0300

 

Green LED blinked on and off; false finger pressed, then depressed the button. Vodka sloshed in its container; the clear fluid stung the tongue and throat. 

 

Fifty cals cratered concrete wall. Hurled canisters conjured smoke. Deuce, M14 and FN-49…Fey fired from the gun-truck, covering the dismounted dolls’ charge.

 

BAR stopped, aimed and fired her weapon with uncharacteristic fleetness. She emptied her mag while FAL rushed past her. She reloaded, followed after FAL, but at her usual languid pace. She suddenly lengthened her stride; FAL had stalled to glare at her.

 

Vodka stung the tongue and throat. False finger pressed, then depressed the button. Green LED blinked on and off. 

 

Smoke billowed out the windows; MP41 and PP-19-01 had reached their positions. FNC…Mary kicked open the door. 

 

Tapped the screen. Emptied the hip flask and capped it.

 

Frozen Sturmgewehr suspended over mud puddles; she almost tripped.

 

Sigh exhaled. 

 

The chair creaked. The dictation machine clacked against the Tactical Map. Subsector 4’s topology displayed overhead; Sangvis’ congregation concealed under night-shroud.

 

G11’s soft snores coalesced with cricket chorus. 416’s silver hair shimmered under silver moonlight. 

 

“I’ve brought our covops exercise recordings.” 416 fished a disk out of her bag.

 

“You needn’t wait on me.”

 

“That would be disrespectful of me.” The plastic clacked against the false palm.

 

“I see.”

 

She remained rooted by the tent flap as the disk slid into the laptop. 

 

“Is there anything else?” 

 

“Did G11 cause any trouble?” 

 

Three files displayed on screen; one for Team SVD, one for Team FAL and one for 416 and her target dummies.

 

“No trouble. She hasn’t stirred since she arrived here. Skorpion can attest to this.” Tapped on Team FAL’s video file. “She watched over her until I returned at 2300 hours. Skorpion did not doodle on her face, I can assure you.”

 

“I see.”

 

Fel scampered from the underbrush.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

FAL’s teammates hurried towards the next row of trees and bushes, their postures hunched. BAR stumbled after them, with FAL close behind. Upon reaching their positions, Fel returned to FAL. It leapt onto her shoulder, nuzzled her right ear, then scurried ahead. 

 

“I’ve watched you for the past half-hour, Commander. You had been drinking and fiddling with the recorder.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

FAL signalled her team to advance. They obeyed promptly, though BAR made a sluggish start. She lengthened her stride only after FAL’s ungentle nudging. 

 

“At least, I will be, come daybreak.”

 

“Thatʼs an hour away.” 

 

“Iʼm aware.” Sigh exhaled. “You have a long day ahead. Get rested.”

 

FAL clamped her fingers around BAR’s head and pulled her down, just as a target dummy patrolled by.

 

Rustling behind the chair, where G11 laid. “So should you, Commander. See you at breakfast-time.” 

​

​

​

0510

​

Barren silence melted into a verdant orchestra, Nagant’s bluster the peak of its climbing crescendo. “Kommandir!” She thrust an apron to the chest. “You are on borscht duty!”

 

Apron draped on the shoulders. “Where is Springfield?” 

 

“She’s resting!” Nagant replied as she hurriedly scribbled onto a piece of paper. “She got back late, so she’s resting!”

 

“Then why aren’t you resting, Babushka?” Dimas shouted amidst the dull thuds and ringing clangs. “You came back late too!”

 

Nagant placed the paper onto a corner of the preparation table, beside the stove and pot. “The Elder has to care for the little ones!” She heaved a sack to the side of the table, joining it with other sacks. 

 

“But you are littler than Sudarynya Springfield!”

​

“Don’t be rude, cheeky Dimas!” Nagant slapped his arm lightly. 

 

Pot on the stove, filled with water yet unboiled. Peeler, grate and knife by its side.

 

“I must protest!” Sten shouted shrilly from amongst the din. “We can’t use venison as pirozhki fillings! It stinks! The odour is going to overpower everything else!”

 

Sacks of potatoes, beets, cabbages and purple and white bulbous vegetables below the stove. All unpeeled, ungrated, unchopped. Can of synth-meat, unopened, by the pot. 

 

“Nonsense! Anything can be pirozhki fillings! Swear on this old officer’s honour!”

 

Jugs of oil, tomato paste and a strange thick broth. Saucepan of salt. 

 

“It’s going to stink up the oven!”

 

Paper…scrawled text. Numbers…instructions?

 

“I suggest following the recipe closely, Kommandir,” Mosin Nagant spoke from behind, earth-odoured minced meat cupped in her hand. “Nagant will raise a fuss if she senses deviations from her instructions.” She dropped it onto one of the dozens of flattened dough. 

​

“...What are you making?” 

 

“Pelmeni.” She folded the dough and crimped its edges.

 

“...I see.” 

 

Potatoes removed from the sack, peeler pressed against its surface, ribbons of curling skin fell onto the board. Brief minutes passed, and it was brought to the knife. It resisted the blade’s bite, for a moment, before parting. 

 

The knife clacked loudly against the board. 

 

Lifted the blade, notched the potato’s flesh. Another clack, a slice flopped onto the board.

 

“You are slicing it too finely,” Mosin commented. 

 

Grunt emitted. Broaden the slices, cut up thick chunks. Was this ‘cubing’ as described by Nagant’s instruction? Looked to Mosin. She was crimping another pelmeni, utterly engrossed. She had half-filled her tray. 

 

Hints of brown crept on the potato cubes’ surface. Dropped it into the pot, retrieved another potato. 

 

Oily scent wafted from Dimas’ sizzling his pan; its crackling drowned out Nagant and Sten’s bickering. 

 

Blade thumped against shuddering board; six strokes, more potato cubes in the pot. 

 

“Springfield!” Nagant exclaimed, pitter-pattering towards the counter. She flailed her fists over her head. “You are supposed to be resting!”

 

“A little light work won’t do me harm,” Springfield replied, wearing a smile like an overcast sun. She retrieved her apron from its hanger. “How is the kitchen-work going?” 

 

“She wants to fill the pirozhki with venison!” Sten exasperated over Dimas’ crackling oil. “Venison’s too pungent for pirozhki! It will overpower the other scents and foul up the oven! Tell her, Springfield!”

 

“Oh, dear.” Springfield wore her apron. “Are we using the venison for anything else?” 

 

“Da,” Mosin voiced out. “I’m filling pelmeni with venison.”

​

“How many?” 

 

“One tray’s worth, three more on the way.”

 

“What else are we making?”

 

“Potato omelette!” 

 

“Cetin?”

 

Cleared the throat, uttered the reply, “Borscht.”

 

“With venison?”

 

“Synth-meat.”

 

“Mmmmhmmm, this leaves mushrooms.” A single clap, crisp despite the sizzling oil. “We should fill the pirozhki with mushrooms, don’t you agree?”

 

Potato-thuds on the board. Knife’s edge aligned with its pitted surface. 

 

“But Springfield! We have so much venison! Enough for four meals!”

 

“Nagant, what have I said about variety?”

 

“But!” 

 

“And who will be filling the larder with venison after the next two days?”

 

“SV- !!” Nagant silenced herself suddenly. 

 

“Like you, Snow will not be with us after the next two days. It would be wise to save up the surplus for those days, don’t you agree?”

 

“Mmmmm…!”

 

Two halves of potato, further halved.

 

“You are right! We should save up for rainy days! No repeat of Povolzhye, da? Da! That’s the wise thing to do!” Nagant laughed with forced bluster. “Sten! Mushrooms in the pirozhki!”

 

“Oh, thank God!”

 

Eight cubes on the board.

 

“You are gripping the knife too tightly.”

 

False arm shuddered; blade bit into the false flesh. Grunt emitted. Lifted the knife, embedded it in the potato chunks. The board shook again. 

 

“Too much waste,” Springfield criticised, tapping her index finger against the pile of potato ribbons. “There is no need to cut near-perfect cubes.” 

 

“The recipe calls for ‘cubing’.”

 

“It simply means cutting up large vaguely cube-shaped chunks.” She showed her opened palm. “Hand me the knife.” She smiled; she would not broker any arguments.

 

She flicked the received knife around and made cuboid chunks in less than a minute. Her grasp on the handle was loose; her hand pivoted back and forth on her wrist. No ribbons, no waste. She showed her hand again. 

 

“...Are you not depositing these cubes into the pot?” 

 

“It is more efficient to deposit them in batches.” 

 

“...I haven’t peeled the next potato.”

 

“I see.” She picked up the board and emptied it into the pot. She then laid down the knife and picked up the peeler. “Next time, peel all the potatoes first.” She fished a potato from its sack and deskinned it as quickly as she had cubed the previous potato. Her grip was, again, loose. She smirked. “Loosen your grip, and you work faster.” 

 

“...The precision suffers.”

 

“Precision isn’t always needed.” Again, she cubed the potato in under a minute. “Cutting up potatoes, beetroot and onions being one situation where it is optional. Too much control, and you will never get the borscht ready before all the ingredients spoil.” 

 

She skinned and cubed five potatoes before depositing them into the pot. The process cost her less than three minutes. She flicked the knife around and handed it over, handle first. “Repeat what I did. I’ll show you how to shred and dice the other ingredients once you are done.”

 

The table trembled, five more potatoes cubed and deposited into the pot. 

 

“You are not taking charge of the kitchen?”

 

“As Nagant stated, I’m resting.” Springfield was looking towards Nagant, who drifted between Dimas and Sten. “She’s doing a decent job directing kitchen duties so far.” 

 

“She quibbled with Sten earlier over the choice of pirozhki fillings.”

 

“Nothing I can’t handle.” 

 

“You didn’t reprimand her.”

 

“That would exacerbate tempers.” She paused. “Your hands have stopped.”

 

Grunt emitted. Another potato put under the peeler. 

 

“Tovarisch Springfield was helping Nagant blow off some steam.” Mosin Nagant’s tray clattered. “She had mishaps and near-misses in the exercises.”

​

“You are already finished?” Springfield kept her tone even. “That was quick.”

 

“Da, but not that quick. I started work before the sun had even risen.”

 

The throat exhaled arid, grease-tinged air. “You haven’t rested?”

 

“Not yet, Tovarisch Kommandir. Maybe after the review. What about you? Have you rested?”

​

“Rested enough.” Pushed the potato chunks aside, retrieved a fresh potato.

 

“You don’t look like it.” 

 

Metal scraped against metal. Potato skin strips coiled over the peeler. 

 

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest? Nagant and I can take over borscht duty.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You aren’t, Cetin, not after last evening’s episode.” 

 

“You do not have the luxury to worry about me, Springfield. You have more pressing matters to attend to for the next four days. Two days for you and Nagant, Mosin.” 

 

Potato chunks in the pot. Their sack slouched by the false leg. False arm fished out beetroot, pressed it against the peeler. Ten…fifteen seconds, presented the beetroot to Springfield. “Your instructions.”

 

Springfield, arms folded, broke her brief silence, “Cetin, what are you doing right now?” Myriad thoughts had flitted behind that gentle smile.

 

“Cooking.”

 

“Do you have other matters to attend to?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“And what are you doing right now?”

 

“I have given my word. I promised to learn to cook.” 

 

“And I am committed to helping you. I’m sure all of us in this kitchen share my sentiment. So until we know what’s wrong with you and determine how to help you, we are going to continue worrying about you.”

 

“Your matters are of life and death.”

 

“Yours are of our life and death.” 

​

“I cannot share my burdens with you, Springfield, the way I cannot share my scars and wounds.”

 

“We can still dress them and help alleviate the pain.”

 

“You do not even know if the wound’s septic or infectious!” 

 

“We can’t know if you don’t show us.” 

 

“I can’t!” 

​

The refrigerator’s door closed, exhaling mist; Mosin had stored her plastic-wrapped tray in it. Oil stopped sizzling, omelette steamed in a tub-like aluminium tray. Ticking oven glowed like setting sun. Petrified Nagant, Sten and Dimas fixed their gazes at us. 

 

Springfield’s jade eyes had hardened. Her arms were still crossed, her chest puffed, her teeth clenched behind her stony smile.

 

The throat clenched, unclenched, then exhaled, “I can’t, Springfield. I still haven’t fully ascertained the length, the depth and the grievousness of the wound.”

 

“Then discuss this with someone. If not with me, then Skorpion…or Nivy. You aren’t getting to the bottom of this on your own.”

 

“I can’t share what is still unclear to me!”

 

“Cetin, you are in a rut. You need to talk to someone. The conversation alone can help clarify the details.”

 

“...You aren’t leaving this alone, are you?”

 

She sighed and shook her head. “I am, for now.” She unfolded her arms and showed her hand. “Give me the beetroot. I’ll show you how to shred it.

​

​

​

0748

​

The iron skillet resounded with a dull clang; its emission smelled of earth and grease. Mosin wiped away her brow’s sweat, removed her mittens and announced aloud, “The pelmeni’s ready.”

 

Lev, Griga and Dimas, the firsts in the queue, swiped bowlfuls of the fried foodstuff and lathered them in mayonnaise. They then took several steps to the borscht side of the counter before the surging ravenous guardsmen could arrive. Seeing this unruliness, Nagant shouted, “Hey! Young ones! Hey! Order! Order, I say!” She snapped her revolver towards the ceiling, and Mosin promptly snatched away her gun.

 

“As I was saying,” Lev started, his fork scraped against his bowl’s interior, “we should relocate the gun-truck training grounds to the area around waypoint Gamma. The forest patch around the road there better simulate the conditions of Subsector Four.”

 

“Better simulate?” Dimas, having set aside his pelmeni, stirred his borscht. “That place snows and the road there goes uphill. Literally. We don’t have a place like this around here, so why bother? Oh!” he lifted his spoon from the broth, “It’s a perfect cube.”

 

“You completed basic training, Volkov. You know better,” Griga chided.

 

Dimas finished chewing his potato and replied, “Yeah, yeah, the ground is different, the smell is different, the silence is different….”

 

“What’s more important are the upward slope right side and downward slope left side.” Lev stabbed his fork into his pelmeni. “The dolls need to learn to deal with that. Get used to using their exos to conquer that terrain.”

 

“We do not have spare target dummies.”

 

“We will collect those dummies from the current training ground after we are done there.” Lev put down his pelmeni bowl, then retrieved his half-eaten pirozhki. “Besides, Pierre and Deele want to modify them, make them act like Sangvis minions. Kind of.”

 

“...We should not overtax 416. She is working hard enough as is.”

 

Dimas gulped down his potato. “You have quite the soft spot for the Ice Queen, eh? Skorp would be jealous if she were here.” 

 

“Skorpion respects her.”

 

“Called her ‘Sarge’ too,” Lev added. He took another bite off his pirozhki. 

 

“Maybe she meant the Ice Queen’s a hard-ass.” 

 

“Her utterance’s tone suggests otherwise.”

 

“Yeah,” Griga uttered gutturally. “Way I see it, she fancies herself Fox’s precious little girl.”

 

“... She’s my adjutant.”

 

Griga pointed his fork at me and cracked a grin. “You said it.” He then stabbed the utensil into his pelmeni, ate it and washed it down with another mouthful of coffee. He then glanced to his right and tapped Dimas’ shoulder. “Babushka’s upset.”

Dimas departed immediately, leaving his bowl and tray behind. “Babushka! What’s upsetting you?” Nagant, cheeks red as her eyes, obstinately sulked despite Mosin’s platitude.

​

Lev supped on his spoon and cleared his throat. “Continuing from where we left off, no, Sarge’s not going to control those dummies herself. The dummies can move on their own. Just need to tweak their algorithms a bit. I think.”   

 

“...You think?”

 

“I don’t know how Tech does anything.”

 

“I see. What about the BTR’s?” 

 

Lev shrugged. “Can’t do anything without the parts. Have to check with Kalin on that. And before you ask…” he stabbed his fork into his pelmeni bowl, “...the same with the C&C and the Signals trucks.”

 

“I see. Griga, hellcannon status?”

 

Griga gulped down his food and started. “One’s done, another’s halfway. Papasha modified the design, by the way. Added two levers to switch angles from zero to forty-five degrees and back again. Sudaev’s insistence. Makes the cannon easier to load no matter the loader’s height, she said. Needs one man on each lever to switch the angles, however.”

 

“The cannons will require more reinforcing struts to prevent their barrels from detaching from their mounts.”

 

Griga nodded. “We used those up. Need more if we are going to complete the third one.”

 

“Tell me what you need, and me and my boys will get them for you,” Lev offered.

 

Griga slapped his shoulder. “Thanks, bratan.” 

​

“Ammunition?”

 

“We got a dummy and a live one. Going to test before making more.”

 

“My boys and I will handle that.”

 

Griga nodded at Lev. He then inquired, “Think you can spare Papasha and Sudaev to help again?”

 

“They should be free from after the review to the gun-truck exercise, and from there to nightfall. Ensure they have ample rest times; they did plenty the past three days and will continue to do so for another two.”

 

Griga smirked as he supped on his coffee. “You sound like their guardian. Now that’s going to make Skorp jealous.”

 

Commotion from the tent’s flap; a tide of dolls swept through the flap towards the counter. 

 

Lev slapped Griga’s shoulder and pointed at the encroaching tide with his thumb. “Better leave before we get caught up in that. Talk again, Fox.” They fled with their trays. 

 

The dolls slowed their surge down to a trickle as they passed the pelmeni skillet.

 

“Look at that, Ingram! We are second in line!” The unmistakable shock of yellow exclaimed from behind Mary and Fey. 

 

“What’s wrong with being second in line?”  

 

“Commander! Commander! Commander-der-der!” Mary raised her tray, her blue eyes twinkling with anticipation. “Do you have choco?”

 

Plunged the ladle into the pot, filled her bowl. “No.”

 

“Ehhhhh?” Mary pouted. 

 

“We could have been first if Sarge didn’t pull you aside and give you a what for!” Skorpion admonished aloud. 

 

Sigh exhaled.

 

“You don’t have choco either?” Mary urged. “Not even a choco brownie?” 

 

“No.”

 

Mary leaned to her right and looked into the kitchen. “But Springfield’s here.”

 

“She is resting.”

 

Mary pouted her cheeks, her blue gaze a boring glare. 

 

“It’s not my fault she’s all eagle-eyed on me, Skorp! Jeez!” 

 

Lips sucked in, inhaled, exhaled. Dipped the true fingers into the pocket, fished out a brown pack, showed it to Mary. She squinted, glanced at the false eyes and frowned. “Chocolate ration?” She sounded insulted.

 

“Take it or leave it.”

 

She pursed her lips in disapproval but took the pack anyway. She then pitter-pattered away without giving thanks. 

 

“You made it too obvious! That overcut is too obvious!” Skorpion stated aloud. 

 

“I’m sorry for her behaviour,” said Fey, bowing slightly, apologetically. 

 

Filled her bowl. “No need. She is better behaved than the pair behind you.”

 

Fey giggled and extended her tray while Skorpion leaned towards the counter to scowl. “How did you do in training?” 

 

She smiled gently and rubbed the bruise on her neck, barely concealed behind her drill-like side-lock. “Grazed myself, but I’m fine.” 

 

“I see.”

 

She followed after Mary. 

 

Sigh exhaled. “Good morning, Skorpion.” 

 

Skorpion grinned toothily, her earlier quibble evaporating as quickly as the steam rising from her bowl. 

 

Ingram, her hands in her pockets, was buried under a layer of fully-concealing clothes. 

 

“Ingram.” 

 

She clicked her tongue and averted her gaze.

 

“Morning, Cetin!” Skorpion narrowed her eye. “You don’t look okay. Have you rested at all?”

 

Filled her soup bowl. “I’ve rested enough.”

 

“You didn’t skimp on the ingredients, right?”

 

“I followed the recipe to the letter. And Ingram. Overcut?”

 

“And uppercut and right hook and….”

 

Red crept up Ingram’s cheeks. “Shut!”

 

“She didn’t get rusty in the backup server, by the way,” Skorpion informed. “She did it on purpose!” 

 

“I did not!” Ingram snapped.

 

“You did!” Skorpion picked up her tray and entered the kitchen. “The last one was brutal! Are you trying to scar yourself?”

 

Ingram blushed. “How did you know?!”

 

“...Were you trying to scar yourself?”

 

She rolled her eyes and muttered unintelligibly. She then picked up her tray and mumbled sheepishly, “...Yeah…”

 

“...Why?”

 

“Because I feel naked without my scars.” She gestured at her zipped-up hoodie and her trousers. “Why did you think I dressed like this?” 

 

“Move along. Do not hold up the queue.”

 

Ingram, food tray in hand, entered the kitchen after Skorpion. 

 

“Myo-ning, Commyander nya!” 

 

“Morning, IDW.” Soup filled her bowl. She smiled and scampered away. 

 

“Hey! Young ones! You aren’t supposed to be here!” Nagant had intercepted the misbehaving submachine-gunners.

 

“Leave them be. They have my permission.” 

 

“They aren’t staff members!” Nagant, pointing at the submachine-gunners, insisted. 

 

“They have my permission.”

 

Springfield clamped her fingers on Nagant’s shoulders; she had heard the commotion and moved to intervene. “He has my permission to give permission.” She steered the grumbling handgunner away. 

 

False eyes fell on Ingram, who had fished out a spoonful of borscht. “Oh, a perfect cube.”

 

“Ingram.” She bit down her spoon and turned her jade gaze towards the false eyes. “I do not condone self-harm, and I will be cross if you charge recklessly into enemy fire again.” 

 

Skorpion snickered, pointed her fist towards Ingram’s forehead and flicked her finger. Ingram grimaced as she supped on her soup again. 

 

“Display of cronyism, captured! Ack!” 

 

MP41 rubbed the back of her head, exaggerating her hurt. MP40 rubbed her gloved palm and saluted. “Das tut mir leid for my silly Schwester’s tomfoolery, Kommandant. I’ll be sure to correct her behaviour by today.”

​

MP41 was not carrying her camera.

 

“She’s not wearing her camera.”

 

“Ja, dear Schwester. I didn’t capture anything. That was a joke!” MP41 cried. MP40, upon hearing this, frowned and raised her opened palm. “Es tut mir leid, Schwester! Es tut mir leid!” the younger sister cowered. 

 

MP40 pinched her bridge and sighed. “Kommandant, you do realise we are dolls, ja? How our memory module works?”

​

Memory module. Memories saved as data, can be extracted…

 

“Yes. Skorpion made a fuss over extracting her memory files without her permission during the second day of my posting.” 

 

MP40 raised her brow and glanced at Skorpion. “Then you would know my Schwester doesn’t need a camera.”

 

“I told you a hundred times before, dear Schwester!” MP41 exasperated. “I will never publish anything that isn’t captured by my camera! There’s no authenticity to it! If I do so, I may as well be the camera and not the journalist!”

 

Sigh exhaled. ‘You are holding up the line.”

 

“Es tu mir leid, Kommandant,” the elder sister bowed apologetically. “I would like to request for takeaway for four for the borscht.” The younger sister raised food containers for emphasis. “We will be eating in Admin.”

​

“...Four?”

 

MP40 nodded. “Frau Kalina is helping us clear our backlog, while scouring about for jobs. Frau Sturmgewehr will be joining us after she’s taken her shower.” 

​

“Why not eat at the canteen with the rest of us?” Skorpion inquired suddenly. 

 

“We have a backlog to clear. I doubt even Frau Kalina can finish half of it by the time we get back. And before you inquire, we will be viewing the gun-truck exercise review there as well.” MP40 pointed towards the hovering drone in the middle of the canteen. “The drone will broadcast the review to us.”

 

“You mean my drone!” MDR brandished her free arm vigorously. 

​

Borscht filled her bowl. “I’m going to complain about David!” said the heterochromatic doll aloud as steam wafted over her visage. “He’s such a slave-driver! Breach the firewall! You need to find the key! Find the key, MDR! Don’t punch the firewall, MDR. Find the key! I was burned five times, and all he had to say was, ‘Did you punch the firewall again? Find the key. The key!’”

 

“That doesn’t sound like him.”

 

“Yeah!” Skorpion defended aloud. “He sounds more like ‘MDR, I told you, punching the firewall won’t break it. You need to find the key! I told you that many times already!’”  

 

“You know what I meant!” MDR insisted. “Seriously, after all of that, what did I download from the server? Just a dot text file that says ‘Text’. How lame is that?”

 

“He wants you to be ready for the trials ahead.”

 

She ground her teeth. “I deserve a one-day leave.” 

 

“For what cause?”

 

“He meant ‘Why?’,” Skorpion interjected.

 

“Look! I got burned like five times already,” MDR pointed at her cheek. “Right in the face! I think I deserve a break for that.”

 

Skorpion tilted her head. “Your cheeks look fine, though.”

 

“It’s psychological trauma! Psychological!” 

 

Skorpion grinned. “That’s so lame, MDR.” She raised her right hand and flexed her fingers. “I lost two fingers to Scarecrow and the entire arm two days later, and I was fine!”

 

“I was shot to pieces, and I was fine,” said Ingram.

 

“You were confined to a backup server for three days while your body was being reconstructed.”

 

“And you lost your scars!” Skorpion pointed out with a grin.

 

“Shut up, Skorp! Pops!” Ingram, blushing, exasperated. “You are embarrassing me!”

 

“Do not give us cause to embarrass you further.”

 

The formerly-scarred doll seethed as she sucked on her spoon.

 

“Where are David, Deele and Pierre? I haven’t seen them all morning.” 

 

MDR, frowning, answered. “Probably in Tech coming up with new ways to work me to the frame.”

 

“Isn’t he supposed to train you on how to detect intrusions and plug breaches?” MP41 asked suddenly. 

 

“And something about signal boosting,” MDR grumbled. “What a pain.” Hope twinkled in her heterochromatic eyes, her expression lightened up. “So, can I have that leave?”

 

Borscht packed into three plastic containers. Placed them in bags, together with three thermoses. “You are not entitled to a leave. Deliver these to Tech for me.”

 

She deflated and muttered unintelligibly. She then pleaded, “I can finish eating first, right? Right?” 

 

“Nein. You will not.” MP40 seized her right arm. “You will eat with Herr Keller, and you will then continue with your lesson.” She then looked towards the false eyes and nodded. “I will walk her to Tech. It’s along the way to Admin. She can watch the broadcast from there as well.”

​

“Hey! I can walk there myself! Tell her, 41!” 

 

MP41 inched further back, averting her gaze while grinning furtively. 

 

“41!”

 

“You are holding up the line. Guten Tag, Kommandant.” MP40 nodded again, then dragged the protesting MDR out of the queue. MP41 followed close behind, bearing their food containers.

​

“FAL, is it our turn yet?” Five-seveN’s black hair ribbon swayed as she looked about futilely; she was blindfolded. 

 

“Yes, it is!” Five-seveN stumbled ahead; FAL had shoved her forward. 

 

“Sacre bleu, FAL! Can’t you be gentler?” The white handgunner then wore her most winning smile as she looked towards the refrigerator. “Commander. Good morning. A superior serving soupe? You are quite out of the ordinary.”

 

“It’s borscht!” Skorpion interjected. “Cetin cooked it himself!”

 

“Oh?” If her brow was visible, it might be raised. “That’s quite the surprise. I didn’t expect to partake in the Commander’s borscht today.” Posed anticipation in her voice. “I’m sure it’s délicieux.”

​

“That wasn’t what you said about yesterday’s soup. You said it is too salty.”

 

The handgunner scoffed. “It is too salty, little Skorp! Four times the required salt!” She shook her head in dismay. “What is the soupe even called? The nameless soupe? If the chef has any shame, he will not grace it with a name.”

 

“Cetin made it.”

​

Five-seveN’s pale cheeks turned plaster-white. “Oh…” She then cleared her throat then continued, “It’s not that bad. I think I can give a few pointers….” She then stumbled forward. 

 

“Hon hon,” FAL chuckled derisively as she withdrew her hand. “Too late for that, you flirtatious ferret. Move along. You are holding up the line.” 

​

Five-seveN, blushing, hurriedly picked up her tray and made to depart hastily. She stopped suddenly, presumably having realising she was blind. Her adversary brushed past her, having received her sustenance, saying, “Follow my voice, now.”

 

“Sacre bleu,” muttered Five-seveN. “I swear your head’s gotten bigger since you started your post here.” 

“Kommandir!” Sudaev had laid down her tray and raised two bowls. Papasha had tucked herself between her younger sister and BAR; her tray was missing a bowl. “Borscht for Sestra and me!”

​

Picked up one of her bowls, filled it with borscht. “Lev needs you and your sister’s help.” Placed the bowl in Sudaev’s hand. 

 

She transferred it to Papasha’s tray. “Hellcannon testing and powder packing, da?” 

​

The head nodded. “After the reviews. Both of you still have to participate in the two exercises,” borscht filled Sudaev’s bowl, “but Lev assured me you and your sister will have ample rest.” Placed her bowl in her hand. “Do this for us, and you both will have double servings for dinner.”

 

She returned her bowl to her tray, then raised her fist and cried, “Ura!” Papasha, seeing this, imitated her younger sister, though her cry was soft as a whispering breeze. “More spirit, Sestra! Ura!” 

 

Raised the false hand, balled it into a fist, pumped it and bellowed after Sudaev. “Ura!” 

 

Papasha blinked; her lips twitched nervously. She inhaled deeply, then raised her fist and cried with more spirit. “URA!” 

 

“Good spirit,” the throat uttered scratchily. 

​

Sudaev’s chest swelled, though Papasha still tucked herself between her and BAR timidly. They picked up their trays and departed fleetly.  

 

“How nice. I like to have double servings too,” said BAR as she watched them.

 

Poured borscht into her bowl. “You can have that double serving if you perform over your baseline.” 

 

“Ehehe, really?” BAR giggled. “Then can I have that double serving today? I put in a lot of work last night, you know.”

 

“Over the baseline, BAR. You are consistently underperforming. FAL had to goad you constantly into performing satisfactorily.”

​

“Yeah! Even in today’s dummy exercise, Sarge had to hover behind you to make sure you actually trained!” Skorpion added. “You and your dummy were so sluggish we all thought you were doing ‘Tai Chi’!” 

 

“Tai Chi?”

 

“Very slow martial art.”

 

“More performance than martial,” Ingram interjected. 

 

“So, no double servings.” BAR’s hair-flaps seemed to have lowered. 

 

“No.”

 

“No!” Skorpion repeated. “Work harder!” 

 

“Yeah, work harder!” Nineteen cried out from further down the line. “You are embarrassing the Browning name!” 

 

“Gee, give me a break!” BAR retorted, her hair-flaps perked up. “Why are you always on my ass? What about Deuce? She never misses a chance to take a nap!” 

 

“Deuce actually works hard during training and ops, unlike you!” Grizzly joined her voice with Nineteen. 

“Yeah! She works harder, too, whenever there’re too many enemies!” Nineteen’s fist pumped.

​

“I can work harder too!” BAR shouted back insistently. 

 

“Not without my ear-wringing,” FAL said suddenly; she had strutted over after seating Five-seveN. “And even then, I still had to take care of those Jaegers back in Subsector Two myself. I recall those were your targets?”

 

“That’s almost a week ago! What about Novum Sambir? I ran very fast there.” 

 

“You were being pursued and shot at, and you were still hit.” FAL rolled her eyes and folded her arms. “How many times were you almost caught by 416’s target dummies last night?” 

 

“What about G11?” BAR pointed at aforementioned doll, who was leaning heavily against her trolley. “She’s sleeping all the time, yet none of you said a pip!”

 

“Her sleeping all the time is no excuse for you to slack off.”

 

“Da!” Nagant shouted. “You are the elder! Set a good example for that little one!”

​

“Jeez!” BAR exhaled wearily, her hair-flaps once again lowered. “Why am I the only one….” Her hair-flaps perked once more. She cried, “Give this old dame a break! Please!”

 

“Okay, Auntie.” 

 

“I’m not an Auntie!” BAR retorted at Skorpion. “I’m not that old!” 

 

Skorpion’s snickering stopped the moment Springfield rested her palm on her head. “Don’t pretend to be old at your convenience,” she said coolly as she folded her arms. “Would you kindly move along, now?” Her smile was cold. “You are holding up the line.”

 

“Even Springfield is mad at me,” BAR moaned, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t have any allies here.” 

 

“You will start having allies after I fix you.” FAL seized her wrist. “Come along now, branleuse.” Her usually haughty voice was laced with malice.

 

“Ueeeehhh…” 

 

Welrod shook G11ʼs shoulder. “Awaken from your endless slumber, at least for the moment.” The nodding dolls’ eyes winked open. She nictated, blinked, then rubbed her squinting eyes. “...Ah.” Still leaning heavily against her trolley, she pushed it forward with shambling steps. She released her hold on the handle, sluggishly retrieved two bowls from the trolley and placed them before the pot.

 

“Where’s Sarge?” Skorpion inquired as borscht filled the bowls. 

 

G11 looked about, then pointed at one of the tables. 416, seated there, scratched her temple with her pen, then resumed her scrivening. “Sheʼs working.”

 

“I see.” 

 

Filled bowls spilt borscht onto the omelette, pelmeni and pirozhki as G11’s trolley rattled away labouriously. 

 

“She made that look hard,” Skorpion commented.

 

Welrod and Grizzly passed through, having received their borscht. Welrod had straight bruises on her arms while Grizzly was missing her shades. Deuce, Nineteen, XM8…

 

“Has Skorpion apologised to you properly?” 

 

XM8 glanced at Skorpion, who was nibbling on her potato omelette. “No, she hasn’t.” 

 

“What?” Skorpion exclaimed, still clutching her fork tightly. “I already told you I was sorry!”

 

“You didn’t play chess with me!” XM8 retorted.

 

“...Pardon?”

 

“Yeah, chess!” she pointed at Skorpion. “What kind of apology doesn’t end with a friendly game of chess?”

 

“I’m not playing chess with you! You beat Bohdan! I never beat Bohdan!” 

 

“Play chess with me anyway until I’m satisfied! Besides, Bohdan won’t play with me, so play with me!” XM8 grinned mockingly. “Unless you are some kind of chicken? A sore loser?”

 

Skorpion’s utensils clattered on her tray. “What did you say?!” False fingers seized her, dug into her shoulder, pulled her back. She wrung her fists vigorously and kicked her leg out in response.

 

“I will grant you your desired friendly bout of chess,” Welrod said suddenly; she had circled back and interrupted the escalating quarrel. She nudged her head towards where Grizzly, Deuce and Nineteen were seated. “If you join us for breakfast. Right away.” 

 

XM8 lit up as she hurried after Welrod. “Coming!” 

 

True fingers flicked Skorpion’s forehead. She yelped and rubbed the afflicted spot, then glared at the snickering Ingram.

 

“An embarrassing display for the Kommandir’s adjutant, Tovarisch Skorpion,” said Makarov, looking at Skorpion as she placed her food container before the borscht pot. 

​

Picked up the ladle, filled the container. “Leave her be, Makarov. She has learned her lesson.”

 

“Did she?” she arched her brow as she picked up her container. “Before I leave, I request your permission to bring my samovar into the command tent.”

 

“What?” Skorpion barked in protest. “Occupying the command tent’s my job!”

 

“And you aren’t occupying it right now, are you?” Makarov closed the lid of her container. “Besides, someone has to keep Tovarisch Kommandir apprised on Grifon rules, and you made no effort to do it. In fact, do you even know the rules? Did you even do any adjuting?”

​

“The nerve on you!” Skorpion brought her fist to her chest, hard enough to make a thud. “I kept Cetin informed on the going on’s in the base!”

 

“Uhuh,” Makarov uttered dismissively.

 

Increasingly incensed, Skorpion added, “And I watch over the command tent when he isn’t around!”

 

“Which, I remind you, you aren’t doing right now.”

 

“I also take care of Cetin!”

 

“So do Tovarisches Springfield and Mikhail. That’s not the adjutant’s job.”

​

Skorpion opened her mouth and raised her fist fitfully, only to stop right away. Unable to find words to riposte Makarov’s statements, she emitted a seething yet futile growl. 

 

“You have my permission to occupy the command tent.” 

 

Makarov smirked at the pigtailed doll triumphantly, who gnashed her teeth in response.

 

“However, I will disregard any ‘rules’ that obstruct our operations.” 

 

Makarov’s smirk immediately morphed into a frown. Skorpion, in turn, wore a smug grin.

 

“Kommandir," Makarov rubbed her temple. “Rules exist to guide our conduct as a PMC. It simply won’t do for us to do as we wish. There are expectations we must meet, contracts we must follow, laws we must obey. Otherwise, we are no better than the common Yellow Zone brigand.”

 

“Those same rules will result in greater loss of assets and mounting casualties in the next operation, Makarov.” 

 

“And if Boss-Lady said it’s okay, then it’s okay!” Skorpion wrung her fist again.

​

Makarov ground her teeth. Before she could start complaining, AK-47 interjected loudly, “Hey, Makarov! Are you done wringing the Kommandir’s ears yet? I could have drunk three bottles of vodka by now.” 

​

Makarov inhaled and exhaled irritably. “We will continue this conversation later.” She picked up her food container then growled at AK-47 and Simonova, “And if I catch the both of you drunk aboard the gun-trucks….” 

 

“Oh, don’t worry, Tovarisch. We’ll be sober,” AK-47 assured as she pushed onwards. “Kommandir! Borscht, please!”

​

AK-47 and Simonova departed with their borscht, and Snow took their place. “Kommandir, I request permission to take M14 with me on a hunting trip.”

​

The throat tightened, the heart quivered within its cage. The yellow of M14’s eyes leaked through Grizzly shades. 

 

Inhaled, counted to three, exhaled. Looked to her forehead. The heart calmed slightly. Sigh exhaled, gaze turned towards Snow.

 

The throat felt tight. Cleared it. “For what cause?” 

 

“I’m going to teach her how to hunt game,” Snow replied; her silver gaze calmed the heart down. “Wouldn’t do if there’s no meat because I was gone, would it now?”

 

“You are going to hunt more deer?” Nagant asked, having skedaddled over, her eyes glittering like polished rubies. 

 

“Da.” Snow smirked predatorily. “Deers and rabbits even while I’m gone.”

 

The heart quivered. Glimpses of yellow. M14 was shaking her head vigorously. 

 

The constricted throat gasped, “You...don’t want to?”

 

“We don’t want to.” The riflewoman shook her head again. “We don’t want to shoot deers!”

 

“Why not?” Snow patted her shoulders. “Don’t you want to be more useful to the company? Don’t you want to eat real meat and not those over-flavoured fakes?” 

 

“But I have to look them in the eyes in the scope!” M14 protested. “How can I pull the trigger while staring into those big eyes?” 

 

Snow groaned. “What about Sangvis eyes? You looked into those too.” 

 

“T-that’s different!”

 

“And what about meat?” Nagant added. She clasped her hands together and started swaying left and right, her eyes glittering like polished gemstones. “Fresh meat! Fresh meat for everyone! Meat in the soup, meat in the pelmeni for the covops team!” 

 

“Stop pressuring M14.” Sigh exhaled. “Snow, you have my permission.”

​

Snow twitched. She frowned and muttered under her breath, “Even he’s calling me Snow now.” She seized the dismayed M14. “Come now, M14. We only have three hours after the review. Just think of them as minced meat in the pelmeni, and you will be fine.”

​

“Commander!” M14’s free hand reached out as she was dragged away. 

 

“Kommandir,” Svet said as Snow and M14 departed with their food. “I understand hellcannon testing is today?”

​

“Yes.” 

 

“I would like to join the test crew. My rangefinding program should be helpful to them.”

 

“Permission granted.” Borscht filled her bowl. “Don’t overwork yourself.”

 

She picked up her tray. “Don’t worry.” She smiled confidently and made a ‘V’ sign with her free hand. “It’s simple math work.” 

 

“Kommandant.” MG5 greeted her tray clattered by the pot. “I like to request….”

​

“I can speak for myself, Schwester.” 

​

MG5 blinked and looked towards Fleur, who had bowed her head to hide her eyes. “Takeaway for two.”

 

“Yours and Nivy’s?” 

She placed two plastic bowls on the table. “Ja.”

​

Picked up the ladle, dipped it into the pot, poured the borscht into the bowls. Fleur did not have other food containers with her. “Not taking away other foodstuffs?”

She shook her head. “Nein. Nivy’s appetite shrinks whenever he has his episodes.”

​

“I see.” 

 

She lidded her bowls, bowed and hurried off, her passing followed by MG5’s gaze.

 

“You are worried for her.” 

 

MG5 nodded.

 

“Takeaway?”

 

“Eating in,” she replied. “Best I leave them alone. She won’t have many opportunities to dote on him in the coming days.”

 

“I see.” 

 

“You really are kind, huh?” Skorpion intruded. “Wouldn’t have expected that from a Sauerkraut, Second Sarge.”

​

MG5 rolled her eyes, picked up her tray and left. “Halt die Klappe, Labertasche.” 

​

“Running your mouth again, Skorp?” Cilka said as she laid down her tray.

 

“Feeling crabby again?” Skorpion sneered.

 

“Skorpion!” the throat uttered gutturally. 

 

“But I didn’t insult her or anything,” 

 

“Cease your glibness.” Gaze turned towards Cilka, who was being restrained by Cano. “I apologise for her transgression.” 

 

Borscht filled her bowl. Cilka snatched her tray and marched off with a huff. “Bleh!” Skorpion stuck her tongue out at her. 

 

Sigh exhaled. “Skorpion,” the throat growled, the true fingers raised and poised for a flick. She recoiled, blinked, then shrugged aside. “Sorry.” 

 

Ingram snickered again before continuing her meal.

 

Borscht filled Ai’s bowl. She picked up her tray and hurried after Cilka. 

 

“I’m sorry for Cilka,” said Cano as she laid down her tray. “She always has a short fuse.”

 

“No need. Skorpion provoked her. She is at fault.” 

 

Skorpion puffed her cheeks and grumbled.

 

Ladle plunged into the pot, scooped and poured borscht into Cano’s bowl. 

 

“I don’t think we have been properly introduced,” said Cano as she showed her hand. “Carcano M1891. Nivy’s adjutant. And please, call me Cano. Everyone does.” 

 

Showed her the true hand. She blinked but still smiled. “He’s left-handed,” Skorpion informed before biting into her pirozhki. Cano blinked again, then switched hands.

 

“Cetin Yilmaz. Grifon Commander.”

 

“Carcano M91/38,” Ceno greeted. “I had hoped to never make your acquaintance.” 

 

“Just call this Pinocchio’ Ceno’,” Cano said as she released her grip. Cano leaned forward and whispered, “She always means the opposite of everything she says.”

 

“...I see.” 

 

“We are the last one.” Tiss had elbowed the hesitant FMG-9. “Go! You can do it!” 

 

FMG-9 pursed her lips and glanced at the false eyes. She sighed, then stepped forward. “Boss,” she started. “I’m sorry for what happened in Subsector Two.”

 

She was gripping her tray tightly; she could scarcely maintain eye contact despite her severe expression.

 

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

 

“Well, I…” she paused for a moment, her pink eyes blinked and looked aside. “I was killed on the roof of the telecom building, wasn’t I? By Jaegers, I think? I heard it was quick and…I didn’t put up a fight.” Her eyes lit up, red crept on her cheeks. “I should have checked first. Made sure the roof was clear. If I did….”

 

“You think you could save others from Hunter’s entrapment?”

 

She nodded vigorously.

 

“You should not apologise. You are faultless.”

 

“...But!” she exclaimed.

 

“Hunter had left the Jaegers among the corpses on the roof on standby mode. She did the same with the other Sangvis within the building itself. None of your comrades caught on until the trap was sprung. If they didn’t anticipate this, neither would you.”

 

“I…I see.” FMG-9 lowered her eyes again. She was dissatisfied. 

 

“Chin up, FMG-9. You are not at fault. Give me your bowl.” 

 

Filled her bowl, gave her another bowl of borscht. She blinked and locked her gaze with the false eyes.  

 

“Double servings. Chin up.” 

 

She bowed her head and hurried away with her tray, with Tiss following soon after.

 

“Why are you so nice to FMG-9 but so strict with me?” Ingram complained.

 

“You are reckless, unlike her.”

 

“Yeah!” Skorpion exclaimed. “You getting shot up was completely your fault!”

 

There were no other dolls behind Tiss and FMG-9. “Where is P7?”

 

“I’ll go find on her,” Springfield offered unexpectedly. She was carrying a small bowl with two fistfuls of minced venison. 

 

“...Where are you going with that bowl?”

 

“These are deer innards. Not fit for eating,” she answered, her smile completely inscrutable. “I’ll be discarding them while I look for P7.” She exited before further questions could be asked. 

 

“...M4 and her sisters?”

 

Skorpion answered, “M4 said she’s calling up the cat-lady. Said she’s got something to talk to her about. She will be running…Oh, here she is!”

 

“Commander!” Sop II cried out, and AR-15 quickly muzzled her. They followed M4, who marched towards the borscht pot. They were accompanied closely by Persica’s drone.

 

“Commander, a moment of your time.” M4’s dark eyes were hard, her expression stern. “Persica has a job for us.” 

 

Persica’s projection sipped on her coffee languidly, seemingly disinterested.

 

Sop II’s belly emitted a low rumbling growl. She giggled without any shred of embarrassment, despite AR-15’s withering glare directed upon her.

 

The throat uttered, “Collect your meals. We will discuss this over breakfast.”