1823

 

Gnarly twig snapped against the false cheek. Siskin 1’s landing gear sank onto the sun-baked dirt, and its side-hatch slid open. 

 

“Hey!” Nineteen vociferated at Sop II, who had bolted past her. Her black-garbed compatriot brandished her arms, ignoring her. “Commander! We are back!” She carried two plastic bags, one in each limb; one large and black, the other small, white, with red sloshing within. Skips punctuated her every step. “Look at what we’ve brought!”

 

“Sop II! What did we say about pouncing at the Commander?” 

 

Sop II stopped on tip-toes and gently pressed her heels against the grass and dirt. Beyond that, she continued as though she hadn’t heard AR-15, “We’ve brought the cash, Commander!” AR-15 folded her arms and sighed. “Mission accomplished!”

 

M4 completed her gradual approach and saluted. The buffeting vortex and the chopping blades overhead almost drowned out her voice. “Operation completed.” 

 

“I see.” 

 

“Why is she mad, then?” Skorpion inquired, pointing at Nineteen, who had finished adjusting her machine gun and disembarked. Pouting, she complained aloud, “The operation is a waste of time! I didn’t get to gun anything down!” 

 

“That’s because you are too slow!” Sop II flailed her arms. Rustles within the black bag, sloshing within the white one. “By the time you set up your big gun, we already killed them all!” 

 

“We couldn’t flush the Sangvis out of the forest, Commander,” M4 interjected. “They held their position even while we encircled them. The initial strategy of forcing the Sangvis into Nineteen’s crossfire failed.” 

 

No wounds on the T-Dolls. Only a scratch on M4’s right forearm. Surface damage inflicted by a branch?

 

“They are so dumb!” commented Sop II derisively. “Hugged their covers no matter what! Didn’t move when I blew them up! Didn’t even turn towards AR-15 and me when we shot them in the back! Killing them was so easy!”

 

“Did you get the rubles?” 

 

Skorpion jumped; Kalina had seemingly materialised behind her. “Where did you come from?” 

 

Kalina stuck out her tongue and nodded apologetically. Her eyes twinkled as she beheld the black bag. “So. The rubles,” she said, barely containing her glee, “Did you get it?”

 

“Right here!” Sop II’s black bag rustled as she thrust it at Kalina. “It’s all in here!” She gave it a little shake.

 

Kalina immediately seized the bag and inspected its contents. Her eyes glittered, and she beamed and nodded with satisfaction. “Looks about right. I will do a count back in storage to confirm the amount.”

 

“I see.” 

 

M4’s eyes were fixed on the bag. Her expression was that of contemplation. 

 

“What’s on your mind, M4?”

 

She blinked, directed her gaze towards the false eyes and pursed her lips.

 

“I don’t feel it’s right to take that money,” M4 said slowly. Her quivering dark brown eyes seemed to be searching for something within the false eyes.

 

Raised the false hand, with its palm opened. Sop II immediately closed her mouth. 

 

“I’ve seen the settlement, Commander,” M4 continued. “The only solid structures there were the walls, a guard tower, a storage house and a single shack. They don’t even have a well.”

 

“Refugees have been moving into S09 since the start of the year,” Kalina informed. “Mostly immigrants from the camps around Chernivtsi outskirts. Those must have been long-time residents, too, seeing they carry paper notes.”

 

“They didn’t divide the notes into multiples,” said M4. “I think they dumped the money in the bag.”

 

“You believe each settler passed the bag around to contribute what amount they could spare into the collective pool.” 

 

M4 nodded. 

 

“I see. Kalina.”

 

“Make sure the amount tallies. Got it,” Kalina interjected with an enthusiastic smile, a nod and an informal salute. 

 

“Commander. Did we exploit these refugees for monetary gain?” 

 

Steel in M4’s voice. She was frowning, almost a scowl. Her eyes were hard.

 

“It was a trade.” False fingers pointed at the black bag in Kalina’s clutch. “That is supposed to be the agreed-upon price for our services. From how you described them, there will likely be discrepancies in the amount.”

​

“They are desperate refugees, Commander,” M4 asserted, her brows furrowed, her expression almost a scowl. “They hadn’t planned on setting aside that amount to pay us. I thought we are supposed to contain the Sangvis within the confines of the Carpathia.”

 

“We have a need; they have a need. We made our offer, established the terms of our trade and upheld our agreement.”

 

“We have a need, Commander?” M4 raised her indignant tone.

 

“We are making up for the shortcomings in our base budget,” said Kalina. She was frowning. “This amount we received should be enough to purchase one replacement BTR engine.” 

​

“The same BTR which would protect your sisters as they make that charge up towards that plateau you are to neutralise. Yet we are short on funds for the repairs of two more.”

 

“One more engine, electrical systems, smoke generators, hydrojets….”

 

“Aren’t we obligated to hunt the stragglers regardless?” M4 insisted, her shoulders and arms tensed. “Containing them is our job!”

 

Sigh exhaled. “How many straggler groups do you believe are roaming about S09 as we speak?”

 

M4 pursed her lips. “I don’t have an estimate. But still…”

 

“Just consider that a premium service, M4,” Kalina interjected. “We are being paid to prioritise the safety of that camp over the others. Doesn’t mean we won’t be eliminating straggler groups as we find them.”

 

M4 pursed her lips again and breathed deeply. “I hope the amount tallies, so we don’t have to bother them again.” She threw a tense salute, then departed. AR-15 followed after her silently while Sop II hesitated. She then strode forward, shoved the white bag into the torso, then hurried after her departing sisters.

 

The white bag contained ruby-lensed eyeballs. 

 

“She’s quite the candide, isn’t she?” 

​

FAL, arms folded, strutted from whence Team AR had gone. “It seems she forgot we are mercenaries.”

 

“What are you doing here, FAL?” Skorpion inquired.

 

“I hear Monsieur Pierre and Deele had reprogrammed target dummies for our covert ops exercise, and I would like to inspect them. They should be rolling out right about….” FAL peeled back her left sleeve. “...now.” 

 

Whirls from the opposite side of the staging ground; thirty target dummies skated out of the workshop tent and assembled into three orderly rows, like soldiers during morning assembly. 

 

FAL chuckled. “Hon hon, aren’t they more disciplined than most dolls? Why, I might just replace BAR with one of them if they knew how to handle an automatic rifle.” 

 

“I bet you’ll like that, huh?” Five-seveN’s jeers emitted from behind one of the tents. “Perfectly obedient, and mute! They will do as they are told, and they will never criticise your fashion sense!”  

​

FAL strutted towards the technicians’ tent, completely ignoring Five-seveN’s words. The cameras perched atop the target dummies’ panels tracked our path as we made our approach. They weren’t there during Nagant’s training on the first day of our posting.

 

Out of the sun, into the shade. Rows of drones laid in neat rows and columns on the tarp to the right. They numbered fifty; each carried a C4 block under their chassis, though they appeared to be absent detonators. 

 

“So, what do you think?” Deele’s voice from behind the screens just ahead, audible amongst the whirring computer fans and humming server noises. “Impressive, right?” His inquiry was directed at 416, who had unplugged a cable from her nape. “Come on, praise me for this. Just this once, say something nice.”

 

416, ignoring the technician, stood up and brushed her skirt. She then turned her lime-green gaze towards the false eyes and saluted. “Commander.”

 

“At ease.”

 

“Hon hon.” FAL brought her fist to her mouth and chortled. “So the reine des glaces knows to show proper conduct before the Commander.” 

​

416’s brow twitched slightly, her only response to her comrade’s provocation. “Commander, we are making final preparations for the covert ops exercise, commencing at 2100.”

 

“I was walking her through the controls,” said Deele as he tied up the cable. “Should be similar to operating dummy links.”

 

“There are thirty target dummies.”

 

“She can handle it.” He turned the laptop towards himself and made a few taps. “Those drones only have simple functions….”

 

“She can?”

 

Deele glanced up from the screen and greeted Skorpion with a smile. “Hey, Skorp. Still clinging to the Commander?”

 

“Hey, Deele,” Skorpion replied. “So, you are saying Sarge can control thirty dummies at once?”

 

“Of course not,” the technician scoffed. “No amount of processing power is enough for her to control thirty dummy links at once without suffering a crash. Target dummies are different. Much simpler. Only patrol and surveillance. She can handle it….” The laptop clacked. “...especially with this sharing her load.”

 

“It’s still pretty cool, though….”

 

“That’s nothing,” FAL interjected. She rested her fingertips upon her chest. “Elite dolls, especially Grifon’s finest like myself, can do this easily.”

​

“Ehhhhhh...” Levelled brows and a half-smile. Skorpion wasn’t impressed.

 

An irate grunt. 416 had rolled her eyes at FAL, then directed her gaze towards Deele. She stated, “I still have to enter Level II Consciousness to control these drones directly.”

 

Deele sighed as he closed the laptop. “We’ve already been through this. You don’t have to control them directly. Just give the drones simple commands, and they will handle the rest. Again, no different from operating dummy links.”

​

“They only have cameras as their sensors.”

 

“It’s close enough to what the Prowlers and Dinergates are using!” the technician asserted. “Look!” His palm thumped against his chest thrice. “Just trust me, okay? Have I ever failed you? Like ever?”

 

416 shrugged in reply.  

 

“...Level II Consciousness?” 

 

“Suspends all mainframe bodily functions,” Pierre interjected. He then sipped on his coffee, then continued. “Frees up processor. Diverts it towards neural cloud functionality. Hacking, fine-control dummies,” he tapped on his temple, “Mental work.” 

 

“...I see?” 

 

Pierre lowered his mug and wore a crooked grin. “No, you don’t see.” He craned his neck back and shouted, “Hey, David-boy! How’s the sleeping goblin looking?” 

 

“Stop adding ‘boy’ to my name!” David shouted from behind the curtain. “And to answer your question, MDR’s fine. Not yet waking up, but the EEG readings are stable, so she’s fine...I think.” 

 

“It’s not EEG.” Pierre pulled back the white curtain. The grey-haired doll in black, the one they called MDR, laid still like a statue on the work-table, folded up to resemble a hospital bed in a sitting configuration. A cable, like what 416 used earlier, snaked from a humming machine to MDR’s nape. She appeared to be in a deep sleep, but her eyes under her lids were still. 

 

“Is she…”

 

“She’s on Level II Consciousness,” Pierre answered. “The disturbance we caused won’t wake her up while she’s in this state.”

 

“...Like in one of those cyberpunk movies?”

 

“Mmmmhmmm.” The head technician raised his mug, took a sip, then lowered it.  

 

“She’s hacking into a practice server.” David flicked on his tablet. “I’m having her crack a firewall to access some files for the past half-hour or so.”

 

“Taking her sweet time, isn’t she?” Pierre sup on his mug again. 

 

David sighed. “I hope she’s not doing anything dumb. Like punching that firewall….”

 

Ears rang. Heart slammed against the ribcage. 

 

The humming machine screeched as though it was announcing a failing heart. Lines on the screen jumped, emphasising the severity of the crisis. Yet, the technicians and the aux guard remained calm; Pierre continued drinking while David sighed and pressed his free palm against his forehead.  

 

Metallic creak. “Again?” Deele leaned back from his chair just far enough to sneak a peek. Just as he made his inquiry, MDR’s heterochromatic eyes snapped open. She shot up from her seat; her sudden movement tore the cables from her nape. She then pawed at her cheeks, screaming anguishedly, “AAAARGH!!!”

 

David sighed again. “I told you, MDR! You need to find the key!”

 

MDR, still caressing her cheeks, complained loudly, “But the flame mails!”

 

“Ignore the flame mails! They aren’t real! It’s just a way for your e-war module to visualise the firewall!”

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. Unclenched the fists. No dents on the false palm. 

 

“Hon hon,” FAL chuckled derisively. “Your net crimes have finally caught up with you.” She grinned wickedly. “I’m saving this momentous event into my memory module.” 

 

“You purge that!” MDR pointed at FAL. “I’ll ban you from Grifchan if that gets circulated all around the corpo subnet! I swear!” 

 

“Focus! MDR!” David pushed MDR back onto the work-table. “You need to get the basics down first before we can move on to network security tomorrow!” 

 

“Can’t we do that after dinner?” she whined as she sat up again. “I can still feel burning on my cheeks.” 

 

“Are you sure you want to slack off with the Commander watching?” FAL asked mockingly. 

 

MDR turned her gaze towards the false eyes, blinked, squinted, then turned pale. “Oh shit! Jack me back in! Quick!” 

 

“Hon hon. He’s seen everything.”

 

“You shut up, or I’ll doxx you!”

 

“Not helping your case, petit espiègle.”

​

“Shut!” 

 

“MDR...” David sighed. “Have you forgotten how to scan and breach the network?”

 

“I didn’t forget, I just...Aaaargh!” MDR exasperated. She slapped her cheeks and emitted a pained yelp. She grimaced, blinked, then laid her arms beside her.

 

“...Is she alright?”

 

“Don’t worry about her.” Deele’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. “It’s all in her neural cloud. Backlash from punching that firewall.”

 

MDR inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Okay, fine! I did it! I found the vulnerability! Now…!” She slumped limply on the work-table, her lifeless eyes still opened.

 

Deele’s chair creaked again. “And that’s her entering Level II Consciousness. Happens all the time during their deep-dive sessions.” 

 

“I see.”

 

David sighed as he leaned forward, plugged the cable to MDR’s nape and closed her eyelids.

 

More creaks; Deele was rocking his chair. “There’s also Level I and Level III. Guess what they are.” 

 

“Level I: the doll is cognizant.” Ceramic mug clattered beside the laptop. Deele gave Pierre a disgruntled glare. Ignoring him, the foreman perched himself by the curtains surrounding MDR and David and continued, “Level III: the doll is cut off from her senses and the world completely. Can’t do anything. Not even hacking. Just the doll with her thoughts and memories for company.” He took a deep sip. “Similar to being put in a coma.”

 

“Or solitary confinement at the centre of their digimind.” Deele’s chair creaked again. “And guess when we put dolls in Level III.”

 

“When we are running deep diagnostics on the dolls’ neural cloud integrity, or the doll is undergoing some serious repairs.” Pierre sipped on his coffee again. “Think of it as putting the doll under anaesthesia.”

 

“You are no fun,” Deele complained.

 

Pierre lowered his mug and shrugged. “I don’t see how teasing an ignoramus can be ‘fun’. There’s no banter to be had.”

 

“The fun lies in confusing and flustering the ignoramus.”

 

“Ho,” Pierre wore a crooked grin. “Seems our little casanova here has experience.”

 

Deele frowned. “Iʼm not the one with experience, 416 does. She….” He fell silent; the aforementioned doll was glowering at him ferociously. Averting his gaze, he mumbled, “Shutting up now.” He lifted his mug with trembling fingers, drank his coffee, nictated and made a face. He then continued drinking silently.

 

A glimpse of a sneer upon 416’s lips.

 

Dirt and grit compacting and shifting outside. A vehicular horn sounded.

 

“That’s our cue,” said Deele while opening the laptop and plugging in the cable. “Help me out here, will ya?”

 

416 plugged the other end of the cable into her nape without comment.

 

The target dummies spun around in synchronicity and skated towards the unseen gun-truck, passing by the disembarking dolls. Nineteen approached Deuce in greeting. “Ah! It’s Commander!” P7 exclaimed upon emerging into view. The other dolls, with their slumped shoulders and slow shambling steps, barely responded to her announcement. 

 

“Gonna watch Lev load up the target dummies,” said Deele as he got up. “Make sure he doesn’t accidentally break anything.”

 

“I’ll join you.” 

 

“Commander, a moment of your time, please,” 416 requested suddenly, her gaze laid firmly upon the false eyes. “I like to request a favour.”

 

“Ho. Imposing on the Commander, are we?” 

 

416 shot the smirking FAL a glare. She then glanced at the curtain behind her, then spoke her request. “Please take care of G11 for me.”

 

She did not notice Skorpion sneaking behind her to peek behind the curtain. 

 

Night-guard dummy control training at 1930. Dinner at 2000. Exercise prep at 2030. Covert ops exercise at 2100.

 

“You are skipping dinner.” 

 

“I’ll make do with an MRE pack,” 416 replied. She wore an expectant look.

 

“How diligent. If only BAR’s like you, then my team will surely be the finest.”

 

416 furrowed her brow and shot FAL a death glare. The Belgian T-Doll folded her arms and smirked challengingly.

 

Sigh exhaled. “Understood. Collect her from the command tent upon your return.”

 

Upon hearing this, 416 gave a brief appreciative smile. 

 

Pharynx clenched, emitted a growl. “Skorpion.”

 

Skorpion leaned back, away from the curtain. “Yeah?” 

 

“No poking G11.” 

 

“I wasn’t gonna!” The submachine-gunner sounded offended. 

 

“Why not keep her here?” Pierre inquired as he lowered his mug. “We have plenty of vacant beds.”

 

416 frowned. Pierre followed her gaze and found it landing at MDR’s work-table, or rather, David. “Aaaaah.” He nodded empathetically. “I see.” He then returned to his coffee.

 

Having felt eyes on him, David peered over his shoulders. However, 416 had already returned her attention to her screen. He blinked and looked about, first at the false eyes, then at Skorpion and Pierre. “What?” he uttered, confused. Receiving no answers, he hesitantly returned to his tablet.

​

​

​

1920

​

“You are working overtime?” 

 

Lev’s exoskeleton whined. His fingers clamped onto the chalk-white panels of the target dummy. He then lifted the drone up and onto the truck’s bed. “Someone has to,” he replied. “The Princess needs her ride ready by tomorrow. Can’t have training exercises without a working BTR, can she?”

 

Deele nodded at 416, and the freshly-placed target dummy skated and slid in place, forming a staggered stack with another twenty dummies. Another drone was loaded on the truck bed the moment the target dummy took its position. Again, Deele nodded, and again the drone slid in place, though the furrow on 416’s brow indicated her dwindling patience with the technician. 

 

“How soon can you return?”

 

“Depends.” Lev heaved another target dummy onto the truck’s bed. “If Griga and Kalin can get that engine to us as soon as we get to the BTR, we will be back with it by midnight.” 

 

“Hey! Lev!” Kalina exclaimed suddenly from beside the gun-truck, sounding irked. She rested her knuckles against her hips. “Lev! Remind me! When’s the last time I failed you?”

 

Lev grunted as he heaved yet another drone onto the truck’s bed. “Never,” he grumbled.

 

“Yeah! Never!” Kalina broke into a sunny smile. “We’ll be there.”

 

The Day Guard Captain grunted again. “Just be punctual, and we’re good.”

 

Once the last drone skated into position, Lev, Andrei, and two other aux guards hopped and vaulted onto the vehicle. “Alright!” Lev shouted, clapping his hands. “Grizz! Deuce! Time to go!”

 

Deuce glanced over her shoulder. “Eh, what a pain.” She sighed, then dipped her spoon into her bowl of soup.

 

“Deuce!” Grizzly, seated opposite her, reprimanded with a stern frown. She then looked at Lev and wore a small smile. “Give us five minutes, Boss.” She then raised her left hand over her forehead, all her fingers and thumbs extended. “Five minutes, and we’ll be back in our saddles.”

 

“Five minutes is too short,” Deuce stated in between chews. “Did you see the size of our bowls? You should have asked for ten!” 

 

Lev grunted and shook his head. “Fifteen. No negotiations.” 

 

The machine-gunner replied with a pumped fist. She then fished a bottle of black beverage out of a carton and handed it to Nineteen, who had dipped her spoon into her bowl while making a face. NIneteen reached for the bottle, and Springfield swooped in, snatched it away by its neck and returned it to its carton. Smiling, she reprimanded gently, “You shouldn’t spoil your little sister.”

 

Deuce grinned sheepishly. Nineteen puffed her cheeks and dug into her bowl grumpily. 

 

Springfield had her rifle slung behind her back. Griga, at ease, and Sten, her brow furrowed, followed close behind. 

 

“Hey, Fox,” Griga greeted with a smile. “Nineteen doesn’t like your soup.”

 

“It’s too salty!” 

 

“Very,” Griga nodded in affirmation, then slapped the true shoulder. “Try reducing the amount of salt by one-thirds next time, eh?” 

 

Springfield adjusted her rifle strap. “I’m going with Griga and Kalin to the vendor.” She smiled gently. “Dinner’s packed and ready for pickup. If they are out, Nagant and Mosin can whip up something for you in my place.”

 

“I can cook for myself.”

 

“More soup?” Skorpion interjected.

 

“...I can cook swish kebab for myself.”

 

“With or without spices?” Springfield challenged. 

 

“Are you sure you really want to join us?” Kalina folded her arms. “Everyone’s going to miss you, you know.”

 

“It’s not an overnight trip, and you can use another friendly face.” A more pronounced curl upon Springfield’s lips. “Someone has to play the reasonable one.” 

 

“Ehhh.” Kalina pouted. “I’m reasonable.”

 

“No, you aren’t,” Lev commented. “Always trying to squeeze every bit of ruble out of every deal.”

 

Kalina replied to him with a stink-eye.

 

“...and Sten?”

 

Griga placed his palm on her shoulder. “Puppy-dog eyes.”

 

Sten, cheeks turning as red as her jacket, slapped Griga’s hand away. “I’m more than just a pretty face,” she mumbled.

 

“Look! Grizz! Wells’ brought her tonfas again.” 

 

Grizzly, chewing her food, looked over her shoulders. Welrod strode from amongst the barracks whilst twirling said weapons in both her hands. “She’s doing it again.” The other night duty dolls, too, gawked at her as they filed into the staging ground. 

 

“Commander,” said 416, after unplugging the cables from her nape. “I’m starting the exercise.” She saluted, then turned to depart our gathering. She halted. Headlights lit her back, grit and dirt crunched by skidding tires. She turned and regarded the arrival with a frown. 

 

The sun cast long eastward shadows; it had yet to set behind the Carpathian peaks. Yet, Commander Washington had turned on the headlights. Perhaps he intended to announce his and MG4’s arrival. The lights went off, and the passenger door cracked ajar.

 

The passenger did not alight. 

 

Behind the windshield, a taller figure conversed with a diminutive one. Washington and MG4. The eyes could barely make out the shaking of MG4’s head. The driver’s door swung open moments later, and Washington ejected himself from the jeep.

 

He swept his gaze about, a barely perceivable frown formed upon his lips. All activity in the staging ground had ceased, the staff silently scrutinised him. 

 

He inhaled, held his breath for a count of three and exhaled. He took one hesitant step forward, then another. The passenger’s door swung open, and Washington looked over his shoulder and raised his hand. MG4 held her position behind the door, with a certain reluctance in her posture. Washington nodded at her, perhaps intending to assure. He then looked towards us and took his third hesitant step. 

 

“Commander!” Cilka cried from among the dolls attending 416’s training exercise. She wrung her fist vigorously, goading him. “Don’t lose to this lot! Come on!” Cano, who stood behind her, brought her palm down on Cilka’s head, silencing her immediately. 

 

True arm grasped Skorpion’s shoulder, stopping her advance. Her brow furrowed; her gaze was dubious. Shook the head. She glanced at the advancing Washington and deepened her frown. Reminder uttered, “Pinky promise?” She pursed her lips, nodded and fell back.

 

Springfield wore a plastic smile and nodded. Perhaps she intended to encourage?

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. 

 

Advanced towards Washington, intercepted him at the halfway point. 

 

False arm trembled.

 

Yellow eyes gleamed in the steel-tinted mist.

​

False eyes tore away from MG4 and focused on Washington’s hesitant gaze.

 

A twitch upon his lips, he motioned to speak. “I’m sorry for last night.”

 

The dry throat rumbled its intonation, “What is there for you to apologise for?”

 

He averted his gaze. “For what Fleur did. I know she overstepped boundaries, insubordination on her part, but….”

 

“She is your wife, and she did as a wife should.” Inhaled. Exhaled. “I can’t fault her for that.”

 

The heart palpitated.

 

Captain dead at my feet.

​

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. 

 

Washington shifted his weight away from his bad leg. 

 

“Agent did this to you.”

 

Melancholic smile, grip tightened on the cane. He nodded in affirmation. “Yes.” 

 

“I see.”

 

Yellow eyes still, silent with contempt. 

​

Strained lungs, whining servos. The throat clenched tight. Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. Voice almost a hiss. “I will speak to Fleur.” 

 

Washington blinked. “I told her to stay behind. Didn’t want to trigger another episode.”

 

“I cannot ask you to confront your phantoms if I do not confront mine. I must speak to her.”

 

“I can’t have you bedridden for another night.” Washington planted his palm on the true shoulder. “Once is enough. What will your people think if you experience another episode?”

 

True fingers rummaged in the pants pocket and fished out Mikhail’s flat box.

 

“Then I would have broken my promise to Skorpion, and all further scorn I will receive is well-deserved.” 

 

“I’ve discussed this with Fleur. She agreed to keep her distance and let me handle whatever issues we had with each other.”

 

Opened the box, fished out an ampoule, removed its cap.

 

“There will be peace between us, but this does not assure peace between our subordinates. I made Skorpion promise she would make amends with Cilka, and in return, I promised I would confront Fleur.”

 

Jabbed the needle into the true wrist, squeezed the bulb.

 

Washington conveyed his astonishment, “What happened between Cilka and Skorpion during my absence?”

 

A warm numbness coursed through the veins. Throat unclenched, heartbeat calmed. Haze settled in the mind, fell over the senses.

 

“They had a row, and my condition is the cause,” the voice came easily. “They have yet to make amends. Skorpion still thinks of you and your people as the enemy. She will only make peace with Cilka, and by extension, your people, if I make peace with you and Fleur. That is the promise between us.” Inhaled. Exhaled. Brushed Washington’s hand aside. “Don’t make me an oathbreaker, Nivy.”

 

Nivy grimaced and glanced over his shoulder. “I can’t let you do this alone. I’m joining you.”

 

“I will be fine.”

 

“You can’t be sure of that!” Nivy urged. “I’ve seen cases like yours, Cetin. You can’t do this alone. You need someone around to keep you from slipping and to keep you from lashing out at Fleur.”

 

“I can handle myself.” 

 

His tone lowered into a growl, “Can you promise you will neither act up nor attack Fleur?” 

 

Fleur, concealed behind the jeep’s door, paid us rapt attention. 

 

The door shattered. Dust, splinters and debris. Swaying lights.

​

Tore the false eyes away. The pulse raised slightly. Not as severe as previous; the sedatives had taken effect. “...I do not know, but I must make the attempt.”

 

“Let me help you!” he insisted.

 

Captain by the wheels. His blood poured from his wounds, pooled under my feet.

​

False arm trembled, needles prickled sundered flesh and the mind.

 

“...Fine.”

 

Fleur held her ground in spite of our approach. She bit her lower lip, gripped the door’s top frame, wore a resolute frown and met the false eyes with anxious defiance. She awaited the first word. 

 

Metallic clink. Burning iron dust stung the nostrils. Throat clenched, lungs rasped and quivered. Flooding tears tried vainly to quench the burning eye. 

​

A firm grasp on the true shoulder, followed by a squeeze. “You are blanking out again.” 

 

Blinked. Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. Clenched throat unclenched. Fists gripped tight. Tingling in the unfeeling false arm. 

 

Voice coarse and bitter, squeezed out of the pulsating throat like water from a dirt-congested plastic pipe. “I apologise for yesterday.”

 

The yellow eyes widened. 

 

Yellow eyes gleamed in the steel-tinted mist.

​

Blood pooled around the wheels; Captain dead by my foot.

​

Fleur averted her gaze, lowered her eyes and furrowed her brow.

​

Red stained my vision. Yellow-Eyes square in the Skorpion’s sights.

 

Still. Uncaringly still. Mocking contempt in those yellow eyes. 

 

Iron upon my tongue, fingers squeezed the trigger, yellow eyes melted into the muzzle flashes. 

 

Metal clanged against wood, sparks and groans overwhelmed statics. Grey mist stained crimson; sanguine fountain coalesced into scarlet rain. 

 

Shock reverberated along the spine; pain punctured the shoulder and rib, perforating flesh, shearing tendon, shattering bone. 

 

The dirt beneath my cheek soaked in my red. A silent wail wrenched from my throat. Single eye swivelled towards the barrel, fingers reached for the smoking Skorpion. 

 

Captain dead at my feet; his passing mourned by sparking radio.

 

Yellow Eyes gleamed in the steel-tinted mist. Still, uncaringly still. Mocking contempt in those yellow eyes.

 

Silent radio sputtered silent shrieks; Amir will never fix it again. No more laughter, no more tales. The sitar’s unstrung. 

 

Captain, Phillipe, Amir, Erkan, Suleiman...their muted laments echoed in this tomb.

 

Yellow Eyes gleamed in the steel-tinted mist. Still, uncaringly still. Mocking contempt in those yellow eyes. Its barrel aimed at my quivering form. 

 

Broken jaw clenched, fingers curled around the pistol-grip. Red rage consumed vision.

 

“Stop!” 

​

Nostrils exhaled sharply. Nails dug into the true shoulder, their gnawing dulled by fabric. Nivy’s eyes were hard. 

 

The false arm’s servos whined, its extremities were shaking. 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. Trembling white fist unclenched. Looked Fleur in the eye. 

 

Captain, trembling Captain, dripping in his own blood, trembling rifle aimed at Yellow Eyes. 

 

“...Stop…”

​

“No, I should be the one apologising.” Fleur’s brow furrows once again, her gaze uncertain. She glanced at the false hand, then exhaled, “I’m sorry I overstepped my boundaries. As a soldier, I shouldn’t have intervened in the Kommandant’s affairs.”

 

Throat tight, rasping, “I’m not holding this against you. He is your husband. You are right to worry for him; I’m without the right to pick on his scabs.”

 

Her brow remained furrowed. She glanced at the trembling false hand.

​

Yellow Eyes regarded Captain with contempt. “...Stop…” he wheezed. He was begging; he was pleading. 

 

Hammering heart, straining lungs, failing vision. Warmth gushed from the wounds excruciating the failing flesh. The Skorpion trembled in my grip, its aim unsteadied by frigid, trembling fingers. Yellow Eyes pierced the haze of red and grey. Mocking contempt for my withering resistance. 

 

Grip tightened, then slackened. Throat gurgled, croaked, trying and failing to emit my silent anger.

​

Nivy’s fingers dug into the true shoulders again. Fleur blinked. Worry in those yellow eyes. 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. 

 

“Cetin...Stop...Enough! Stand down. It’s over. We...have lost.” 

 

“I’ll not inquire Nivy about Agent again, not without consent.” 

 

She shook her head. “That is up to Nivy. If he feels ready to talk, I’ll let him.”

 

“I consent to your presence so that you may support him should he require it. Just as he is supporting me as we converse.”

 

She nodded. 

 

“You will not...perish...with us.”

 

The heart faltered. Shaking hands, trembling in the extremities. 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled.

​

“Have we made amends?” 

 

Fleur blinked again, then nodded slowly.

 

Nodded back. Turned around unimpeded, Nivy had lifted his hand off the shoulder. He frowned, pursed his lips, flared his nostrils. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.” 

 

The servos whined, prickling in the flesh, where it fused with metal and polymer. Lungs choked, struggled to capture shallow breaths. Nivy stepped aside, though he kept his eyes on this shambling form. 

 

“Grifon...you still mean...to take our Commander? He is the one...Always is. You’ve won. Take him. Take your prize. We trade our lives...for his.”

​

Lev, Griga and Kalina watched wordlessly. Nicholai and Rasputin had stopped servicing their helos partway. 

 

“...Wouldn’t leave us...This must come to pass.”

 

416 had stalled, and her pupils stalled with her. Grizzly, Deuce and Nineteen hung their spoons over their bowls. They stopped chewing; their lips sealed tight. 

 

“We held you here...long enough. Ten years...long enough. Only you...will make it...to Europe. Only you….” 

 

Springfield wore an approving smile.

 

“They are...already here. ...Hurry! Take him!” 

 

Skorpion held her gaze against mine. Her mouth was ajar, she meant to speak, but she couldn’t find her words. 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled.

 

“Cetin! Live!”

 

“Skorpion.” 

 

Her shoulders jumped. She blinked. “Yeah?” Voice soft, lacking her usual bluster.

 

“I’ve made amends with Fleur.”

 

She narrowed her eye but said nothing.

​

“Will you keep your promise?”

 

She pursed her lips and nodded sharply. Her toothy smile was uncharacteristically gentle. “Yeah. We made a pinky promise, right?”

 

Planted the true hand on her head, gave it a rub.

 

“Live for us! Live well!”

​

​

​

2100

​

“Am I interrupting?”

 

Blinked. Tremors under the true arm, Nivy had seated himself. The dictation machine’s LED glowed green, and all it had recorded thus far was the whirl of the overhead fans. Clicked the button, stowed it into the chest pocket. 

 

The true palm, sweat-slicked, was trembling as it closed the pocket’s flap. Needles prickled the stumps, where flesh met metal and polymer. The languid heartbeat was uneasy, as though anticipating a tragedy. The throat was dry, and the nostrils exhaled arid air.

 

“No, you aren’t.” 

 

Picked up the hip flask from the table; its cap was unfastened. Drank the vodka within, and the liquid brought fire to the arid throat. 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. 

 

“Have Skorpion and Cilka made peace?” 

 

“Yes...and no.” He looked towards the opened flap. “Skorpion and Cilka apologised to each other for their earlier squabble, then came to blows again when Skorpion insisted on calling her ‘Crabby’.”

 

“You needn’t my permission to give Skorpion’s forehead a flick.”

 

“I did, and I didn’t hurt her too much.” He smiled, amused. “But the dolls keep exaggerating their reaction to it.”

 

“So, she wailed, beat her chest and gnashed her teeth?” 

 

He cracked a grin and shook his head. “Not quite so dramatic, but yes. Something like that.”

 

Sigh exhaled. “I will reprimand her.”

 

“No need.” Nivy, still smiling, shook his head again. He looked towards the tent’s flap with gentle eyes. “Just the usual friendly squabble between these two. They will be fine.”

 

“I see. How is Fleur? Should you not be with her?”

 

“She needed some time alone to process her thoughts.” His smile faded, his eyes hardened as he met the false eyes’ gaze. “How are you doing?”

​

“I’m fine.”

 

“Hard to believe, looking at you being like this.” He turned his attention to the vacant kitchen counter. “Nagant worked the kitchen in Springfield’s stead, didn’t she?”

 

“Nagant and Mosin both.”

 

His fading smile turned into an impish grin. “Can you stand? Carry things? A little light labour?” 

 

“...What are your designs?” 

 

“A bit of foraging,” he replied. “From what Makarov said about those two, they must have left something behind.” He placed a bottle of clear fluid on the bench, then nudged his head towards the counter. “Come on. We can’t have ouzo without mezes.” 

 

Nivy’s prediction proved true. Shashlik on the preparation table, once vacuum-sealed and locked away in metal-lined containers, were arranged neatly on two platters, ten each. They were still warm to the touch. He closed the refrigerator, his spirited smile dampened. “No fridge is complete without cheese. Springfield should know better.” He sounded dismayed.

 

“I think we took too many. Nagant made these for Dimas.”  

 

“I’m sure they won’t mind us sharing,” he said as he picked up his platter. He leaned against his cane before making to depart. “She made enough for twenty men. Those two close?”

 

“She favours him.” Whining false hand still tingled, shifting the platter’s weight more towards the true hand. Newsletter tucked under the shashlik’s container; its header read, ‘Babushka’s Secrets. “He makes requests of her boldly, and she usually accedes.”

 

“Very close, then,” Nivy surmised.

 

Platter clattered on the table. He twisted the bottle’s cap and poured its content into two glasses. As he slid a glass forward, he inquired, “You still have that look when I came here. What’s eating you?” 

 

“You will not...perish...with us.”

​

Blinked. Cold sweat slicked the true palm. Sigh exhaled. “Half-remembered fragments of my past.” 

 

Nivy’s glass clinked against the table. “Want to talk about it?”

 

“We held you here...long enough. Ten years...long enough. Only you...will make it to the promised land...to Europe. Only you….” 

​

The head shook. “Can’t. Too many missing pieces yet to be recovered.” 

 

He nibbled on his stick and washed it down with his ouzo. “I see.” He looked down on his plate; his smile took on a melancholic quality. “Putting that aside….” Thumping under the table, he added hesitantly, “...About Agent....”

 

“You need not speak of her.”

 

“No...I must.” He gulped down a mouthful of his drink. “There’s a chance Agent’s waiting for your company up there. If I want Fleur to return to me in one piece, you need to know the details on how Mary put her down.” He cracked a brief amused grin. “Mary. Still can’t believe she’s the one to put her down.”

 

“...How?”

 

“Shot her in the back, square in the neck.”

 

In the back...just as M16 did.

 

“I will write that report. Still owed that to High Command. Director Kryuger assured me I can take as long as I need on it, but I still...” He sighed. “...I’ll get it done by tomorrow morning. Burn the midnight lamp.” He sipped on his glass. “You’ll be the first to read it.”

 

“Are you certain? Agent’s your phantom.”

 

“I’ll have to,” he replied. “Told you there’s a chance she might be up there waiting for your company and Fleur. Besides...” He drank another mouthful of his beverage. “...I owed it to you. It’s repayment. Wouldn’t be fair otherwise.” 

 

“I see. I’ll arrange for Fleur to share accommodations with you.”

 

He shook his head. “No need. She is adamant about not receiving any special treatment. She’s a frontliner now, not my adjutant, she said. Besides…” His smile turned morose. “We will have enough time for each other after all this is over. Or at least after she settled her grievances with Agent.” He took another sip of his glass, then inquired, “By the way, Cetin. Once you remember everything, maybe we can talk about it?” 

 

“I’ll take that under consideration.” 

 

He snorted. “...Take that under consideration. Heh. No pressure. Another favour then.”

 

Shashlik’s flavour rich in pepper and spice. 

 

“Speak.” 

 

“I’m working on chartering two Kamov light helicopters, and I will loan them to you along with Filo and Andino.”

 

“...There will be Jaegers, and likely Intruder, waiting at higher elevation. The helos and your men will be within their reach.”

 

“Intruder will certainly have her Dragoons intercept your BTR’s,” he remarked. “The Kamovs will do better at intercepting them than the Mi-17’s we are currently using. Timing willing, the Kamovs could catch them outside the Jaegers and Intruder’s range.”

 

“...You want Fleur and her dummy on them.”

 

He nodded. 

 

“I see.” 

 

Herb-infused ouzo stung the tongue and throat, washing down the shashlik’s flavour.

 

“One more thing.” 

 

Blinked. Nivy had laid down his stick. “I just remembered.” He was wearing a nostalgic smile. “First time Fleur and I met. She used to be unable to look me in the eye. It took her about two months, but even then, she didn’t look me in the eye directly.”

 

“...What did she look at?”

 

“My nose and my forehead.” He took another sip. “Think that might help you the next time you have to interact with another yellow-eyed doll.” 

​

​

​

Speaking to MG4...Fleur...has stirred up echoes of that ill-fated night. Fragmented memories tucked away in my soul’s crevice, buried under my scars and scabs. Scars and scabs eroded by chemicals in needles and by Fleur’s words.

 

Much is still obscured. Too many missing pieces. It was as though I had, in a dream state, shattered the pot and cast its remains to the dark, forgotten corners of my house, beyond the hearth-fire’s reach. 

 

What little I could piece together, however, sowed seeds of suspicion, despite my unwillingness to doubt you or the Djinn. Unwillingness to sour the sentiments draped over our parting.

 

It appears you have cast me out of Istanbul and paid for my passage into Europe with blood. Yours and the Djinn’s. 

 

Was this what truly happened that night? The matter may be illuminated if I can recover more of the missing fragments, though I am uncertain if I want to.

​