Reclamation of S09

Chapter 19

1030

A burst of typing, three seconds long, punctuated by an uneasy stillness. 

MP40’s expression was severe, despite the seeming calm. Her rust-brown eyes, reflecting the pale blue glow of the screen, darted about. Her right index finger nudged the red nub on the keyboard. Then her left index finger lifted away from a large button at the bottom of the laptop. Her nostrils flared, and she loosed another burst of furious typing.

“Kommandant,” she greeted without lifting her eyes from the screen. “You are late. Herr Mikhail and Frau Springfield have been asking for you.” 

Sturmgewehr should be the one occupying her seat.

“Where is Sturmgewehr?” 

“Sturmgewehr’s ill,” MP40 replied sternly. She lifted her finger off the nub and resumed typing. 

“Dolls can fall ill?” 

“Differs from doll to doll, Kommandant, per the whims of our makers.” She sighed. “As for their reasons for making us this way, my guess is as good as yours.” 

“Oho~? Did I hear that right? The prim and proper Sturmgewehr has fallen ill?” 

MP40 pinched her nose’s bridge and exhaled irately. “Guten Morgen, MP41,” she said as she lightly placed her fingers on the keyboard. “What are you doing here?”

MP41 clasped her hands in front of her chest and swayed left to right. “Awww, is this how you speak to your dear Schwester, who misses you dearly?” Her impish grin appeared to have been engraved permanently upon her lips. 

MP40 furrowed her brow as she nudged the laptop’s nub. “I am sure your being here isn’t motivated by familial affectations,” she replied coldly. She paused, bit her lips, then added. “It’s about that tabloid publication of yours again, isn’t it?” 

“T-tabloid??” MP41 stammered. She furiously thrust her trembling finger towards her sister. “H-How dare you accuse me so vulgarly, Schwester!” She then straightened her posture and struck her left chest with her right fist. “I’ll have you know, ‘Die Frontlinie’ is a respectable paper, with the highest of journalistic standards…” 

​

“Yet its pages are as yellow as an old phonebook’s,” dismissed MP40 as she started typing briskly again. 

“You did read my latest work, didn’t you?” MP41 uttered with increasing desperation. “Surely, you must admit it is my finest work yet!”

“That drivel about the Sangvis’ project to increase rainfall over the lower plains?” MP40 replied without lifting her eyes away from the monitor. “Yes, I did read it, and I find the article to be your most ludicrous yet. Just the premise alone is ridiculous!”

“Schwester! You can’t be serious!” MP40 fingers gesticulated frantically. “I did so much research on the subject matter, you know! I mean, you saw the charts!”

The sound of typing ceased abruptly. MP40 sipped deeply on her steel mug. She set her cup down, pressed her fingers against her temple and exhaled irately. “You mistake correlation for causation, and your sources are all anecdotal.” She hovered her hands over the keyboard, glanced at her sister, and resumed nudging the nub on the keyboard. “I am not saying any more about that waste of paper and ink; I am busy enough as is.”

The throat clenched and unclenched, clearing the obstructing phlegm. “Has Mikhail left me anything?” 

“He left you a message, Kommandant: You are to visit him at the infirmary as soon as humanly possible,” she replied without looking up from her screen.

“...I see.” 

The stitching tightened. True leg buckled and arrested its fall. Wound throbbing, nerves writhing in shock. 

“One more thing,” MP40 spoke again, her eyes still fixed on the laptop. MP41 had slinked around the table and made to sneak towards the receptionist. “Frau Springfield insists on you visiting the canteen immediately after your appointment with Herr Mikhail.” Without missing a beat, MP40 raised her right hand and pressed it against MP41’s cheek, keeping her at arm’s length. Without looking at her flailing sister, she added, “Personally, I advise against dallying any longer. You do know the consequences.”

“Come on, Schwester!” cried the younger submachine-gunner, her gaze diverted away from the laptop, her arms frantically swinging up and down. “What’s gotten your breeches twisted in a bunch? Let me see!” 

“Did you not read the sign outside?!” MP40 insisted, her cheeks starting to flush. “Technical difficulties!”

​

Torso twisted towards the light, legs made to leave the squabbling sisters behind. Dirt compacted under the true foot, flesh tugged against the stitches. The heart hammered against its cage, the throat clenched and gasped for breath. False foot led the lagging wounded leg towards the light beyond the canvas flaps. 

Canvas roof opened for the deep blue sky. Sunstroke sign pasted onto the tentpole. It carried the bold words ‘Achtung! Admin Closed Due To Technical Difficulties! Reopen at 11.00 am!’.

Kalina and two Auxiliary Guardsmen nodded curtly but otherwise paid no heed; they were fixated on the crates haphazardly stacked before the tent housing the supply cache. The logistics officer tapped on her tablet, then gestured at the topmost boxes and directed them towards the tent. Exos whirred and whined as the Guardsmen carried out her instructions. 

No dolls about to render them aid. 

IDW and FNC held their vigil at the Southern Checkpoint, twenty paces away. Close, yet not close enough to lend assistance.

FNC... Agent’s first vanquisher. Should I go to her, to have her regale me with her tale? 

True thigh throbbed excruciatingly. 

Another dozen steps hounded by piercing, flensing pain. Commotion rushed from the clearing beyond parked vehicles, where the Dolls had gathered around in a circle. At the centre, one 416 dug in her heels. Her torso rocked back slightly; she had just intercepted a strong punch. Her opponent, another 416, jabbed at her again, probing for gaps in her guard.

“You can do it!” 

Nagant, atop the truck to my left, had thrust her right fist upwards. “Five more minutes! You can do it!” she yelled spiritedly. “You can do it, I say!” Mosin paid her no mind, her attention fully captured by the uproarious spectacle. 

The attacking 416 drifted to her left and made to strike. The defending 416 swung her left forearm upwards, intercepting the blow. The attacker struck, her left fist slipped between the gap in the defender’s guard, aimed for the nose. 

“Yeah! Like that! Knock her down!” Deuce, on the other side of the ring, hollered. “Make me my ten thousand rubles!”

The defending 416 swung her left arm. She flinched, her adversary’s fist grazed against her left-tilting cheek. She countered with a jab to her opponent’s head and followed it up with a left hook.

​

“Knock her out! Knock her out!” Grizzly, during her bouts of shouting, had accidentally swatted Deuce’s cheek. 

The formerly attacking 416 deflected the blow and retaliated with a jab. She missed; the previously defending 416 had shifted her position to threaten her left.

“Come on, mainframe!” Grizzly shouted in encouragement. “Floor her!”  

“Three more minutes, 416!” Nagant waved her arms. “Three more minutes, I say!”

“Bonjour, Commander Cetin Yilmaz.”

Swaying lights. Steel-tinted smoke. Captain dead at my feet.

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. 

416 recoiled against her attacker. The other 416 primed her right fist for an overcut.

“Hon hon. Feeling shy? I expected the maverick commander of S09 to be bolder.”

Which 416 was which again? 

“I know I’m pretty, but it is unbecoming not to give your subordinate a good look, don’t you think? You are Grifon’s up-and-coming rookie commander, you know.”

Slender fingers pressed against the true cheek. The heart hammered, muscles stretched against polymer and steel, false fingers contorted to phantasmal pain. 

“Hon hon. You are quite cute, aren’t you? There is no need to be shy. Give me a good, hard look.” 

Neck muscles strained, tugged against the shoulders, resisting the force her palms exerted. 

Yellow eyes gleamed in the steel-tinted mist.

Tugging against the shoulders abated; sweat-drenched neck and head had snapped back to their original position. Throat clenched, lungs groaned, heart hammered against its cage. Formerly defending 416 slipped past her opponent’s guard. 

Blur of white and red. Fur, absent of animal musk, hid the yellow eyes. Snow-white ponytail flailed. Her shocked screams overlapped with fierce hisses and squeaks. “Sacre bleu! FAL!” she swore angrily. Fel continued hanging onto her hair. FAL briskly made her approach, seized the white T-Doll’s shoulders and turned her around. She was frowning; her concern skimmed the glimmering agitation in her dark blue eyes. She nudged her head sharply, a signal to retreat.

False limbs whined, false fingers twitched and contorted, false toes dug into its boot. Stitches stretched, crimson pain erupted from the wound in the thigh. 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. 

“FAL! Get! Fel! Off my face! Right now!” the white T-Doll continued to shout hysterically. 

“Ooooh!” Grizzly emitted a hissing, pained gasp. “Fifteen minutes!” Nagant declared aloud. “You did it, 416! You did it!” 

​

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​

1050

​

Plodding footfalls gradually drowning out raucous hoo-hahs. Distance gained, crowds dispersed. 416 must have restored normalcy, resumed the training exercise.

Tent flaps swayed to a gentle yet dusty breeze. Shocks jolted up the spine; the true thigh still ached, though each throb was duller than the last.

Stinging odour wafted from the opened lid. Parched throat burned by fiery fluids, embers ignited under the skin. 

“Commander?” 

Sten at the rear. Frowning lips, furrows on her brow. 

Time...ten-fifty-five hours. Canteen along the way. Corked the flask, swerved to the left, cleared her path. 

Vodka sloshed in its container; the true arm was intercepted, wrapped in red. The pain diminished, relief on the true thigh; she had lifted the arm, and the torso, slightly and matched her pace with mine.

“You could have asked me for help, you know,” she uttered. Her tone was harsh and inflamed; she was irked. 

“You have your appointment with Springfield. I won’t have you sidetracked.” 

“I’m sure Miss Springfield will excuse me for being a little late,” Sten said, her tone softened slightly. “Besides, the infirmary is on the way.” 

“...I see.”

Snores emanated from the tents; night shift crew at rest.

“Where is Skorpion?”

Sten’s wheat-brown eyes looked straight ahead. She fixed her expression in that slight frown. “Last I saw her, she was heading towards the command tent.”

“How long ago?” 

“Around seven a.m.,” she replied.

“I see.”

Sten shot a glance. “I’m sure she won’t mess anything up,” she said. “Commander Washington is supervising her.”

FN-49 barely visible behind one of the flaps. She laid on her side, facing the wall, her torso rising and falling rhythmically. A plastic-coated cord snaked up to her nape. 

“What happened at the staging ground?”. 

“FAL spoke out against 416,” Sten replied. She paused, pursed her lips, eyes reflective. “I think FAL accused her of putting up airs during the dummy control training. At least that’s what Tiss told me.”

“416 proved her wrong.”

Sten smiled. “I think she did.”

Breeze laced with sterile odour. The stinging stench intensified with every closing step. Blazing sun retreated behind the canvas shades, dry breeze turned into choppy gale. 

Mikhail tapped on his tablet then slid the plastic drawer shut, cutting off the wafting antiseptic odour. “You are four hours late,” he said as he laid down his device on his desk. He gazed at me, scrutinising eyes going up and down mechanically like one of Kyiv Hospital’s scanner machines. His nostrils flared, he emitted a grunt. “Have you been drinking?”

“I saw him taking a swig off his flask, Sir,” Sten replied gently yet firmly, almost like a lesser Springfield. 

Mikhail grunted again. He motioned at the folding chair opposite his desk. “Sit down.”

Feet scrapped the dirt, a firm tug against the false arm. Sten had obeyed the orderly on my behalf. The chair creaked, red fabric separate from fatigues, the wound sighed in relief. 

“Am I not here just for my medication?”

“I’m not giving you any until the alcohol’s cleared your system.” He retrieved a device resembling a rubberised aerosol can with a thick pipe for a mouth. “How long depends on the breathalyser result. Now bite down the tube.” One second, two, the machine beeped. Mikhail furrowed his brow. “Tell Sudarynya Springfield I’ll be keeping the Kommandir for thirty minutes.” 

Sten nodded politely, then affected her exit. 

The chair creaked again. Mikhail washed his can-like machine and placed it on his desk beside his tablet. “So, Kommandir,” he started. “Do you have any trouble breathing today?”

“...No.”

“No breathing difficulties…” he jotted on a piece of paper, then locked his gaze with the false eyes. “Drowsy?” 

“No.”

“I see…” he wrote that down. 

“Why the questions, Mikhail?”

“Checking for symptoms of addiction,” he replied matter-of-factly. “If you show any sign of them, I will have to change your prescription. Irritability? Mood swings?” 

“Negative on both counts. Not going to check my eyes?”

“Pointless,” said Mikhail. “Your prosthetic eyes’ pupils will function as though everything is normal with you. Not operated by your nervous system, I was told.”

“...I see.” 

“No slurred speech.” Mikhail scribbled on his paper again.

​

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​

1100

​

Mikhail turned over the beakers and bottles, read their labels and organised them in his plastic drawers. Six of the bottles had been sequestered away in a separate cardboard box, laid on the dark blue tarpaulin mat beside him.

The false hand pointed at the box. “What are your designs for the sequestered bottles?”

“They are expired. I’m discarding them,” he replied, still perusing the label of the bottle in his grasp. He nodded curtly and returned it to its drawer, his expression still frozen in a slight frown.  

“I see.”

The bottles clinked, the drawer slid shut, signalling the end of the conversation. 

Sigh exhaled. Looked out of the flap. Browning grass, sun-baked soil, flaps swayed gently in the wind. 

Stretched the legs. Stitches stretched tautly. Nerves wailed to flensing pain. The tinted painkiller bottle sat on Mikhail’s desk, unreachable by the light outside. 

“Throat feeling dry? Limbs trembling?” 

“Haven’t you concluded your interrogation?” 

Mikhail did not smirk as he sank on his chair. “I had patients lie to me before.”

“I see.” Sigh exhaled again. “Negative at both counts.” 

He picked up his mug, drank it, frowned, and drank it again. The cup rattled dully against his table; he had emptied it.

Footsteps closed in, coming from the direction of the staging ground—two sets of footfalls, one heavier and one lighter. Silver hairs emerged into view. MG5’s cat-like eyes met mine; she stopped and saluted.

Swaying lights. Steel-tinted smoke. Captain dead at my feet.

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. 

MG4 stood in an awkward posture, standing in attention but looking over her shoulders at the barracks tent. She had almost followed her sister’s example. 

Heart hammered against its cage. Cold sweat drenched the brow. Aching in the false limbs. 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled.

MG5 frowned, having looked at both of us. She sighed and carried on her way. MG4 followed closely, still averting her yellow gaze.

“I hope you aren’t planning on stabbing yourself again.”

Sigh exhaled. “I do not intend on upsetting Springfield.”

A soft snort; Mikhail had smirked, albeit briefly. He then turned his gaze towards his tablet and gave it a few taps.

“...Another yellow-eyed doll arrived today. Not like M14 or MG4. She’s bold, too forward, disregards hierarchy.”

“Then order her to back off. You are the Kommandir, aren’t you?”

“I promised Skorpion I will not order dolls outside of ops. I will only make requests, and there is no guarantee she will oblige.” 

He glanced up from his tablet. “What do you want me to do? There is no magic cure for this.”

“Is there a way to cope? Control the symptoms?”

“Controlling the symptoms?” He stared for a moment, then returned to tapping on his tablet. “Sedatives may help, but I wouldn’t advise it.” 

Another series of taps. Tablet clattered, chair creaked. Mikhail looked at his watch, then reached out for the bottle of painkillers. “Tell you what.” He uncorked the bottle. “You schedule a talk with M14 sometime. I’ll attend in case anything happens. Might lose that fear against yellow eyes. Acclimatisation, you know.”

The pills rattled; one fell into his palm. He placed it on the false hand. “Besides, that ‘normal conversation’ she wanted is overdue.” 

Picked up the glass of water, washed the pill down the throat. 

​

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1135

​

Cooling shade caressed the scorched cheeks. Desiccation cleared the airways, and overwhelmingly vibrant aromas followed in its wake. Myriad spices inhaled, mixed and churned into something unrecognisable yet delightful. 

“Kommandir!” Nagant waved from the preparation table. The red in her eyes’ whites was several shades lighter than her ruby pupils. A stinging, eye-watering odour emanated from her; she held her knife over many thin slices of white and purple. She looked back and announced aloud, “Springfield! Kommandir’s here!” 

Springfield continued as she were despite Nagant’s spirited announcement. “Continue stirring like this for another ten minutes. The powder, stock and synth-meat should mix properly by then,” she said to Sten, who knitted her brow and nodded in reply. “If it doesn’t work, call me, okay?” Having finished conveying her instructions, Springfield straightened herself, rested her knuckles on her hips, and exhaled. She then turned towards the serving counter, beaming brilliantly despite her apparent weariness.

“Have you been in the kitchen long?” 

“Do I need to answer that?” she inquired. There was a hint of menace hidden behind her gentle smile.

“...Pardon me.”

She sighed again, then removed her hands from her hips. Once again, donning her characteristically gentle smile, she gestured at three sealed jars. “So, what blend will it be? Ethiopian, Columbian or Kenyan?”

The jars contained coffee beans.

“These nations no longer exist.”

Her smile faded slightly. “They don’t. However, certain coffee aficionados still cultivate their beans in controlled-environment greenhouses.”

“...I see.”

Beans in jars, lightly roasted, glistened to the ambient lighting. 

“I do not know these blends.”

“I can imagine.” Springfield nodded. She slid one of the jars towards her, the one labelled Columbian. Drumming her fingers on its lid, she said, “Seeing this is your first time, I recommend this.”

“...Do as you will.” 

Nagant and Sten glanced at us as that unmistakable caffeine aroma rose from Springfield’s grinder. They glanced again as the scent intensified; the head chef had filled the conical filter containing these grounds with hot water. As black droplets trickled into the jug below, she broke four eggs into a bowl and beat them vigorously. 

“Do you not already have breakfast prepared for me?” 

“Too early for lunch, too late for breakfast,” she said as she heated a skillet. “So brunch, it is.” The hissing flames seemed to convey her irritation. 

“...You are upset.” 

“Despite my best efforts,” she replied as she smothered a slice of bread in the egg bowl and dropped it onto the skillet. “It never pleases me to see one of us missing from the breakfast table.” She paused for a moment, exhaled, then flipped the bread. “Not to mention missing an entire morning’s worth of work.”

“...I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replied again as she walked over to Sten. Seeing Springfield’s absence, Nagant Revolver snuck to the skillet and sprinkled a handful of purple and white fragments. Springfield caught her amid her mischief, strode up to her and bopped the top of her hat. 

“Oww…” Nagant emitted a weak yet unpained whimper. 

“Mosin Nagant informed me you were caught up by the convoy on the way back,” said Springfield as she retrieved the golden-brown bread from the skillet and laid it gently on a plate. There was a stinging stench mixed into the typical odour of a beaten and fried egg. 

“Is that not ruined?” 

Nagant glanced at Springfield. She was wearing a defiant look. 

“It’s not,” said the head chef. 

Nagant sighed in relief and returned to slicing the potatoes on her tray. 

“However, she did not ask for permission. As an elder, she should have known better.” 

Nagant perked up slightly, then picked up her pace. 

Several minutes later, she served me a tray. “Four French toast with a sprinkling of onions and salad.” She removed the filter from the coffee jug and poured its contents into the mug on the tray. “And a mug of freshly brewed Columbian coffee,” she announced. Folding her arms, wearing an expression of seeming pride, she requested, “Would you like to taste the coffee first?”

An immense sour-bitter flavour, laced with a hint of something pleasant yet alien to me. The brew was more potent than what I was accustomed to. 

“This is stronger than what I was served before.”

“I was right,” said Springfield. “It’s too early for you to have Ethiopian or Kenyan.”

“I see...how did you get these?”

“Bulk order from a Kyiv roastery and….” 

“Sestra brought it from Springfield’s cafe!”

“Are you done with the potatoes yet?” Springfield chided gently yet sternly without looking behind her. Nagant bit her tongue and urgently returned to her work. 

Springfield exhaled. “Nagant is right, of course. Mosin delivered these to me personally.” 

“I see…Just a moment, Springfield.”

“What is it?” Springfield replied. She was about to depart for Sten’s. 

“I have promised Sudaev double servings of dinner for her and Papasha if she keeps P7 from mischief.” 

“And if I refuse?”

The false eyes blinked. “Pardon?”

Her smile had become inscrutable. “If I refuse to participate in your pact with them, what would you do?”

“I’ll…” Mouth opened, then closed.

She continued wearing that gentle yet firm smile. She must have realised my conundrum. She beamed. “You will learn to cook.” 

Eyes blinked again. “Pardon?”

“I’m letting you off this time, but you will learn to cook. Starting tomorrow. Five a.m.”

“So you will….”

“I’ll give them their double servings, provided Sudaev did as was asked. However, you will learn to cook in return,” she clarified. She then beamed. “And Cetin. Next time, ask for my permission before roping me into any more of your promises.” 

​

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1210

​

“Cetin!” Skorpion, who had previously been zoning out, suddenly shot back onto her feet. “You are late!”

“Good afternoon, Skorpion.” 

She puffed her cheeks; the greeting did not soothe her temper. “What took you so long?!” she scolded, having bounded towards me. With her knuckles on her hips, and her chest puffed in an attempt at intimidation, she continued, “I almost got a heart attack when I didn’t see you in the command tent at nine a.m.! If Dimas hadn’t told me where you went, Nivy would have launched a search for you!” 

Commander Washington, smiling easily, nodded. “Good afternoon to you, Commander Yilmaz.” He started tapping on his tablet. “She meant she would have bugged me into organising a manhunt for you.”

“I should have followed you around during your walks!” Skorpion, wringing her right arm, cried insistently. 

Sigh exhaled. “Please don’t. You will irk Sturmgewehr.” 

“I know! I don’t care!” 

Washington tapped her head with a rolled-up stack of documents. “An adjutant shouldn’t stir up a storm over her superior’s tardiness.”

Skorpion clutched the top of her head, though she did not appear to be in pain. “But…” she muttered sheepishly. 

“Signora Springfield never needed to raise her voice at anyone, didn’t she?” A pink-haired T-Doll, the one whom Washington dubbed ‘Cano’, spoke out. “Why not take a leaf out of her book?” 

Skorpion puffed her cheeks and sulked. 

Azure blue glow. The hologram was not of Subsector 4 or Novum Sambir but of a tall, pale woman dressed in a strange plastic-like robe, one-half translucent, the other not. A phrase hovered beside her; it read ‘Model SP914: Intruder’. 

David nestled at the uncluttered corner, untouched by the azure glow.  His eyes shadowed, brow furrowed, expression absent-minded yet pensive. 

Skorpion’s hair was neater than usual. 

“What has transpired during my absence?” 

Skorpion blinked. Seemingly forgetting her anger, she said, “Fleur brought some intel from HQ, and it said your plan could be facing a problem.”

“Specifically on the communications front,” Washington interjected. “Unlike the ringleaders you have confronted previously, Intruder is a dedicated command-type unit.”

“She has a larger, more varied force at her disposal. This, we know.” 

He nodded. “Yes, but that’s not all. According to the datasheet…” he gestured towards her projection. “...she is equipped for comms jamming.”

“Cell, satellite, wi-fi, IR, Zion, Zenner, you name it, she can jam it,” David spoke suddenly, stepping out of his shadowed corner and into the azure glow. 

“Oh, he’s finally speaking,” Skorpion commented.

Ignoring her, the aux guard walked up to the Tactical Map and flicked his thumb and index finger, magnifying the projection. “This module,” he said, pointing at a line of text. “Sangvis-made. The latest version of what’s used during World War Three, miniaturised. Back then, we used the Zion Network protocol, but since then, it’s been updated to incorporate the Zenner Network into its list of targets.”

Jammed Zenner. No communications, no dummies. 

He flicked on the projection again. “Of course, she can't jam all of them at once, but she can scan, identify the frequencies and switch her jamming mode accordingly in milliseconds, courtesy of having a supercomputer for a brain. Normally, seeing that she doesn’t possess the power supply of a dedicated jammer, we would be able to counter her jamming by boosting our comms signals...”

“But!” Washington said sharply as he pulled the map of Subsector 4 onto the projection. He flicked his thumb and index finger, magnifying the visuals of the Sangvis base. He then stabbed his finger at a skeletal tower. “She had this erected in her base last night.” 

“Jammer tower!” Skorpion spoke aloud. 

“I was about to say that!” David snapped. He sighed. “Yes, she’s put up a jammer tower in her base. Looking at Intruder’s datasheet, I am certain she intends to use this to amplify her jamming capability.” 

Jammer tower at the far back of the base, right under a sheer cliff spanning the entire flank of the outpost.

“That tower is beyond our reach and will remain so for over half a day, by the most optimistic estimate. Does Grifon not have an EPM APC?” 

“We don’t even have an APC,” Washington informed. “But you know that already, seeing that you had your men scour Novum Sambir for any salvageable BTRs.”

“Did Grifon not use one of these in its campaign across Channel Istanbul?”

“The ETM loaned that.” A blue hat brushed past Skorpion and me. “I’m sure that was written in the report.” The hat belonged to Makarov. She laid down a tray containing a large teapot, five cups of tea and a pot of jam, then directed her ruby gaze upon the false eyes. “I’m also sure I emphasised it wasn’t a campaign, but an expedition which should have been aborted early on.” 

“You only mentioned it ending disastrously.” 

She smiled. “So you paid attention. Da, I did say that. Which is why I opined the commander-in-charge should have aborted the expedition early on.” 

“Good afternoon, Makarov,” Washington greeted genially, though there was a wearied undercurrent in his tone. “I see the new batch of transfers has arrived.”

​

“Da. Under Kommandir Yilmaz’s command,” replied Makarov. She did not notice his weariness.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” Kalina at the tent flap, all smiles and brandishing her arm. “Did you miss me?” 

Washington’s tired smile immediately morphed into an overjoyed beam. “Hey, Kalin. Been a year, hasn’t it?” 

“Yeah.” Kalina strode in and glanced at the Tactical Map. She then directed her gaze at his bad leg. Her smile faded and displayed a hint of dismay. “The leg’s not getting any better?” 

Washington’s smile shrunk. Gaze averted, cheer abated, he shook his head. “No, it’s not and never will.” 

“You are already acquainted?” 

“Yep!” Kalina beamed once more. “I was his logistics officer until shortly after the Butterfly Incident. He was in charge of S09’s security, then.”

“Until the Sangvis came.” Washington had adjusted his collar; there were subtle tremors on his fingers. “I had the misfortune of presiding over the greatest disaster to befall Grifon in its history.” 

“You did see to their eventual defeat.”

“That was a fluke,” Washington insisted. 

“Putting that aside!” the logistics officer said aloud. “So I hear we are going to have to deal with a comms jam?” 

“And hacking,” David interjected. He had switched the projection to that of Intruder and pointed at another line. “Intruder has a support module for her jammer, which allows her to intercept, analyse and decrypt transmissions. Even if she didn’t jam us, and I don’t think she won’t, she can still potentially eavesdrop on us.”

“HQ has assigned MDR to us just for this,” Makarov said suddenly. “She’s equipped with an e-war module.” 

David blinked. “I didn’t know Grifon had an e-war model.” 

“Until yesterday,” Makarov replied. “HQ had her fitted with an e-war module just yesterday.” She had taken on a condescending tone. 

“Doesn’t that mean that she isn’t ready for an actual field deployment?” David inferred agitatedly.

“MDR?” Skorpion spoke aloud. “That MDR? As in the Grifchan superadmin?”

“Da.” Makarov sighed. “That MDR.”

David frowned. “Moderating an internal BBS is very different from e-war.” 

“Da. You obviously know that, Tovarisch Keller.” David blinked and widened his eyes. Seeing his dumbfounded surprise, Makarov smirked. “As expected of someone who has a history of voyeuring around the company network.” 

“W-Well, excuse me! I was scanning the network for loopholes and exposed ports!” the aux guard retorted animatedly. “And Skorpion! Don’t look at me like that!” 

Skorpion wore a small, disgusted grin.

The throat rumbled. “David, get this MDR up to speed on the usage of her e-war module.” 

David blinked. “...What?” 

“Get her up to speed on the usage of her e-war module. I need her ready a day before the op.” 

“Hehe.” Skorpion’s grin took on a teasing quality. “He’s set you up on a date.” 

“S-Shut up! How is this a date?!!” the aux guard blushed.

“I’m not a matchmaker.” False eyes fell onto Makarov. She smiled expectantly. “What about EPM? I assume HQ is working on it?”

“HQ is working on it, Kommandir,” she nodded. “However, it will take time. EPM equipment isn’t part of our inventory, and procurement is still looking for suppliers.” 

“We still need to be able to sustain the counter-jamming throughout the op,” David spoke out. “At best for half-a-day.”

“Two days, at the worst-case.”

“I’m sure HQ is aware and working on it,” Makarov huffed. “High Command isn’t oblivious to our needs.” 

“If they do not come through for us?”

“I can find us the gear,” Kalina chirpily offered. “Just tell me what you need.”

“I see. David, work with her. Detail what is needed to build us an EPM vehicle. And find us the details on that jammer’s power supply. Our EPM suite needs to match up against her jamming strength, and it needs enough power to sustain continuous counter-jamming operations for ideally two days.”

David and Kalina voiced their affirmation. Makarov frowned. “You really do not have faith in HQ, do you?” 

“You will be reporting this to Helianthus, aren’t you?” Washington inquired. He had dropped all pretence of friendliness. 

She sighed. “I’m letting this slide for now.”

Tower at the far back of the Sangvis base, just before the sheer cliff. Hellcannon effective range...over one kilometre. Can reach the tower once positioned at the base of the hill. Complications...weather conditions, poor visibility, the inherent inaccuracies of the hellcannons.

“Kalina.” 

The logistics officer ceased conversing with David, her finger hanging over her tablet. “Yes, Commander?”

“How many C4 and spare micro-drones do we still have?”

She flicked her tablet’s screen. “We still have about a hundred more C4 and twenty spare micro-drones in stock.”

“Kommandir!” Makarov exclaimed. “We aren’t supposed to use Grifon assets for suicide attacks!”

“Suicide attacks?” Skorpion asked, her eye wide. “What suicide attack?”

“I intend to strike that tower down with suicide drones.” 

“May I offer a solution, Commander?” David spoke out. “I can rig us a fire control system for the hellcannons using a dummy SV-98’s fire control core….”

“He-Hellcannons?!” Makarov exclaimed again, her face flushed. “Do you think you are still in the Middle East, Kommandir? Using APCs and helicopters is one thing; using artillery is another. It is illegal for a PMC to utilise artillery of any description! If the authorities find out….”

“Our enemy has entrenched superior numbers at advantageous ground. Does HQ expect us to fly or charge our forces at them, completely exposed to overwhelming volume of fire?” 

“HQ knows what we are facing. They are already taking steps to alleviate this problem, I’m sure of it!” Makarov asserted.

“If I know the Vice-Director’s managerial style….” Washington interjected, “...she will most likely furnish us with handheld grenade launchers, intending to have them used from our helos in lieu of artillery.” 

“The Sangvis will be expecting this. Hunter herself has already devised a tactic to mitigate our aerial advantage.”

“You meant she attempted to, Yilmaz,” Washington corrected.

“The Sangvis would have learned from her mishap and perfected the tactic. I am certain of it.” False fingers flicked at the hologram, switching Intruder’s image to the map of Subsector 4. “Especially with the conditions necessary for Hunter’s tactical success being replicated and magnified here.”

“So about the fire control system….” 

“Hold up!” Kalina raised her hand. “David, have you done this before?” 

“Errr...no?” David scratched his chin. “I never had the chance to, but I have the know-how to pull it off. In case you forget, I am a programmer and a builder….” 

The logistics officer’s expression became severe. “Do you know how much testing is needed to ensure an experimental system works as intended?”

“Of course I know that!” David insisted. “I had been doing this for years!”

Kalina folded her arms, pouted and furrowed her brow. “Yet you never produced a single working prototype, have you now?” 

“I-!” 

“We have only seven days to prepare. You can experiment at a later date. Now, we require the tried-and-true.” 

David opened, then closed his mouth. He sighed. 

“You will be busy enough with MDR and the EPM vehicle. I will not have you take on any additional loads.”

Makarov’s cheeks flushed with unvoiced discontent.

Kalina cleared her throat. “Anyway, our micro-drones aren’t rated to carry plastic explosives. Not to mention having to rig its RC and detonation system….”

“I’ll take care of that,” David offered.

“Right.” Kalina sighed. “I forgot we have Pierre and David to take care of that.” She then started tapping on her tablet. “I will be adding the drone kits and detonators into my list of procurement items. Just tell me the type and quantity.” The tapping stopped; she beamed. “Just so you know...” 

A muffled cane tap. Washington had leaned towards the ear. “This is the part where she says none of this will be free.” 

“...none of this will be free,” Kalina said, confirming Washington’s warning.

​

​

​

2025

​

From highland city to muddy riverside to evergreen forest to Intruder’s domain of windswept snow. 

Circles over where the river is narrowest or most gentle, over the roadside woods where the Sangvis will lay their ambush, the jammer tower, the Jaguar firebase and the two bridges leading into Intruder’s realm.

Three arrows ran parallel with the river, from Novum Sambir to the AO. Two on the west side for the infiltration teams and the incursion force, one on the east side for M4’s team.

Makarov’s ruby gaze bore into my being. A frown upon her lips, her brow furrowed, her eyes narrowed. She must be trying to discern my thoughts. She rocked sideways; Skorpion had shoved her. She scowled at the yellow T-Doll, “What?” 

“Stop staring; it’s rude,” Skorpion said.

“It’s just as rude to shove,” Makarov chided. Then, still frowning, she inquired, “Is the meeting finished?”

Parched throat strained and rumbled. “Meeting adjourned. Carry on.”

Benches clattered, spoons clinked against bowls and plates. 

“Hey, Springfield!” SVD got up from her seat and briskly closed towards the serving counter, cutting in front of Papasha and Sudaev. “About that deer Svet and I brought back from the recon expedition….” She started rocking; Sudaev rained her fists upon her arm like hammer-blows. 

“Oh, dear,” Springfield, wearing her warm smile, started.

Grizzly, at the table just before the counter, gagged and clutched her neck. Deuce and Nineteen noted her distress, with the former striking her back. 

“I am afraid I cannot show any favouritism,” Springfield continued as she refilled the sisters’ bowl. “I’ll have to give everyone a share. I’ll mince it to make sandwich fillings.” 

SVD petrified, unresponsive to Sudaev’s tirade. 

“I’m going to talk to MDR and MP41,” Makarov announced as she laid down her teacup. “I’m certain they have violated OpSec again.” 

The aforementioned T-Dolls attempted to exfiltrate from the tent, but Welrod and MP40 had intercepted them.

“By ‘talk’, you meant ‘confiscating their devices’, right?” Skorpion inferred. 

“Da. I’m doing exactly that.” Makarov got up from her seat. 

“Hey, Fox,” said Lev as he got up from his seat. “Going straight to building that first gun-truck and that first hellcannon.”

Makarov froze up. She then departed with lengthened strides. 

“Lev!” Kalina put down her spoon and got up after him. “You still haven’t given me that list of parts for the BTR’s.” 

“I’ll tell you on the way,” said the Day Guard Captain dismissively as he walked away, with Kalina close behind.

“Starting my shift.” Grigori gulped down the last of his coffee. “Talk again later.”

Tea flooded the parched throat. Mint, sweetened with raspberries. 

M4 glumly drank her soup. Dressing on her right cheek, concealing a minor wound. 416 sat two tables away, facing her, with G11 resting beside her, face down on the table. 

“Commander! Commander!” Sop II blocked the way. Machine whirls and whines followed her every skip; she hadn’t removed her exo. “Do you like my gift?” she asked with an expectant grin. 

The eyeballs she had procured and gifted laid in an ashtray at a corner of the Tactical Map. 

“I kept them still.” 

“But do you like them?” she asked again, more insistently. Her eyes glittered, her exo still whirled, conveying her excited anticipation.

“Ah!” Skorpion exclaimed suddenly. “She’s still wearing her exo!”

“P7 has returned her exoskeleton,” the throat hoarsely uttered. “AR-15 will disapprove.”

“She’s going to pull your cheek, you know,” Skorpion added, intending to help.

“I can do worse.” 

Sop II froze up. Before she could turn, AR-15 had pinched and wrung her ears. “No more excuses. We are going to the armoury.” 

“Ehhhh! But I move so much faster with them on!” Sop II cried in protest as her sister dragged her towards the exit. “I want to wear them some more!” 

M4, sensing the false eyes’ gaze, resumed contemplating over her soup. Her soup was half-consumed. 

“You have unvoiced thoughts on the battle plan.” 

She looked up and blinked. Her eyes glazed over as she contemplated her thoughts. She then blinked again and returned to her soup. 

Skorpion sat opposite the taller T-Doll. Drumming her fingers against the table, she said, “Hey, M4. You are obviously thinking about it. You can tell us. It’s not good to just keep it to yourself, you know.”

M4 sipped on her spoon, then spoke softly. “I will be leading the flanking manoeuvre, Commander. I’m not sure if I can handle it.”

“Is that all?” Skorpion’s drumming stopped. “You will be fine!” she said assuringly. “If you really aren’t up to it, you wouldn’t have made it to Safehouse 3 and escaped from there, right?”

M4 sighed. “If I were actually up to it, I wouldn’t have needed your team to bring up the rear and left you behind.” 

Skorpion blinked. She opened her mouth, then closed it. 

M4 stared into her soup again. She smiled ruefully. “M16-sis would have said something by now. If the plan is workable or if it needs reworking.” She pursed her lips, then sighed. “But she’s not here now.” She turned her gaze towards the map projected on the white screen. “She’s up there in Subsector 4, and I don’t know how she’s doing.” She sighed again and dug her spoon into her soup. “I’m so close, and I can’t contact her to ask for her advice, or at least, some reassurance.”

“...Not with Intruder monitoring transmissions.” Sigh exhaled. “You have no cause for anxiety, at least on this matter. You have already taken command twice without M16’s counsel.” 

M4 dug her spoon in the soup. “This is much bigger than either Novum Sambir or Subsector 2, Commander,” she said.

“You volunteered to take command of the entrapment of the dummy Executioner, and you performed admirably.”

“All I did was transplant your tactics to another location,” she asserted, her voice raised.

Skorpion looked at both of us. Her lips trembled, yet she had no words to speak.

G11 continued to snore faintly in the background.

M4 blinked, then tore her gaze away from the false eyes and back to her soup.

Sigh exhaled again. “Two days from now, a BTR will be completed.” 

M4 kept her silence.

“You will have another five days to practice manoeuvres with it until it becomes second nature.” 

She said nothing.

“I’ll be around if you still have any doubts during the practice and the incursion.” 

“...I see.” 

Her doubt did not dissolve. She consumed another three spoonfuls of her meal, then got up from her seat. “I’m going to check up on AR-15 and Sop II,” she excused herself.

“Ehhh…” Skorpion uttered, her eye on the bowl. “She didn’t finish her soup.” 

Sigh exhaled. “You aren’t eating that.”

“I’m not a glutton,” Skorpion mumbled aside. Her cheeks blushed; she had taken offence.

416 had pushed her soup aside and was staring at her clipboard. Her rhythmic yet incessant pen-tapping was out of sync with the closing footsteps. 

Her list read:

FAL - 16 minutes, mildly overheated.

Five-seveN - 12 minutes, overheated. 

MG5 - 15 minutes, mildly overheated.

MG4 - 4 minutes, overheated.

M4A1 - 17 minutes, interrupted.

“...Interrupted?” 

“Her dummy knocked her down at the seventeenth-minute mark,” 416 answered, her cold tone conveyed her displeasure. 

“You aren’t pleased.” 

416 bit her pen, then resumed tapping it against the clipboard. 

“Mmmmm…” G11 groaned as she swayed away from the table. “That was M4's first try.” She nictated her eyes. “...I think she could go on for longer...if a crowd didn’t form around her…” She suddenly collapsed onto the table; 416 had struck her at her nape.

“Woah...she’s pissed,” Skorpion remarked.

416 shot her a disgruntled glare, her cheeks flushing slightly.

“How about the others?”

She blinked, inhaled, then exhaled. Her gaze returned to her clipboard. “The elites, except MG4, Five-seveN and MDR, passed. Springfield, Mosin Nagant, SVD…” 416 pursed her lips, then continued hesitantly, “...and...BAR passed. I haven’t put P7, Sop II and AR-15 through the training. Papasha and Sudaev have skipped the last session. They still haven’t passed. Those who passed still need to optimise their load management. The rest are almost halfway there.” She glanced up. “We’ll meet the deadline," she added, attempting assurance. 

“About Team SVD and Team FAL...”

“Three days.” 416 resumed tapping her pen against her clipboard. She directed her gaze towards the false eyes. “I will have them ready.” 

​

​

​

2100

​

“Kommandir.” 

“Ah, it’s Tiss,” Skorpion remarked, as the aforementioned doll intercepted us and matched her pace with ours. It seemed she had been waiting in concealment for a while. 

“I have complaints about the covert operation you have planned.” Her tone was bereft of her usual jovial geniality. 

“You aren’t in it.” 

She quickened her pace, turned around and blocked the way with outstretched arms. Lamplight peeled away the dark shrouding her discontented frown. “Da! That’s what I want to complain about!” She then planted her knuckles against her hips and demanded, “Why wasn’t I, the secret weapon, picked for this operation?”

“Each team requires a markswoman, a riflewoman, a suppressor, a combat engineer and a scout. All these positions are filled.”

She dug her thumb under her left clavicle while exaggerating her frown. “Why not put me in Team SVD? Tovarisch Sturmgewehr isn’t the team leader.”

“Sturmgewehr was there for more than a year!” Skorpion pointed at herself. “Like me!”

“So is Papasha in Team FAL!” Tiss exclaimed, fitfully wringing her arms. “Can’t Papasha just radio them the intel?”

“All forms of wireless communications risk Intruder’s interception.” 

“Then why not have me replace BAR?” she bargained. “She just barely passed Sarge’s training. Besides…” she brought her fist to her chest, “I can do suppression too, and I will be quiet as a mouse while at it.” 

“Suppression fire with subsonic rounds does not threaten Guards.” 

“Nine times thirty nine milimeters are armour piercing, Kommandir.”

“Your weapon lacks the firing rate to stall their advance.”

“Muuuuuu…” she puffed her cheeks frustratedly. She took a step to her left, then two more steps, then three more, away from the lamplight and into the shaded alley. As soon as she was out of sight, Skorpion commented aloud, “That’s lame!” 

“Is not!” Tiss disputed. Her pitter-pattering footfalls faded into the dusky night. 

Cricket chirps uninterrupted by stamping boots. Skorpion swerved towards one of the lit tents and peeked through the flap. “Sturmgewehr! Are you here?”

Sturmgewehr flustered, tucking her night garment behind her limbs. “K-Kommandant?” she blurted. 

“Out!” MP40 ordered aloud.

Sigh exhaled. False leg whined, boots scraped against the compacted grass and dirt. Altair, Vega and Deneb twinkled defiantly against the incandescent fluorescence. 

“You left the canteen early,” Skorpion stated. “Are you really okay?”

“I’m fine. Really!” 

“So long as Lev keeps his workstation tidy,” MP40 scoffed. “She’ll be fine.” 

Steel flask trembled in the false hand.

“So why did you leave so early?” Skorpion inquired demandingly. “Oh, I know. Heh heh.” Mischief afoot. “You just want to be the first one in the shower, aren’t you?” 

Fiery fluids stung the throat. Embers ignited on the true cheek, warding off the night wind’s arid caress. Pharynx contracted, clearing the mucous obstruction. “I’m returning to the command tent.”

“Oh! Hold up! Cetin!” Skorpion squawked. “Give me five minutes!” 

“I think you should go with the Kommandant. He sounds busy.” 

“It’s fine! It’s fine! Cetin usually wanders around the command tent or speaks to his recorder at this time. It’s fine!” 

“...He does sound busy. You should leave at once. Besides, Frau Sturmgewehr has to wake up early tomorrow to make up for Herr Kuznetsov’s slovenliness.”

“I’m not making up for anyone’s slovenliness, Forty! And don’t look at me like that! Today’s episode won’t happen again!”

Sigh exhaled. Fiery liquid stung the clenching throat. Deneb, Altair and Vega twinkled overhead. Tents alive with activities fitful or languid. Flask-lid fastened. “You’ve only four minutes, Skorpion.” 

“I won’t overshoot!” Skorpion cried her assurance.

“Bonsoir, Commander. You are quite bold, hanging around the doll barracks.” 

FAL stopped by the opposite side of the tent flap. Confident smile. Fel, perched on her shoulder, contorted like rubber to look behind itself. 

“I advise against looking behind my shoulder.” She smirked. “She’s watching us from the lamppost two tents behind me.”

“Don’t you make me out as a stalker, FAL!” Five-seveN shouted from behind the lamppost. 

“Ah, so you can’t see her well from here.” FAL folded her arms and tilted her head. Levelled brow, petrified smirk. “Hon hon,” she chuckled derisively. “Tonight’s a good night. No whoring around for her.” 

“Tais-toi, FAL! I don’t want to hear that from someone who wears her clothes one size too small!” 

“Regardless…” FAL continued, paying no heed to the incensed handgunner’s protestations. “I have dealt with Five-seveN. You don’t have to worry about her. You can go back to your frolicking now.” 

Skorpion, her head poking out of the tent, gave her a dubious look. “So, what are you doing here?” she asked.

“My tent’s just a little further ahead,” FAL replied. “That’s no crime, is it, petite mademoiselle?” 

Skorpion continued wearing her unplacated frown. 

“Besides,” ignoring her, FAL continued, “A little ferret told me Tiss wanted to replace BAR. She insulted my judgement of character, and I’m not letting that slide.” 

“I’ve placed BAR in your team by your recommendation. Are you certain she will perform acceptably under your supervision?”

“Of course!” FAL rested her palms against her hips and wore a confident smile. “She may be an underperformer, but with my pushing, she can and will perform competently.”

“What if she throws a tantrum instead?” Skorpion interjected. “Sarge doesn’t cut anyone but Sleepo any slack. She’s harsh! You and Sarge together will be too much for her!” 

“I’m already worth two 416,” FAL huffed. “She will survive. I will be half as harsh on her and let 416 handle the rest.” 

“Hon hon!” Five-seveN’s laughed loudly. Artificial, derisive, she meant to insult FAL. “Inflating that ego some more, aren’t we, FAL? She’s got twice your style!”

“BAR I can sort out,” FAL continued, unfazed and unperturbed. “Sturmgewehr, however…” She turned her gaze towards Skorpion, her smile took on a snide quality. The shorter T-Doll tensed up, primed to retort.

“She’s going to be out in the dirt, snow and mud for three nights, isn’t she?”

“She can handle it!” Skorpion asserted. “We were up in Subsector 4 for one year, and she was fine!”

FAL folded her arms and arched her brow. “Really? I have a hard time reconciling the rough-living Sturmgewehr with the Sturmgewehr who gets nauseated at a glance of Lev’s laptop.”

“Stop antagonising Skorpion. Your team did recover her six days ago.” 

“She looked tremendously miserable, then,” FAL commented. “Depressed. Positively appalled by her state.” 

“She will be fine!” Skorpion left the tent, planted her feet and puffed her chest. “She had mud, twigs and dirt on her for the entirety of last year, and she didn’t….” She stopped, looked aside and held her chin. “Oh right, she did faint the first three times, but…” she stomped her foot. “...she will be fine! Really!”

“I’m not that frail, Frau FAL!” Sturmgewehr poked her head out of the tent, the rest of her concealed behind the drawn-together flaps. “This morning is a one-off event. It won’t happen again.” 

“I am not inclined to believe someone who took a half-hour shower earlier.” FAL sniffled. “And at least use scented soap. A dame like yourself shouldn’t settle for anything less. I recommend ‘Rose and Peony’.” 

“Sturmgewehr will ace Sarge’s training exercise, and you will...Hey! Why are you talking about soap all of a sudden?”