0230

 

Atop the counter, a metal mug sat apart from the rest. It was chilly to the touch, whatever residue heat it once held sapped by the cold morning air. Orange light shimmered dimly on its surface, interrupted by thick black lines drawn onto it. 

 

The black lines refused to smudge. They were drawn with permanent markers, creating a cartoon fox’s shape—Undoubtedly Skorpion’s handiwork.

 

Springfield must have begrudged the existence of instant coffee. Its box was tucked deep within the cabinet’s recesses, behind the cans of tea leaves and coffee beans. The true fingers trembled slightly, as though feeling guilt over their deeds.

 

Faint dust rose from the mug’s mouth. Steam followed the pouring water’s wake. Sugary flavour caked the tongue, carrying a hint of that caffeine taste.

 

The hair stood on the back of the neck. The true fingers trembled. Springfield’s gentle yet disapproving smile flashed before the false eyes.

 

The bench creaked, the sugary beverage washed over the tongue. Inhaled. Exhaled. Stepped out of the light. Cheek caressed by the cool night breeze. Dry grass crumpled under the threading boots.

 

Medical tent unlit. The desk was empty; its occupant had tidied it up before turning himself in on one of the four hard beds. Tranquillity in the other tents, save one. IDW’s eyes gleamed around the corner before disappearing into the dark. 

 

The dark peeled away, recoiling from the writhing flame. “Hey, Kommandir!” Dimas waved. “Help a bratan out, will you?” 

 

“Don’t bother,” Bohdan replied, his black piece clacked against the chessboard. “He doesn’t know chess.”

 

“What kind of Kommandir doesn’t know chess?” asked Dimas, astonished. He had twice as many discarded pieces as Bohdan’s. His king appeared imperiled. 

 

“I’m not a cliche,” the throat groaned dryly.

 

“Huh...aren’t you a disappointment,” exhaled the night guard.

 

M4 by the side, fair face lit by the flame, watching quietly. FN-49 atop the tower, operating the searchlight while her dummy kept watch. 

 

“Where are Griga and Nagant?”

 

“Babushka’s gone to bed.” Dimas’ white bishop knocked over a black knight. “Griga’s at the Eastern Checkpoint.” He turned away from the board and offered a can. “Want some?” 

 

It was filled with shashlik and potato omelette. 

 

“Don’t be shy.” He shook the container and smiled that boyish smile. “Babushka knew many people would want a bite and made more than enough. IDW’s barely put a dent on it. Come on. Don’t be shy.” There was red on his cheeks. “They are very good. Goes down well with vodka.”

 

Another clack against the chessboard. Dimas looked upon Bohdan’s work and frowned. He swiftly moved to counter his opponent’s scheme.

 

“I’m fine.” 

 

Dimas frowned. He grunted irritably as he placed the can beside the board. “M4, Fey, you, and all your small appetites.” He raised his shot glass bottle and gulped down a mouthful. “You make Babushka sad.” 

 

“Seeing four kings doesn’t mean you have four kings.” Bohdan snidely commented with a grin. “Shut up and move!” Dimas slammed down his bottle, to his opponent’s gleeful delight. “With pleasure!” Another black knight moved to threaten the white king. M4 winced, Dimas had sworn aloud.

 

“I’m heading into town. Watch the base.”

 

“On foot?” Dimas remarked. Bohdan looked up from the board to gawk. “You won’t be back in time for breakfast like that. Take the jeep.”

 

“Take M4 with you too.” Bohdan returned his attention to his contest. “She’s already bored of us, it seems.” 

 

“I’m not…” M4 softly denied. 

 

“Of course you are.” Bohdan sighed. “Don’t think we don’t know you aren’t actually watching the game.” 

 

“If he wants to go alone, let him go alone.” Dimas moved his king forward. “The city’s safe.”

 

“Who’s to say Hunter won't do what Executioner did?” Bohdan repositioned his knight. “Activate her dummy, have her move to reactivate hidden Sangvis caches, flank us at sunrise…” Bohdan moved his rook to the white king’s left. “...like this!”

 

Dimas swore again. He realised his pieces had cut off his king’s escape. He gulped down another mouthful of vodka. “Pretty sure the other Kommandir swept the place…” he cleared the pieces from the board “...like Mama sweeping the corridor.”

 

“It’s a big city,” Bohdan nibbled on a stick of shashlik. “Might miss a corner or two. So,” he pointed the stick at Dimas. “Another game?”

 

“Fuck, no!” He slammed down a box of cards. “This time, we play poker!” 

 

“Sore loser.” Bohdan took another bite and grinned. “Who deals?” 

​

​

​

0315

​

Radio statics masked the engine’s hum. M4 silently watched the passing lightless windows. The wheels rolled down the silent street.

 

Headlights cut through the rising concrete mist. The tires scraped the asphalt, the trail grew bumpy, the cabin rocked. “I’ll scout ahead.” M4’s voice, almost a whisper. She picked up her gun, clicked on her flashlight and pushed the door open. 

 

Forward, up, left, right. Silent, nothing in the dark. Only the yellow gleam at the corner of the false eyes.

 

M4 lifted her hand. All was clear. 

 

Inhaled, counted to three, exhaled, blinked. Yellow eyes vanished. Pulled the brake, disengaged the gear. False fingers wrapped around the gun. Opened the door, pressed the switch, joined our flashlights.

 

Mountain of sagging rebar. Twisted antennas at its peak clawed and grasped at the starry firmament. The wind scraping against the true cheek carried their metallic groans. 

 

FMG-9 fell up there, at the summit, buried among the Jaegers.

 

Monument. Her grave. Their grave.

 

How far deeply was she buried? Can she still be recovered?

 

“Commander!” 

 

M4 down below, eyes wide with alarm, her right arm stretched forward, grasping. 

 

“It’s not safe!” 

 

Concrete crumbled under the boots, their soles buried within sand-filled crevices. Yellow eyes gleamed on the summit, by the creaking spikes, like twin dusty moons.  

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. “No...it is not.” 

 

Debris engulfed the asphalt’s cracks. Toe caps coated in white cement dust. M4 blinked, stepped aside. 

 

The cabin rocked, the door shut solemnly. The radio spat static. M4 flicked off her light. 

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. False fingers searched for the hip flask, unclasped it from the belt. Dimas’ vodka burned the throat. 

 

Gripped the steering tight, lowered the brakes, engaged the gears. 

 

The road ahead was blocked.

 

Delta Four, the bridge three hundred metres behind us - Alternate path to the City Hall.

 

Twisted the steering, stepped on the pedal. The wheels shrieked. M4 shot a worried glance, then resumed her vigil.

 

A bump. Two. Turned left, passed the dead traffic lights. Gnarled trees flank the dark streets, shadowed by the abandoned concrete blocks. Three minutes, four, a chasm opened up, traversed by a four-lane bridge.

 

The limbs trembled, the heart hammered. Colour drained from the true fingers.

​

The tides ebbed and flowed. Sea salt in the air. 

 

False eyes blinked. Blinked again, ready to nictate. The neck, shoulders, arms and spine tensed. 

 

Eyes peeled, ears perked. 

 

Hair rustled to the rattling air conditioner.

 

No muzzle flares from distant rifles, no booms of howitzers, no whistling of mortars, no roars of machine-gun turrets. What are they waiting for?

 

“...Commander?”

 

Cold sweat on the brow. Ribcage ached, lungs strained. The throat felt tight. It croaked. “I’m fine.”

​

She blinked. Opened her mouth, then closed it and kept her silence.

 

Steadied the steering, crossed the bridge. Shadows peeled from wooden trunks and rustling shrubs. Inhaled. The lungs held the breath. Grip tightened on the steering. Light cut across the shrubs and fell on the asphalt. The road was clear. Sigh exhaled. 

 

“Should I…” 

 

“No,” the throat rasped.

 

The languidly flowing abyss shimmered to moonlight. Canopies rustled to the unfelt wind. Another dead traffic light. Turned right. Headlights scorched the concrete’s shadow away from another traffic light. Another right turn. Concrete opened up, exposing jutting blocky peaks. The stars shone again.

 

Foot off the pedal. Switched the gears, pulled the brakes. M4 picked up her gun. Nodded at her. She nodded back, then opened the door. Lit up her flashlight, illuminated the City Hall’s facade. Up, down, left, right. She lifted her arm.

 

Cut the ignition, picked up the gun, exited the jeep. She strode up the steps, deftly weaving around the prone corpses with practised ease.

 

“M4.”

 

She stopped, turned her head around, her rifle still pointed ahead.

 

“Form up.”

 

“Commander!” Agitation in her voice. “If there are still Sangvis…”

 

“Form up!” 

 

She grimaced, descended the steps. Hardness in her eyes. “With all due respect, Sir, but you are too valuable to this company.”

 

“You are a prototypical command unit. Your value is no lesser than mine.” 

 

Her brows knitted. “You forced me to assume responsibility for Team HK416 and Team SVD at Delta Three.” Her tone was accusatory.

 

“You believed it to be for my self-interest. To keep my hands unsullied by your blood, to starve off the hanging guilt.” 

 

She frowned and nodded slowly. There was anger and resentment in her eyes.

 

“No. I did that because I believe you will make better decisions than I.”

 

She blinked. “Commander?” Her tone conveyed confusion.

 

“You were with them. You fought alongside them.”

 

Boots planted onto the coolant-soaked steps, the start of their ascent. 

 

The Jaeger splayed on the steps, in its pool of dried coolant. 

 

“You were here when you witnessed this Jaeger.” 

 

“Commander, you saw her too.”

 

“I was cloistered in the command tent, insulated from all these horrors by a hologram.” 

 

True finger pointed at the shattered glass door. “You walked through that maw, and all I did was watch.” 

 

Shimmering shards clinked overhead. Rusted cables groaned to the silent breeze. Broken bodies still littered the lobby, smelling faintly of iron and burned plastic. “You smelled their coolant. All I had was your description.” 

 

“Is there a takeaway from this?” Her anger, once simmering, started to boil.

 

“You were with the other dolls. You walked these dark halls with them. You shared their predicament in Delta Three.”

 

“...Commander…”

 

“You understood the situation better than me. You made your decisions with full comprehension of their plight. Your judgement is sounder than mine, ones made behind the safety of a screen.”

 

The seeping wind hissed, the hanging shards clinked. Her eyes were still hard.

 

The throat coughed. It felt dry. Inhaled. Exhaled.

 

“I do not make my decisions or deliver my orders frivolously, but they will never be as informed as the ones you made. You know better. You were with them, moment to moment. You shared their experiences.” 

 

Another grimace. She relaxed her shoulders, slackened her grip. “...Is this why you came out here?”

 

“I covet comprehension…”

 

Stagnant, iron-tinged air engulfed the blackened hallway.

 

“...but all I can hope to grasp are the muted echoes of history.” 

 

Left turn. Elevators, flanked by offices. Dark figures danced to the incandescent light. Sangvis bodies left where they were found. Half-melted Ripper erect like a tombstone in their midst. 

 

Right. More fallen Guards, lying on their shields. Holes melted into their back, still emanating that iron stench. Another right. Breeze bit the cheek. Corridor where Tiss, MG5 and Sten struggled with a stuck door. It was slightly ajar, loosened from its hinges. MG5’s work, perhaps? 

 

“Commander?” M4 asked hesitantly. Dark eyes filled with doubt. 

 

Lifted the assault rifle, pressed it against the upper hinge, pulled the trigger. M4 winced but said nothing. Lowered the barrel, fired another shot. The door fell and rested the deceased Guard behind it.

 

Turned back. M4 stepped aside. Took the left door. Guards flanked the entrance, cubicles shattered by sprawling Rippers. Two...three...five...seven...fifteen...Entire squads. Guards ready to breach, yet the Rippers took cover. Hunter left little to chance.

 

Guard by the side of the opened back door. The threadbare carpet beneath exposed scraped concrete soaked in coolant. Colour that of freshly bled blood but the consistency was that of water. A shallow imitation. 

 

Out the door. Left, back to the elevators. Floor chart by its side. Command centre on the fifth floor. 

 

Ten flights of stairs, all cleared of Sangvis. Hunter had not expected us to reach it. Peeked into the offices facing the Square. Fallen Jaegers behind every window. How many did Hunter bring here? How many do the Sangvis have? 

 

Were they truly without number?

 

Fifth floor. Left turn. Walls pitted with bullet holes. Hunter soaked in a pool of her own coolant. Holes perforated her forehead and chest, scars gouged into her left arm and cheek. Mangled right leg almost detached from her knee. Her right hand gripped a pistol lightly. 

 

Scowl frozen on her face. Green eyes wide yet blank. They do not radiate fury nor fear. Cold, like a corpse.

 

Skorpion’s sapphire eye filled with anger and sadness. 416’s jade eyes filled with anticipation. Springfield’s emerald eyes gleamed with gentle ruefulness.

 

Their false eyes bore the spark of life. 

 

FMG-9...what did her eyes look like? Were they too blank, like a corpse's? 

 

“Commander?” M4 asked again. 

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. Moved on.

 

Forward, right, through the door. AR-15’s refuge. Coolant on the floor, pitted holes melted into the walls and scorched the cubicles. Another pistol by the wall to the left. Hunter struggled ferociously despite her waning strength. 

 

Trail of coolant led out the back door. Out, went along the corridor, crossed the double door. Stage, podium, chairs strewn along walls, save one. It was toppled at the centre and ringed by a cut rope. AR-15’s chair.

 

A steel door to the left blasted from its hinges. Scorched, pitted holes at its sides. Crossed the threshold. Tactical map, radio equipment, cables, all destroyed beyond recovery. Armoured soldiers behind overturned tables. 

 

Command room. 

 

Consoles melted through by thermite. A corpse slumped under the back-most panel, behind the barricades and his fallen comrades. He gripped a pistol limply in his lifeless hand, stained and grainy. Blood. It poured from the sole wound under his chin. Stripes on his shoulder. Sangvis Ferri Security’s Commander.

 

Empty sockets pierced through the helmet. A small mocking smirk frozen on his rotted lips, baring his chalk-white teeth. 

 

“Did your duty, denied your enemies. Died at your own terms, defiant to the end.”

 

“Commander?”

 

M4 seemed concerned. 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled.

 

“I wish to bury them.”

 

“I don’t think they keep any shovels here...” She paused, mulled for a moment. “...maybe there’s a gardener’s shack in the park?” She glanced at the fallen bodies. 

 

One had its head evaporated. Another dismembered, lost an arm. 

 

She sighed. “I will find the shack for the shovels, but…” Pursed her lips, looked at the corpse, missing half his midsection, still reaching for his carbine. “Should I help to move the bodies downstairs first?”

 

“...Please.” 

​

​

​

0515

​

Muscles ached, tendons tugging taut against the bones. The skin on the true palm felt raw, chafed by the shovel in its grip. 

 

Inhaled. Loamy odour filled the nostrils, intermingled with the fresh scent of morning dew. Counted to three. Exhaled.

 

Boots scraped against the devoured cobbles, and fingers stretched away from the shovel’s shaft. 

 

A sting and the dull snap of waterlogged wood. An angry red swelled around the splinter. False finger and thumb tweezed it, and the wound exhaled blood in relief. A crimson stream flowed down the palm and soaked the sleeve. Turned the appendage downwards, reversed the flow. Red beads dripped off the finger-tips, sanguinating the grass below.

 

“There is no need to stand in ceremony.”

 

M4 sagged her shoulders. She glanced at the bench but wore no expression.

 

Sigh exhaled. “You need not my permission to sit.” 

 

The wooden bars creaked under her weight. She laid her shovel against the bench’s armrest.

 

Chirps announced the coming of the dawn. Sunlight streamed from the cracks in the canopies banishing light mist settling around the roots. 

 

Vines engulfed benches; lichen dotted statues. A silent fountain rancid with entropy. Dead soldiers buried under freshly turned earth, soon to be devoured by ravening worms and roots. 

 

Bodies do not rot easily in Istanbul. The flies there delight in tormenting dried flesh and bleached bones. 

 

“Tis’ not the Elysian Fields, yet it is tranquil all the same.” 

 

“Commander?” 

 

Sigh exhaled. Shovel rested against the bench’s armrest. 

 

“Just musings of a weary soul.”

 

“I see…”

 

Her expression was unreadable, yet her eyes were introspective. She looked towards the birds flitting among the branches. 

​

There is verdant growth around me, yet my reflections are of the dusty, desolated streets.

 

I buried six strangers, yet I left a hundred brothers desecrated.

 

I am surrounded by chirping, yowling life, yet my thoughts are of morbidity.

 

…

 

I will return home, Captain. One year, three years, I will return home. Even if bleached bones are all that remains, I will recover and consecrate them.

 

...

 

Aydos Ormani. We used to train there. You told me it used to be green. I recalled you looking upon that forest longingly when you spoke of its past. What it used to be.

 

…

 

Perhaps I should bury you there.

​

​

​

0803

​

Sharp nips on the true palm. The false eyes snapped open. Scampering paws clumsily tumbled into the wild shrub close by.

 

The crimson stream had stopped. Watered grass stained sanguine. No new breaks on the skin.

 

Amber eyes peeked from under the bush. The beast uttered a low, guttural growl.

 

“Commander.” M4 stopped behind the bench. A horn blared loudly in the distance. “The convoy has arrived.”

 

Muscles stretched and contracted, tendons taut, joints creaked. Servos whined inaudibly. Throbbing aches under the stitches, the oxycontin was wearing off. 

 

“...I see.”  

 

The creature had slinked away.