It was bitingly cold. How long ago had the sun set? The chill reminded us of our growling stomachs and how empty they were.

 

Hassan rubbed his arms. They were covered in bruises. His teeth chattered, and he was breathing mist. He looked at the unlit gas stove, then looked at us. His eyes were like those of a pup. Omar shook his head, then Ezra shook his. “We all agreed to save our gas, remember?” Ezra said. 

 

My teeth ground, and I hissed, breathing mist just like Hassan. Darius had closed my cut, then dabbed antiseptic on it. I rocked to the side; he had punched my shoulder.  “Think you can hold a gun like this?” he asked as he slapped my shoulder again. 

 

I flexed my right arm and my fingers. I could feel the stitch pulling against the opening wound. It hurt, but I think I will be okay. 

 

“I can. It’s just a minor cut.”

 

“Why are you always acting tough?” Ezra said suddenly with a half-shout from the other side of the pot. “Making up for being small?” 

 

“Oi! Leave him alone!” Darius shouted back. “He was lacerated because you didn’t watch your back!”

 

“Watch your six!” Ezra argued. “Use the right words! We aren’t kids anymore!” 

 

The door slammed open, and Khadeem’s shadow swallowed the pot. “We are much smaller than Captain, so we are still kids,” he said as he laid down the basket of food on the mat. “Josiah, put the water in the pot. Hassan, turn on the gas. We won us fish today.” 

 

The gas turned on, and we got closer for warmth. It took twice longer for the water to boil. Our fire was half as bright as last night’s. 

 

“Cetin, your turn,” Khadeem said as he passed me the ladle and the basket. Fish, eight portions. Mushrooms. Starch powder. Some vegetables and half-fistful of salt. One portion of fish, one cut of mushroom, a handful of starch powder, another cut of vegetables and a pinch of salt taken out and set aside in another container to save in case we lost the next exercise. I poured the rest into the pot.

 

“So, Khadeem!” Ezra said aloud. “What’s the plan tomorrow? Same plan?”

 

“No,” Khadeem replied. “New place tomorrow. Don’t know anything about it. Only know we are fighting Khadir’s Ocak.”

 

The salty air filled my lungs as I inhaled uneasily. Khadir’s Ocak. I met Suleiman from that Ocak yesterday. He had that desperate, hungry look, though he didn’t beg us for any food. 

 

“Didn’t his Ocak lose the last two exercises?” I asked.

 

“Yeah,” Khadeem nodded. “That means they are hungry. That means they will fight harder. That means we need to be even more careful. All of us.” He pointed at Ezra. “Especially you.”

 

“I already promised I won’t do it again!” he protested. 

 

“But you did it again, and Cetin had to take the bullet for you,” Khadeem chided. 

 

“Khadeem,” I spoke aloud. “It’s not his fault. He couldn’t have heard Qasim sneaking up on him with all the noise his machine gun made.”

 

“You stop covering for him,” Khadeem scolded. “Qasim wouldn’t have a clear shot at him if he didn’t stand up from his cover. Also, Cetin.”

 

“I’ll be scouting.”

 

“No. You’ve gotten too big. And that’s not why I’m talking to you.” 

 

“You’ve stopped stirring.”

 

Blinked. True fingers sweltering from the heat. Synth-meat and potatoes, slicked in oil, bopped and sank to the currents of the roiling water.

 

Muscles strained, tendons stretched, boiling liquid and warming ingredients resisted the ladle’s pivot.

 

“It’s boiling over.” 

 

Grunt emitted. False fingers twisted the knob, shrinking the fire under the saucepan. 

​

​

​

0630

​

Springfield set her spoon beside her bowl and clasped her hands together. The heart sank; the false eyes perceived that her smile was gentle, not with tenderness but with sympathy. She rested her elbows on the table and hid the smile behind her clasped hands. She then inhaled, counted to three, and exhaled. 

 

There was hesitation in her gentle voice. “The soup is utilitarian.”

 

“...I see?” 

 

She rested her forehead on her clasped hand, sighed again, then lowered her hands. “Let’s try this again.” 

 

“...What’s wrong with the soup?”

 

“It’s utilitarian.” 

 

“Meaning?”

 

“The soup is thoughtful...function-wise.” Her smile wavered. “There’s enough synth-meat, flour and potatoes in the soup to support a day’s work, but...” She bit her lower lip, furrowed her brow, and kept her silence for a moment. She then sighed and closed her sentence, “...it’s bland.”

 

“It provides enough to accommodate a day’s work, does it not?”

 

Springfield sighed again. “That’s fine, but….” She dipped her spoon into the soup and fished out a strand of green. “...it lacks every other nutrient...and it’s bland.” 

 

“Nutrient pills can supplement the soup.”

 

“You could instead add tomato paste, green pepper and onions to fortify it with essential minerals, and it would improve the taste.” 

 

“Those ingredients are superfluous for making soup.”

 

A twitch at the corner of her eye. Hardness in her smile.

 

“Improving the nutritional value and taste isn’t ‘superfluous’, and with the supplies provided by HQ and the nearby settlements, we don’t have to scrimp.” 

 

“...Should they not be carefully rationed and squirrelled away for moments of drought?”

 

“That’s what the supplement pills are for, and you cannot ration away vegetables and other perishables.” She sighed. “Cetin, you need to understand it’s not just about the calories or the proteins or the nutrients.” 

 

Firmness in her voice.

 

“You need to think about the taste.” 

 

“The taste is secondary to the utility of the soup.”

Another twitch, at the corner of her eyes and the edge of her smiling lips. “Taste is utility, Cetin. Who would drink this unpalatable soup?”

​

“I would.” 

 

Her smile turned cold. 

 

“In that case, I will make you only nutrient sludge and caffeine pills from today onwards.” 

 

The throat clenched. Cinnamon rolls, meat pies, coffee...lost...nutrient sludge and caffeine pills in their place.

 

No. Be not threatened. Hardened the heart, clenched the fist, cleared the throat, steeled the will.

 

Voice choked by clenched throat. “I...if you have to….” False eyes averted their gaze. This was not intended! The flesh betrays!

 

“Springfield! Have you seen Cetin?”

 

Blinked. Calmed the heart, cleared the throat. Looked to the tent flap.

 

Skorpion had arrived. Her flushed cheeks were as crimson as the rising sun, and she was perspiring. She had run here and had been running for a while. Her widened eye shrunk and softened upon meeting the false eyes. 

 

She caught her breath and exhaled. “Oh, you are here.”

 

She walked...shambled closer. How long had she run?

 

“Thought you wandered off somewhere when I didn’t see you in the infirmary...” Her wandering gaze rested on the kitchen furniture. “Springfield, don’t you usually bake at this time?”

 

“This time’s different,” Springfield remarked as she stood up from the bench and picked up the bowl. She offered it to Skorpion. “Would you like a taste?” 

 

Skorpion sniffed at it and wore a dubious look. She looked at me, then back at Springfield, who beamed at her. Hesitantly, she took the bowl, picked up the spoon on the table and scooped the broth into her mouth. She made a face, not of distaste or disgust but of palpable disappointment. 

 

“I-It’s bland.”

 

Knives plunged into the heart.

 

“This isn’t like anything you usually make. It-It’s terrible!”

 

Blades twisted. 

 

“Bland! It’s worse than Doll MRE mixed with lightly-cooked bird meat, berries, old spice and salt that Ingram and I used to make when we were stranded in Subsector 4!” 

 

Drawn. Stabbed again. 

 

“What happened, Springfield? Are you unwell?” 

 

Spirit splattered against the canvas walls.

 

“...I’ll try again.” 

 

Skorpion blinked and gawked. Dismayed astonishment. Slap across the true cheek.

​

​

​

0720

​

“You sure you can work today?” 

 

The glass clattered against the metal desk. Cold fluid ferried the tablet down towards the gullet. Mikhail’s lowered brow betrayed his concern.

 

“I can…”

 

Skorpion frowned. Her expression bared her worry.

 

“...Don’t give me that look.”

 

“But…” she started, “Nivy’s still here, and so is Fleur. If anything…”

 

“I can confront them.” 

 

“But!” 

 

“I will not repeat myself.”

 

“Knew you would be stubborn about this.” Mikhail sighed. Metal scraped metal; he had slid a pocket-sized tin box towards the emptied glass. “Sedative ampoules,” he said.

 

“...You were hesitant yesterday.”

 

“The yellow-eyed dolls had considerately kept their distance...” said the orderly. “...until yesterday. Had to take measures.” He pointed at the box. “One ampoule, one dose. Use one, and only one, when you feel an impending attack. Understand?” 

 

Grunt emitted. The head nodded curtly. Weight tugged against the false fingers as packed soup and thermos departed the metal chair. 

 

He sup on his coffee then nodded in farewell. “Tell Kalin I said ‘Hello’.” 

 

Grunt emitted again as the intensifying morning sun caressed the true cheek. Pitter-patters. Skorpion followed close behind, though she kept her silence.

 

“You have missed 416’s training.” 

 

“I booked the night session,” she replied. 

 

“That’s for the Night Guard.”

 

“Sarge already gave me an ‘Okay’!” 

 

Sigh exhaled. “You shouldn’t be delaying your sessions. She is doing her best to prepare you for the trials ahead.”

 

“Yeah, but what about you?” her tone was accusatory. “Even if we are maximumly prepared, who’s going to command us if you get knocked out again at the last minute?”

 

Sigh exhaled again. A growl emitted, insistent. “I won’t. And should that come to pass, there’s Commander Washington as my backup.” 

 

“WHAT?!” Pitter-patters turned into stomping footfalls. Fluids sloshed in the thermos and the steel container as she brushed past the false arm. She spun around, planted her feet in the dirt and her knuckles against her hips. Cheeks red, brows furrowed and upturned. She was scowling. “Cetin! Are you serious?! Him?! Your backup!?” Her indignant tone was that of protestation. “You expect me to follow his orders after what happened yesterday?!” 

 

“Skorpion…”

 

“Hey! The Commander over there!” 

 

A dishevelled grey-haired T-Doll hurried from the left junction. She clutched a folded chessboard close to her chest. “Play chess with me!” she cried insistently.

 

“Cetin doesn’t know chess!” Skorpion half-shouted. “Go away! We’re in the middle of an important discussion here!”

 

“What can be more important than chess?” The doll bounced left and right; her heels barely touched the ground. “Play chess with me!” 

 

Her torso rocked sideways; Skorpion had shoved her. “Go find Bohdan, then!” 

 

“He ran away as soon as our shift is over.” Grey-hair pouted. “And before that, he played only two sessions with me, then said he saw something and needed to have a better look. Then he got up the guard tower and never came down! And just as the sun rose, he pointed towards a spot and shouted at me to go investigate. It’s nothing, by the way! And when I got back, he already ran away!” She lit up expectantly the moment her gaze met the false eyes. “Commander! Play chess with me! Just one session! I will only stalemate you, I promise!”

 

“...I don’t know chess.” 

 

Her eyes widened. “You don’t know chess?” She sounded astonished.

 

“I don’t.”

 

Grey-hair wore a sceptical look. She pursed her lips for a moment, then inquired, “How does the Knight piece move?”

 

“...One square forward.”

 

“Bishop?”

 

“Two squares forward.”

 

“All wrong!” she exclaimed with astonishment and disbelief. “You got it all wrong! What the heck? What kind of Commander doesn’t know chess?”

 

“One who isn’t a cliche.”

 

“You are so lame, Commander!” Grey-hair loudly proclaimed her dissatisfaction. “Not only did you faint last night, but you also don’t know how to play chess? How could you! You came up with all that strategy, but you can’t play chess? You are useless! Just like a King piece! All-important but…” 

 

Her stream of insult abruptly cut off; Skorpion had shoved her palm into her cheek. “Shut up, Tuna!” 

 

Grey-hair, flushed with anger, shoved her assailant back. “My name’s not Tuna! It’s XM8!”

 

“Tuna! Tuna!”

 

The two T-Dolls pushed and shoved. XM8, one palm in Skorpion’s cheek, clutched her chessboard dearly to her chest. Skorpion, ignoring this, continued to shove her adversary, intent at dislodging her from where she stood. 

 

Sigh exhaled. False eyes sought out scrapped papers to roll up. 

 

FN-49 and FNC gawked by the wayside. Dimas fixed his eyes on the spectacle as he lifted his vodka bottle high. 

 

“What are you little ones doing pushing and shoving over there?” Nagant approached the two scuffling dolls, arms folded, lips curled into an admonishing scowl. “Stop this at once!” 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. Rapped the true knuckles against their skulls. 

 

“Ow!” They winced, ceased their squabbles and clutched their heads. “What’s that for?” Skorpion cried out. 

 

“We are leaving. Kalina awaits her breakfast.” 

 

She ground her teeth, then shot XM8 a glare. “Next time, Tuna!” 

 

“I’ll checkmate you in two turns!” her opponent retorted, still holding her chessboard close.

 

Rapped knuckles against their skulls again. “Both of you! Enough!” True hand seized Skorpion’s wrist. “Skorpion! We are leaving!” 

 

A tug against the true hand, her stationary mass resisted its pull. One second, two, the limb slackened. She had pitter-pattered again to match my pace. 

 

The two dolls continued to gesture rudely at each other as they separated.

 

True hand tightened their grip, fingernails dug into her wrist. She winced and wore a pained look. “Skorpion, I will not repeat myself,” the throat growled. 

 

Her single eye widened, then shrunk. Her cheeks were swelling, her brow knitted, her expression that of indignant dissatisfaction. “But she insulted you! Why are you scolding me?”

 

“I scolded both of you for making a scene and for escalating.”

 

Skorpion was wearing an impudent look. 

 

“That nickname, ‘Tuna’, is demeaning and uncalled for. Apologise to her the next time you meet and do not repeat this behaviour.” 

 

She looked away and mumbled indignantly, “I’m just trying to help.”

 

“I can handle myself.”

 

“No, you can’t!” she snapped. “You fainted yesterday. No, more like you just froze up like you had a neural cloud crash!”

 

“I can handle myself!” 

 

She ground her teeth and pouted. “Don’t blame me if you crash again.”

 

“I won’t.” 

 

Rows of tents opened up into a clearing. Raucousness from the assembly ground. 416’s stern instructing barely discernible from the tidal wave of thumping strikes. 

 

A truck parked just ahead. Rubber peeked under its steel skirt, ports carved into its armoured hide, beak-like wedge welded to its front, two gun-shields hovered over its sides, windows hidden behind steel shrouds.

 

There were no view-ports.

 

“Admiring our handiwork?” Griga said, his stylus scraping against his tablet. “Took us all night to make this one. Haven’t decided on her name yet.”

 

True fingers pointed at the shielded windows. “There are no view-ports.”

 

He shrugged. “416 said the dolls won’t need them.” He pointed his stylus at the left gun-shield. “Said the passengers can feed the driver directions in real-time via the Zenner network. That true, Skorp?”

 

Skorpion cocked her head sideways. “I can’t see or hear what my teammates or my dummies can see or hear if that’s what you are asking. I know what they know, though.”

​

“Ah,” Grigori uttered in enlightenment. “So that’s what she meant. That’s nice.” he nibbled his stylus, then inquired, “You don’t need to interpret the information, do you?”

 

“Nope! We just know!” Skorpion declared, her chest puffed out, her tone prideful. 

​

“Mmmmhmmm,” the Night Guard Captain mumbled as he continued scribbling on his tablet. 

 

“Hey, Griga?” Skorpion furrowed her brow and leaned towards him. “No reaction? Really?” 

 

“I worked with dolls long enough to not be surprised anymore,” he replied, his gaze still fixed on the tablet. His expression was passive. 

 

“So, what are you doing?” asked Skorpion, as she twirled towards the tent flap. She leaned forward for a moment, then leaned back to look at Griga while pointing into the canvas structure. “Isn’t there like two more gun-trucks to build?”

 

Griga shrugged. “The second’s halfway done. I’m writing a work report. Let the Day Guard know what we did so they don’t ruin our hard work.” He scribbled on his tablet. “Deuce and Grizzly will be test-driving this one, and Lev said he will take some of the Day Guard along when he joins them. Need to put together a reference vid for the Dolls for their training.” Another tap. “By the way, don’t forget to put Deuce and Grizzly in the same network.” One last tap on his device. “Test drive’s starting after breakfast-time.”

 

“I see.” 

 

He gave a tired smile and pointed at the thermos and the flask hanging below the false hand. “You are going to see Kalin, aren’t you?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

His smile resembled Captain’s whenever he confided with me. “She’s burnt the midnight oil. Probably running on fumes now. Be gentle.” He placed his tablet on the desk beside him, then stretched backwards. “Going to go get breakfast, check up on Dimas, then turn in for the day. See you at dinner.”

 

“...The kitchen is serving soup.”

 

“There is always soup.” 

 

“Yeah, but Cetin made the soup this time,” Skorpion declared. 

 

“Truly?” Griga arched his brow and cracked a smirk. “I’ll give it a taste, then give you a review.”

 

Grunt emitted. “Looking forward to it.”

 

“Uhuh.” he nodded, still wearing that grin. Torso shook; he struck the false shoulder lightly as he made for the tents. “Later, Fox.” 

 

Gun-truck’s looming shadow joined the hangar tent’s, providing substantial shade against the fierce morning sun. Five trucks laid silent amongst the mingling guardsmen, one of which was armoured partway. The guardsmen stowed their tools and prepared to depart for their breakfast and beds. A single incomplete hellcannon stowed amongst the collection of half-rusted pipes and assorted equipment at the far end of the tent.

 

On the assembly ground beyond the single completed gun-truck, the dolls had their back-and-forths with their dummies. 416 paced about among their ranks. She stopped before Sop II and her dummy, who were taking turns slapping each other. The mainframe’s torso shook, barely containing her glee, undampened by 416’s scowl. 

 

The silver-haired doll spun around and shouted at BAR; her pace and tempo had stalled.

 

Swerved left, went around the stacked crates, proceed into the warehouse tent. Steel shelves flanked the passage, hanging light lit the path, supplementing the dim, filtering sunlight. Static-filled radio broadcast just ahead, at the far end of the tent. It indicated Kalina’s location within this labyrinth of crates and containers.

 

Metallic creaks. Kalina was rocking her chair back and forth; her eyes fixed towards the ceiling.

 

“Kalin! We’ve brought food!” Skorpion proclaimed aloud. 

 

The chair’s front legs thumped against the tarp-carpeted ground along with its occupant’s legs. Kalina straightened her posture and slapped her cheeks. She immediately greeted us with a brilliant smile. 

 

“Hey! Good morning, Skorp! Cetin!” 

 

Her cheeks were swollen rather than rosy. She had struck herself too hard. 

 

“...Morning, Kalina.” 

 

Her smile’s brilliance dissipated, then lit up again when she beheld the flask and thermos hanging below the false arm. “What have you got there?” she inquired as the containers landed on her desk with dampened thuds.

 

Laptop displaying her email inbox, memos littered the desk-top, radio assembly spat statics and muted guitar strums. 

 

“What were you doing all night?” Skorpion asked, peeking on the untidy desk from behind the false arm. 

 

“Oh...been looking up suppliers for those drones and the BTR parts.….” Kalina deflated. “Engines giving me the most trouble. Had to look through a three-page list of ‘reputable’ suppliers and shoot them all RFQ’s.” She snapped her fingers and wore a weary smirk. “Had to keep the base budget in the black, you know?”

 

Flask cap twisted open. Steam rose from the aluminium container’s mouth as its contents filled the cap. 

 

“RFQ’s?” 

 

Kalina stuck out her tongue upon sipping on the soup. “Salty!”

 

“He made it!” Skorpion pointed at me, pre-empting any comments Kalina may make about the deteriorating quality of Springfield’s cooking. The logistics officer’s eyes widened slightly, but she did not comment. She took one more sip, then laid the container down on her desk. 

 

“Request for Quote,” she answered. “Asking for prices, in other words. Should be receiving replies before lunch.” A small smile crept upon her lips; she had sniffed out the coffee filling the thermos cap. “Then there’s the side jobs.”

 

“Like repairing settlers’ electrical problems in exchange for peach?”

 

“Springfield told you, huh?” Kalina had snatched the thermos cap and was turning it around with spidery fingers. “Yeah, like that. Lining up a list of jobs we can do. This time, I’m only accepting rubles. The suppliers I mentioned don’t accept fresh produce as payment.” 

 

Her dark blue eyes peered at her laptop while she took a long sip of her coffee. She suddenly made a choking, gurgling noise, and she slammed the thermos cap down, spilling its contents onto her memos. “It’s almost eight!” she exclaimed, her chair clattered back. She immediately straightened her blouse, jacket and hair, crying urgently, “We need to return to the command tent! Right now!” 

​

​

​

0807

​

Helianthus slowly swept her stern azure gaze from one occupant to the next with the mechanical precision of a hospital scanner. She frowned as her eyes fell on Kalina, noting the orange strands standing defiantly atop her head and the grogginess she couldn’t conceal behind her sunny smile. She then looked at Makarov, whose serenity was unaffected by the Vice-Director’s severity. Her gaze then fell and lingered upon the false eyes for moments uncounted.

 

Her brow twitched slightly, an unhelpful indicator of the lurking thoughts under her mask-like facade. 

 

“I was informed you are manufacturing artillery,” she started, her even tone a bulwark against the shimmering anger hinted by her tense shoulders. “...despite knowing the illegality of this action.”

 

She paused, waited and, sensing no incoming response, continued, “You are to dismantle these ‘hellcannons’.”

 

“You do not expect my compliance.”

 

Another twitch on her brow, this time more prominent. “Yes. I anticipated as much. To encourage your compliance, I am also here to inform you that….”

 

“...automatic grenade launchers will be dispatched to my company, and I am to have my auxiliary guardsmen utilise them aboard the helicopters in lieu of improvised artillery.”

 

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. Her nostrils flared, she confirmed Washington’s warning, “Yes.” 

 

Inhaled. Exhaled.

 

“You’ve read our report on our previous engagement.”

 

“The Capture of Novum Sambir?” Her expression stony, her tone even. “Yes, I am aware of the Sangvis’ attempt to gun down Siskin 1 and Buzzard 1. You believe they will repeat the attempt in Subsector 4 and that they will succeed this time.” 

 

Fingers dug into the palms; her impassive expression and calm tone were irksome.

 

“This is not just my conjecture. The Sangvis will make the attempt, and they will succeed. Intruder has a larger, more varied force at her disposal, and the terrain plays to her advantage, more so than the hills did for Hunter.”

​

Her nostrils flared again. Her arms tensed; she must be gripping her fingers tightly behind her back. “Then draw the Sangvis fire with your gun-trucks and BTR’s and have your helicopters strafe them while they are engaged. The gun-trucks and BTR’s are suited for this task.”

 

“Enough firepower can shear even the most armoured of hides, and the BTR’s and the gun-trucks are far from being the most armoured. Moreover, Intruder has enough firepower and manpower to overwhelm their protection. You know this.” 

 

Her lips’ corners twitched, minutely, almost enough to escape notice. “I am aware, and I also aware that M2HB and M1919A4 were assigned to your company. They, and the dummies we are shipping to your company throughout the week, will suffice for the task.”

 

“You expect me to march my dolls towards Intruder’s entrenched position from both sides of the river, with the machine-gunners, the helicopters and the armoured vehicles providing fire support. You believe the supply of dummies you provide will hold out long enough for us to complete our objectives.” 

 

Helianthus exhaled. “The…” she hesitated for a moment, “...dummies are expendable, and the firepower we’ve provided is sufficient.”

 

The false fingers twitched. Aches at the shoulder where metal joined flesh. 

 

“I know of one who thought the same as you, Helianthus. He left his house…” the false hand clenched into a fist. “... and his people in ruins.”

 

Her expression remained impassive. “The UASC contended with an entrenched, technologically superior enemy.” 

 

“Similar to what you are having us do, without us having the numerical advantage.”

 

Helianthus kept her silence. Though her gaze remained stern, her expression stayed blank. 

 

Skorpion hadn’t made any interjections throughout the exchange, and Kalina uncharacteristically withheld her jabs. 

 

Her nostrils flared once more. “Are you done?” she asked, her even voice taking on a harsher quality. “If you have a better strategy, you are free to use it as long as it does not draw KGB’s ire. However, you will dismantle or discard your ‘hellcannons’ and any illegal ordinance currently in your company’s possession.” 

​

Another pause. Her gaze swept across the command tent, lingered upon Makarov, whose pale visage barely concealed her anxious anticipation. She continued, “Makarov will assist you with this task. This is not open for negotiation. We will not have this conversation again.” 

​

She then turned her gaze slightly to her lower left. “Your company’s audit is two weeks from today. Settle your matters by then.” Her nostrils flared, “That will be all.”

 

“Wait! Vice-Director!” Makarov spoke out suddenly, dissatisfaction and disbelief bursting forth like rivers bursting through fissures on broken dams. 

 

“That will be all!” Helianthus repeated coldly. Makarov fell silent, her discontent written in her posture and expression. 

​

The Vice-Director turned her hard, azure gaze towards the false eyes. She inhaled, exhaled, then concluded. “Helianthus out.” 

 

The hologram winked out; the communicator fell silent. 

 

Picked up the command tablet, brought up the echelon window. 

 

“What on Earth was she thinking?!” Makarov broke the silence like a thunderclap. Her posture tensed, and her cheeks flushed. She grasped her hat in exasperated frustration. 

 

Grizzly and Deuce in Echelon 1.

 

“So, what’s your order?” Kalina’s smile was cheeky. Blue eyes sparkled with anticipation, relaxed posture, easiness in her demeanour. It seemed she had expected this outcome. 

 

Confirmed selection.

 

Audit in two weeks. Our assigned deadline. Time enough. 

 

Placed the tablet on the Tactical Map.

 

“We are continuing as before.”

 

“Wait!” Skorpion waved her hand and inquired aloud, “I don’t get it. What just happened? Didn’t Boss Lady order us to dismantle the hellcannons? And why is Macky freaking out?”

 

“The name’s Makarov!” Makarov inhaled and exhaled heavily. Her cheeks were still flushed with agitation as she gave her answer, “She gave him two weeks to dismantle the hellcannons!”

 

Skorpion tilted her head to her left, her confusion unabated. “What of it?”

 

Makarov ground her teeth, then exclaimed aloud, “The operation’s five days from now! Dismantle! Two weeks! Operation! Five days! Do you understand?!”

 

“Oh...Ohhhhhh!” Skorpion brought hammered her lightly-clenched fist against her open palm. “Ohhhhhh!”

 

Makarov stretched her tensed arms towards the ground. It looked as though her voluminous hair had expanded. “Do you understand now?!” 

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. “Enough, both of you. There’s still work to be done.”

 

Makarov grumbled, then took two steps away from Skorpion without comment. Skorpion straightened her posture and quietly glanced at the false eyes. Her gaze was cautious.

 

Sigh exhaled. “Makarov.”

 

Irksomeness etched on her brow, though she kept her tone even. “What is it, Kommandir?” 

 

“Where is Washington?” 

 

“He’s gone to Novum Sambir with MG4. More information on the memo on your desk.”

 

“I see. Kalina.”

 

Kalina peered over her tablet.

 

“Earlier, you mentioned ‘jobs’.”

 

She peered up from her tablet. “Right. I managed to snag a few jobs. There’s one I figured I should place higher up on the priority list.” She walked up to the Tactical Map and made several taps on its keypad, switching the projection of Subsector 4 to Subsector 1. “One of the settlements on the southern quadrant of Subsector 1 reported sightings of Sangvis stragglers...”

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1255

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“Yesterday morning, settlement foragers spotted two Rippers, one Jaeger and three Vespids along the riverbank around this area.” False fingers pointed at the indicated spot Kalina had listed. “That afternoon, the Sangvis stragglers have reportedly disappeared. The UAVs were unable to track their movement; their number density is too sparse for cursory detection.”

 

M4, her brow furrowed, directed her gaze towards the forested hill to the north. She breathed uneasily; she must have discerned that the Sangvis had retreated there, and the canopies may conceal more of them. “The settlers did not search the forest?”

 

“They did not. How will you handle this?”

 

She bit her lower lip, then provided the expected answer, “That forest to the north. I think they may be hiding there.” She glanced at the false eyes, then fell silent and mulled for a moment. She then inquired, “Search and destroy, Commander?”

 

“Yes. Can you handle this?” 

 

M4 furrowed her brow again. She mulled over the question, then nodded in affirmation. “Yes. I think I can.”

 

“I see. Nineteen will be attached to Team AR during this operation.”

 

Ingram’s name greyed out on the command tablet. 

 

“I would have sent Ingram with you, but she is indisposed until tomorrow. You and your sisters will have to familiarise themselves with Nineteen for the time being.”

 

She glanced at the tent flap. “S.O.P.?” Her voice was soft yet lacking her usual hesitance. She seemed to be trying to avoid being eavesdropped on.

 

“Kill on sight. Report to the settlement leader after you are finished, then return to base.” 

 

“Understood,” she nodded. “We’ll sortie immediately after lunch.” 

 

“Kommandir!”

 

A white-haired T-Doll at the tent flap, half of M4’s height. Flushed cheeks, heavy breathing, trembling legs. Face matched with the doll’s image on the Command Tablet, just below Ingram’s. The name beside it read, ‘PP-19-01’. She gasped, “Skor-Skorpion i-is having a fight w-with C-CZ2000! Ca-canteen tent! Outside!” 

 

Vision whited out. Outlines reemerged; false eyes compensated for sudden incandescence. Cheek scorched, nostrils stung. Stitches taut, boots compacted dirt. 

 

“Skorpion! Cilka! Cease!” 

 

“I’m not taking orders from you!” CZ2000, Cilka, shouted defiantly. 

 

Skorpion shot up, slammed her skull into her chin. Cilka recoiled, reared back. Skorpion got up, about to hurl herself at her. “You take that back about my Commander!” 

 

False hand struck out, clamped on Skorpion’s shoulder, pulled her back. “Do I need to give you a direct order, Skorpion? And you!” True finger pointed at Cilka. “Stop!” She stopped in her tracks, her fist raised, intent on striking Skorpion whilst she was restrained. 

 

“Must I report your misbehaviour to your Commander?”

 

She brandished her arms and challenged aloud. “If you can, sea slug!” A mechanical crab, by the dolls’ foot, brandished its pincers in imitation of her. “You can’t even look Fleur in the eye!”

 

False arm tugged forward. Tightened the grip, pulled her back again. 

 

Skorpion struggled and kicked at Cilka. She shouted, “You shut up! He’s hurt! So shut up!”

 

“And that’s an excuse to faint?” Cilka retorted. “He really is a sea slug!” She threw her arms in the air, “Whatever! I’m not eating in the same tent as two failures. Come on, Shrimpy! Let’s go!”

 

The mechanical crab scurried after her stomping wake.

 

“Why yo-!?” 

 

False arm tugged forward. Pulled Skorpion back, held her firm. “I have warned you.” 

 

She slumped her shoulders, puffed her cheeks and pouted sullenly.

​

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​

1315

​

Skorpion was still pouting. Her legs swung like languid pendulums. Her gaze was fixed towards the Tactical Map, refusing to meet the false eyes. An angry red had erupted on her right cheek, its shade a darker crimson than her usual flush. A red that wouldn’t turn brown. Similar, but not quite like a bruise. 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled.

 

“This is the second time today.” 

 

Metallic creaked, her chair rocked ever so slightly. That same angry red was on her shin, barely concealed yet almost melting into her black sock. 

 

“Why have you become restless and irritable?” 

 

“Mmmmmph!” she puffed her cheeks. If the bruise had hurt, she showed no indication. No wincing, not even a grimace. 

 

False hand slammed the Tactical Map. The device emitted a dull thud as though it were made of stone or wood rather than steel. “Skorpion!” 

 

Her legs stopped swinging. She folded her arms and grumbled near inaudibly. “Why am I the one getting scolded?” 

 

Sigh exhaled. “You instigated violence with XM8, and now you traded blows with Cilka.” 

 

She hunched her shoulders and made a low, irked grumble. “...She called you a sea louse and a sea slug….” 

 

“...You delivered the first blow.”

 

“But she insulted you!” Skorpion snapped. “You aren’t a sea slug!” 

 

“A punch is supposed to persuade her?” 

 

“But!” 

 

“All you have accomplished is convincing Cilka she is in the right.” 

 

She puffed her cheeks once more, this time while emitting an irate animal noise. 

 

Sop II and P7, utterly silent, peeked through the tent flap. The faint scents of marinated synth-meat and peppermint emanated from their vicinity. 

 

The clusters of red blips on the Tactical Map remained as they were from several hours ago. 

 

Skorpion rocked back and forth, creaking her chair. She was still pouting, with her arms still folded and her gaze averted.

 

“You will apologise to XM8 and Cilka tonight.”

 

She continued rocking defiantly.

 

“You will apologise to them tonight.”

​

“I don’t wanna,” she replied with an obstinate tone. “It’s not my fault. They started this. They should apologise.”

 

“What were their faults?” 

 

She puffed her swollen cheeks. “They called you ‘useless’ and ‘sea slug’.”

 

“This matter is between us. You shouldn’t have intervened.”

 

She perked up, straightened her posture. “But!” 

 

“You shouldn’t have intervened, Skorpion.” 

 

She knitted her brows, then ground her teeth and rubbed her knees together. “Then why didn’t you say anything when they insulted you?” 

 

“Because they aren’t wrong.”

 

“But they are!” Skorpion exclaimed suddenly. “You aren’t ‘useless’ or a ‘sea slug’! You are a good Commander, Cetin!”

 

“A ‘good’ Commander does not faint under duress, Skorpion. I did.” 

 

“But you are injured!”

 

“I must staunch the bleeding, yet I hadn’t taken steps to do so. I left my wound to fester.” 

 

She lowered her eyes and puffed her cheeks again. 

 

P7 and Sop II had left their perch by the tent flap, with MDR and MP41 taking their place. The scent of marinated synth-meat and peppermint still lingered.

 

Sigh exhaled. 

 

“Commander Washington and Fleur will return this evening.”

 

Skorpion kept her silence. She was rocking against her chair again.

 

“I will confront them upon their return.” 

 

“What!?” Skorpion shot up to her feet. “You will talk to them after what happened yesterday? They hurt you!”

 

“They didn’t, Skorpion. They are like the night wind gnawing at an aching knee; irritants but not the cause.” 

 

“But still…”

 

“Fleur cannot be faulted for confronting me. Washington and I were both haunted by phantoms. My queries would have conjured his, just as Fleur had conjured mine. She tried to protect him, just as you tried to protect me.” 

 

“Really?” Skorpion doubted. “So, what are his phantoms?”

 

“Agent.” 

 

“Agent?” 

 

The head nodded. “Agent. She is to him what yellow eyes are to me. I cannot expect him to confront his phantoms if I do not confront mine. If I were to speak to him about Agent, I must confront Fleur and look her in the eyes. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.” 

 

“So, what do you want me to do?” Skorpion questioned. 

 

“I will strike you a bargain, Skorpion. I will confront Fleur and Washington; I will face my phantoms. I will not faint. If I succeed, you will apologise to XM8 and Cilka.” 

 

“But what if….”

 

“I gave you my word, Skorpion. Will you give me yours?”

 

“Mmmmph!” she puffed her cheeks again. “Fine!” She showed her right hand. Fist lightly clenched, the last finger extended. “Pinky promise.” 

 

“Pinky promise?”

 

“Pinky promise!” she insisted, shaking her right hand. “You must give me a pinky promise to show you absolutely, definitely, certainly will keep your word!” 

 

Sigh exhaled. Extended the true finger. “Fine. Pinky promise.”

 

She blinked. “Oh right.” She switched her hand. 

 

Pinkies entwined, hands shook. “Keep your promise, okay?” she demanded. “If you don’t, you will stick needles in your eyes and eat a horse manure pie!”

 

“...What?” 

 

“Keep your promise!” She pitter-pattered out of the tent. Two sets of footfalls, one light, the other heavy, followed after her wake. Then silence. Only the scent of marinated meat and peppermint remained. 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. Red clusters remained where they were. The jamming tower and its power source stuck out on the hill, though there was an addition now. Cords slithered out from the block at the tower’s base and snaked towards the perimeter wall.

 

False fingers searched the surface of the Tactical Map and found their quarry. Picked up the hip flask. It rang hollow. 

 

“That went relatively well.”

 

The scent of marinated meat and peppermint grew strong, accompanied by sure footsteps.

 

“You could have broken up the fight yourself.”

 

China clinked against ringing steel; peppery scent mingled with the rising aroma of marinated meat. “Yes, but you won’t engender respect if I intervene on your behalf.” Springfield withdrew from the tray and clasped her hands. “Drinking alone at mid-day is not a good habit to keep.” 

 

Flask rang hollow against the Tactical Map. “That exchange is exhausting.”

 

“Lunch and good company, not vodka, will remedy that.” Firm tone. Iron behind her smile. “Vodka does not help you think either, with or without distractions.”

 

“...You can tell?”

 

The iron dented just a little, and her gentleness reemerged. “You are wearing that look, Cetin.” 

 

“...I see.”

 

Her smile faded slightly, like sunlight concealed behind thin clouds. “Do you think you can keep that particular promise?” 

 

“I must.” Beyond the tent flap, the unfelt wind lifted a low-lying mist of dust. “Else, I would lose sight and taste.” 

 

“Those phrases come from an old children’s song.” She then rhymed, “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in the eye, eat a horse manure pie.” The rhyme stopped; the air grew heavy. She cracked a grin that failed to lift the weight of the lingering cadence. “Nobody has followed through, of course.” 

 

“Yet they seemed appropriate punishments.” Steam starting to dissipate over the mouth of the teapot. “My failure will sunder Skorpion’s ties with XM8 and Cilka. Losing my eyes and my palate are the prices I ought to pay should I fail.”

 

“You are taking this children’s song too seriously.” She lifted the teapot and filled the china cup with its contents. As she set the container down, she continued, “We are always here to help, Cetin. Remember that.”

 

Wavering false eyes reflected upon the light brown fluid. “I have burdened you all enough. Leave me be.” 

​

​

​

My reckoning approaches. This evening, time yet determined, I will confront a Yellow-Eye. 

 

She is not the one who presided over your demise that night, yet I reacted to her as though she was. Confronting her will not reclaim The Djinn, nor will it reclaim that lost piece of me, the piece I needed to suture my festering wound shut. Yet, if I do not staunch that bleeding somehow, the company will grow ever more tainted.

 

Already, my grief burdened Skorpion. Already, my grief drove her to strive against her fellow dolls. 

 

The living shouldn’t bear the burdens of the dead. Let them remain buried within me.

 

I must put them at ease so that they may lay my burdens down.  I must demonstrate I can bear my grief. 

 

I can’t reclaim that pound of flesh and that pint of blood, but at least, by making peace with Fleur, I can gauze the wound. 

 

Then, Skorpion can make peace with her slighted comrades.

 

…

 

Cross my heart and hope to die. 

 

…