Reclamation of S09

Chapter 18

0810

“Hey! Mister Aux Guard! Over here!” A gloved arm waved vigorously from the driver’s seat of the frontmost jeep. The face reflected off her sunglasses wore a weary expression. “Which way to the base camp?” False finger pointed north. The driver grinned and elbowed the passenger beside her. “See, Welrod? Told you we are on the right track. Straight as the crow flies.”

Welrod shot her driver a glare. “You are too quick to rest your laurels. We may have rid ourselves of the phantasma of the long night, but these west-bound shadows may yet mislead us.”

“Oh, come on.” The driver looked aside; she must have rolled her eyes at Welrod. “We aren’t stranded or lost. Even Mister Aux Guard agrees with me.”

Welrod rustled her paper map and waved her thin flashlight like a baton. “It is by the guidance of this atlas, aided by this illumine, that we weren’t led astray thus far.”

Her shoulder shook; the blonde machine-gunner at the ringmount had kicked at her seat. “Ye of little faith. Grizzly’s never going to get lost, especially not on a highway. Besides…” she pointed at the truck behind her, “...they would have honked us if we went the wrong way.” 

Welrod sighed. “Must I remind you that our lieges are of flesh-and-blood? They had relentlessly driven after the coming dawn since dusk-fall.” Her jade-green eyes lingered over the drab, grey blocks. The corona crept furtively behind the shadowed roofs. “The shadows play tricks on fatigued eyes,” she uttered, her voice hushed.

The truck’s horn blared aloud, breaking the trance. “And now they make their anxieties known.” She smoothed out her map. “It is unwise of us to dally in this necropolis. We must depart with haste.” She turned her gaze to meet the false eyes. “Perhaps you may guide us out? You must be intimate with these twisted paths.”

“...I’m an immigrant.”

The machine-gunner and Grizzly broke into mirthful giggles. Welrod ground her teeth and exhaled irately. “Yes, I can see that. However, you are of this principality, are you not?”

​

“...I’ve only arrived yesterday.”

Welrod’s companions erupted into hearty laughter. 

A soft metallic bang against the jeep, coming from behind the driver’s seat. The laughter died down, Grizzly and the machine-gunner frowned. The air around them cooled as though caressed by the still lingering night winds. A pale T-Doll in blue rested her shoulder against the vehicle and folded her arms. 

“Are we continuing on, or are we stopping for a roadside picnic? Gather round for chay, maybe even scrounge around for moss and mushrooms for breakfast and lunch? Hmm?”

“Uuurgh! Fine!” Grizzly exhaled annoyedly at the pale T-dolls. “Fine, Comrade Commissar. I’ve got the message.”

“You better have, or I will escalate this to the Vice-Director.” The jeep rumbled, the pale T-Doll directed her ruby gaze towards the false eyes. “I’m sorry if we are interrupting your morning walk, Tovarisch Kommandir. To make it up for you, perhaps you would like to join me for chay?” 

The jeep jerked violently. “S-Sayeth what!” Grizzly blurted. 

The pale Doll smirked. “He doesn’t have a name patch, and he is a Turk. There is only one Turk under Grifon employ posted in Ukraine.”

Grizzly complained, “How am I supposed to know the Commander is a Turk and the only Turk in the Ukraine?”

“So you admitted to daydreaming about driving throughout the briefing,” Ruby Eyes huffed. “I will have to report this to the Vice-Director.”

“Oh, no. Please, don’t,” Grizzly’s tone and gesture belied the sincerity of her plea. “I’ll buy your silence with a quarter of my salary.” 

Welrod stifled a chuckle. 

“Commander, if I may.” M4 broke her silence. “My command module provides access to my Tactical Map. With it, I should be able to lead the convoy back to the base camp on my own.”

“Then, I gladly commission your service as our guide.” Welrod nodded approvingly. She then spoke to me, “And Commander? I suggest taking up Miss Makarov on her offer. You look like you could use a belly-warmer, and she makes good, albeit unconventional, tea.” 

Sigh exhaled. “Fine. Proceed.”

Makarov smiled briefly, then turned towards whence she came. 

Tired, disgruntled gazes followed our wake as we passed by Makarov’s vehicle. Driver and passenger, both attired in the uniform of the Grifon Auxiliary Guard. The driver drummed his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently while the passenger seethed over his thermos cap. They were both hunched, tired from coursing down the moonlit road. 

“Heya, Cetin.” Kalina's brilliance almost illuminated the back of the truck. She was leaning forward, her hand extended. “Figured we must have run into you.” 

The throat grunted as the false foot pressed down on the rear bracket. A sharp pain erupted from the stitching on the true thigh. It started to throb. 

“Don’t be so stubborn.” Her fingers grasped the true wrist tightly. “The painkillers are starting to wear off, aren’t they?” She gave the true wrist a hard tug. The truck's roof cast its shade upon me. 

Loud snores mingled with the engine hums, emitted by the two T-Dolls lying behind another Doll in white and an iron samovar. They twisted and turned, the pink-haired one and the underdressed one. 

Pink-hair hugged her rifle tightly while the underdressed one sprawled spread-eagled. She scratched her exposed hips, turned to her left, then returned to her former position.

​

“Privet, Kommandir,” greeted the T-Doll in white warmly, as though intending to draw attention from her slovenly compatriots. She placed her crockery on her thighs. “Nagant told me much about you. I’m her elder sister. Mosin Nagant.”

​

She showed her hand. False hand clenched, unclenched, then grasped her hand firmly and obliged her a handshake. She kept her friendly smile. 

A groan. The underdressed T-Doll raised her head slightly to squint at us before falling back onto the truck’s bed. Her left arm searched about, picked up a red beret and placed it on her face. She then emitted a loud, pained groan.

“That’s AK-47,” said Mosin. “And that…” she pointed at the pink-haired T-Doll hugging her rifle, “...is Simonova. Don’t mind them.” 

AK-47 scratched her bum. Her elbow struck a bottle, which rolled to the side and back. 

“They had too much drink last night.”

“On the contrary, I am of the opinion that we should mind them more,” Makarov suddenly remarked coldly behind me. “You are too lenient with them, Tovarisch Mosin. Extend that leniency to that Dimas character, and we might just cause some trouble.”

The engine rattled, and the truck lurched forward. Mosin nodded. Her smile was not unlike Springfield’s.

“Dimas is rude…” the truck shook lightly as the back rested against the bed-side. “...but he is otherwise well-behaved.” 

“I’m not concerned about Nagant picking up any bad habits from this Dimas character,” Makarov said as she filled her ceramic teacup. “I’m worried she might turn his behaviour for the worse.” She scooped a spoonful of jam into the cup and handed it to the hands. “I believe you don’t need any more troublemakers added to your ranks. MP41, XM8, MDR…,” she pointed her teaspoon at the two snoring T-Dolls behind Mosin, “...and those two notwithstanding.”

Unmistakable berry sweetness saturated the red tea. This must be the eccentricity Welrod had alluded to. 

“Nagant told you all of this?” 

“Told Mosin, rather.” The pale T-Doll in blue sipped on her tea. “You will find hours upon hours of Nagant’s communique to her in the public communicator logs. Only time she acts exactly as she looks.” 

“She’s just living up to the reputation of her gun,” Mosin said gently. “She’s besmirching it,” Makarov retorted calmly. “You shouldn’t slander your elders, Makarov dear.” They drank their tea.

“How are Ingram and FMG-9?” Kalina choked on her tea; the query had caught her off-guard. She slapped her chest as she laid down her teacup. She coughed then replied, “They are not with us anymore.” 

The heart sank. “...I see.”

She expelled another bout of coughs, then wore a mischievous grin. Torso shoved forward; she had slapped the true shoulder. “Don’t be so glum. They just aren’t in the FOB; their neural cloud data were transmitted to off-site IOP servers.”

“The techs didn’t provide them with their replacement bodies?”

“We do not stock up spare bodies; they are out of production.” She then urgently added, without catching her breath, “Don’t worry. I meant the mainframes. The dummies are still in production, but they do not have the hardware to support mainframe neural clouds. IOP has to mod them. Not to mention there’s that queue…”

“We are lucky the queue is as short as it is,” Makarov said suddenly. “Grifon has lost many dolls on multiple fronts around the Carpathia. They have been attacking the cordons the past week.” She narrowed her eyes. “Vice-Director believes we have you to thank for their renewed offensive.”

“They would have resumed their incursion eventually.” 

“Vice-Director thinks otherwise.” Makarov sipped on her tea. “She believes the skirmishes in subsector 2 was the trigger for this second wave incursion.”

“They were already scouting for chinks in our defences two days before Executioner marauded subsector 2.”

“I’ve heard. Scarecrow, wasn’t it?” Makarov drank her tea again. “Being fair, the Vice-Director seems to despise you from the start.” She took another sip. “She speaks of you like a school teacher speaking of a delinquent. Never seen her being so irritable with an employee before, especially not towards a rookie.” She refilled her cup and mixed in another spoonful of jam. She then pointed her teaspoon at me. “What’s the history? Did you rebuke her advances or something?”

“...What?”

The truck lurched. Drops of tea spilt. AK-47’s beret slipped off her face as she raised herself onto her right forearm. “...Cyka...can’t even drive smoothly,” AK-47 moaned, then fell back onto her back. Makarov frowned as she set down her crockery and disembarked from the stalled vehicle. 

Dirt on cracked asphalt compacted under leather boots. Flesh stretched against the stitches. The sun scorched the true cheek. “Commander!” Sop II bounded towards us with skipping steps. “Commander! Good morning!” 

“Hey, Fox.” Lev followed after the excited T-Doll. “You are late. Springfield’s set aside your breakfast.” 

Behind them and beyond the convoy, P7 waved both her arms over her head animatedly atop a BTR. 

“You are early.” 

Lev shrugged. “First thing in the morning.” 

“What, exactly, are you doing?” Makarov asked with her arms folded and a frown upon her lips. 

“Checking up on the BTR, see if we can salvage it, little miss,” Lev replied.

“The name’s Makarov, Tovarisch Lev Kuznetsov.” She rested her knuckles against her hips and puffed her chest out. “You’ll do well to remember it.”

“Hey, Kalin.” Lev ignored Makarov and greeted Kalina with a smile. 

“Morning, Lev.” The logistics officer leaned sideways. “Checking up on a BTR, you say?” 

“Yeah.” The Dayguard Captain pointed at the disabled vehicle with his thumb. “Checking up on a BTR. Fox’s got us salvaging them for our next op. We are checking this one’s condition; see if we can get it running again.” 

“And why are you doing that?” Makarov’s arms hung beside her, her fists clenched.

“Fox’s orders.” He nudged his chin towards me.

Makarov turned her glare towards me. 

“Aren’t you lucky I got here just in time?” said Kalina with a smirk.

Lev rolled his eyes. “This is where you say to me, ‘You owe me this time’.”

Kalina held her elbows over her head, then stretched to her left and her right. “That depends on the BTR.” She passed him, her arms swinging pendulum-like by her sides. “No charge if it’s completely unsalvageable.” Lev shrugged and followed after her. 

“Join us, Commander! Look at what we found!” Sop II tugged at the false wrist; she was on tenterhooks. AR-15, leaning against the APC’s cabin, nodded in greeting. “Morning, Commander.” She glanced at Sop II, then continued, “I’m watching over Sop II. She insisted on joining the expedition.” 

Grizzly honked her jeep; M4 had disembarked from her vehicle. “AR-15. Morning.” AR-15 glanced at her, then redirected her attention towards Sop II. Her impassive expression turned into a frown. “You wag your tail at the Commander, but not at M4?” 

“Ehh?” the black-garbed T-Doll hid behind my back. “But the Commander’s more reliable than M4.”

M4 lowered her gaze, her smile faded. AR-15, seeing this, clicked her tongue and grasped M4’s shoulder tightly. “Excuse me, Commander. I’m going to have a word with our leader.” She dragged her squad leader with her towards the BTR’s rear.

“Commander! Commander!” P7, her arms outstretched, landed surely before us. She skipped forward and continued bouncing on the spot. She was just as excited as Sop II. “What do you think!” She gestured at the BTR. “He’s a beau, isn’t he?”

“Don’t go asking for praise! You didn’t do anything!” Sudaev shouted from the front of the BTR. “It was already here when we arrived! Praise Sestra instead! She’s given the interior a thorough inspection!” Papasha’s arm stuck out of concealment and struck Sudaev in the head. “Don’t get distracted,” she reprimanded softly. She then suddenly squeaked distressedly. Kalina had announced aloud, “Engine’s busted! Rusted through! Needs replacement!” 

“Write the bill to Fox.”

“Well, that’s assuming I can find us a replacement.” The logistics officer stretched backwards. “But it won’t come cheap. Might need to grease the wheels a little. How many do we need?”

“Three at minimum.” 

“Three at minimum, you say?” Kalina stretched again. “Guess I’m joining the expedition, then.” She activated her radio. “Hey, Truck 4! Pierre! Deele! Get the cargo down!” 

“Is the mighty Kalina undoing her meticulous work before reaching the base camp?” Lev elbowed Kalina in her sides. She elbowed back in response. “Oh, shush. With what we have brought, repacking and reloading the cargo will be easy. Will take no time at all.”

​

​

​

0845

​

P7’s purple eyes gleamed with eagerness, though she made a poor attempt at concealing it behind her creeping half-grin. Sop II shared in her enthusiasm; she bared her giddy enthusiasm openly.

A black-garbed T-Doll stood at the edge of a truck’s bed. She clicked away at her folding phone. Another doll, grey-haired and donning a green jacket, was seated beside her, kicking her legs back and forth. A third doll, who resembled MP40, stood on the asphalt below them. She raised her camera, snapped a photo, then moved towards the gathered Auxiliary Guardsmen.

The Guardsmen had split into two groups of ten. The first group came with Lev. They spoke among themselves, then pointed at the unfolding spectacle and nodded approvingly. The second group, the ones from HQ, tapped their fingers against their folded arms impatiently. Their unrest was shared by Welrod, who did her best to ignore the lively conversation between the two machine-gunners and Grizzly. 

The grown-up machine-gunner...Deuce. The child-like one...Nineteen. They physically resembled each other closely, unlike Papasha and Sudaev.

The Auxiliary Guardsmen and the T-Dolls kept to themselves, except for Papasha and Sudaev, who mingled with Lev’s men, and a snow-white T-Doll flitting about among them. She spoke to a Guardsmen briefly, smiled and giggled, then moved on. She stopped, turned towards MP40’s doppelganger and conversed with her for a moment. They then resumed their mingling.

“Alright, try it again,” said Pierre as he tapped at his tablet. Deele inched away Lev’s exoskeleton whirred to life. “Fits like a glove!” the Day Guard Captain exuberated as he stretched and twisted his torso as though warming up for a morning run.   

“X-1 Exoskeleton.” Kalina had leaned for a whisper, though she kept her eyes on Lev. “Mobility aid and spinal support.” She suddenly stifled a snort; Lev was performing squats while lifting a long crate over his head. She shook her head and continued, “Nobody in Grifon has donned these exos since the end of the war.”

“I noticed.”

The doll-in-green and doll-in-black shifted aside, giving way for Lev. With the crate on his shoulder, he effortlessly climbed into the truck. He then turned around and addressed the other Guardsmen. “Well, what are you waiting for? Suit up! We still have a long day ahead!”

A tug against the sleeve. “Commander! Commander!” P7 skipped lightly. “I want one of those too!” 

“Me too!” Sop II waved her arms over her head fitfully, ignoring AR-15’s scowl. “I want an exo too!”

“Which one?” Kalina interjected. “We have the X-series and the T-series.”

“How are they different from each other?”

“Weeelll…” Kalina averted her gaze momentarily. “X-series goes up to the nape.” She pointed at the base of her neck. “While the T-series only goes up to the lumbar.” She traced her finger down to the base of her spine. “It’s not just the look that’s different, of course.”

“Yeah!” Sop II cried out again. “T makes you move faster. X also makes you move faster but not as fast!”

“Does this not make X-exos redundant?”

“X-exos also stabilises your aim. Spine and arm support assisting in recoil compensation...” Kalina scratched her chin, then wore a grin, not unlike Sop II’s and P7’s. “You know, I think a live demonstration is in order.”

“It’s in order! In order!” P7 repeated, skipping to her every uttered syllable animatedly.  

Kalina turned towards Truck Four and shouted, “Hey! Lev! Pierre!”

Pierre and Deele paused and regarded Kalina. They were making physical adjustments on the leg components of the exoskeleton already attached to a Guardsman. He appeared to be taller than what the base exoskeleton could support. 

Lev himself emerged from the depths of Truck Four. The black-garbed doll continued to aim her phone towards him and clicked on it. The one in the green jacket made a few remarks and started chortling. Lev, with an annoyed look, muttered at her then regarded my adjutant. 

“Gonna borrow you for a minute!” Kalina added. “We are going to equip the expedition dolls with exoskeletons!” 

The green doll heckled Lev once again, and this time, Lev grunted irately at her. He then turned towards the throng of his men and shouted. “Papasha! Sudaev! Come with me! We are getting you geared up!”

“Can’t!” Pierre replied aloud to Kalina’s request. “Andrei still needs adjustments!” 

“I’ll go,” Deele announced. “Don’t go looking up their skirts, alright?” The senior technician smirked. Deele, having picked up his tools, shook his head. “You know I have to hike up their skirts, right?”

​

“I know!” Pierre grinned. His grin was a mockery of an old lecher’s. 

Deele scoffed, shook his head again and joined us. 

Lev clambered onto the shaded bed of Truck Three as effortlessly as he did Truck Four. “Is there nothing but exos in here?” he inquired. 

“All doll exos.” Kalina scrolled through her tablet. “For both mainframes and dummies.” She looked up from the tablet. “Cetin, the expedition dolls are just Papasha, Sudaev, P7, Sop II and AR-15, correct?” 

False eyes regarded M4. She turned her gaze towards AR-15. “Just go with the Commander,” the pink-haired doll said. “We’ve already discussed this.” M4 nodded, then shook her head at us. AR-15 sighed and elbowed her team leader. M4 blinked, then replied firmly. “I’m returning to base camp with you.”

“I see.”

Kalina tapped on her tablet again. “Lev,” she started. “Three T-exos and two X-exos. You should see the marks T-2 and X-2 on them.”

“I see them,” Lev replied. The truck rocked. “Gentle with the goods, okay?” Kalina remarked as she tapped on her tablet again.

It took Lev almost a minute to unload all the requested cargo; he had carried their containers three at a time, hopping off and leaping back on as casually as one takes a nightly stroll. As soon as he finished laying out the exoskeletons’ crates, Kalina ordered, “Alright, all men, turn around.” Deele raised his brow at her. She quickly added, “Except Deele. P7, come with me.” 

P7 sprung towards the plastic containers the moment Kalina finished conveying her instructions.

It didn’t take long for trouble to brew. 

“Hey, hold still! P7!” 

“But it tickles!”

“Hold on! Let me…”

“No! Don’t switch her off! P7, stop squirming! It will be over in a sec!”

A bump against the thigh. A blur. P7, arms outstretched behind her, brushed by the limb, her sprinting steps accompanied by mechanical whirs. She leapt, spun around and hopped on the spot.

She had jumped three times her height, performing jumping jacks.

Deele held his knees, catching his breath. P7 had not been cooperative. “I’m not going to regret this,” he uttered as he straightened himself and wiped his brow. “Not at all.” 

“It appears you have enhanced her potential for mischief.” 

The technician sniffled and shrugged. “Yeah. I’m totally not going to regret this,” he stated again, with an ironic tone.

​

“Commander! Commander!” P7 continued to bounce. “Look at this!” As soon as she landed, she lunged towards us, or rather, towards Deele. Realising his predicament, he reared back and raised his arms in panic. Just as P7 made to pounce, she twisted her torso then sprung to her right. “Nyahahaha!” she laughed shrilly. She jumped onto the roof of Truck Three with a single bound. 

“Nyahahaha! You have a funny face!” 

“Mein Gott,” Deele, clutching his chest, exhaled his relief. “That could have given me a heart attack.” 

“Is there a reason you needed to hike up her skirt?”

“Well…yeah.” Deele, having caught his breath, kicked his legs out. “The doll exoskeletons interface with them directly via their neural ports.”

The truck shook. P7 was hopping atop its roof, demanding attention.

“The ports are located at their nape and lumbar. Can’t reach them without going under their clothes.”

“My turn! My turn!” 

Sop II hopped about around Kalina restlessly while AR-15 glared at her with consternation.

“Well!” Deele sighed again. He then twisted his torso and stretched his arms. Left, three counts, right, another three counts, left. “That is my cue to get back to work. Talk again, Commander.”

The truck continued to rock back and forth. “Commander! Commander!” P7 cried, still bouncing on the vehicle’s roof, attempting to provoke pursuit. 

Kalina’s harangued voice could still be heard clearly despite the din the doll had produced. 

“Stop nipping at my heels; I am getting to it. I can’t just put the exo on you, you know. X-exos go further up than your skirt. I need to strip you and… Sop II! STOOOOP!” 

M4 averted her gaze while AR-15 buried her face in her palm. Deele stood stupefied. Sop II’s jacket was half undone. She looked confused, seemingly oblivious that her action had caused this uproar. 

“Wh-wh-what are you doing?!” Kalina demanded flusteredly. 

Sop II tilted her head. “But you told me to strip.”

“Yes, but I don’t mean right now! I have to set up partitions and-STOP!” 

​

Sop II had pulled down her zip, further undoing her garment.

“STOP! SOP II! STOP!” 

Sop II appeared even more confused. “But I still need to strip, right?” She undid her zipper fully. 

Kalina shrieked at us in crimson panic, “Don’t look! All of you! Turn around!” 

​

​

​

0930

​

P7 yelped; Sop II’s burst fire had caught her by her sides. Yet she still zig-zagged relentlessly towards her opponent. 

Sop II fired three more bursts. Two bursts missed or grazed her while the third struck her in her left ribs. The smaller T-Doll flinched, then shifted her trajectory, darting towards the nearest car to her right while returning fire. Her shots missed their mark widely, despite Sop II making very minute movements. 

P7 fired two shots from the car’s trunk then ducked back behind cover. She struck Sop II’s left limb, yet the riflewoman continued her advance. Sop II laughed merrily as she sprinted counterclockwise towards the vehicle. She immediately twisted her torso, snapped the barrel towards the car’s roof, and fired her weapon. P7, who had vaulted over the car, immediately slammed her right foot down, propelling her away from the trajectory of Sop II’s shots. 

She cried again. The rubber bullets had struck her right shin. She rolled on the asphalt, stopped with her back against a bus, aimed her pistol and pulled her trigger.

Slide locked back, no muzzle flares, no report of gunfire. P7 blinked. Her eyes widened. She squeezed her trigger again and again. She had run out of ammunition.

“I won!” Sop II brandished her gun in a celebratory gesture. P7 sat upright and sulked.

T-Exos conferred enhanced mobility but threw off the wearer’s aim. The wearer had to cease movement or to run directly towards the enemy to make any accurate shots from at least mid-range. Perhaps range reduction can mitigate the accuracy deficit.

X-Exos did not augment mobility as much but allowed the wearer to retain accuracy while running at full sprint.

One exo for rapidly closing towards the enemy while evading their fire, to tie them up or flush them out of their positions. The other for outmanoeuvring the opposition while keeping them under fire.

“Learned anything from their play-fight, Fox?” Lev gulped down a mouthful of coffee. 

“I believe I have an accurate assessment of the exoskeletons’ capabilities.”

He refilled his thermos cap and took another sip. “You think boss-lady expects us to charge up that hill?” 

Sop II offered her hand to the grumbling P7, who swatted it away. Undeterred, Sop II offered her hand again, and P7 refused her again.

The throat rasped, “Do you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Boss-lady may be as stern as a Cossack captain, but she’s not cruel. She knows as well as we do that those exos won’t be of much help in the face of all the incoming fire the Sangvis will throw at us. She must have expected us to come up with something already.”

“Such as refurbishing BTRs, artificing artillery and retrofitting gun-trucks?”

“Nothing that crazy, but close.” He drank his coffee again. “Just think of the exos as maximising our advantage. God knows we need it. Besides, those BTRs?” Lev pointed at the aforementioned tarp-blanketed vehicle. “Engines and parts we are getting for those? Will be used in some way, guaranteed. No telling if they won’t break down mid-charge. The exos might just save our skin.” 

“Your exo does not confer as dramatic an enhancement as it does to dolls.”

Lev shrugged. “If our exos work like theirs, they will break a limb or three. But!” A muted mechanical whir; he had flexed his left arm. “We can still carry heavier body armour with these. Upgrade our paper armour to china plate armour! Haha!” 

Heart pounded, pulsed raised, dull ache in the false arm. The artificial fingers twitched. P7 had cried sharply; she was hurt. Sop II reared back in panic, her arms drawn back. The handgunner, gripping her wrist, shouted and kicked at her. 

Sop II bowed profusely in apology, though P7 refused to calm. The handgunner kicked at her again. Sop II looked left and right, then perked up. She suddenly slid her arms under P7’s armpits and hoisted her high into the air. 

P7, initially stunned in shock, started flailing. “Let me down!” she demanded in panic. Her feet lashed out at Sop II’s face but missed. Sop II, still in high spirits, lowered P7, then shot her up again. “Let me down! Let me down!” P7’s demands increased in intensity as Sop II continued vigorously lifting her up and down. “Let me-” P7 broke into shrill laughter. 

“Pfft!” Lev snorted. “What is she doing, giving her an upsy-daisy?” True shoulder jerked forward. “Everything’s fine, Fox. No need to be tense.”

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled in relief. 

The truck behind us honked. Lev emptied his thermos cap. “Well, enough resting. Time to get back to work.” 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. “Another word with you, Lev.”

The Day Guard Captain stowed his flask into his bag. “Yeah?”

“There’s a shed in the park behind City Hall. Contains fertiliser.”

“We’ll check it out and salvage whatever we found along the way.” Lev nodded. “Right then. When you get back, tell Sturmgewehr I said hello.” 

“Understood.” 

Lev smiled and made an informal salute.

“Commander! Commander!” P7 had returned, with Sop II twenty paces behind. Her eyes were red with dried tears, and her cheeks flushed with recent laughter. “Give me that thing you did with Skorpion for good luck!” She demanded. She could barely keep her feet on the ground.

Sigh exhaled. “I will...but only if you promise me to keep out of trouble, to not commit any mischief while you are still donning your exoskeleton.” 

P7’s ears drooped under her hood, then perked up again. There was a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. 

“If you commit any mischief, you will be forbidden from ever donning the exoskeleton outside of patrol duties and combat operations.” 

Her ears drooped again. “Eh, fine!” she huffed as she lifted her forearm. “Do the thing, and I’ll cross my fingers!” 

“You meant you would cross your heart!” Sudaev, having just arrived, retorted. 

P7 stuck out her tongue. “Oops! My tongue slipped!” 

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Sudaev stated. “Say it, P7.” 

Sigh exhaled again. “Nobody dies. P7, I’ll do the thing if you promise.”

“Fiiiiine~,” P7 grumbled. “I’ll promise, so hurry up!” Her sincerity was very doubtful, yet we knocked our forearms together. 

“What’s that, Commander?” Sop II had arrived, grinning with self-satisfaction. “I want to do it too!” 

“No! Shoo!” P7 swatted at her. “Owww,” Sop II cried. There was no malice felt; it was all in good fun. It appeared they had reconciled. “So!” Sop II turned her ruby gaze towards the false eyes. “I want what she’s got!” She pointed at her left forearm. 

Black with red highlights. Fingers obviously robotic, ending in claws. 

A Sangvis appendage.

“Commander! Hurry!” 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. “Fine.” I obliged her request. 

“One last matter, before we depart from each other. Sudaev.”

Sudaev tensed up, not in anxiety but with anticipation. “Da, Kommandir?” 

“Watch P7, ensure she behaves herself.”

Sudaev puffed out her cheek. P7 shot her a dubious glance. 

“Do this for me, and Springfield will give you and Papasha double servings. Is this deal amicable?” 

She lit up. “Double servings? For Sestra and me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do it!” Sudaev replied with a huff. She then brandished both her arms. “URA! I’ll do it!” 

“Good. We’ll reconvene at dusk.” 

“We’ll reconvene at dusk!” Sop II and P7 repeated. They giggled, then shouted again, “We’ll reconvene at dusk!” The T-Dolls then hurried after Lev.

False leg whined, true leg stretched. Shock up the spine, a painful throb had erupted from the thigh’s wound. 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. 

Boots scraped against the dry dirt and cracked asphalt. The wound throbbed in synchrony with pulsing arteries; the lungs laboured under the tyrant heart. Sharp jolts harried my every step, yet the machine advanced unimpeded, dragging along the flesh coldly, disregarding its squirming agony.

The false wrist whined, false fingers grasped a gloved hand tight. A tug against the right shoulder. Skin and flesh stretched tautly, bone groaned and creaked. The gloved hand was small yet firm. 

“Up you go,” Makarov said as shade engulfed vision and bitter aroma permeated the nostrils. “Quite a bit heavier than you look,” she said as her thin fingers slackened, releasing her grip. 

Kalina was resting her head against her seat’s backrest and emitting a droning groan with a distant yet not dissimilar resemblance to that of a deflating tire.

“She’s been like this for almost fifteen minutes,” Makarov informed, hiding her smirk behind her teacup. She smacked her lips. “Disgraceful.”

“Give me a break!” Kalina swung forward. She raised her teacup high and gulped down its contents as though it were water. As her cup clattered against its tray loudly, she exclaimed, “While you are here enjoying your tea with Mosin, I had to talk Sop II down from stripping in public!” 

Mosin Nagant glanced at the sprawled AK-47, who was scratching her bare tummy. “I still recall that time AK-47 had too much drink...” 

“Sober!” Kalina interrupted insistently.

​

“Oh. That’s a first.” Makarov took a long sip. “I haven’t heard of any firsts in Grifon ranks for a long time now.” 

“I still recall a time when we had many firsts,” Mosin commented. 

“You have been around since Springfield’s time, ‘First to report in drunk’,” said Makarov as she stirred another spoonful of jam into her freshly refilled cup.

Mosin giggled embarrassedly but withheld her comments.

Kalina continued her rant, seemingly oblivious to the conversation passing between the two T-Dolls. “Not to mention she’s wearing nothing under her hoodie! Not even a bra! Who does that?”

​

Makarov glanced at Mosin while drinking her tea. The markswoman averted her gaze slightly. “I’m wearing a bra, Makarov.” 

Kalina sighed wearily. She slapped her cheeks again, then raised her teacup. “Macky! Another cup!” 

Makarov’s brow twitched. She put down her teacup and harrumphed. “The name’s Makarov.” She refilled Kalina’s cup but did not add any jam. 

Kalina knitted her brow upon tasting the tea. Her gaze met Makarov's, who was hiding her smirk behind her teacup. The logistics officer continued partaking her tea, still knitting her brow and without comment. 

“Well then…” The white T-Doll in blue exhaled as she set down her crockery. “So as to not have Tovarisch Kommandir feel left out with all this girls’ talk…” She turned the tap of her samovar, allowing it to fill the teacup which had previously touched my lips. As she offered the drink, she added, “What do you think? Think we are getting any firsts in the next op?”

Her gaze was expectant yet wary and critical. Similar to Helianthus’.

“Grifon’s Age of ‘Firsts’ has likely passed. All we have done and will continue to do will merely be the rethreading of paths taken by Commanders past.”  

Makarov raised and furrowed her brow. “Oh, I did not expect this answer.”

“What are your expectations?”

“She thought you would be more gung-ho,” Mosin chimed. She then pumped her fist spiritedly. “I’ll be the first to defeat Agent! Ura!”

“Whoever thought that is already beaten to the punch.” Makarov placed her teacup on its tray. “You do know someone else has already defeated Agent.”

“I see news of M16’s victory has reached Helianthus.”

“Even before that,” informed Makarov. “How do you suppose Grifon halted the Sangvis advance in the first place?” 

The truck lurched suddenly to a halt. AK-47 and Simonova groaned, turned and mumbled unintelligibly. Makarov frowned and held her breath; familiar turfs of light brown hair had drifted into view.

“Ah, it’s Commyander, nya!” 

“...IDW.”

“That’s me, IDW DA NYA!” She exclaimed aloud, cheerfully. “Good myorning, Commyand-!!” She ducked. An empty vodka bottle shattered against Truck Two. 

“Shut up! Cyka! You are hurting my ears!” 

​

AK-47 collapsed onto her back while Simonova writhed about, clutching her head. “Sorry, da nya,” apologised IDW softly as she reemerged. “I am inspecting the twucks, nya. Nivy’s orders, nya! Is there any contrabyand in here, nya?” 

Her blue eyes widened, her gaze locked at the iron samovar. Makarov shifted closer to her possession and said firmly, “I am certain the samovar does not count as contraband.” 

“Whyat’s in the samyovar?” IDW inquired, her eyes still on the container.

Refilled the cup, placed it on the floor and pushed it towards IDW. She sniffed at it and coughed sharply. “Nya! It’s so bitter! Nya!” She snorted, coughed again, then scampered away.

“How rude!” Makarov glared at the departing IDW as she disappeared behind Truck Two. “The chay is not that bitter.” She returned to sipping her tea.

​

“Agent was defeated a year ago?”

Makarov lowered her teacup. “Yes. In S09 Subsector 1 FOB by a Doll under Commander Washington.” She raised her index finger and pressed it against her cheek. “I believe her name’s FNC.” 

The engine growled, and the truck lurched forward once more. Makarov and Mosin finished their tea and put down their crockery. “Kommandir, you said earlier that the age of ‘firsts’ is long past,” said Makarov as the truck halted, having reached its journey’s end. “I believe, on the contrary, we will achieve many more ‘firsts’ in the near future, starting with the next op.” She and Mosin started placing their china-ware inside a wicker box. “This is Grifon’s first campaign, after all.”

​

Grifon’s first campaign?

“...What about Istanbul?” 

Makarov cocked her head as she received Kalina’s crockery. “That humanitarian expedition contract into Anatolia? What about it?” 

“Is that not a campaign?”

“A campaign?” She shook her head. “No. It’s an expedition that ended disastrously.” 

“...I see.”

She narrowed her eyes and smirked. “You read the reports, didn’t you?”

No words uttered. 

“Of course you did.” She chuckled dryly. “The Kommandir-in-charge of that contract must have dressed up his words to save face. Didn’t change the fact that he should have pulled back and reported to HQ the first time the convoy faced that level of resistance.” She narrowed her eyes and wore that gossipy grin. “Why the interest? Friends in the ETM?”

ETM. Eastern Thrace Militia, the garrison manning the automated defence curtain that thwarted our crossing of the Channel more than a decade ago. 

The false limbs ached dully. They remembered that ill-fated night.

The throat felt tight. “...No.” 

“We can discuss Anatolia later. For now, I need to go back to packing my things...” she frowned and glared at the still twisting-and-turning Simonova and AK-47, “...and wake those two snoring drunkards.”