0700

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The last snowflake settled atop the crooked cross. The mist and the clouds receded, banished by the iridescence pouring from the cracks between the peaks. 

 

Skorpion, her expression wooden, stared at the unmarked grave of Thomas Archibald, the shovel hanging loosely in her grip. She ought to have laid it aside; the grave had not been disturbed the previous night. Yet, she did not; she was distracted by her thoughts.

 

True hand laid on her small shoulder. “We will exhume them, consign their remains to more suitable graves.”

 

She silently nodded.

 

False eyes upon the crooked cross again, at the head of the other crosses. Here lies Commander Thomas Archibald, deceased, midsummer 2061. 

 

Memories of that video were still fresh. The Commander had sought to flee while his...my people struggled against the encroaching Sangvis. He was undeserving, yet Skorpion paid her respects all the same. She kept vigil over his grave throughout last year despite the risk. Intruder ensured the risk never materialised, a small mercy on her part, yet Skorpion could not have known. 

 

She deserved better. His…my people deserved better. 

 

A horn from beyond the twisted metal carcass. The radio beeped. 

 

“Hey, Kommandir! Cetin!” that familiar bubbly voice chirped. “That’s your jeep I’m seeing, isn’t it? Hurry up and join us! We don’t have all day!” 

 

The true hand squeezed her small shoulder. “Kalina and the Svarog builders are waiting for us.” 

 

The doll nodded again. 

 

Clenched the true hand and showed her the fist. She blinked.

 

“I did a good job, didn’t I?” 

 

A joyous smile, brilliant like the rising sun. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

The knuckles bumped together.

 

“Let’s go home.”

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The operation is over. We have reclaimed S09. The other frontline commanders are doing the same and will soon secure their own sectors. After clearing out all stragglers and the cordon tightened, the perimeter sectors will be deemed secure and Svarog’s exploitation of the region can begin in earnest. 

 

Assuming they have finalised their plans for such an effort.

 

…

 

I have buried Skorpion’s ghosts, yet mine remain restless.

 

Captain, my return will take longer than anticipated.

 

Rain on the Plains. 

 

I still remember the green, storm-harried mist that afflicted our homeland and scoured Anatolia. Perhaps this, too, will bring a terrible deluge.

 

Moreover, there’s still the matter of the Hacker.

 

…

 

I am sorry you still have to haunt that unhallowed ground a while longer. Until this incoming downpour subsides, I cannot return. Not yet. 

 

I cannot abandon them, not while the threats still loom, not while M4 remains unready to assume my mantle. Not while my debts remain unpaid and my oaths unfulfilled. 

 

Be it next year, the year after, or the next decade, all these will be done, and I will return home to lay your spirits to rest. 

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