1600

​

FMG-9 furrowed her brow. She wore a resolute frown; her feet planted firmly on the cracked asphalt. On her back, she carried a cube backpack. 

 

“What’s in that?” Skorpion inquired. Her chin was resting on her forearms, which were folded atop the jeep’s ringmount. The spectacled doll, her gaze still fixed upon the false eyes, unslung her backpack cautiously, taking care to keep it upright. “It’s six cheeseburgers and chips, still piping hot, Boss.” She clutched the slings tightly and held it forward. “Food delivery to Team AR and the rest.”

 

“Woohoo-hoo!” Deuce whooped as she stomped by, her machine gun borne effortlessly on her sturdy shoulders, her boxes of ammunition clinging to her back and left hand. “Cheeseburgers, you say? For Team AR and their lot?” She emitted another whistle as she placed her weapon on the jeep’s roof and swung open the jeep’s right door. “About time we have some real food! Where’s mine, Nine? Any left for us back in the canteen?”

 

FMG-9 did not answer.

 

Deuce turned her attention to the door. The glowing grin she wore demonstrated her undamped spirit. She stowed her ammunition in the vehicle, slammed the door shut, and then kicked it. “Get off! That’s my spot!” The creaking jeep swallowed Skorpion in response, then spat her out from the left-back door. She skedaddled towards FMG-9 and proclaimed, “We should bring Nine along with us!” 

 

“No, uh…” FMG-9 averted her gaze slightly to her left. “...I really shouldn’t.”

 

“You want to make up to M4, right?” Skorpion, her arms folded, leaned towards the spectacled doll and twisted her head towards her right. “It’s why you made such American food, right? Right?” 

 

FMG-9 averted her wavering gaze away from the yellow doll. “I shouldn’t. I…ah,” she fidgeted, “I have to make sure Sten doesn’t make any jellied eels or put marmite on pies. Yeah….” Wearing a trepid smile, she extended the backpack forward again and gave it a little shake. “Deliver them before they get cold, yeah, Boss?”

 

“You haven’t answered my question yet, Nine!” Deuce shouted insistently; she had shut her receiver over her ammo belt. “Are there any cheeseburgers in the canteen or not?”

 

“There will be more once you get back.” Springfield had stepped forth and intervened. “And Nine.” She wore her usual assuring smile. “You are off for the rest of the day.” 

 

“But!” 

 

“No buts!” Springfield clasped her hands on the side of her shoulders and turned her around. “We will take care of the rest.” She then lightly shoved her towards the jeep. “Go.”

 

FMG-9 stopped and turned to stare at her incredulously. 

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. The door was still open. Nudged the head, uttered, “Get in.” 

 

Her expression remained incredulous.

 

“What are you still doing standing around gawking at us like that?” Skorpion exclaimed. “You still have to deliver the cheeseburgers and fries, right? Come on. Get in!” 

 

FMG-9 gave a curt nod and boarded the jeep. 

 

The vehicle rocked, and the doors thumped shut. FMG-9 blinked at Deuce’s ammunition boxes, then laid her backpack on her lap. 

 

“...with the two hundred kilograms of explosives disarmed and removed, the Ministry of Defense declared the construction of the St. Petersburg Bulwark cleared to proceed. Minister…”

 

Static; broadcast interrupted. Skorpion had turned the knob. One twist, two, the speakers spat cacophony. “Oh yeah! That’s the stuff!” Deuce howled as the engine grumbled and the wheels lurched forward. 

 

Truck visible on the wing mirror, keeping distance, its driver concealed behind its armoured windshield. Guard tower and barbwire barricade brushed the jeep by. Fey and IDW waved farewell. 

 

“Hey!” Skorpion’s seat shook, and she looked away from the window and peered upwards, her expression irate; Deuce’s kick had interrupted her trance. “What channel’s playing?”

 

Skorpion frowned as she studied the radio’s display. “Eighty-nine point zero FM!” 

 

“Hear that, Grizz!” Deuce shouted. “It’s eighty-nine point zero FM. Huh? It’s all in Russian?” 

 

“Ukrainian!” 

 

“What about English?” the machine-gunner shouted back. “Is there any English? Rock-and-Roll?”

 

“Where do you think we are, Deuce?” 

 

“Yeah! Where do you think we are, Grizz? We are in Slav-rock country!” 

 

Sparse trees gave way to looming apartment blocks. Skorpion was entranced by the view once again. 

 

“What fascinates you about these buildings? We had passed them by during our sojourn to our current base camp.”

 

“Can’t see anything back then. Covered in tarp, remember?” She tapped at her temple, at her eyepatch. “I’m not wearing x-ray vision, you know. My eyepatch is really an eyepatch.”

 

“I see…That eye is damaged?”

 

“Yep!” Skorpion replied unhesitantly. “Caught an icicle.” She directed her gaze towards the snowy Carpathian peaks just beyond the blocks. “Then it fritzed out.”

 

“Why wasn’t it repaired?”

 

“Didn’t have a replacement at the time. Then, I forgot!” she replied without shame. “And not important! I’m wearing this cool eyepatch now!” She swelled haughtily. “Couldn’t have worn it if it’s fixed!”

 

Her seat shook; Deuce had kicked it again. “You silly girl!” she bellowed. “You can still wear an eyepatch even if the eye’s good!”

 

FMG-9 on the driver’s mirror grimaced. She was hugging her backpack’s slings tight. Her knees appeared to be fidgeting. “And you, Nine.” FMG-9 looked up from her bag, her dark musings interrupted. “Why does meeting Team AR ail you?”

 

She lowered her gaze again and muttered, “I think M4 might be mad at me for not delivering the ammunition back in the Telecom Building. I think if I did that, maybe we wouldn’t lose almost all our dummies, and Ingram wouldn’t lose her frame. Maybe MG5 wouldn’t have to risk burnout and….”

 

“You read the combat reports, didn’t you?” Skorpion asked, looking over her shoulder. 

 

FMG-9 nodded. “Y-yeah.” Her gaze was fixed towards the crooked antennas looming into view. They marked the ruins of the Telecoms Building like a lone gravestone on top of a gravel mound. She thought she was somehow at fault for the near-disaster there.

 

The junction was coming ahead. Sigh exhaled. “You could not have delivered what never arrived, Nine. The Sangvis sprang their ambush before Nicholai could deliver the supplies, kept Siskin 1 from landing. Moreover, you couldn’t have seen the Jaegers, who, at first glance, appeared deceased. Nobody blames you.” 

 

FMG-9 was silent.

 

“Just apologise to M4, and she will absolve you of the guilt gnawing at you, I am certain. You will find your anxiety was for nought. You will be fine.”

 

She pursed her lips and nodded thrice. 

 

Turned the steering wheel right, crossed the bridge. Apartment loomed ahead; same one which conjured the dread phantasms from two nights ago. Under the afternoon sun, it looked mundane enough to mock that night’s dread, making light of its petrifying terror. 

 

Inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled. Pressed the gas pedal, sped to the other side, turned left. 

 

Skorpion blinked, then resumed staring out the window towards the glistening languid canal. FMG-9 glanced to her right several times, hesitant to marvel at the emerging wild park and the grazing spotted goats. 

 

Turned right, straight, right again. Rampant greenery gave way to bone-white cobbles. BTR and two rickety wagons parked just ahead. Nineteen, perched atop the APC, waved. Metallic creaks above. “Heeeyyy!” Deuce shouted; she must be waving back in response.

 

The jeep shook as the machine-gunner disembarked to join up with her sister. The engine died first, followed by the cackling cacophony. Doors swung open, intercepted by Sop II. 

 

“Commander! Commander!” Sop II, face concealed beneath her black skull-patterned scarf, flapped her arms excitedly. Her knees were bent, rearing to pounce, though AR-15’s withering glare stopped her from proceeding with her intent. 

 

AR-15 and M4 were above the steps ascending towards the City Hall’s shattered gates. Both, like Sop II, wore their scarves over their faces. 

 

Sniffing noises; Sop II pulled down her scarf and wrinkled her nose. Her ruby eyes glittered gluttonously. “Is that food? Cheeseburgers?” Her wandering gaze fell upon FMG-9. Sensing impending peril, the alarmed doll took a step back, tightening her grip on her shoulder straps. Her knees wound up like springs, and her back feet twisted about forty degrees towards her left, poised to bolt at a moment’s notice. 

 

“No pouncing on Nine.”

 

“Awww,” the pale-haired doll deflated, her heels sinking on the cobbles.

 

“Hey, Ingram! Still scarless?” 

 

Ingram strolled towards Skorpion, who rested her chin and forearm on the jeep’s door, grinning toothily at her ear-to-ear. The black-haired doll wore the same black tracksuit as yesterday’s, her hands tucked in their pockets. She was pouting. 

 

“Hey, Skorp. Yea.” She shrugged. “Didn’t see any Sangvis stragglers today. Almost like they are staying away from us.” She then sighed. “Just a couple BTR drills in the morning, then escort duty for the rest of the day. How dull.”

 

“Awww, is playing with Sop II boring you?” 

 

“You meant ‘wrangling’ her.” Ingram scratched the back of her head. “And AR-15 had that in the bag. Mostly.” 

 

“Heh heh,” Sop II, her scarf lowered and a broad smile on her lips, rubbed her head’s back, blushing slightly. 

 

“...That is not a compliment, Sop II,” the throat uttered.

 

Ingram sighed. “Most interesting thing that happened today was Leopold arguing with Jasur on M4’s behalf. Anyway, I heard ‘cheeseburgers’?”

 

“Yep. With fries.” Skorpion nodded. “Nine made them.”

 

“Oho…scratch what I said earlier. This is the most interesting thing to happen today.”

 

FMG-9 clutched her backpack slings tightly and backed away; Ingram’s eyes had glinted at her gluttonously.

 

Cleared the throat. “You can have your meal later.” 

 

“Tch!” Ingram clicked her tongue. “Hey, Pops.” 

 

“Ingram.”

 

“Are you greeting Ingram, or are you ‘Ingram’?” Skorpion interjected; she was grinning cheekily.

 

“Hey, Ingram.”

 

The doll-in-tracksuit smirked. “Hey, Pops.” She still snuck glances at Nine, or rather, her backpack.

 

Nineteen, perched atop the BTR behind her, fixed her crimson gaze upon the aforementioned backpack. Deuce, beside her vehicle, shared her intention. Sop II caught her saliva dribbling down her chin and wiped it off quickly, sneaking glances over her right shoulder towards the disapproving AR-15. 

 

Nine’s expression and gestures were like those of a bleeding sailor adrift in shark-infested waters. 

 

Patted her shoulder. She blinked. Nudged the head towards the two dolls at the top of the steps. “Go to M4, deliver her the food. She will decide on its distribution.”

 

“Ehhh!” Sop II cried. “But all we had all day were rations! Bland rations!” She motioned to negotiate. 

 

Interjected, hardened the tone. “M4 will decide. Nine, go!” 

 

“Right away, Boss!” Nine replied urgently yet gladly. 

 

“Be sure to do as we discussed earlier.” 

 

“Yes, Boss!” She eagerly sprung towards M4. Sop II’s right arm, extended to catch her, fell and hung beside her despondently. 

 

Grizzly had disembarked from her gun-truck just behind the jeep. Both her arms were raised, palms flapping at her flushed, sweat-drenched cheeks.

 

Dolls sweating. A machine which sweats. Cooling system?

 

“Grizzly, ten minutes break, then transport the cadavers into City Hall.”

 

“Yes, Commander,” she replied, sounding weary. 

 

“And get Deuce to help you.”

 

“Aye, Commander!” the machine-gunner waved and shouted.

 

“Ingram, you mentioned a dispute between M4 and this Jasur. Elaborate.” 

 

The submachine-gunner sighed and shook her head. “Sorry, Pops. I didn’t stick around when M4 and Jasur started playing hot potato. Air between them’s too tense, y’know? Needed to clear out and breathe in something fresh.”

 

“Leopold’s going to be cross when he hears that he’s a ‘hot potato’.”

 

Ingram sucked in air between her teeth. “Skorp, Sop II, shut! Don’t say a thing to him.”

 

“Ehhhhh? Why me too?” 

 

“You are a teetotaller!”

 

“I won’t say anything!” Sop II brandished her arms and cried offendedly at Nineteen. She then planted her heels onto the cobbles and pouted. She then blinked and articulated slowly, “What’s a ‘teetotaller’?”

 

Sigh exhaled. “I will speak to M4 and Leopold.”

 

Dirt crunched under boots. Bleating goats emerged from behind the bushes to stare. Their herder, seated on the bench closest to the bushes and leaning against his rod, shared their curiosity. Two more wagons in the plaza, drawn by the beasts, most likely. Not a single bundled cadaver within. One carried a set of prayer rugs. 

 

FMG-9’s backpack on M4’s shoulders, they conversed and nodded. AR-15 had taken three steps to her captain’s right, her complexion sour. M4’s faint smile faded. She glanced at the City Hall’s shattered gates and shuffled towards her compatriot. FMG-9 followed suit, though her stiff gestures suggested confusion.

 

Leopold’s expression was as dark as the abyss he emerged from. His gaze fell upon the false eyes, and he quickened his pace. “Commander,” he greeted with a quick salute and a nod; he seemed relieved. 

 

“At ease. I was informed you had arbitrated a dispute between M4 and this Jasur.”

 

“Dispute?” He chuckled bitterly, then uncorked his canteen and drank deeply. “It’s one-sided. M4’s insisting, Jasur’s ignoring. I’ll have better luck repairing my sister’s marriage. Stubborn Dummkopfs!”

​

Leopold’s grievances were punctuated by a bearded man’s emergence from the City Hall. He bore a short bow and a quiver on his back and hips. Behind him followed a throng of covered women. Jasur, presumably.

 

“Salam.” 

 

“Assalamualaikum,” he greeted without a smile. “We met at the Gate.” 

​

The guard concealed in the minivan, the comrade of the one with the Kalashnikov. 

 

“You are Jasur.”

 

He nodded curtly, confirming his identity. “That is my name.” He looked over the shoulder and towards the approaching dolls, each pair bearing a bound cadaver on their stretchers. “I see your people have been busy recovering the bodies on their own.”

 

“Four cadavers, despite our best efforts.”

 

Jasur’s eyes lingered on the stretchers; he kept his gaze away from the dolls passing by. “Sixteen, despite ours.” 

 

“Eighty cadavers, four hundred thousand rubles. Agreement remains unchanged. Our own efforts are irrelevant to the settlement of our contract.”

 

“I see.” His dark brown eyes hardened, and he locked his gaze with the false eyes. “Tell your people this: we can take care of our own. Trespass further in our affairs, and the Imam will call off our partnership.” He ended his proclamation with a grunt. Without waiting for a reply, he marched towards the rug-filled wagon with his escorts. They were met by the goat herder. 

 

“Trespass, Leopold?” the throat uttered. 

 

“M4 had tried convincing them to scavenge exposed copper wires from the panel’ki we searched on the way here.” The guard sighed. “Went about as well as you can see.”

 

Watermill. Pylons without wires. Their settlement was without electricity. Yet they refused M4’s charity.

 

Pride? Prejudice? Goat wagons, goat herder, Jasur himself…perhaps the problem is logistical? Or was there something else? Regardless, M4 could not make Jasur budge from his position. To her, speaking to him is like speaking to a wall, moving a mountain and calming a storm. A frustrating hurdle to cross. A hurdle that would not be crossed. 

 

She was wasting time. What does a donkey know about kompot?

​

“I see. I will speak to M4.” 

 

“Commander!” 

 

AR-15, her face wrapped under her scarf, saluted. “It is as Leopold said. M4 has tried to help them with their material shortages, but they rejected us out of hand.”

 

“Not exactly ‘out of hand’.” Leopold shook his head. “Jasur let me finish speaking, at least, before walking away or telling me to mind my own business.”

 

She glanced at him; the folds on her scarf seemed to impress a frown. “Regardless, we can’t change their minds with our current arrangement. Maybe if we speak to Jasur, the Imam, or whoever else’s in charge directly, we stand a chance to change some minds.”

​

“Women not being in direct contact with them and having their heads and faces covered while near them are two of the stipulations we have agreed upon, AR-15. This is the reason behind Leopold’s nomination as your team’s spokesperson; they would speak to him but not to you, M4 or your fellow dolls.”

 

“I’m telling you this isn’t working!” she raised her voice, her pink eyes giving the aforementioned guardsman a searing glance. “They wouldn’t listen, with or without Leopold speaking on our behalf!”

 

“Hey! I did my best!” he protested. 

 

“Contract stipulations, once agreed upon, must be followed until both parties agree on an amendment.” 

 

Jasur, the goat herder and the women had laid down their prayer rugs; they faced towards the direction of the Mecca-that-was. 

 

“It is unlikely they will agree to any amendments on this matter, at least not throughout the contract’s duration, and this is not what I will discuss with M4.”

 

AR-15’s gaze grew ferocious. She planted her soles firmly on the cobbles, signifying her unwillingness to budge.

 

“I will speak to M4, AR-15.”

 

“It’s fine, AR-15.”

​

The pink-haired doll blinked. Scepticism shone in her eyes as she directed her gaze towards M4. “M4…” 

 

“I’ll be fine,” the team captain said as she pushed her way through. Upon positioning herself in front of her second, she stared into the false eyes. 

 

Silence. Were her face exposed, her lips might have quivered. AR-15, still watching her back, lowered her brow. FMG-9, her face wrapped under her black jacket, glanced about timidly, uncertain of her next course of action. 

 

M4 sighed. “I have nothing to add.”

 

“I see.”

 

She averted her gaze slightly. Her shoulders were stiff, her posture seemingly braced for an incoming storm. 

 

“You have shown them where the wires are?” 

 

She nodded slowly. 

 

“Then you have done enough.”

 

She blinked yet remained silent. It was clear she was discontented.

 

“If you are discontent, speak.” 

 

“Commander.” 

 

Raised the false palm. “The team leader must speak for herself.” 

 

AR-15 fell silent, though the intensity of her gaze did not abate.

 

“... I’ve been trying to help,” M4 spoke softly.

 

“You have done enough.”

 

“But Commander.” Her tone grew urgent. “Jasur refused to take any action despite my advice. If he keeps acting like this, then this expedition is wasted. Not to mention….”

 

“M4, you have done all you can.” 

 

“But!” she raised her voice. “You have seen the state of their settlement! If they keep this up, they won’t be ready for any crisis, let alone winter! Novum Sambir has everything they need, yet….”

 

“You are not responsible for their settlement’s security; they are. Your responsibility to them is limited to their walls’ safety and the expeditionary teams’ safety. Whatever happens to their settlement is on them, not you. You do not need to beat yourself up for their obstinacy. You showed them how they may help themselves. The rest is up to them, not to you.”

 

“I can’t let them continue like this!” 

 

Silence, save for the droning prayers. 

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. “You can bring a horse to water, but you can’t force it to drink.” 

 

Her gaze remained hard.

 

“The decision to heed your advice is theirs to make. Show them how they may help themselves, and no further. You can neither decide for them nor force them to make your desired decisions.”

 

“...Commander…” She was still discontented.

 

“You will only engender resentment if you force them to align your decisions to your desire. They may heed you today, but tomorrow, they will spite you. Further forcefulness will only exacerbate the matter. They will shut us out, contract or no, and all our efforts will be for nought. Let them be.”

 

“I still can’t let this continue, Commander.” 

 

“Remind me: why did I decide to engage them for their assistance?”

 

She blinked. “You want them to lend you the manpower for recovering these eighty Guards.”

 

“And why did I do this?”

 

She lowered her gaze for a moment, then answered. “You want to free up our manpower to prepare for the Subsector Four incursion while still meeting the budget for our equipment needs.”

 

“Yes. And why did I attach you and your team to their expeditionary team?”

 

“...To help them locate the bodies, load them onto their transports after their women wrapped them up, unload them….” 

 

“And you would fail your mission because they refuse your aid?”

 

She lowered her gaze. “...No,” she exhaled.

 

“Remember your mission here and the consequences of failure. Completing this mission is your priority, not rendering them charity. Do not confuse your priorities and let that become the premature end of your mission.”  

 

She inhaled, then nodded. She still wasn’t satisfied.

 

“Jasur struck me as a proud man. However, pride does not mean foolishness. Perhaps he listened. Perhaps not. He did not dismiss Leopold until he said his piece; he only vocally rejected him once pressed. This is a promising sign. He may return later to recover the wires and other resources you may have found for them. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next week. Perhaps the Imam sends another team. Either way, you have done what you can. Whatever comes next, it is up to them.” 

 

“But how can I be sure?”

 

“You can not. However, I affirm again, this isn’t your responsibility; the successful recovery of these eighty bodies is.”

 

“It looks like you are falling behind, though?” Skorpion chimed suddenly. She had joined us whilst we were distracted. 

 

M4 shook her head. “We will resume the expedition after they have completed their prayers. They planned to continue the search until sundown.” 

 

“I see. Have you suffered any shortages thus far?”

 

“No, for now,” Leopold interrupted. He paused for a moment, then continued, “Tell Kalin to deliver six cartons of beer to us. I know she has them in storage. Just include them in the scheduled supply shipment. We won’t be on-site to receive them, but the settlement won’t touch them. Just unload them. Nothing to worry about.”

 

“Wow.” Grizzly whistled shrilly. “Asking for beer from our CO? You are pretty brave.”

 

The guardsman shrugged. “It’s been a stressful day. Besides, I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”

 

“I see. I will relay that information to her. Anything else?” 

 

Leopold smirked at Grizzly, who rolled her eyes in response.

 

“I have something for P7!” Sop II’s hand shot up. “It’s in the BTR! I will go get it!” 

 

“Sop II!” Ingram barked urgently. “Just put it in the jeep like we agreed! Skorpion will take care of the rest!”

 

“Oh, right!” 

 

Sop II scampered towards the BTR before any queries could be posed.

 

“...Skorpion?”

 

The eyepatched doll averted her gaze.

 

“What is that ‘something for P7’ Ingram and Sop II spoke of?”

 

“It’s a present for P7, nothing to worry about,” Ingram interjected. “Just a little arts and crafts project, right, Skorp?” She elbowed the yellow doll, who blinked and answered hurriedly, “Ye…yeah! It’s arts and crafts project. Sop II didn’t manage to finish it before the mission, so Kalin sent her the tools in yesterday’s shipment to continue from where she left off, right, Ingram?”

 

“Yeah!” Ingram nodded frantically. “Exactly that!”

 

“...What, exactly?”

 

“Just arts and crafts project,” Skorpion replied; her gaze wavered. She kept her jacket’s collar up to her lips. 

 

“What she said,” said Ingram, her gaze unwavering, her tracksuit zipped up to her nose.  

 

Sigh exhaled. All will be answered once we return to the jeep. 

 

Boots scraped cobbles. The settlers had risen from their rugs and were rolling them up. FMG-9 kept pace; her shoulders seemed less burdened.

 

“Nine.” 

 

She blinked and looked upon the false eyes.

 

“How did your meeting with M4 go?”

 

“She told me not to worry about it.”

 

“I see.”

 

Raised the right arm. Blinked. The right arm was false; it could not feel. Lowered it, hung it beside the false leg. False eyes beheld Nine going ahead, pulling away.