Out of the sterile rooms and hallway. A brief moment under the summer moon. A descent into the darkness of the back of a truck. Stench of anaesthesia replaced with the nostalgic scent of plastic and gunpowder. Time to repay my debt.

 

City lights gave way for the starry sky. Five hours to feel the wind against my cheek. Five hours to forget I am transitioning from one prison into another.

 

The dust is familiar but the wind which carries it is not. The white-tipped mountains on the horizon are strange to me.

 

 

 

The false limbs ached. It must be watching again. Every time I drifted out of consciousness within the confines of this cramped rocking truck, I found these red eyes staring at me. This thing is a T-Doll. It shouldn’t be able to feel, yet it seemed to exude pity and curiosity. How disconcerting.

 

I can’t rest easy in this truck with this thing sitting opposite of me. Sitting in here, with this thing watching, in a five-hour long journey to this FOB at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains, was nothing short of a torment. Perhaps this was Grifon and Kryuger’s way of punishing me.

 

Knowing the boss-lady, this was likely the intention.

 

“You are my commander, right?” it spoke. Its voice was like that of a human child. It looked like a human child. It even moved like a human child.

 

It held out its right hand. It smiled innocently like a child.

 

“I am Nagant Revolver. Nagant M1895 Revolver.”

 

I could hear Ahmed’s static-filled death-cry in my ears.

 

The doll's smile faded slightly. It drew its hand back.

 

Silence fell between us. I looked away. Only the rocking of the truck, now, to take it off my mind.

 

“Why is my name Nagant Revolver?” it suddenly asked. Rhetorical question. A machine asking a rhetorical question. “Well, you see, I’m etched to this gun.”

 

It drew and spun its revolver with unnatural smoothness, completely unhindered by our turbulent ride.

 

“It’s a Nagant M1895 Revolver, commander,” it said with an uncannily child-like beam. “A revolver from the tsarist era. For officers and cavalry only! Impressive, right?”

 

I did not humour it. Undeterred, it continued, “I am etched to this weapon, commander. Etched to a symbol of honour! That makes having me a symbol of honour too! You should treat me with care and respect!”

 

I scoffed. The asphalt road was cracked and potholed. The vegetation was becoming sparse.

 

I continued to look out of the back of the truck. It continued to stare. It will continue to stare at this corpse of a man. Nothing I can do about. At least it's quiet now.

 

 

It calls itself Nagant Revolver, by the way. A gun. It named itself after a gun. Maybe you might find this funny. Not so funny for me. It was watching me all throughout the trip here. All five hours. It watched me sleep.