunted, “Nyahahaha! Skorpion’s jealous! Je-a-lous! Nyahahaha!” She then disappeared beyond the double-gate before Skorpion could give chase. The eyepatched T-Doll stamped her feet, wrung her arms and grumbled frustratedly.

 

A sharp whistle. Ingram’s gaze lingered on the sword. “Cool. Executioner’s sword.” She whistled again as she continued to admire the long blade.

 

“Persica had already laid claim on it.” 

 

Her shoulders slumped forward. “Awwww…”

 

“Commander! Commander!” BAR trotted towards us, wearing a goofy smile, gripping her weapon behind her. Swaying left and right, she said, “I worked hard today.” Pointing towards her head, she requested, “Headpat, please~.” 

 

FAL, who had followed close behind, frowned disapprovingly.

 

“...FAL?”

 

FAL twirled her left bang. “I suppose I didn’t yell at her today.”

 

“See? I worked hard,” BAR shamelessly insisted. 

 

FAL looked aside. “FAL?” I pressed.

 

She sighed disgruntledly. “Her reload time is five percent instead of ten percent slower than her dummies today. Her accuracy is still below her dummies’ by ten percent.”

 

BAR placed her hand behind her head and laughed nervously. “Hehehe... it’s still an improvement, right?”

 

A twitch on FAL’s brow. “You are still dragging your feet.” 

 

BAR continued with her buffoonish laughter. 

 

“...I see.”

 

“So…” BAR beamed, in spite of her team leader’s criticism. “Head pat?”

 

“No.”

 

“Awwwww…” Her hair flaps seemed to droop, like ears of a reprimanded dog. 

 

Sudaev and Papasha had put down their gear and hurried over to the Southern Checkpoint. They looked eager, presumably to return to labour. 

 

Sturmgewehr was already gone. A glimpse of her was caught earlier. Her hair, usually straight, was dishevelled. She was brushing her uniform frantically as she headed towards the barracks. 

 

MG5 had linked up with MG4 and retired to the church. Tiss was prancing about, calling out for FMG-9, who had already made herself scarce. MP40 stopped for a while to gawk at Tiss. She shook her head, disapprovingly. 

 

The false eyes met M14’s. They were too far away to be of effect. The sniper nodded and continued on to the church.

 

Springfield passed by, looking lost in thought. 

 

“...Springfield,” I called out. 

 

She stopped, then regarded me with a gentle yet morose smile, like sunlight over the breaking clouds. 

 

“...How are you feeling?”

 

Her smile dimmed. “I’m fine.” 

 

She watched Papasha climb aboard the power loader with distant eyes. Sudaev cried something, making a sound like an excitable puppy. Papasha ceased her activities, leaned out of the machine and replied softly. The pink T-Doll nodded vigorously, her braid flailed, bounced and wagged like a puppy’s tail. 

 

“Vengeance doesn’t suit me, after all.” 

 

“...I see.” 

 

“So, how was the coffee?” Her radiance returned, her eyes glimmered like tarnished jade. 

 

“...The cinnamon reminded me of happier times.” 

 

“I see.” She brought her hands together. “I’m going to change the recipe tomorrow. Would you kindly taste-test for me?”

 

“Depends on the recipe.”

 

Still beaming, she concluded, “That’s a promise.”

 

“I didn’t…”

 

She had already left. 

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. Looked about. Papasha, atop her power loader, and Sudaev, on the ground, were speaking to Lev. After a while, Papasha got down from her machine. The sisters then followed the Day Guard Captain towards the church. 

 

Skorpion and Ingram had hoisted up the sword. Skorpion lifted the blade, Ingram carried the hilt. After a count of three, Skorpion released the edge and Ingram spun about on the spot. The sword swerved and crashed into the cobbles. Ingram sulkily dropped the sword, while Skorpion laughed at her.

 

The light above dimmed, the ground below creaked. The air was inundated with an acrid chemical stench. 

 

“Commander.” 416 saluted, her calm voice almost drowned by the orchestra of insectoid mechanical limbs. 

 

Amongst their harmony was M4, looking upwards towards the overhead lamp. She winced, her single functioning eye flickered as she turned towards me. Half her face was opened up, exposing a mess of wires beneath her eye socket. The chemical stench rose from the opened hole on her torso, its source rapidly drained by a myriad of plastic tubes. 

 

Deele half-stumbled from beyond the curtain. He was heaving a crate of replacement parts. “Hey, Commander,” he greeted with the polite, yet strained smile of an interrupted workman. 

 

He put down the crate. “That kick ruptured her bioreactor. Minor corrosion on her other components. The repairs will be complicated, and the parts will need to be replaced but...” He rose, wiped his brow and smiled assuringly, “she’s going to be fine.”

 

“...Commander,” M4 croaked. She inhaled, then exhaled. A pained wheeze caught in her throat. 

 

The false jaw creaked open.

 

She lowered her eyes, casting it in shadow. A subtle twitch on the edge of her grimacing lips.

 

“Keeping pace with the Sangvis horde for longer than necessary, continuing to engage Executioner’s dummy at close combat despite being ill-equipped for it. You have assured me you would minimise risk.”

 

Words which should be said, words the throat held back. 

 

The mouth closed, then exhaled a sigh. “That isn’t the face of a victor. Chin up.” 

​

​

​

Time...1300. Our departure is delayed. An unexpected appearance of Executioner’s dummy. M4 had neutralised her but…

 

|Sighs|

 

Captain, you once told me upon donning the commander’s mantle, my life would be forfeit. That my life would belong not to me, but to my brothers. That for as long as they live, I must live also. 

 

I would be obligated to remove myself from risk and take every measure to remain out of danger. 

 

Self-sacrifice, a luxury I can no longer afford. 

 

…

 

M4 did the opposite of all your instructions. She now lies stricken in the repair bay. 

 

…

 

|Drinks|

 

We can’t depart until she is restored to working order.

 

…

 

I suppose I will take in the scenery until then. 

​

​

​

1800

​

Dull pain erupted from the shoulder, the skull, the arm. A loud creak to the right, the cargo strained against the straps. Another thud. Yellow on the lap, hair decoration dug into flesh. Her torso rose and fell languidly. She was at peace, oblivious to the truck’s convulsion. 

 

Gleaming eyes before me. Dull green, not crimson red this time. 416 kept her stiff upper lip, untroubled by the snores rising from her lap. 

 

One blink, two, she looked out of the flap. 

 

Green, and brown, painted fierce yellow by the angry sun. 

 

The nostrils stung, the eyes watered. The truck’s wipers toiled against the rising dust. 

 

Palms gently grip Skorpion’s shoulders. They gingerly propped her against the wall. Another bump. She tumbled onto the false arm.

 

A violent lurch, a dull screech from the right, the front of the truck. Skorpion shuddered, awoken by the rumbling engine. “Are we there yet?” she asked, rubbing her eye. 

 

The familiar towers passed us by. 

 

Boot-stamps on solid ground. Auxiliary guardsmen and T-Dolls filed out of their transports. A twig snapped against the cheek. Coughing complaints erupted around, directed at the descending helos. 

 

“Cetin!” cried Kalina, running towards us, her hair dishevelled by the gust.

 

Her chest shuddered as she gasped for breath. “We...we have intercepted a transmission.” She wiped the sweat off her brow. “It’s...Sangvis. Not encrypted. Burst. It came from subsector 3.”

 

Springfield, passing by, gave us a nod. 

 

Dinner, 2000. Don’t be late.

 

Stomping boots following Kalina’s wake. The door slid open, the room lit up. Servers blinked, radios chattered, strange machines whined. She flipped the switch. Statics filled the room.

 

“Grifon and Kryuger, this Team AR, broadcasting over Sangvis frequency.”

 

A loud clatter behind us. “AR-15!” M4 exclaimed.