Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front

[J. Finch]

"...In the end, I think, war is what brings out both the best and the worst in us. It is brutal, and unforgiving, and pushes us past the very boundaries of our hearts, minds and souls, and it's in this that we find the most indelible of truths. We find that we are only who we choose to be."​

-preface, Days Gone By, A Memoir from the Gallian Front​

Chapter One​

"Ngh... fuck!" I grit out, tears streaming from my eyes, hand wrapped tightly over the gushing hole in my side as I leaned against what was left of a brick wall, trying to get my breath back despite the lancing fire that shot up my entire body every time I inhaled. The air was heavy with the taste of dead meat, humidity and gunpowder, and I could feel it choking my lungs even as I gasped it in, but take it I did. Breath was life. Every single one reaffirmed that I wasn't down yet, out yet, so I pushed on.

I could hear the rattle of gunfire in the nearby streets, the rat tat tat of automatics and the screams of anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire, the thundering boom of tank shells, the crack of rifle rounds, all of it, all around me. I could feel the ground shake from the tank treads, the rattling of boots on cobblestones, the yelling! Fucking hell, all the yelling. Loud, panicked, desperate, words in three different languages, maybe more, drowned out by the cacophony of war.

I pressed harder on my wound. It was still dripping, still leaking, all the way down my MOLLE vest and into the tan rip resistant nylon of the pants I wore. Some lucky chucklefuck managed to get a round past the trauma plate in my chest, winged me in the side clean enough that it went straight through, leaving me with a ragged, bloody hole. It was leaking pretty bad before, but it's slowing down. I don't know if that's a good thing.

I don't know a lot of things, and here? It was killing me. Pain and fire and blood, mixing together in a way that you can't even begin to imagine. In a hell that only those who know it like an old friend could understand, and now... now I did too. I understood it all too well, and I wish I hadn't. It was ironic in a way. I'd always wondered what I would do, you know? In a place like this, a time like this, where people were trying to hurt me, kill me... I didn't really understand it then. How could I? What this was like. It was an out-of-context issue for me.

Not any more. This was just- It's impossible to describe it. Chaos. Insanity. Violence. God, so much violence. People were getting killed. Men, women, children, I'd seen them all. Cut up, shot up, blown up... man, you think you know. Think you've seen bad. Think, 'Yeah, I could take that. I could do that, if I had to.' but no. It's just...

My head thumped against the wall. It didn't help my headache, and I winced and grit my teeth harder. I could practically hear them grinding against one another but I couldn't stop. Every step sent waves of agony through me almost as cleanly as the bullet hole itself but, begging me to stay, to sit down, to rest. I knew I couldn't. Not now. I just... needed to swallow it. Choke it down. Ignore it. Anything else was death.

I let my free hand tighten around the grip of my rifle. It was the one thing, the only thing, that gave me any measure of comfort since waking up in this fucked up place what felt like years ago, even if it couldn't have been more than a few hours. Big, mean, with a futuristic look to it it did its job as advertised. You might know it, if you've ever played a World War 2 shooter. They called it the father of the assault rifle. A weapon with the range and accuracy of a rifle and the effective killing power of a submachine gun.

The Sturmgewehr Model 1944. A stamped steel monster at thirty-seven inches and weighing in at just under twelve pounds, it offered a selection of fire modes from semi to glorious full-auto, all at the tips of your fingers with an easy to reach thumb switch. Loaded with a thirty round stick mag it would suit all your killing needs. From poor single bastards to whole fucking groups of faceless mooks it made absolutely no difference who the barrel was pointed at. Armor, no armor, under cover or out in the open, it made little difference to the 7.92 Kurz rounds, and with the kind of accuracy you'd expect from a sniper rifle, well, this gun? It did work, son. Like you wouldn't believe. Like you couldn't begin to imagine. I couldn't. I dared not fucking conceive of it. But now I know, and God knows I wish I didn't.

It all went so wrong, so fast, you know? I wasn't prepared for this. Not any of it. The last thing I remembered was getting into my car, and the next thing I know I'm waking up in a field with my goddamn MOLLE vest strapped to my chest and my CCW at my hip. Moments, I had. Moments to wonder what the fuck was going on, and then... then I got shot. Then I killed a man. Then... I shook my head as I pushed myself off the wall with a grunt. I was drifting. Had to keep moving. Had to keep focused. I pulled back the receiver, checked that I had a round chambered and then sent one foot forward. Then another. Over and over again.

You know, it's kinda like those stories you read about. Some rando gets sucked away into a magical isekai adventure full of treasure and fun and an assorted box of pretty harem girls to ooh and aww over. Or they're some lord or prince or king or whatever, or they get blessed with Colonial disease and an encyclopedic knowledge of how to bootstrap a Medieval-era society to the modern age. Or they wake up in a fifty ton robotic Von Neumann murder machine and the power of super space skitzotech.

Except when it's not. Except when the rando gets dropped in the middle of World War fucking Two and all they have to work with is a hand with some fingers on it and a gun full of bullets. Not even a guess as to how he got there. Not a clue as to what to do. No present solution or chance to even plan the first step as not five seconds after consciousness returns everyone and their goddamn uncle is trying to kill them. And those are the lucky ones. Like me. I had an option, at least. Granted that option began and ended at killing people that were in turn trying to kill me.

And let me fucking tell you, they were trying really, really hard. These aren't barely literate fantasy guards with swords and shields, no matter what the armor might tell you. These were well trained, hardened soldiers with a deep, urgent desire to kill everything and everyone that isn't on their side. They were determined, dangerous, accurate and a hell of a lot faster than you might think a man in eighty pounds of rolled steel might be. Clever, too, and nasty. They didn't hold back. They hunted, and fought, and killed without pause or recompense and where they went, hell came with them.

Speak of the devil, and he just might appear. I flattened out against the wall of the alley, the pain in my side earning a sucking hiss as I tried to slim my profile and go as silent as a church mouse. There were footsteps down the alley over. The rattle of armor plates. The clanking of heavy boots. All sounds I'd grown to know very well over the last day or so. The sound of enemies. Of threats. I hugged my rifle to my chest, my gloves creaking against the handle as I waited.

I peeked over and saw them rush by, but I don't know where. I hauled off, moved to the next building. Moved on. The better part of valor, right? I didn't want to fight them, to kill them, and I didn't want them to kill me. I never wanted any of that. Better to avoid them when I can. If I can.

You know, when I first ran into one of them, I thought it was some kind of fucking joke. These guys, they looked like someone straight out of a fucking video game with their bucket helmets and I shit you not, medieval-era armor. Chest, shoulders, even legs, it was... it looked like something straight off a knight, and all he needed was the horse to round it out. Lined plates, thick looking, aggressive and intimidating but also strange. Out of place. I had trouble taking the man seriously.

I laughed a bit when I saw it, didn't really understand what I was looking at, what it meant. I thought it was kinda funny, all things considered. Then the bastard raised his rifle and shot me in the chest.

It wasn't very fucking funny then. Luckily, whatever composite that made up the plate under my MOLLE vest did it's job and despite the fact that I think it bruised a rib, the damn bullet didn't penetrate. It knocked me on my ass, but that didn't matter. I lived. Surprised the hell out of him that I was still kicking, too.

I blinked as I remembered it, the rifle in my hands chopping him up like so much meat, ripping through his armor like it was tissue, sending him slumping to the ground with a shocked look in his eyes. The full plate he was wearing didn't save his ass then. Didn't even slow the bullets down.

I didn't have the time to think about it, though. Three of his friends came bursting out of the woodline a half second later and tried to kill me right there on the ground. Managed to scatter them with a burst from the '44 and roll over a hill before they could really draw a bead on me, but that devolved into a running battle that drew more of the red-armored soldiers down on me. I was lucky that the area around here was all hills and that there were lots of trees in-between us. In open field I would have been a dead man a dozen times over.

It got bloody. Really bloody. Say what you will about the people who designed the StG 44, they knew what they were doing with this gun. It was effective. Very effective. Pinpoint accuracy on semi and auto, and a huge magazine besides, handling it was a dream. It ruined their day. Made a mess of things. People, too, in ugly ways, especially in the chaos. But it did its job, of that there was no doubt. Firing, moving, reloading... all so easy, so smooth, so simple. So easy a child could do it.

Still, I ended up losing one of my few magazines in the heat of it all. It was spent, yes, but I'd been trying to hold onto those, tossing them into my dump pouch. Never knew if or when I'd find a chance to get more. No time to worry about it though. They chased me hard into the town where folks in blue helmets and uniforms took up the fight, where I wound up holding that line for the better part of half an hour, no questions asked. My tee shirt under the MOLLE vest was blue. They wore blue. Since the Imps were shooting at me, that seemed to be enough for them, fortunately. They called themselves Gallians, and the ones in red, Imperials. It was nice to have a name to stick with the uniform, for what that's worth, even if that was all the time for introductions we had, and that was that. The war came snapping at my heels, and with it fire and thunder and blood.

More soldiers showed up on both sides and the fighting got nasty, all of it inch by inch urban warfare. They fought well, though, despite being under armed, understaffed and outgunned, and we held them for a time. We bled them good, made them claw and crawl and suffer for every street, every building, but it wasn't enough. There were just too many, and once the tanks started rolling up, blowing the shit out of the fortifications, we wound up pulling a fighting retreat, got scattered, and then... bam, shot through the gut.

I don't... I just...

It was a bad day.

I checked the mag I had in the gun. Half full. Good. I'd been plinking on semi for the most part. This thing was an automatic, it could eat up a thirty round magazine in seconds, but that didn't seem to help me at all. Yeah, it tore motherfuckers up, but I hadn't seen a single extra round the same size as what I needed for it.

All these rifles used 7.92 Mauser. This thing was loaded with the smaller, more compact Kurz round, the Mauser's baby cousin. Little weaker than the full shebang, but lighter on the whole and the recoil was reduced enough that I could get some truly compact grouping, but that wasn't worth a tin whistle if I didn't have any bullets to shoot. I was running dry and after that all I had was a 1911 with four mags worth of munitions. Fucked wasn't succinct enough a description for my situation, I thought bitterly.

CRACK!

My head shot up, my pupils dilating as blood sloshed around in my ears. My side screamed, but I forced it down, choked on it, as my shaking hands firmed up around my gun. 'Focus. Focus. Come on... focus', I chanted to myself, 'There are people trying to kill you. You need to keep your wits long enough to kill them first.'

I could hear gunfire going back and forth nearby, but I shied away from sticking my head around the edge. In the distance I could hear the roar of a diesel engine and the cracking of cobblestones under treads. There was a tank nearby somewhere and after I saw one of those boxy clunkers tear up a squad of Gallians with a heavy machine gun I wasn't going to poke my head out if I didn't have to. Not until I had eyes on it.

The alley I was crouching in was narrow enough to hide in pretty well. This place was surprisingly clean. No trash that I could see. It was a blessing. The last thing I needed was to have the hole in me get infected. I wanted to bandage it, but I didn't dare loosen the vest. It did well enough keeping me alive that I was too scared to open a gap enough to do more than shove a gauze pad in. The medical kit on my belt was compact, but it had the necessities to fix me up as best I could, including a few syrettes of morphine that I'd already taken a hit of. It helped numb the pain, barely.

I hugged my rifle tight before glancing around. The street was empty, and I didn't hear the tank anywhere. Looked safe enough to cross. There was intermittent gunfire, but it was moving away from me I think.

I hope. I lifted up the '44, ignoring the sharp spike of lancing fire in my side as I slid out of cover. The street itself was lined with abandoned sandbags, and I tried to hug those as much as I could as I slipped across as low to the ground as I could crouch. The pain was... not insignificant, but I was adjusting.

There were Imps in the distance, down the street but facing away from me. They were shooting at someone, but I don't know who. Probably militia. Hopefully not civvies, but I'd seen plenty of that too. Especially the dark haired ones. Those... died ugly. Better not to think about it. Not now. I could have nightmares about that shit later, assuming there was one.

It was then that I heard the rumbling of the tank again, this time getting closer. I ducked down behind one of the sandbag barricades, dropping back instead of pushing forward. Where was it? My head shot around as my heart hammered in my chest. The shaking was back, and I couldn't stop it this time.

That's when I saw it, cresting over a low wall, the already shattered brickwork disintegrating under it's vicious treads, chasing a dozen or so Gallians, cutting them down with it's HMG, the tracers leaving steaming holes in living flesh. The cannon reported, and the crater it left rained gore.

I abandoned all pretense of stealth and ran, sprinting all out across the street hoping beyond hope it didn't see me. The HMG roared, and I heard the screams of dying men as I hit the apex of my stride, dropping into a baseball slide behind the edge of a building opposite where I started. I fell, tumbling onto my chest and I all but dived behind the wall, scrambling away from the gun that was ripping into the militiamen just down the street.

"Ngh!" I grit my teeth so hard they ground as a nail of absolute agony punched through me. Sidled against the wall, sitting as I tried to make myself as small as I could, I seized as I almost bit my tongue off to stop the scream from leaving my lips. My hand shot to my wound, and it came back hot and wet with fresh blood, bright red and leaking down my vest in a fresh torrent.

The tank was coming closer. I heard the boom of it's cannon again, the rattling of it's gun, and more screaming. Tears tracked from my eyes from how hard I was trying not to let the white hot pain I was feeling override my senses, and I forced myself to inch to the edge. I had to see if it was coming, if I had to run, to hide. I glanced back, and I saw it. Fuck me, I saw it. Impossibly huge with two main guns, I watched as it rolled forward on massive treads before coming to a stop. Imperial troops with rifles were running up and down the street, and I could see more Gallian militia in the distance taking up positions behind the rubble, exchanging fire back and forth.

The tank paused, and I almost slipped back, afraid that it had seen me, but no, it started to turn, the two massive cannons on it's front slowly inching away from where I hid to point down into the town square. I let loose a soft breath. It rolled forward a bit, angling away from me. That didn't solve the issue of the Imperial troops that had taken up position on the street closest to me, but they were hiding behind sandbags, shooting at unseen enemies with their backs to me. I was safe.

But I could see that I was alone in that assessment. Across the way, hiding behind a blown out truck were two militia, one with a red scarf over her hair, and a plainclothes with a rifle, maybe a volunteer. They couldn't move with the tank there. They were stuck largely in the open, relying more on the tank's poor peripheral vision for concealment than anything else. Worse, with the Imps flush around it they were standing in front of a firing line that hadn't noticed them more on sheer luck than anything.

It was a bad position, and I could see it in their eyes that they knew it too. I could just imagine it. They run? They head straight into an entrenched wall of guns. They try to fight it out? Tank turns and kills them. Rock and a hard place. Staying probably wasn't an option either, and circling around... the Imperials had already turned this town into a maze of rubble, and going back meant trying to dodge Imp reinforcements coming up from the way I'd just left.

They were stuck, and with that tank ripping up the far end of the square, it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out. The clock was ticking down.

I was in a good position, behind the Imperial positions and their tank and on the opposite side of the road. I was safe, as much as I could be, but they weren't. I took a deep breath. I thought about it, about helping, but in the end I decided against it. What could I do against a tank? Here I was, in a place where I could run and live, even if they wouldn't. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right, but it was smart. It was the smart thing to do, and besides, you know what they say.

Life is tragic.

I moved to stand, painful as it was, and that was enough. I glanced out, and the girl was looking right at me. She motioned back to the guy behind her, and he turned to look at me too. I stared back, wincing as the hole in my side bit me again, my eyes narrowed, blurred with tears. I don't need this shit. All I had to do was fall back. I was hurt. Nobody would blame me. But... I hesitated.

Isn't that what courage is? To act in the face of danger, of fear, in order to do the right thing? Or was I just being stupid? I was choosing to leave them to die. I was choosing to walk the easy path, to ignore what I thought I should do, what needed to be done, in order to hide. It's easy, I think, to believe that, to tell yourself that you had to look out for number one, that life was hard, and unfair, and wrong. If I left now, I would live, probably, and they would most likely die. I would be responsible for that. I would have to carry that weight.

Even as I realized it, I knew I couldn't shoulder it. I lived an easy life, so much as it could be called. A good life, safe from... from this. I called myself a man, and I told myself I could do this if I had to. Was I a hypocrite? Could I accept that? Could I wake up tomorrow and look myself in the eye, knowing that? Could I live like that? As a man who walked away just so he could keep on going one more day?

No, I knew. If I did, what would I be worth then? I drew in a shaky breath, gritting my teeth from the pain in my side. I was going to do this. I wasn't just going to run away, not now. Not from this. But the pain... was distracting. It lessened me, and I needed to be able to move, to focus, to do what I needed to without adding another factor into an already slapdash plan.

I fished out another syrette before sliding it under my skin and feeling the rush of numbness start to gnaw away at the edges of my wound as I turned back to the two behind the truck and held my hand up. Universal sign for wait. Then I tightened up the strap on my StG, so much so that it was flush against my chest instead of loose, like it had been. I didn't want it rattling around. My hand went around my knife.

There were three positions that the soldiers were in. One on each side of the tank, and one a bit farther back, covered by the rear of the tank itself. The one in the back had a man working a radio, alone, while the other two positions had two and three troops each, firing out across the town square. The idea was simple. Knife the radioman, take his grenades, toss them into the two nests and get around the corner before the tank could turn enough to ruin my shit.

So much could go wrong, I knew it, but I didn't think about it. I could... I could do this, help them, save those two. I owed it to the Gallians to at least try. They helped me when I was on the ropes before and now I couldn't shy away. I was a lot of things, but not a coward. Not now.

I steeled myself and slid out low, hugging the wall and inching around behind the radioman in the back. It was surprisingly easy, considering how much shit was on the ground crunching around under my boots. I got close, closer, my knife was in my hand and then-

The radioman looked right at me. He froze, and his eyes went wide. I dashed forward, just as his mouth opened-

The blade flashed-

His yell died in a gurgle as I rammed the single-edged dagger home clean into his throat, my eyes boring into his as I watched the light fade. He tried to speak, tried to scream, lips flapping open and shut as he weakly gripped at my arm but the knife had cut clean through his neck, and all that escaped were a few bloody bubbles. He slumped, and I ducked down behind the sandbags.

It was fast. So fast. I tried not to look at him as I rifled through his uniform. Finding the grenade pouch wasn't that hard, really. It was on the side of his pack, but it took a few moments, moments that I spent worriedly glancing at the two positions only a few meters away, afraid one of those riflemen would glance back and blow my whole plan to hell.

That didn't happen. They were too caught up in the firefight with the militia across the street to notice me. I got lucky there, but I ran into a snag trying to implement step two. The man I killed only had one grenade.

I growled an unintelligible curse. Things were never easy, were they? I drew the grenade, unscrewing the cap at the bottom and readying myself. There was no going back. There was only action, only purpose. Violence in motion. I threw the grenade, the long-handled explosive flying true, landing square in the middle of a group of Imps. It bounced off the pack of one, and he glanced down at it as I fell behind the barricade.

I heard a scream, and then a blast, and as I rolled to my feet carnage was what greeted me. I'd tossed the grenade into the far nest of soldiers, and between the wall of the building and the tank, the blast had been amplified. One man was just gone, pieces of him littering the ground in great, bloody chunks as another lay there, his insides blown out across the pavement as everything below his waist ended in bits of bone and strips of flesh. His helmet had been blown off, and his face... his eyes stared lidless into the sky.

I looked away.

My hands were already moving as the tank turned away from us, hunting, while I raised the 44 at the three in the opposite nest. My finger flipped the fire selector to 'Full', and I emptied out the mag. The two militia that had been hiding burst out of cover, taking wild potshots while the second nest of enemy soldiers descended into chaos. They tried to jump over their cover to put something between them and my assault rifle. Only two made it. One just slumped as I drew a bead on him, stitching him up with automatic fire and leaving him slumped against the sandbags. The others made it, but were open to the militia opposite us, and with the tank out of position?

Things went wrong for them. Quickly.

As for the two Gallians? Clean getaway. They dashed past the edge of the alley, and I moved to follow them, swapping out the spent mag and locking in my last fresh one as I cleared the fence and the road as a whole. That tank was still probably wondering what the hell just happened, heh.

I pointedly ignored the fact that I'd just blown two men to pieces, knifed another and gunned a fourth down.

The two were waiting for me. Looking at them... Jesus did they look young. Despite the battle grime and the dust and the dirt, they looked like what, late teens, early twenties at best? Fuck. But then, things aren't so different back home, are they? Kids signed up to join the military all the time, and this is their home. Would I be so quick to judge if it was mine? No. Respect where it was due.

"Thank you," The girl started, "for helping us. For a second there I thought we were goners." It went unsaid that she thought I was going to leave them. I could see it in her eyes. I didn't hold that against her though. I was going to, initially.

Still, it helped ease the pain. I gave her a weary grin as I plopped down onto a nearby crate, trying to hide the wince. The other, the man in plainclothes, gave me a nod of gratitude.

"Yeah. We were in a tight spot. That tank came out of nowhere." He smiled brightly. "I'm Welkin, and this is Alicia. She's with the town watch." Then he really looked at me. I mean, really looked. "You're hurt."

It wasn't a question. He turned to the girl, Alicia.

"Alicia, he's hurt." The words brought the girl over, and she pursed her lips. "Do you have any Ragnaid left?"

"No," She said, checking a pocket on her belt and frowning before glancing towards the far end of the alley, "I don't. We do have a militia aid station near the main gate though. What's left of the Watch is massing there to try and hold the line while the rest of the town finishes evacuating. If nothing else we'll have something we can use for him there." She turned to look at me. "Can you move?"

"Kinda have to. I'll manage." I gave her a dour grin. She nodded and turned back to the man.

"Then I'll head back to my house and grab Martha and Isara, and meet you there." He said after a moment of thought. "Plus something that should help with the evacuation."

"Alright. I'll dig in my heels and hold the line, try to stall them till then. Good luck, Welkin. Stay safe."

He nodded to her with a grin and ran off down the alley. I turned to the girl, Alicia, and stood.

"Shall we?" I asked with a hiked eyebrow. Her features smoothed over and she checked her rifle.

"Yeah." I let her take point. She knew the town better than I ever could, and it showed. We didn't run into any more Imps, not for lack of attention though. Probably regrouping somewhere before making another push into the town. Things had gotten ugly, fast. Looking around, there were a lot of dead civilians. Men. Women. Kids. Didn't seem like the Imps were discriminating, and a lot of these people were shot running away. More though were lined up against a wall and executed, Nazi style. It was clear what was going on here, and the Imps? Well, they weren't discriminating.

I turned away, facing Alicia, whose head was locked forward, not looking at the bodies. It wasn't lost on me that these were people she knew, she cared about. I didn't comment. I couldn't. It wasn't my place, but seeing this? I suddenly felt far less sorry about what I did to those men.

Something about that sat unwell with me, but I shook it off. This wasn't the time. I couldn't afford to get lost now, and I knew it, so instead I focused on the girl in front of me, and the hammering of our boots upon the stone.




AN: So here we are again. This is my rewritten (again) attempt at making this story work. For those of you new here, this is the rewrite of a rewrite of a rewrite of a rewrite ad nauseum. I started this a decade ago in 2015, and don't let the dates fool you, it's 2025 and we're back at it again. I could make excuses but the truth is that I just lost interest in the genre and the story. I started writing my own works and fall off the face of fanfiction for a while as I explored what my imagination found interesting and I like to think I'm coming back stronger for it.

So what's changed? Well, not much. I still work on a lot of my own stuff, but I kinda wanted to get back into this fic now that I'm feeling inspired again. Out of all the things I've posted I think that this one was the one that would pop into my mind the most. I had such grand plans for it that now in retrospect seemed very silly, but with a little grit and gumption I've redone the plot, redone my notes, and come up with something I think will flow a little better.

As for changes to this chapter, I made a lot of grammar and word choice changes that I'm hoping make this version flow a little better. Some of the scenes were streamlined or rewritten and some of them were removed or added. Overall the first step into this world is largely the same but, hopefully, better.

Crossposted from SB. I have no regrets.

 

[J. Finch]

...I don't apologize for what I've done. I made my choices under the auspice of what I knew at the time, and what I could act upon. I'd once read that war is cruelty, and that trying to reform it is folly. The crueler it is, the faster it's over. I wonder, though, if the man who wrote that meant it to imply that the cruelty of war would dissuade men from fighting, or if he simply meant that through cruelty, there would be no men left to fight."​

-preface, Days Gone By, A Memoir from the Gallian Front​

Chapter Two​

Alicia set the pace, and I followed along best I could. The morphine helped, but the more I moved the more it hurt, not that I let that slow me down. Didn't want to risk getting left behind, and it didn't seem like the girl was quite so willing to be accommodating.

I didn't blame her for that. I think she might have been a touch suspicious of me, honestly. I wasn't shocked by that either. Aside from the tenuous 'enemies of my enemies' that I'd been relying on to keep myself at least entrenched on one side of the field, this girl was town watch, and this? Was a small town. She probably knew everyone here, or at least most of them. I was a stranger, which made me a liability, and that didn't even include the mess of nonstandard gear I was toting around. I looked different, and different was dangerous.

Still, I probably bought myself some credit helping them, and I was hurt. That might have eased tensions a bit, or so I hoped. As it stood I couldn't really afford to make any more enemies, and honestly? There was something good about helping people defend their homes. Silver lining, I guess, in-between all the shooting and killing. It helped ease my conscience some, for what it was worth.

I snorted, catching Alicia's attention. She paused, taking a second to check our surroundings before turning to me.

"You alright?" She whispered, taking my grunt for one of pain, instead of dark humor. I gave her a strained grin.

"Eh, bleeding but still alive. Hurts like a bitch though." And all the activity of the last hour hasn't been helping. Still, she seemed to accept that, even if she winced a bit at my choice of descriptor. Odd, you'd think someone in her position would be used to profanity but then again, it takes all kinds.

"Okay. Just hang in there, we're almost to the aid station. Just another block and another alley." She said before turning back around. She moved slower, by just a bit. It was easier on me, thank whatever merciful God was out there for the help, if only a bit. Still, the streets were abandoned. I could hear gunshots in the distance, but I didn't spot anything worrying on our way.

I didn't miss the tired look Alicia had, though. She seemed to slump a bit every time we heard gunfire, and I could guess why. People were fighting, dying, and it was her friends and neighbors taking the worst of it. I wasn't so detached that I didn't see it, but I didn't say anything. We all got our weights to carry. This one was on her, though it didn't mean I couldn't sympathize. Were it my home? My neighborhood? No. This wasn't the time for that kind of thinking.

"So," I looked at Alicia, who was glancing back at me with a curious glint in her eye, "I've never seen a gun like that before." She said as she looked back around the corner. It was quiet, yeah, but we'd had to stop to avoid a roaming patrol. They seemed to have left, but it didn't hurt to take a second. We were in the home stretch anyway.

"Yeah? Doesn't surprise me." I said, watching our backs with a cautious eye. "It's a Sturmgewehr. Storm Rifle. Good gun. Reliable." I said evasively. Alicia turned back, and motioned me forward. We moved down the road, eyes peeled. It was quiet, but I could hear the sounds of men in the distance. Alicia was leading us towards the noise, though, and she did say the militia were massing at the station.

"Sounds Germanian. You from the Atlantic Federation then?" She asked quietly. I shook my head. I'd never heard of any Federation, but whatever it was, Germany was a part of it. Which was odd, really. I'd pegged myself during one of the world wars. The time period seemed about right for it, all things considered, but... maybe not. Germany was an antagonist in both wars, and now it seemed like they were part of what sounded like a loose affiliation of states with a centralized governance, kinda like the US. That... was weird. Even after WW2 Germany was split for half a century between the democratic west and the communist east, if I recalled right.

Huh.

"No. I'm uh, I'm from across the ocean." I eventually replied, hoping there was an America analogue here, or something, or if not, anything I could use elsewise. If I was where I thought I was, and maybe when I thought I was, I could roll the dice on that at least. Not great, but better than telling her that I was and risking getting caught up in the lie if she mentions literally anything related to this "Federation" that I should know but don't. It wasn't like I could tell her "Oh, it's just over that grassy hill over yonder." No, not at all. Vague would have to do.

She stopped, turned and gave me a sharp, disbelieving look. "A Vinlander? I thought you people were content to sit across the ocean and play war merchant. 'Leave Europan problems to Europa', or so I last heard out of your Congress. What are you doing in Gallia?" Ah, now there we go. I can work with that. Yeah. Also on the plus side it sounded like Vinland was functionally neutral then, if nothing else. Unpopular, maybe, but not directly affiliated either.

Still, Vinland? I'm not quite sure what to make of that. It sounded Nordic, though that wasn't saying much. Germania, Europa, Gallia, and now Vinland. All analogues for countries back home, similar, but indelibly different at the same time. I really needed to get a hold of a world history book, or at least a damn Atlas if nothing else. Hell, at this point I'd settle for a newspaper, even. I'm not in a position to be picky after all.

"Yeah, well, sometimes life takes you in strange directions. Especially when you don't have much choice but to keep moving forward." I said with a halfhearted shrug. "So I guess you could say it's just chance that I happen to be here." It was funny and a little sad just how honest that statement was, at least from one point of view. Call it a cosmic joke, maybe. Something to entertain a higher power, perhaps. Hell, I could have fallen through a rift in time and space like in the goddamn Twilight Zone for all I knew. This... this whole thing was insane, and it was just getting started. I wasn't naive enough to believe otherwise. I wasn't innocent enough for that kind of thinking any more.

Alicia just gave a half chuckle, a grin on her lips. "That's fair, I guess. Not going to say no to the help, anyway, even if you picked a heck of a time to show up. That makes you a volunteer then? Mercenary?" She didn't seem to be judging, really. Just asking. For that, at least, I was grateful. This was the Twilight Zone. I was lost in time, in space, trapped in some weird alternate 1930something where for all I know I could be stuck seeing the first shots of World War Two. The thought of it hit me harder than I was expecting, put into words.

It was all so fast, too. Say what you will, but the last few hours were a whirlwind. I met a man, and he shot me for literally no reason that I could understand. I killed him for it. His friends came, and I killed them too. Then I ran, and killed more men. I came to a village under siege, and tried to help protect it. I killed again, and again, and again. Like a broken record. Over and over, I pulled the trigger. I didn't think about it. Didn't even hesitate. Mechanical, precise, with experienced hands and a kind of focus that scared me once the blood stopped pounding through my veins. But more than that, it's that I didn't feel anything when I did it. I felt no remorse. No care. No concern.

I felt nothing at all. I was numb to it. I think that's what scared me the most about this whole thing.

"Guess you could say that, yeah." I said after a moment with a strained half-grin as we turned the corner and saw bedlam at it's finest. There were maybe a dozen men and women milling about, setting up sandbags and hoisting up a makeshift watch tower. Boxes of bullets were being laid out, and there was some barbed wire being set up, and there was an air of tension, of fear, that was almost palpable in the afternoon air.

Some of them looked up at us, but Alicia waved them off. A few gave her nods or smiles, but most were carefully neutral towards me as she led me to a building with a bright blue cross on the side. It wasn't large, just a few rooms attached to a foyer, but inside were a mess of crates packed with grenades, bullets, assorted other supplies, a few chairs and tables, one of which had an inactive radio of some kind on it, and across a far wall lie a rack of older looking rifles. Alicia herself moved over to a box with a red cross plastered across the top and opened it, pulling out a couple of large, pill shaped devices before walking over and handing one to me.

"Here. Do you know how to use Ragnaid?" She asked, and I shook my head. The hell kind of medical device was this? I glanced down at it curiously. It was a strange looking thing, aside from it's odd shape. The top was domed with a bright, almost glowing glass bubble around what looked like a chunk of rock, while the bottom ended in a dispenser of some kind with a timer knob on it. Honestly? Kinda made me think of one of those weird medical gizmos from the turn of the century.

"No clue. Never seen anything like it." I shrugged, wincing. She nodded, bringing up the one in her hand.

"I'm not surprised. Ragnaid dispensers like this are pretty new. We just got this shipment in a couple of months ago and if you aren't in the army or the militia they're pretty expensive. It's actually rather easy to use, though. This knob," she flipped the device over, showing me the timer, "Is a three second activator. You turn it to the left and hold it over either your head or someone else's. The funnel at the bottom disperses medical ragnite particles in a cone under it, which can close cuts, heal bruises and restore burns, but doesn't help much with broken bones, sickness, infections, or poison." She said as she put hers down. I glanced at mine.

"They're heavier than air but they can be blown away with a good wind so be careful when you use it. Also, if you get shot, make sure you get the bullet out first, because this will heal right over it. And lastly, be careful about using it too much too often. Medical ragnite isn't particularly dangerous unless you use it in large doses. It can make you sick." Okay. Okay wow, so that's... different. I didn't know what ragnite was, but I assumed it was the little rock in the middle of the machine. Sounded pretty miraculous indeed, or so Alicia seemed to believe. But...

"This thing isn't going to give me cancer or something, is it?" I asked with some trepidation. These 'medical ragnite particles' sounded a lot like some kind of radiation and anything with the magical Rad word in it made me a bit leery. The way she phrased it sounded like it sped up cell reproduction somehow, but that had with it it's own list of issues.

Alicia blinked. "I don't... think... so? I'm not sure what you mean by 'cancer'. That some kind of medical thing?"

"Uh, yeah. It's... hm. It's like tumors that form on skin or organs that can shut them down and spread around through your body in the later stages. It can be caused by radiation, which this sounds like." I said flatly. The light bulb seemed to turn on there for her.

"Ah. That- no. It's just medical ragnite. They don't do anything to it. It's just the dispenser that's new. Nothing to worry about." She smiled positively. I went back to staring at the device. Asking about it would have looked odd, given the way she talked about it. Whatever 'medical ragnite' was, it sounded like common knowledge and the last thing I needed was to look either stupid or suspect. Ugh, this still seemed like a really bad idea, but... what choice did I have? In a little while Imperial tanks and troops were going to assault our little bastion here and I didn't want to walk into it with a big, gaping hole in my side if I could help it.

As it was, though, that was a long term problem. Right now I had somewhat more pressing short term concerns, and if I wanted to make it that far, then maybe a bit of recklessness was warranted in this case. Still, I got the odd feeling I might come to regret using these things in the future. If I had a future, that is.

"Well, in that case, bottoms up." I sighed, cranking the dial and holding the Ragnaid over my head. It took a second, but I could actually see a bright, almost sky blue glow slowly pour over my body. It didn't really feel like anything, but I could tell the pain in my side was diminishing, first a little, then a lot, until it was gone completely.

After about fifteen seconds the glow faded, and when I looked at the machine I could see the once blue rock in the middle was clear, like quartz. I set it down and unbuckled the side of the vest harness so I could really get a look at my side. Unsurprisingly, my blue tee was drenched in brownish red, and the underside of my vest was dripping like a fresh cut of beef. The bandages I'd hastily shoved under my shirt were soaked with flecks of barely set scabbing and bright red blood. That was a good sign. Meant that for whatever else that bullet hit, it didn't nick anything lethally important.

Under all that though... I ran my fingers over the completely healed gunshot. There wasn't even a scar aside from the fresh white of newly grown skin, and as much as I pressed down on it, I felt no pain. It was the same case where the bullet had left me, even more so, in this case. It was a bigger injury, but even that was gone. There was more to it than that, though. The soreness in my joints from running around all day was gone. The bruises on my body had vanished. The cuts and scratches I'd collected? Gone too. Even the pounding headache I'd gotten from today had diminished to nearly nothing.

I eyed the little machine on the table with some amazement. It was clear Alicia saw my reaction, because she had this knowing little smirk on her face.

"Told you it was fine. Pretty impressive, right?" She asked somewhat smugly, and I nodded.

"Yeah. Not bad at all. Still worried about the long term, maybe, but in order to worry about it I gotta get there." My tone was a bit dour, and it brought down the mood some. Alicia just chuckled at me, a bit ruefully if I had to guess, like she was tolerating a particularly stubborn old man. After a second though, I wound up grinning too. Shaking her head, she went back to the chest and fished out four or five more of the Ragnaid capsules.

"Here, take these. We've got enough to go around and you might need them. We've also got a lot of ammo, some grenades, some other stuff around here... take what you need. It's too much to take with us so we're trying to divvy out as much as we can." She motioned for me to follow her into the mess of crates, pointing out what was what as we walked past it.

"I'm not sure if you have what the Stig chambers. I haven't seen anything the right size yet today." I said as she paused, looking at me.

"Stig?" She asked.

"Oh! Uh, yeah. Sturmgewehr is a bit of a mouthful, so it's abbreviated as StG. So," I shrugged, "Stig." I shrugged. "Anyway, here," I pulled back the chamber, popping out a round of the 7.92mm Kurz it fired, before handing it to her, "think you got any of those in stock?" It was a long shot, but I held out hope. The fact that they even chambered 7.92mm was enough to get me going, but I started to droop a bit as Alicia's face scrunched up.

"Hm... actually, yeah. I'm just kinda surprised. This is the cartridge they used with a lot of older EW1 bolt action rifles. Low recoil, but the newer Mauser rounds have a lot more punch to them. I'm surprised a Germanian weapons manufacturer went back to this old thing instead of going with something newer. I mean, yeah, there's a lot of these floating around from the end of the war, so they wouldn't be hurting for ammo, but still..." She shrugged, handing me the bullet back before turning around to a stack of crated and reading down the labels.

"Eh, might be because of the size. Not as much power, sure, but the low recoil helps with accuracy and smaller bullets means less weight to haul." I shrugged. "Plus it's an automatic. Less kickback is always a plus."

She nodded at that. "Makes sense in context, I suppose. Ah! Here." She pulled out a crate from one of the lower piles, before opening it up with a flick. "Two thousand rounds of 7.92x33 Kurz. Take all you want, the watch's already upgraded to the Mauser. We don't even have anything that can chamber them any more." I smiled, nodding as I ignored yet another odd "coincidence" as the ammo for my rifle was both plentiful and apparently classified as obsolete. That meant, of course, that nobody cared if I took some for myself. Convenient, right?

"And it's okay if I just... take these?" I asked dubiously, but she just shrugged and smiled.

"There's way more here than we can use, and given all you've done for us today, you've earned the right to some free kit. Call it a payment on what we owe you for services rendered." She said as she patted me on the shoulder. "Anyway, once you're done in here, come find me. The watch commander, Mr. Laakan, will be interested in talking to you, okay?"

"Alright." I nodded, finding myself a seat at the table and pulling myself up. Alicia just gave me a grin and another shoulder pat before heading towards the door, hips swaying the whole way. Quite the sight indeed, now that I wasn't distracted by agonizing pain. I let my grin, and my gaze, linger a second longer than was strictly professional, but Alicia didn't seem to notice, or perhaps ignored it.

I let out a quiet snort as I shook it off, and didn't waste any time in fishing out a handful and an empty mag. I only had seven left, total, and only one was still fresh. I'd lost the other two somewhere and if things were the way I thought they were, I would be in dire straits if I lost more, at least until I could get someone to fabricate them anyway. Alicia had bid me adieu and made her way back out of the building to go coordinate with the rest of the militia. It was pretty apparent that she was serious about taking what I wanted, since she didn't seem bothered in the least to leave me alone here.

Fishing out a handful of Kurz rounds, I started sliding them into the first empty. It was steady, monotonous, as I snapped one round in after the next. My hands were shaking. I ignored it. Just focused on sliding in the next round, one after the other. Just... click, snap, click, snap, click- A bullet fell from my fingers, and cracked on the floor. I blinked, just for a moment, and tried to pick it up. But I couldn't. Blood was sloshing through my ears, as the sounds of gunfire rolled through my ears, my eyes wide, lost, as I gasped for breath. Thundering, rolling, boom boom boom I felt my heart thrumming in my chest as I slammed my fist into the table before me, my other dropping the half-full magazine as it grasped helplessly at my chest.

I could hear screaming in the distance. I could feel tank treads through the floor. The world around me felt like it was burning as my nervous hands slammed around my head, trying to blot it all out. The building was shaking, or was it just me? I couldn't tell any more even as I slumped to the ground on hands and knees, trying desperately to make it all stop. I could hear screaming, crying, begging, no, no please just make it stop I don't want this why why why why-

The world snapped back. The half full magazine was still in one hand, the other still with a round in my fingers. There wasn't any trembling. No shaking. No thrumming. No gunshots. Just quiet. Silence amongst the screaming. Click, snap, click, snap. My fingers moved mechanically as my mind went blank. What was happening, I wondered? What was that? It felt... real. Vivid. Alive. I... I felt it, in my bones. I heard it, the screaming, the begging. The crying.

I reached up to my cheek, but felt no tears. Just grime and gun oil. The metallic tang of brass and gunpowder invaded my nose as I rubbed my filthy, bloody hands along my face, and I looked down at the pressed steel magazines in my hand. The bullet in my fingers. Antiseeds. Plant them and watch something die. Ha. Ha, ha. I couldn't help but laugh at the memory as the rounds stitched up that man's chest. The light in his eyes faded. His friends came over the hill, and I shot them too. I ran to the town. I killed another, and another. Then the stand came, and I picked them off, one and again. Then there was pain, and rage, and I killed that one too. Then the radio man. He died gasping, I saw it as I twisted the knife. His pain, my pain, I bought his friends with it. Stole them like I stole his, with a grenade and a half a mag. I started the job. They finished it. I did such good work.

Ha.

Ha ha.

Ha.

Oh Christ, what was I doing? I don't even know anymore. This was... this was too much. I... I wanted to be done. I had to be done. This was just... I don't know. I wanted to be a soldier when I was a kid. I wish I could be that naive again. This is... it's beyond imagining, yet too real all the same. Killing is so easy, once you start doing it. It's almost hard to stop. The rush of adrenaline. The cold numbness of the rifle. The kick of the recoil. The power of god in every trigger pull.

I wanted to be sick. It's strange, I always read that the first time was the hardest. The first kill, I mean. That it was supposed to haunt you or something but... I honestly couldn't recall anything about it. I remember the breathtaking impact on my chest, yeah. I remember the recoil, even the blood spray. I remembered the thunder. But I didn't remember the man. Not the first one. Not the second, either. Or the third, or fourth, or fifth. I didn't remember the twelfth. Or the twentieth. Just the blood. The screams. The begging. The crying. It all blurred together, and despite the horror of it all, or perhaps because of it, I just... I felt numb. Empty. Drained.

My hands brought up another magazine. My fingers found another bullet. Click, snap. Click, snap. I focused on the noise. On the job at hand. On the here and now. It helped drown out the noise.

With a dedicated effort I managed to get the six empties full up. It wasn't hard, they weren't that big. That aside, I took a second to look over the rest. There were a couple of things I thought useful. I had a canteen already, but I took another anyway. Could never have too much water. A compass, a laminated map, some charcoal pencils and a notebook all went into my chest pouch, and I hooked a pair of binoculars onto my hip webbing. I filled another hip pouch with as many free rounds as I could pack in, and another still with a few more Ragnaid canisters. I didn't have a backpack, and they didn't seem to have one here that I could take, so I was left trying to fit what I could in what I had.

When I woke up here, I didn't have a chance to really go through my pockets to any great degree. Aside from the three ammo carriers, and the rather obviously marked first aid kit, I hadn't had a chance to go exploring. As it turned out, I had more than I'd thought. One pocket held a small cleaning kit, little more than some rags, brushes and gun oil but you didn't need more than that. Another had a small pack of replacement screws and springs for, I assumed, the StG and my handgun, along with an instruction booklet on the aforementioned rifle, which, while probably useful, was for later. That seemed about it, aside from what I'd taken and I had a number empty pouches, besides, but that real estate had its own worth. Couple big, a couple small, to which went more ammo, more Ragnaid, and in one of the big ones, a couple of those stick grenades. They went in awkwardly, and I couldn't fit in more than two, but still. Free grenades.

Which, speaking of free... I walked over to a first aid kit on the wall. It was mostly empty, but there were a few things left in there I could use. Bandage rolls, mostly, but there was some medical tape, some antiseptic cream, a few gauze pads, and other odds and ends. All useful, and with a bit of work easy to fit into my somewhat empty first aid bag. No morphine syrettes, but given the prevalence of this Ragnaid stuff it was less of a concern for me. For now. Not to sound like an addict but my hoarding instincts were screaming at me to top myself off while I had the chance.

I wound up grabbing a few more grenades after shifting things around a bit. I had the space, and they weren't heavy, just oddly shaped. They fit in nicely in the empty ammo pouch on my chest, regardless, and in the pockets on my thighs. Between this and that, I had put on some weight, but not a lot. Altogether it was only around eight grenades, maybe a hundred loose rounds and ten of those miracle capsules, with assorted others. Honestly, it was the Ragnaid that weighed the most, but hey, an extra ten, fifteen pounds of those didn't pull me down enough to matter. I wasn't in super great shape, but I could haul the extra bit for a good while, especially after that glowing blue pick-me-up. Concerns or not, there wasn't any point in worrying about living a long life if you couldn't manage in the short term.

It wasn't long before I began to hear a commotion. My head shot up out of one of the boxes I'd been digging through, to the window where I could see men starting to move with purpose. There was shouting outside and it looked like things were really moving. I walked out into bedlam. Everywhere soldiers were checking weapons, loading stripper clips, pocketing Ragnaid and grenades while shuffling around sandbags and barricades.

There was a lot of talk going on, and it wasn't hard to pick up bits and pieces.

"...scouts said the Imps were moving tanks in..."

"...said he saw some heavy weapons coming in from the north. Cannons..."

"...troops are massing at the town center, by the windmill..."

"...heard tell of anti-tank lancers and mortars..."

"...used poison gas at Ghirlandio..."

"...some kinda Valkyrur war witch..."

"...had a huge tank that rolled over the walls..."

"...coming here 'cuz of General Gunther's mansion..."

"...said they're dragging townsfolk into the streets and shooting them..."

The rumors were sounding worse and worse. I took a quick look around, grabbing a few more grenades after a moment and shoving them into any pocket space I could find before leaving. A quick glance around told me that they were still getting ready, but it wasn't hard to find Alicia. She was standing at a crate with a paper map spread out over it, along with another girl with long blonde hair, and an older man with a full beard.

"...Preparations are coming along nicely, but we don't know how long until the Imperials get here, and we must protect the townsfolk long enough for them to finish evacuating... Yes?" The older man said, turning to me. "Do you need something, son?"

"Ah! Mr. Laakan, this is the man I was telling you about. The Vinlander mercenary." Alicia piped in from the side. Laakan nodded at that. He was large, more than six feet tall, and broad, like a man who worked hard for a living. He was tanned, wizened, with a full head of graying hair and a thick beard that wrapped around his head. He didn't wear the town watch helmet, but it was clear he was the one calling the shots.

"Right. Well, it's good to have you fighting on the right side, son. Alicia was just telling me about what you'd done for her and her friend, and I wanted to thank you on behalf of the Town Watch. Alicia here is one of our best. Losing her would have hurt us something terrible." He grinned, offering me his hand. I glanced at it, and a moment later took it in my own.

"No thanks needed. I couldn't have just left them there. Wouldn't have sat right with me if I did." I said with an immodest shrug. "It's been a... bad... day. It's nice to salvage something out of it anyway." I sighed, before shaking off the dark thoughts that had tried to creep up on me.

"I understand that pain, son. It's been a tough day for everyone. We knew the Imps were coming, but this... this quick? Nobody saw this coming. We'd barely begun fortifying when the first tanks rolled up the road and it's been nothing but downhill from there." He said, motioning us over to a map propped up across a squat crate. Just a glance at it told me everything I needed to know, only confirming what I'd been experiencing all day. The locals were fighting gallantly, yes, but they were being pushed back, hard. From the look of it this was the last real bastion of support for the beleaguered militia and how long that would stand was measured in tens of minutes, perhaps an hour at best. It painted a grim picture in any case.

"So what's the plan here, then?" I said, glancing around. Militia were moving back and forth, and to be honest I felt like a bit of a third wheel. I didn't have much to contribute aside from a gun, and I wasn't sure I even wanted to commit that. Things were getting a little above me here, I thought as if I hadn't been drowning in the tides all day. I'd had enough of war for the day, honestly, even if the fighting wasn't nearly done yet.

"Not sure if you're gonna stay, huh?" He asked, not seeming to judge. Just an honest question. I gave a shrug and nodded, much to Alicia's dismay, it seemed. The old man sighed in some resignation. Didn't stop the girl from coming up and giving me a hard punch in the shoulder, before fixing me with a glare.

"Hey, what? You can't seriously be considering leaving now of all times!? We need you here now more than ever!" She snapped out, hard tone in her voice. Honestly, I could understand her outrage. This was the endgame, and I was wavering. I didn't blame her for her frustration at that, but...

"Are you honestly surprised? I've been in the shit all day, and spent a fair bit of it with a gaping hole in my side. Despite that I helped you and your friend because I couldn't just... live with myself if I left you to die, not when I could do something but this? You know what's coming. You fought the same fight I did." I snapped, shrugging her off. She crossed her arms, giving me a harsh glare, one I met pound for pound.

"That doesn't make it okay for you to just... to just quit! Not now! Not when we need every man, every hand, every gun! These are innocent people counting on us and just because things got a little bit hard, you think you get to walk away!?" The young woman snarled at me. "You said you helped Welkin and I because you thought you could, because you couldn't just abandon us. How is this different? How!?" I gave out a harsh growl, looking away. We both knew that it was, and it wasn't. I just... didn't have it in me to admit it. Instead I just, I just dropped it, and turned back to Laakan.

"It's nothing personal, old man. Just don't feel like getting killed today is all." I said finally, ignoring the look of disappointed disgust Alicia shot me. "Truth be told, I don't know what you're thinking here. I've seen those tanks in action, and a few militiamen with old rifles aren't going to cut it. They're going to massacre you and no offense, but I don't want to be a part of any desperate last stands this early in the game." I turned back to Alicia. "Sorry."

"Believe me, son, I know it's grim, but we have to try. They might not mean much to you, but these folks, they're friends, family... and the Empire is going to kill them to the last, make no mistake. Our scouts reported intercepting some transmissions, and apparently their General Gregor wants to turn this place into an example. They won't stop until every man, woman and child are dead." He said with a tired sigh. "Right now three squads of heavy infantry are preparing to attack from the north, followed by a block of tanks. We have an opportunity to slow them down, at least a little. We have to take it."

"Even if it kills you, huh?" I shook my head. This wasn't my problem. It's not my war, and this man, Laakan, seemed to get it. He was tired, old, weary and under all that? Scared. These guys weren't even soldiers, really. Just people trying their hardest to keep their families safe. If nothing else I could understand that. When you got right down to it, I was scared too. He understood that, I think.

"Even if it kills us." He nodded, before turning to Alicia. "Melchiott!" He snapped, and she hopped to attention.

"Yes, Mr. Laakan?"

"Take Evans and get everyone ready for the Imp attack. Tell them to get as many crates of bullets and grenades behind the barricades as they can. I don't want anyone running short. Also, see about getting the rest of the Ragnaid distributed. Tell them to stuff their pockets if they have to. I don't want to leave anything we can take behind." He said, and for a moment it looked like Alicia was going to say something more, but no, she just shot me a hard look and shook her head before running off. He turned to me. "Son, what's your name?"

I blinked. "Uh, Finch. Jerry Finch." I said, tilting my head. "Why do you wanna know?"

"Because I want to know the name of the man I'm going to beg a favor from. Do you have a minute?" I nodded. "Look, I know you don't have much reason to put your life on the line for us, and honestly, if what Melchiott told me is true, you've already done a fair bit. You shed blood on Gallia, for Gallia, damn the circumstances, and I respect that." He said, giving me a long, tired look. "I know you don't have much stake in these people, my people, but to us, you're already a hero. You saved the life of one of my captains and the son of a good man besides. You put your life on the line, bleeding and exhausted, to save my people, and that's more than we could have ever hoped for or asked. At the end of the day nobody could have asked for more, but we need to. We need your help for this. You've got a better gun and a better grasp of what's out there than most of my watchmen, and with your help... maybe we can save these people. Will you hear me out?"

I stared at him with hard, narrowed eyes. When I woke up, the Imps made me their enemy by attacking me without provocation. The Gallians helped me, yeah, and I took a bullet for them in return. I owed a debt, before, but I paid that back helping Welkin and Alicia. I didn't owe these people any more. I wasn't a soldier. I was just... just some guy in a bad situation. I could walk away now, run and evacuate with the rest of the civvies and I doubt anyone would bat an eye. This wasn't a game, a movie... I could die here. I probably would, if I stayed. That seemed reason enough to just go and not look back.

Say what you will, even at my most fatalistic I didn't want to die. Nobody does, really, but this was their fight. Just being honest about it. Laakan got it. It's one thing to volunteer for a fight. It was another to volunteer for a suicide mission. I certainly did, and while these people might have had my back, there are limits to what I'm willing to throw myself into.

I'd faced a question of courage, before. To fight or run. I chose to fight. That was the road I took, for better or worse, but this? This was different. This was fighting for a cause, a purpose, a greater reason than just saving a few lives. I could leave now, disappear into the influx of refugees that this war was doubtlessly generating, and that would be it. I would be free to do as I wished from then on. That wasn't cowardice, just good sense.

Was that the point? Why was I here? I had nothing but myself, as far as I knew. No family, no home, no purpose, but the clothes on my back. No commitments. No ties. Nothing binding me but me. Here, I was an island, a loner standing at the crossroads.

This was the precipice. The commitment. If I stood now to be counted upon, that was it. My place was set, my commitment made. There would be no more going back, no more room for doubting. If I chose to stay, to fight, to try and make a difference against the oncoming tide, I would forever be linked to the fate of this place, this town, and it's people.

I thought back to all I'd seen. All the killing, the violence, the brutality. I thought about the men I gunned down, and the men I'd seen die, and what's more, I remembered the execution lines. The rows of women and children and old people lined up and shot. They were butchering innocents in the street. Lining them up like the fucking gestapo and murdering them just for living here. It didn't matter who they were, they killed them just because, and that was something I couldn't just... just hide from.

Wrong or right, smart or stupid, that was a kind of evil I couldn't abide, even if God damned me for doing so. Even if it meant pulling the trigger again. Even if it meant more gunshot wounds and screaming and shaking hands. I inhaled deeply, letting the calm of the battlefield soak into me, before I looked at him, at Laakan, with a distant stare and a steely resolve filling me up. He saw it, and seemed to stand a bit taller. I took a deep breath, girded my loins and asked, "What do you need?"

His eyes lit up. It wasn't what he was expecting, I could tell. Twice now I'd almost walked away. Twice now I didn't. I gave him a grim smile, which he returned with a nod before leading me over to the map.

"There's only one way into the southern district, and that's through this main road here. We were worried that the Imps would run tanks through first, so we didn't position anyone to take advantage of the crossfire, but in this case, it seems fortune smiles upon us. This house," He fingered the map, pointing out a house tucked away at the far end of the street, "Gives a great overlook on both the main and side street leading up to the gate. I want you and a few of our better shooters to head over there and hit the Imps once they reach here," He pointed to a position on the map where a triangle had been drawn, "Where we partially collapsed this building to create a choke point. The side street is too narrow for a tank to get through, so this is their only way in. We'll catch them in a crossfire and take them out. Then you need to get out of there before the tanks roll in."

"Seems simple enough. How long would we have before the tanks roll in, though?" I asked with some trepidation. He patted me on the shoulder and gave me a solid smile.

"See the tower? The house you'll be positioned in has a clear view of it. When we see the tanks coming on down, the watchman up there will wave a flare. That's the signal to clear out. Go down the side street while we cover you. It shouldn't be too bad if we get enough of them." I looked at him, then back to the map. It... should... work. Seemed simple enough, but... no. It was too late to back out now. The plan seemed good. I nodded.

"Alright. Let's do it."

"Good. Wordsworth! Singer! Get over here!" He shouted, and two of the militia ran over. The first, a young man, maybe twenty, twenty one, had brown hair and fair features somewhat hidden by a bandanna over his head. The other, a young redhead with a smirk, came up behind him with a hop. They were... well, I wouldn't say kids. I was pushing thirty five, so maybe I was a bit colored on younger folks, but still, that girl couldn't have been out of high school.

"Finch, this is Noce Wordsworth, one of my captains, and Juliette Singer. Noce, Juliette, this is Jerry Finch." I nodded to them, shaking their hands. "We're going to try and catch those Imp bastards in a crossfire. Finch volunteered to help make it a reality. You know the house, Noce, from when we talked about it earlier. Lead him there, cover him, and help him kill some Imps. With a little luck you'll catch them totally off guard. Any issues?" He asked. Noce shrugged, seemingly ambivalent, and the girl, Juliette, shook her head. "Good. You all know the plan, so-"

"Commander! Commander!" Laakan was cut off, and we all looked up at the man on the tower. "Commander, Imps are massing down the road! Looks like they're getting ready to push!"

"Alright. That's your cue. Get going, and good luck." He said, dismissing us. I glanced at both Noce and Juliette, before taking off at a good pace down the side street. Both matched me pretty easily, and the short run only took a minute to make. I could already hear the first shots as we made it through the door to the two floor home and made our way upstairs through a staircase in the rear.

I sidled up against the wall opposite the road, looking down at the street below. Holy shit... that was a lot of soldiers. Counting up... five six seven... about ten with rifles, another five or six with those automatics... damn. Noce moved up beside another window facing out to the side street we'd just run up, and Juliette parked herself opposite him. I saw a group break off down that street as soon as they hit the intersection, but there wasn't any sign of armor on the way, thank the gods for small mercies.

"Eyes on fifteen, here, give or take. Lots of guns down there." I said, cocking my gun and flicking the switch to semi-automatic. I had seven good magazines, plus a fair few grenades to draw upon. I had the feeling that I would need all of it. Looking at the walls, I felt some worry. They didn't look very bulletproof, so we needed to make the first strike count.

"I have five... no six, coming down the road. I think I can..." Pondered Juliette as she lifted her rifle, checking the breach with a pull and a glance before shouldering it.

"No, wait till they've got their backs to us. We'll catch them in the crossfire." Noce shut her down. She looked unhappy with that, but nodded. I gave him a glance in askance, and he motioned to the still massing Imps down the road. We needed to be patient, despite the already intensifying battle down below.

"Do you think we should try grenades first? Soften them up?" Juliette said in an aside. I looked out, ran some quick numbers. Hmm. It wasn't a far walk from the door to this building to the collapse in the road, so if we were careful maybe...

"It's a thought. The herd is thinning out..." I said as the militia really started to open up. The Imps shot back, moving up in groups of three slowly under the hail of semi-automatic fire. "Yeah. Grenades out. Lets surprise 'em." Noce said as I pulled one of the mashers loose. The crossfire was thinning down as the militia went to reload, and the Imps seemed to be readying a charge. Now was the perfect time to ruin their day.

We slid open the windows as much as we could. Down below the Imperials had huddled up under some of the steeper embankments, and they'd about made it to the debris barrier regardless. We pulled and tossed.

"Grenade!" Screamed one man, but it wasn't enough to make a difference. The rippling blasts sent metal fragments all over the Imp firing line, shredding several and sending more to the ground. Men were screaming in agony, rolling on the ground, bleeding everywhere. One man had no legs, another, a gaping hole in his chest, and more still were pulped like ground meat. There was so much blood, so many injured, so many dead, mutilated, torn up and ripped apart. I swallowed hard, killing my feelings and snarled.

"Open up!" I heard Noce shout, and lined up my first shot on one of the machine gunners that had avoided the worst of the damage. Metal plating or not, it wasn't thick enough to stop the jacketed Kurz rounds I put into his chest, sending him down before zeroing on a new target.

The cracks of Noce's and Juliette's rifles punctuated the chaos, but I didn't stop to look at what was going on there. They seemed to have the side street covered well enough between the two of them. I had other problems.

In the interim I'd managed to tag another two soldiers, but the rest had started peppering the window I was using as cover. The grenades had broken the first line, but there were more men moving up and they weren't nearly so forthcoming. I dived, hitting the ground as the wall was torn apart under a hail of fire, sending glass and mortar all around me as I kissed the floor and covered my head with my hands. I could hear men yelling from outside.

"They're in that house! Second floor, street-side!"

"Move in... pin them..."

"Militia in the house behind...!"

Noce moved to cover me, but I heard him cry out as a stray round punched through the wall and into his leg, sending him down into Juliette's arms as she ran to catch him. I head stomping downstairs, moving towards the staircase behind us, but my shout was drowned out under the sound of gunfire as it tore up more of the wall. I rolled hard to the side, out of the line of fire and reached for my rifle, but it was too late.

The door slammed open, and a man with one of those automatics just opened up on the two militiamen. Juliette didn't even get a chance to scream as the weapon pulped her head and chest, tearing a chunk clear out of her cheek before boring a hole through her skull and ripped into Noce, who tried to dive to the side but didn't quite make it as bullets tore into his stomach.

I flipped over onto my back, rifle up as the Imp soldier saw me and tried to reorient, but I didn't give that motherfucker a chance as my StG spit out five rounds in rapid succession, catching him in the chest and sending him slamming back into the wall at the back of the staircase. I heard a shout, and flicked my rifle to full auto, opening up on the wall, tracing it down through the floor along the staircase. I heard a scream, and the sound of a man tumbling down the steps as I got to my feet, pulling another grenade and tossing it side-handed through the door.

There was another scream that was punctuated by a dull, cracking thump, as I picked myself up, staggering over to the two militia that had come with me on this god awful venture. I didn't need to be a doctor to tell that Juliette was gone. Her head was barely there. Noce was a different story. Gasping and gurgling, his guts were all over the place. The soldier had nearly torn him in half, and the amount of blood all over the floor around him. He looked at me, tried to move, tried to say something, but it all just came out as blood. He spasmed once, twice, and then slumped.

"F-fuck!" I grit, grabbing my rifle tight in shaking hands, adrenaline thundering through my veins as I got to my feet. This was a total clusterfuck. I glanced out over the street through the newly perforated wall and saw that most of the Imperial troops on the ground were dead or dying. The grenades had done a fair bit of damage, killing or maiming more than half of the soldiers down there, but the other half had put up a hell of a fight. Some had gone after us, while the rest tore their attention between the entrenched militia ahead and our flimsy position behind.

Still, mission accomplished, right? Right. The word tasted like ashes in my mouth. Most of the Imps down there were down or out, and it should be safe enough to move. All I needed was the signal. I looked out over to the tower down the road. There wasn't a guardsman up there. What?

A rock fell down into my gut as the ground began to shake, and I ran to the windows facing the main inroad. What greeted me was the tilted barrel of a tank. My eyes went wide, and I dived back as hard as I could as the cacophonous boom rattled my skull and sent my vision spiraling. The blast was deafening, and all I could hear was a sharp ringing as I pulled myself up unsteadily. My rifle was on the ground some meters away, undamaged, it seemed, but that didn't help me as another man in crimson clothing charged through the staircase.

I drew my handgun and rolled back hard, pulling the trigger over and over. One, two, three, four, five, I pulled, my dancing vision sending my rounds everywhere. My head was spinning, and I couldn't focus. I heard footsteps. One, two, three... and then a thump as a body landed near my feet. My vision cleared after a moment, and what I saw stunned me.

A dead Imp soldier was lying on the ground, helmet rolling away. There were five holes in the wall, four ringing a fifth in chunky splatter, and when I looked at the helmet, I could see a divot in one side of it, and the back totally blown out. He was hit twice, and from the look of it, one went right into the visor. The man was stone dead.

I stood, staggering a bit as I holstered my handgun and retrieved my rifle. At a glance it looked fine, so I wrapped the strap back around my shoulder. The wall the tank had shot was just gone, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the house that still smoldered with the remnants of the explosive shell. Nothing remained, though I was lucky the blast itself left me unharmed aside from the ringing in my ears. I moved to the hole. The tank that had shot the house had moved up.

The one behind it... well...

"Fuck." I swore as I found myself staring at the face of the commander from the next tank over. We stared at each other for a second in blatant disbelief before I jumped to my rifle and took aim. The man had already ducked down into the tank, sealing the hatch before I could draw a bead on him and the turret was already turning towards me.

I glanced back. The stairs were too far away, and the cannon would collapse the fucking building before I even got halfway down anyway. There was only one way out of here. I knew it. I had to do it, if I wanted to live.

I ran full tilt at the hole in the wall and jumped! I was flying through the air as the cannon fired, and I could feel the pressure wave from the shell as it blasted past me, missing me by so slim a margin I could feel the backwash.

The building behind me exploded into a ball of fire as the tank round hit, the force of the blast so hot I could feel my back crisp and the building gave a shuddering, shrieking groan as the second tank shell hit bodily inside, shredding wood and plaster alike as the windows blew out in a frightening display as all the while I flew.

The tank was coming up fast! Too fast! I was tumbling ass over teakettle, and landed on the turret of the vehicle hard enough to drive the air from my lungs as I hit with bone-jarring force. I almost puked from the impact as I wrapped around the hard metal of the tank's armor, feeling my ribs creak from the effort.

I stumbled, rolled really, as I clambered around the body of the tank, bullets pinging perilously close as Imperial riflemen tried to force me off my moving, makeshift enemy cover. I hung wildly from the barrel of the main gun, keeping myself as far from the automatic next to the turret as I could while I brought my rifle around to bare. A flick of my finger put it on automatic, and I swung it right, under the barrel where an Imp gunner was trying to draw a bead.

The StG roared, and a burst of four rounds tore through his chest and neck before I pulled it out and pointed it to my left, one handing the precarious weapon as I pointed it at a man with what looked like engineering tools to my left and pulled again, stitching him up as he tried to get his gun on me. Another man came up behind him, right into my field of fire and I emptied what little was left of my magazine into him too as the hatch to the lower compartment opened right under my foot, almost forcing me off as a man with a pistol tried to shoot me.

I braced, kicking him clean in the face and sending him flopping down as I put all my weight on the hatch, crushing his chest between it and the hull of the tank. He screamed as his chest caved with a sickening crack and spit up blood as I swung the hatch open again and slammed it down for good measure before dragging the dead man out of his seat and pulling a grenade. I yanked the priming string and dropped it in, before slamming shut the door.

The turret hatch opened above me as a man with an officer's cap tried to climb out, but it was too little too late. Fire belched out from the view port below me as the man above cried out and then flopped like a boned fish against the turret and slid back in with dead, glazed eyes.

The tank in front of me stopped, and I could see the turret turning at me far too quickly. I moved to get off, to try and get out of the line of fire but the gun was already almost on me. I winced. I didn't have any illusions about what would happen next.

Then the turret stopped, and started turning back. I stared incredulously at it. Why?

Then the side of the forward tank exploded. I ducked from the heat of the blast and the shrapnel, flinching as a wave of pressure washed over me. The tank that had been turning towards me was torn open, the side exposed, ripped wide like an overripe melon. The turret still moved, but a second roar from what sounded like an artillery cannon blasted through the turret altogether, ending it. Around the corner rolled what looked like a fucking Panzer in Gallian blue just a moment later, burning hard rubber as it tackled the dead Imp tank in front of it out of the way with a sharp crunch, and around me I heard shouts and cries of shock.

That snapped me back. I ejected the dead mag out of my gun and shoved it into my dump pouch before pulling another out of my chest rig and locking it in. The gun cocked with a satisfying snap, and I rolled around the side of the immobilized second tank. Behind it were several soldiers, all backing away as I drew on them and opened up full bore.

Behind me a deafening roar erupted as the chuffing of a heavy machinegun let loose over my shoulder, pouring down the other side of the street. The Imperial soldiers yelled, panicked, running for any cover they could find and clearing out as fast as their legs would take them. The line was broken. We won.

Across my lips a savage grin grew. We won. High on adrenaline, I stood, I roared! We won!

"Hah! Fuck YOU!" I pointed down the empty street, devoid of retreating Imperials now that the fighting was done. I sucked in fresh air, tainted with the flavor of smoke and gunpowder though it was. I'd never had anything so delicious. Never in all my life.

"Hey!" I turned, and blinked. It was that guy from before, in the brown coat. He was standing there, waving at me with a big grin. I laughed. I couldn't help it. Holy shit, I made it thanks to that guy. I waved back, smiling as I walked over.

"Hey yourself, kid. See you've been busy since we last met." I chuckled, leaning against the still humming blue tank.

"Yeah, well. You know how it is." He said modestly and I gave him a look. You know the one, with the perfectly raised "who do you think you're kidding" eyebrow? That one. "Uhm, hey, you look like you've had a bit of a rough go of it. You alright?"

I took a look at myself. Covered in dust, carbon, bits of the house, bits of people... fuck. I was a mess, but... I was still alive. As the adrenaline started to crash, and it flooded out, I couldn't stop myself from laughing, from chuckling, from gagging as it all rolled over me. I ran a dirty hand over my face. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to do a lot of things. I was shaking, I could tell, and I took a deep breath, my limbs feeling like jello.

But mostly? Mostly I just wanted to sit down. Goddamn, but did I want to sit down. Welkin climbed out of the tank, sliding down the side and I felt a hand drop onto my shoulder. I glanced at him.

"Need a ride?" He asked with a half grin. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath before nodding. He climbed back up onto the forward plate and offered me a hand up. I took it, and hauled myself up as he got back into the command throne. I didn't follow, instead moving behind the turret and dropping down onto the hard, flat backplate before leaning against it, shutting my eyes as the tank gave a rumble and started to turn back.

I listened to the sound of stone under the treads, tasted the smoke, felt the cool metal and rested. I just... rested. Just sat there and left my eyes closed. The day was done. I was done. It was done. Today was done, but tomorrow would come again, and inside, a bit of me ached for that, but that was a problem for then. For now? I breathed deep the air of victory. From it I drew no comfort. As it should have been. As it should have been.






AN: I hope you enjoy the second fully revised chapter of Days Gone By! God knows I've gone back and forth on this one every so often, tweaking things and making changes. I absolutely fell into the hole of chasing perfect here, but I'm still mostly happy with all the edits.

 

[J. Finch]

"...war has a way of sapping your faith, draining your will and breaking your spirit. It takes from you your hopes and convictions, challenges your ideals and beliefs, and wears away at you like an ocean upon a cliff. How does one man alone face such an unrelenting force? Simply, we don't."​

-Ch. 1: Red Skies, Days Gone By, A Memoir From the Gallian Front

​

Chapter Three​

Leaving Bruhl was one of the hardest things many of the militia had to do. I understood it, I guess. Losing a home to someone who wanted it just to have it. I just... blood was spilled for Bruhl. Mine, and others as well. It was a bitter pill for everyone, though many tried not to show it, but you could tell, if you looked. The tightening of eyes, the hardening of lips, the feeling of haste and tension. The signs of a people who'd lost their lives, both literally and figuratively.

These were people's homes, their livelihoods, their friends and families, all gone because of a petty asshole who wanted a piece of dirt. I didn't pretend to grasp it. I really didn't. I just... was it really worth this? All the death, all the violence, all the damage? I couldn't say. I didn't want to. It felt like it would have cheapened the sacrifices made today, trying to justify it all. Whatever the reason, it was. I'd been there, in the thick of it. I knew.

I could still hear the cracking of gunfire in the distance, though it was much removed. Other militia units from around the town were sprinkling in, people who'd been cut off during the initial push but were finally able to move now that the main Imperial advance had been thinned out. We'd had an influx to bolster the already beleaguered watchmen, including a few much needed anti-tank teams that had been frustratingly absent earlier.

Still, we'd bought ourselves at least a little time. From what I'd heard, the few remaining Imps were mostly outliers that hadn't pulled back at this point while the main body of the advance recovered to the northeast. At least that's what the scouts told us, but it looked like they were already being reinforced. Navigating the town would take time, though, enough for the last of the evacuation to finish out. Still, steps were being taken to slow down anyone who decided to follow us. Improvised mines, mostly, but that would be enough to garner some measure of attention on their own and hopefully jam up the Imps long enough for us to put some distance between us.

In the meantime I was busying myself with helping load the trucks, hauling up boxes and bags and in some cases people onto a set of flatbed cargo haulers that were rapidly running out of space. Most of the locals were gone already, but there was still enough of a trickle coming in that we were hesitant to leave any sooner than we had to, though that was almost purely subjective to what the scouts were telling us. We would need to get moving sooner rather than later.

That last second victory had been heartening for a lot of people, though. They took the last stand of the militia and turned it into something grand. More than a few people had walked up, greeted, even thanked me for my part. There were... whispers, rumors even, going on about it. I'd heard some things, here and there, hinted at the edges of conversation, aborted statements when I got close, about what people thought about it. More than a few hardliners wanted to see if we could stay behind and cause more trouble, but the people in charge were less apt to throw lives away for just another black eye.

I was glad for that, at least. For us, for now, the fighting was done. Cold comfort, I knew, but it was enough to make a difference. I sighed, hauling another crate up. The simple action was somewhat comforting, really. Something I could do without really needing to focus while being productive at the same time. It helped keep my mind off things, let me focus on something easy, simple.

I moved to grab another, and noticed a few of the militia had wandered over. They'd been out and about, helping where they could. One nodded to me as they walked by, and the other started talking to him in a hushed tone. I pretended to ignore it while listening in as I lifted another crate up.

"...him?" I heard the first one say. The one who'd nodded to me whispered back a yes. "Big guy, huh? I'd heard..." The man trailed off. I stopped listening after that. I'd already 'heard' what he was about to say. The rumors had been drifting around since the line regrouped and the evacuation started finishing out. More than a few watchmen and even a few of the remaining townsfolk had asked me about it.

'Did you really jump on a tank?' or 'I'd heard you killed a dozen of those Imp bastards.' or 'Good work breaking up that advance!' or a dozen variations thereof. I'd gotten more than a few pats on the back, kind words, congratulations, adulations and every other form of thanks from the beleaguered defenders, and what's more, a dozen and a half questions asking all the same thing.

'What happened?'

I didn't extrapolate. I couldn't. Even as I think about it now with a calm head, I can hardly imagine it. I was... I was lucky. I was stupid and wild and got away with it because of sheer chance. I was impulsive and it paid off, and if I had had time to think I know I would have called myself insane and hung my hat up then. Still, they cheered me on. Called me hero and champion and a dozen other things, and they roared and called my name.

They didn't ask why Noce and Juliette weren't with me. I didn't say, either.

I didn't tell them that I had been running on adrenaline and autopilot, not thinking, not planning, just reacting. It wouldn't have mattered, I don't think. Most of it had already been blown out of all proportion. The image they saw when they spoke to me was of a man with no limits to his raw courage and bravado. They said I rode a tank like a horse. That I could tear steel hatches open with my bare hands. That I could gun men down by the dozens. That I was brave, and forthright, and unflinching.

I'd never been more terrified in my life.

But I didn't say that. Not to them. Not then. Of the thirty men that had stayed to hold the gate, only a paltry dozen survived. Most of them were hurt, bleeding, some badly, some worse, and they... they needed a win. They needed to be more than just survivors right then, and I knew it. So I cheered, and I roared, and I hooted and hollered and cried victory. I was their hero, then. So I played the part, and choked down my terror and my pain and my exhaustion and just... lied.

I let out a shuddering breath.

"Hey." I turned and saw Alicia walking up to me, her face as grimy as mine, no doubt, with a hard look in her eyes that hadn't been there before. "There you are. I've been looking around for you, Mr. Finch." She gave me a strained smile, a feeling I could relate. I returned the gesture with a wave.

"Alicia. Good to see you made it through." I said with as much warmth as I could muster. It was hard trying to hide the exhaustion in my voice, and I doubt I managed it, but she didn't comment. We were all tired, doubly so since most of the militia were working on finishing out the evacuation. "And please, at this point it's Jerry. I'm no mister." I chuckled, a bit ruefully at that.

She gave me a smile and a nod. "Alright. Jerry. I can do that. Glad to see you made it through, too. I'd heard some of the rumors but..." I gave her a look, and she shrugged, "It's not important. Like I said, I've been looking around for you."

"Fair enough. So what can I do you for, kid?" I asked, cocking my head and glancing down at her. Not for the first time I noticed how tall I was compared to the girl. At almost six foot four, I really did tower over most of these people, and while I wasn't built, I did clock in at around 230 pounds, much of it muscle. Compared to Alicia, and indeed most of the people here, I was kinda gigantic. It was an idle thought, but I made sure to seem less... loomy regardless.

She glanced around, before motioning for me to follow her. "I don't know if you've heard, but the Imps have regrouped and are moving back into the town. The mines and collapses are slowing them down a bit but... we're down to minutes here. Most of the evacuation is already underway, though, but there's a concern about-" I half-listened, noticing more and more militia were showing up around us.

More than a few also stopped and wound up staring at us as we passed, and I started to hear some muttering as I followed Alicia.

"...that him? Heard he..." One started, I don't know who, but it was behind me.

"...said they saw a dozen dead Imps down there..." I'd heard another, this one to the left.

"...said they saw him jump on a tank..." A third.

"...heard it was two..." His friend, and I heard the awe, the incredulity. I didn't blame him. I mean, there were two tanks but-

"...said he was all over the place, popping up like a ghost..." I... hadn't heard that one. I mean, I covered a fair bit of ground-

"...no, no, it was more like twenty..." I winced a bit at that. I didn't have to guess what he was talking about. God, how many did I...?

"...cut a man's head off with that big knife of his..." I felt myself pale at that one. I didn't- it wasn't-

"...killed 'em without even blinking..."

"...chased the Imp front like a demon..."

"...walked right up behind an Imp line and cut them down..."

"...didn't stop once, even with his guts torn open..."

"...like some kind of machine, just kept on shooting..."

I slowed down, glancing around. The muttering drifted to a halt as I met the eyes of the men and women around me, keeping my face as blank as I could, if only to stop myself from breaking down. This... Jesus, they made me sound like... like... I glanced at Alicia, and she just shook her head, slightly, subtly, and started walking again. I gave one more look around before moving on to what looked like an ad-hoc staging area.

"...By the Valkyrur, could cut a man down with that stare alone..."

I waited a moment, making sure there weren't any of the watchmen around before turning back to Alicia. She'd stopped as we moved beyond the eyes of the militiamen and women and I shot her a hard stare.

"What was that all about?" I asked as the silence dragged, and she gave me a hiked look.

"What do you think, Jerry? Stories about what you did are spreading like wildfire." She said after a moment. "What you did during the offensive... it's not a secret, and the stories are getting crazier with each retelling. They say you feel no pain, no fear. That you were hunting the Imps, stalking them like some kind of predator. Killing them and then vanishing into the smoke and dust, only to pop out somewhere else and kill more." She stopped, fixing me with a look, though what it was I couldn't tell. Her eyes were as cloudy as the smoke-drenched sky. "Already some of the townspeople are calling you the Lion of Bruhl, you know? And from the sound of the stories, it's not an undeserved title."

"What the hell for? The way they were talking about it-" I started, but she gave me a dry laugh.

"Makes it sound like you're unstoppable? Terrifying? Fearless? Does it really surprise you? Jerry, we sent some troops to collect Noce and Juliette, and the men came back with stories about how it's a slaughterhouse down there. Dozens of dead Imp soldiers, several scrapped tanks, bullet holes and casings everywhere... And that was before militia outliers had started to filter in, some of whom swear up and down they saw you rip open one of those tanks and murder the crew with your bare hands. And that's the least of what they're saying."

"Alicia, I'm telling you right now that's not how it happened. I-" I said, but she cut me off at the knees.

"You think that matters? Already the rumors are spreading. You jumped on a tank, Jerry. We saw you do it. There were bodies everywhere, most of them bearing wounds from an automatic weapon, like yours. There are grenade craters everywhere, and more than a few people saw you carrying enough of those for a squad and a half."

I stopped, eyes narrowed, and I wanted more than anything to tell her that was bullshit. To tell her that's not how it happened, that what it was, all of it, was from a mix of panic and desperation. I wanted to deny it, all of it. That it was just me trying to keep my own hide intact and nothing more. Tell her that it was because of me that Noce and Juliette were gunned down, that it was because I got pinned that Noce was out of position, that he'd tried to help me and it got him and Juliette shot dead and I did nothing to help them.

Tell her that I wasn't some big hero. That I was just... lucky. Lucky and terrified, and that was all.

But I didn't. I could see it in her eyes, she wouldn't believe me. Maybe she couldn't. She thought I was being modest, maybe, or respectful or whatever. The truth mattered less than the fiction, I knew it. I could see it in her eyes, much as I hated it, and I was just... too damn tired to fight that battle. I had enough of that for one day, thank you.

I massaged my eyes, and when I looked back at her I could tell Alicia had made her point. I just gave a tired sigh and shook my head, more out of frustration than anything, but Alicia almost seemed to preen a bit at winning that argument. And as much as I hated to say it, there was probably no stopping the rumors and the stories by now anyway. Still, one question remained.

"Was there a point to all that, then?" I eventually ground out sorely. "Is there something you want?" I didn't meet her eyes, instead looking off over her shoulder. In the distance I could see people stop and stare in my direction. I couldn't hear the whispers, the muttering, but I knew what they were saying.

They called me a hero. The man who spent the entire fight running piss scared from one end of this godforsaken town to the other. They made it sound like it was some great act of heroism, some brilliant strategy, but it wasn't. Half the day I didn't even know where I was, and the other half I was wandering in circles. Dumb luck wound me up behind the Imp front and superior firepower bought me little more than moments to breathe as I fled from one spot to another. This was comedy at it's finest.

But... but I was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of running, tired of bleeding. This... this was all wrong, all spiraling out of control already and there wasn't anything I could do about it. There was no point in fighting a river. It just flowed around you. No point in fighting the wind. You couldn't touch it. No point in fighting the earth, because you would break long before it did, and there was no fighting this. You can't fight beliefs or ideals. You can only fail to live up to them.

I knew that from personal experience.

"Look, I know you aren't happy with this, but it is what it is. I don't know how much you know about the aftermath of that last push, but we're... not doing so well. Most of our captains were here holding the line, and several of them didn't make it. Mr. Laakan didn't survive it either, and we lost almost half the militia we had there. Without your intervention they would have smashed their way through us as soon as those tanks got into position." She said without a hint of unease. Her voice was terse, her face neutral, distant, almost, and her gaze wasn't on me, not really.

Truth be told, I don't think either of us were doing all that well. I shut my eyes and dropped a hand on her shoulder, taking a deep breath and letting my agitation drain out. I wasn't the only one who'd had a rough time handling things. I shouldn't act like it. This wasn't the time, and we both knew it. I was angry, frustrated even, but the rage wasn't going to help me here. It wasn't going to help either of us.

"Alicia, what do you need?" I asked, my tone less sharp. I wasn't mad at her. I shouldn't take it out on her. She didn't deserve that, at the least. Not after today.

I could feel her untense a bit. "I wanted to know if you would be willing to take command of a fireteam." She said, finally, and it brought me up short. I shook my head and barked a laugh. It wasn't a happy sound.

"That didn't work out so well last time, kid. Laakan put me with Noce and Juliette, and neither of them walked away from that, and so your solution is to ask me to do it again, to lead them? It'll only get them killed." I said with a flat look. She didn't look like she agreed, but Noce and Juliette might. I didn't think I had to say it.

"Noce and Juliette knew the risks when they joined the Watch. You can't beat yourself up for that."

"Can't I? Alicia, I was so helpless to stop them from dying that I might as well have been the one that pulled the trigger. Not even considering that, I don't have the training, the experience, and hell, most of these people don't even know me. I'm the 'Lion of Bruhl' to them, nothing more than a title, if that. I'm not going to put people at risk." I said, more tired than angry, my arms crossing as I glanced away from her, out across the plaza. My eyes travelled from one soldier to the next, from old men with old rifles to young men with bright eyes and dirty faces. Women, too, many of whom had proven to be just as fierce and just as courageous as their fellows. All of them deserve the title of hero. Not like me.

I started as I felt a hand wrap around one of my own. I glanced back at the brunette, the girl, no woman who looked at me with hard eyes. Determined eyes. A good look for her, to be sure. I opened my mouth to say something, but she just shook her head. "That's bullshit and you know it, Mr. Finch. They were at risk the second the Imps came into town and they knew it. Fighting with you, helping you, they made a difference, slowing down the advance. They died, but they knew what the chances for surviving that were, and they still volunteered. They trusted you to make a difference, and you did." She said, giving me a half smile. "People are looking up to you Jerry. My people. Bruhl's people. You're their Lion. They believe in you, trust you, and you need to trust yourself. I think Noce and Juliette would approve."

"And if the fighting picks up, what then? I'm not trained for this, you know? I've never led anyone in anything in my life. I wouldn't even know where to start." I sighed, finally. "I'm not even a soldier, kid. I'm just a guy with a gun. What makes you think I can do this?"

"Because you chose to stay and fight." That brought me up short. Did that really make that much of a difference? I didn't believe it, but she thought so. "Besides, you won't be alone. Welkin and I, and the other captains too, we're there to back each other up. We'd back you up, too. Don't think you'd be the only captain that's playing it by ear." She said as I stared up into the sky. We both knew where this was going. I was too far in to walk away now, but I didn't like this. I really didn't. There was something in my gut that was telling me that this was a bad idea, and I agreed. I was just going to get more people killed.

But Alicia wasn't going to let this go, was she? I still didn't budge. "Alicia, no. I already got two people killed because I had no idea what I was doing. Giving me more people to get killed is a stupid fucking idea and deep down you know it."

"No, Jerry, it's not. Noce and Juliette might be gone, but they knew what they were walking into. You can't be afraid of this. Not now. We need you. You're a hero-"

"Stop fucking calling me that!" I all but growled at her, but she just stared right back at me despite the fact that I was towering over her. She narrowed her eyes, and in them I could see such fire, such raw strength. I bit my tongue.

"Damn it, Finch, you are. Remember when we first met? You could have walked away. You almost did, and we both know it, but you didn't, did you? Why? Why didn't you back down then? Hm? And again at the gate, you could have walked away then, too, free and clear, but you didn't. You have doubts, I know. You're scared. Hell, we're all scared Jerry. But you didn't back down then. You could have, but you didn't, so what changed now? You have courage in you, I've seen it. You have conviction, and will, and drive. You can do it, you know it, but you have to try." She said, jamming a finger into my chest.

"You screwed up. Learn from it. You're a symbol now, Jerry. These people, they don't know you. They don't know who you are or who you were and neither do I, and you know what? We don't care. It's what you did that matters to us. You saved my life and Welkin's when you could have run. You stood up and took on a suicidal mission to stop the Imp advance, and you did it! You fought like a Valkyrur out there and we all saw it and now? Now you're a hero, whether you like it or not, and I hate to ask, we hate to ask, but we need you to stand up and be that person again."

I slumped against the side of a building and just stared at the girl, at this little slip of a thing that barely came up to my chest, who just ripped me a new asshole. I just... goddamn. It was almost comical to think about. She just... stared at me with all the conviction and belief in the world and gave me a swift, unforgiving kick in the balls for sitting here and moping. I had no words for that. I just couldn't help it. I let out an honest laugh at how absurd it all was, and couldn't stop when she jerked at the sound.

I just laughed harder, and for a few moments things were... less troubled. I felt better. More... well, me, I guess. More human. Less stuck on the details, and maybe a little more in tune with the big picture.

"Hah, alright, fine." I said finally, still chuckling as Alicia blinked. I don't think she was expecting that, but even then, it was cathartic. "This is going to end in blood and tears, I just know it, but fine." Still grinning, I let out a tired sigh. "But I'm blaming you when things go tits up. Just want you to know that."

Alicia just smiled and nodded. I hauled myself up off the wall, breathing deep and letting out the exhaustion, the pain, the doubt and clearing my head in the process. So now I was a hero huh? I just shook my head at the absurdity as Alicia started walking towards Welkin and his tank. I just followed along.

"Good! Alright, good. Let me go grab the other captains and introduce you, and then we'll get you up to speed. Right now the Imps are still regrouping, but the scouts are telling us they're massing at..." I half-listened to her as she led me to the small command post where Welkin and the other captains were planning, all the while ignoring the dark thoughts that lingered in the back of my head.

The day was almost over, but our work wasn't done, and I couldn't help but wonder just how many more days like today lie ahead of me. My war, our war, was just beginning, and the chill in my gut told me only one thing. It was far from over.



AN: I've never been particularly happy with this Chapter, mostly because of it's adjoining nature linking it to the next. It's needed, but even after a bunch of edits I never really got it to flow quite as well as I wanted it to. Ultimately though it turned into a perfect being the enemy of good situation so eh. This one saw the least amount of change, despite the time spend on it, so that's a slightly damning bit of praise I guess.

 

[J. Finch]

...it's easy to look back at it now, and pretend that we were anything but a bunch of desperate, exhausted, bloodied men and women covered in the dirt and grime of the battlefield. Later on, they would call us heroes. Sing our songs, tell of how we turned a last stand into a stunning victory, and even stymied the Imperial front, if only for a day. But I remember their faces. All of them. Standing among them, what I saw wasn't elation, or joy, or relief. No, all I saw in the eyes of Welkin and the others was a cold sense of realization, tainted with the sickness of a gutting loss. Bruhl was where they played as children, where their families grew up, and where their parents were buried. It was all these things and more. Leaving it behind was, for them, the darkest moment of the war. They'd won the battle, but they'd lost their home.​

-Ch. 1: Red Skies, Days Gone By, A Memoir From the Gallian Front​

Chapter 4​

It didn't take long for everything to start moving once Alicia brought me to Welkin. He was already planning the retreat, and the last of the refugees had been long since gone by that point. The plan was simple enough, though nobody was particularly pleased with it. Least of all Welkin, I think, but there weren't many options left for us in the end. Despite what it might have seemed, they were desperately underprepared for something like this, and it showed once the pressure started to apply. The cracks were obvious in everybody, and the militia, as stalwart as they'd been, were barely holding together once the adrenaline wore off.

"I'm not any happier than you are, Roland, but I just don't see another option. The last of the trucks left with the refugees and we don't have time to try and scavenge more. The Imperials are already pressing back into the city with their recon forces and the main body won't be far behind after that." I heard Welkin sigh as he and three others were hunched over a map spread over an old crate as we wandered over. It didn't take long for our presence to be noticed, and we, more Alicia than I, were greeted with a round of waves and hellos.

"So I see you managed to convince him, Alicia." One of the men, older, with a greying beard, said as he looked in her direction, eliciting a smile and a nod from the girl.

"Yes. It took some convincing but he's on board. Jerry," She turned to me, "These are Captains Morgan, Pierce, and Sloan. Captains? This is Jerry Finch, the-"

"The Lion himself!" One of the men, younger, with a neatly trimmed mustache and twinkling green eyes said with a start, immediately coming over to grab my hand and shaking it vigorously. "I saw your work from the Last Line, lad! Fantastic! Simply fantastic! I'm Steven Sloan, and so very excited to be working beside you."

"Yes, yes, we've all heard the stories, Sloan. Still, nice to put a face to the tale, as it were. I'm Roland Pierce, and this is Victor Morgan." The bearded man said, offering his hand as well, which I took once I managed to pry mine from Steven. Victor came last, with a grin and a pat on the shoulder no less, as I shook his hand. "We're all glad to hear that you took Alicia up on our offer. Morale is low enough as it is and this might just be the thing we need to get some fire back into the troops."

"So I hear." I said, "But I have to warn you, I don't really have a lot of experience to offer here. Just putting that out there."

"It shouldn't be an issue. At least not enough of one to make me worry." Welkin chimed in, "But I know how you feel. This morning I was just a college student coming to visit his sister, and now here I am running the show. It's a bit daunting." He said with a laugh.

"Aye, I wouldn't worry terribly much about it either, lad. Though I'm sorry to say that the appointment is as political as it is tactical, in this case. Like I said before, the troops aren't in great shape right now. We're abandoning Bruhl and as much sense as that makes strategically, it's still our home." Sloan said to my right, giving me a genuinely rueful look. "Right now they need a hero, and after what you did during the Assault, well, you've become that hero. We're hoping you can inspire them enough to make it through this next bit."

"So I gathered. What's the plan then? How are we going to handle this?" I asked as Alicia slipped around me and stood next to Welkin at the table. The others followed, and so did I, to find myself looking at a crude map of Gallia.

"Essentially, we're going to push to Dillburg, about eighty kilometers to the west of here. At a forced march, it should take us roughly two days to make the trip, give or take, but it's going to be a hard push from here to there." Welkin said with a sigh, marking out the route with a pencil. "The road is relatively flat but we can't discount the possibility of ambush on the way, and we won't have time to stop to sleep. At least, not for the next day. We need to put space between us and the Imps at any cost. Right now they're reeling, but I've been hearing reports of tank divisions and heavy infantry formations up and down the Naggiar line. They're pushing hard and fast and the Home Guard regiments are barely holding." He stopped, giving each of us a complicated look. "If we take too long we're running the risk of getting cut off and encircled, and all of this would be for nothing."

"I'm beginning to see the issue then. This is gonna be rough on the militia, especially after today. Hell, this is gonna be rough on us. Are you sure you aren't pushing too hard? I mean, I see the urgency but speed doesn't do us any good if half the troops die of exhaustion along the way." I stated, more than asked, trying my best to memorize the road Welkin had marked out.

Morgan snorted at that. "Trust me, we've taken that into account, but we don't have much choice. Invasion evacuation protocol says that civilian refugees are to head to Asrein, here." He pointed at a town to the south of Dillburg. "The road splits ten kilos from Dilburg and skims the mountains here. It's safer, comparatively, but longer by half. Our job is twofold. We need to get to Dillburg to grab the military train to Vasel, so we can meet up with the other watch and militia units and head to Randgriz for reorganization and assignment. We also need to keep the Imps from taking that hard left and going after the refugees while the Home Guard regiments fight to stem the push up north."

"Which brings us to the next issue." Welkin pointed out, grabbing our attention, "The bad news is that we don't have transport outside of the Edelweiss here and despite what we've scavenged she's low on shells and ragnoline. If we do get into a fight what we'll be able to do would be... very limited." He looked each of us straight in the eye with a grim look on his face and finished with, "We're already on the clock here. We're low on fuel, food and morale and we have a hard couple of days ahead of us. Still, you all know your jobs. Get your men together, explain the situation and make sure they're ready to go in fifteen. We've already spent too much time here."

There was a chorus of "Yes Sir!" and some salutes, and the three other Watch leaders dispersed. As they left, Welkin then turned to me and Alicia, who had remained quiet in the interim, and, as I looked at her, I noticed she had a notepad in her hand, jotting things down. Smart of her. I made a note to do the same once I got a second.

"Alright, with that squared away, lets deal with what I need you to do. To start with, I am sorry that we're leaning on you like this, Jerry. I can't imagine you're thrilled by the whole dog and pony show but needs must." Welkin sighed, and I nodded.

"I know, and I'm not," I heard Alicia give a snort, and I swore she rolled her eyes at me, "But I get it. Alicia made that abundantly clear to me. I just need to know what to do. I'm guessing you have a plan for this?" At that, the de-facto Commander nodded, scratching at the back of his head.

"I do. I realize that you don't have a lot in the way of familiarity with how Gallian Watch units operate, but I'm hoping that it won't matter much in the long run. Any combat we see will be a fighting retreat, and if nothing else you've proven to have a talent for that. As it is, though, I'm going to assign you someone who should have some background in unit command as your second." Welkin then turned to Alicia, "Captain, could you find Juno for me? She should be with Fireteam Four, if memory serves."

"You got it Commander. Give me a second to hunt her up." The girl in the red scarf nodded, before sprinting away. I blinked. She was very, very fast when she wanted to be.

"Juno is an old friend of mine from school. Very smart, and very well trained. Were the situation different, she would be the one we went to, no offense." I just shrugged and motioned for him to continue. "Unfortunately, it isn't. That said, she'll handle the more technical stuff on your behalf. All you need to do is follow orders and send them down the line. Alicia is going to operate as my Senior Captain for the time being, which means I give orders to her, she gives orders to you, and you give them to Juno. She'll make sure they get done."

"Not a problem." I nodded, before giving a tired sigh. "What a goddamn day, eh?" I gave him a glance and a smirk. He massaged his eyes and nodded.

"It has been. This isn't how I saw my afternoon going, if I'm being totally honest. Not a total loss, though, since I finally got to see the Edelweiss in action." He looked over at the tank, and my gaze followed to see a petite, black haired girl working on something on the side. "And I managed to get my sister out in time, too."

"Yeah? That her?" I nodded over yonder at the dark-haired teen puttering around the tank in question. She was a lithe thing, small even compared to the relatively short Alicia and despite the shawl covering her figure, skinny as a rail. She was working with another couple of mechanics, arms deep in the heavy weapons platform and looking more like she belonged there than anywhere else. Welkin bobbed his head at me, following my gaze.

"That's her. She got the Edelweiss up and running as soon as she heard the first shots. She was just waiting for me when things went sideways. I'll have to introduce you two sometime. She's a real sweetheart." He said, and I gave a chuckle.

"I'd appreciate it. I owe her a thank you for saving my bacon at the last second there." I said as I spotted Alicia making her way back, a tall blonde with a shoulder-length no-nonsense haircut and pencil glasses following in her wake. Classically pretty, with high cheekbones and fine features, I guessed that this was Juno, and she looked the way Welkin made her sound. Stern, distant, but when she walked up I noticed her eyes drift to my compatriot and her eyes lit up.

"Welkin! Alicia said you were looking for me?" The girl, Juno, asked as soon as she got close. Welkin nodded, and turned to me.

"Jerry, this is Juno Coren. Juno, this is Jerry Finch, the Lion." He said, introducing us. I held out my hand, to which Juno quickly shook with the kind of perfunctory confidence you'd expect from a military woman. "He's going to be acting Captain of Fireteam Five until we get to the Dillburg evacuation point. Unfortunately he isn't very well acquainted with our standard OP, which is why I asked you here. I'd like you to act as his Sergeant."

"I don't have a problem with it Welkin, but it's a little... unusual, don't you think?" She said, putting a finger to her chin in a classical 'thinking pose'. "I'm guessing it's a morale thing, isn't it?"

Welkin gave a laugh. "See, I told you she was sharp." He said to me, before turning back. "But yeah. I figured it might help with morale to have our Watch being led by a genuine hero. The Lion here has something of a reputation already. I'm sure you've heard the stories."

"A few, yes. If nothing else it'll be heartening to see him marching right alongside the rest of them. He's not exactly what I would call a subtle figure." She shrugged with a grin as she looked at me. I admit, the stern gaze made me stand a little taller. "Very well then. Captain Finch, as it is, I look forward to working with you, Sir." She snapped a salute, which I responded, sloppily, in kind, though she blessedly didn't say anything about it.

"And I you, Sergeant Coren." I gave a salute to Welkin as well, and a wave to Alicia, who smiled and waved back in kind. "Commander, Senior Captain, I guess this is where we part ways then. For now."

"For now, Captain. For now. And remember, keep your chin up. The hard part's over. All that's left is a walk in the woods." Welkin chuckled, giving me a salute back, followed by a pat on the shoulder. "We're moving out in ten minutes. Grab any last minute supplies and get acquainted with your Fireteam. There's no looking back once we're on the hop."

"We'll be ready, Commander." I said, as he turned away, followed by Alicia. I turned to Juno, who I noticed was giving Welkin something of a willowy stare. I chuckled, nudging her on the shoulder, sending her into a start. Despite recovering quickly, I couldn't help but give her a grin as I motioned for her to lead on. "Shall we?"

"A-ah, yes Sir." She said, a light dusting of red on her cheeks. As we walked, she told me about them, about my new squad. All of them were militia, or more precisely reserve militia. Folks who were trained enough to know how to shoot and take orders, and had the fervor of patriots, but lacked the conditioning of the regulars. Good people, but from the sound of it this was going to be hell on them.

It didn't take long to get to the troops I'd been assigned, almost all of them middle aged and wizened, but their faces were hard. Like me, they'd seen a full day of fighting, of watching their homes and families put to the torch, and it showed. None of them so much as smiled as we approached, but they did give me a nod of respect as we went past. Five men and two women, who in another life were craftsmen and homemakers, now soldiers, all of them looking tired and worn. We did what we could to get them ready in what time we had. Spare canteens and rations were dolled out, magazines were loaded, grenades were stocked, but in the end it was barely enough. At least, between Juno and I, we hoped.

The sun was low by the time the last of our boots crunched over the dirt road out of Bruhl, the red sky framed by lines of smoke and ruined buildings. The image seared itself into my mind, the massive windmill at the center of the town slowly spinning in the twilight, it's broken fans little more than tattered canvas and burned, bone-like frames. Like something out of a nightmare, one more for the pile to be sure, but this one had a name. A face. A memory.

In the distance I could hear the occasional exchange of fire, the sound of an explosion, the roar of an engine and more, even after we crested the hill and Bruhl proper gave way to burned fields and churned grass. The Stig was heavy in my arms. Eight pounds of rolled steel and death, and over the course of the day I'd learned it's curves with a kind of sick intimacy, the strength of it's wrath, the roar of it's power. I'd seen death up close, breathed the last breaths of dying men, heard their screams, took their lives.

I kept my face schooled, though. Kept my thoughts from showing. We were, all of us, grim at the prospect of the march. Eighty kilometers, or just a pinch under fifty miles was doable in two days. We would march through the night, until dawn, and still more till noon. Welkin was right in that many struggled. More than once we passed collapsed bodies in blue, taken by exhaustion. Some of them tried to help the others, but it was too much. We piled them onto the Edelwiess like cordwood but of the seven fireteams, we lost one in ten.

Still they marched on. Each step was gasping and brutal as we clocked the first thirty miles by midday. It was only then that Welkin called to a halt, and I wouldn't be surprised if more than half of our number hit the ground to catch what little sleep they could. Those of us that were still awake, half-rations were doled out. We had enough to feed everyone, barely, but it would be the last meal we would get before pushing on the Dillburg.

My feet ached, my back was sore and my legs shaky by the time I was able to stop. I wasn't much of a Captain, but my job was to inspire. That meant hiding my exhaustion, best as I could. Keeping the discomfort inside, and doing what I could to help keep the rest going. It meant supporting those that fell, arm over shoulder, keeping them apace. It meant hauling their gear if they couldn't carry it, to lighten their load. It meant talking to them, keeping them distracted from the pain in their feet and the long road ahead, and more.

Juno was a godsend, a veritable encyclopedia of regulations and ideas that kept the grumbling directed at her and not the mission. She played her job as the hardass Sergeant to my inspiring Captain to a T, and it showed. The griping kept them from burning up without letting them burn out, and somehow between the two of us we'd gotten them to the halfway point intact.

I sighed as I found a felled tree to sit on, a dry, thick oak that looked like it had been split by a cannon shell some time ago, but made for a good chair nonetheless. My own joints were aching, but oddly enough my bad knee wasn't digging at me. Small mercies, I guess, but I'll take it. I had some time to relax a bit, anyway. Welkin gave us three hours. Not a lot of time, but enough to eat and maybe get a nap. Generous, considering the fact that Imperial troops could be closing in from Bruhl as we spoke, but hopefully the pickets would be enough to get us some kind of warning if that was the case.

Either way, there wasn't much I could do now, so instead I busied myself with cleaning my weapon while I waited my turn at the mealpot. I read somewhere that a good officer always made sure his men ate first, and they had the same fare, so I held off while they grabbed what they could at half-rats.

The woods were peaceful, and despite the bloody day yesterday, the sun was shining, and they skies were blue. I could hear the chirping of birds and the chittering of small animals in the distance, my seat far enough away from the low chatter that I could enjoy a bit of nature. It was… it was nice, being able to forget the violence, just for a second. I felt my eyes droop shut. Just a moment.

Just one.

My hand shot to my rifle when I felt the shaking on my shoulder. My mind shot from nothing to panicked awakeness in an instant, but all that met me was a small meep. I heard some boots on the ground, but before I could really do anything, my eyes focussed in. Standing a bit back was a familiar, dark haired girl in a shawl, carrying two open ration cans with camp spoons in them, a look of surprise on her face.

"Wha-" I began, still a bit addled, only for her to give me a kindly smile and giggle.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!" She said, holding out one of the small tins. "I just noticed you over here and figured you might want something to eat before we head back out." She had a nice smile, and warm eyes, but her hands, I noticed when I took the can from her, were the hands of someone who worked for a living. Tough calluses and a bit of oil under her nails attested to that, but it gave her a kind of rustic charm that teased a smile back from me as I thanked her for the food.

"I appreciate it. You're Welkin's sister, aren't you? Uhm…" The name escaped me for a moment, but she came to the rescue. Again.

"Isara. Isara Gunther. Pleased to meet you Mister Lion." She said with a bright, almost poppy tone, her face lit up like a Christmas tree. I chuckled at that, and motioned for her to join me on the log. She took me up on it, plopping down with her own warm tin of… some kind of meat goo and crackers, now that I looked at it.

"Jerry Finch. Or Mister Lion, if you want. I could live with that." I said with a grin and a shake of my head. "Glad to finally meet the pilot of that metal beast over there. You really saved my bacon at the end. Thanks for that." I said, before tucking into my lunch. It was better than it looked, but hunger was always the best spice, right?

"You're very welcome, Mister Lion, though Welkin was the gunner. It was a team effort." She shrugged, almost carelessly. I just nodded, shoveling another spoon of what I assume was some kind of potted meat in gravy. It was hot, and the fact that I hadn't eaten in days, actually, was enough to improve my mood by leaps.

"Team effort all the same, thanks." The food disappeared quickly, but it was filling. Rich was a good word for it, and the company was pretty decent too. "So how are you holding up?" I asked as I set my can aside, watching as everyone slowly started to rouse.

"Not terribly. Not to complain, given how rough it's been on you all." She said, humble as pie, but I gave her a nudge.

"But…?"

"It's just… it's a little messy in there right now. And sticky. And stinky. I don't know if you heard but we… kind of had a birth in the tank. It wasn't the cleanest thing, and, uhm, I'm not exactly a midwife." She mumbled out. "We tried to wash it out but we didn't really have time to be thorough. It's not terrible!" She blurted out. "Well, not comparatively."

"Hah. I heard about that, actually. Right there in the tank, in the middle of a firefight?" I asked, and she nodded, "And there weren't any issues?" She shook her head. "Damn."

"Mmm, damn indeed." She chuckled, and for some reason the word sounded wrong coming from the girl. It was adorable, but also kind of made me want to tell her not to repeat that in front of her brother.

"Still, you have my sympathies. Tough the march may be, at least the air is fresh out here." I said with a wistful sigh. The break was about over, and despite the protests in my legs, I forced myself up. Isara stood as well, and for a moment it dawned on me just how small she was, comparatively. She barely hit my chest at full height, and that was with clunky combat boots giving her an extra inch or two.

"Mmm. I kind of envy Welkin. He gets to sit out the hatch." She groused, good naturedly, her pouting tone enough to get a chuckle out of me. "And none of that, Mister Lion. It really does smell terrible there."

I admit I honestly couldn't help myself then, and before I knew it I'd plopped my hand down on her head. "Well, we all appreciate your sacrifice, Isara. You're doing a good job, and we're all counting on you to do your best." I said, a wry grin on my lips as she shooed my hand away after a moment, her cheeks dusted red.

"I… I will!" She said with a hurried earnestness that I couldn't help adore, scrappy lil cinnamon roll she was, with her hand all balled up in a fist and a twinkle in her eye. "I won't let you down, Mister Lion!" She said, scampering off not a moment later. I watched her for a moment as she passed Welkin. He seemed to say something to the girl that got him a whack to the shoulder for his trouble, and it reminded me of my brother just a bit. It was easy to forget just how young so many of the people here are, and how closely knit.

"Sir?" Juno's voice pulled me out of my thoughts, and I turned to greet her.

"Sergeant." I greeted with a nod, giving the woman a good once over. Like me, she wasn't in any fit state, but the food and rest did her some good. Did us all some good, if I were being honest, but despite the grime and sweat, her eyes were sharp. "What have you got for me?"

"The squad's getting ready now, and I took the liberty of passing out what little was left of our ration allotment. I figured we won't need what's left once we get under way. Darius's ankle is still tender, but a dose of Ragnaid helped get him back on his feet. Melissa and Yvette are struggling, but that's not surprising. All in all, I'd give us sixty, maybe seventy percent field effectiveness right now." She rattled off, and I hummed at that.

"See about getting them an extra dose of Ragnaid. It might put us in a bit of a pinch if we have an encounter but if I had to choose between having meds and losing troops to fatigue or the opposite, I'd rather they be on their feet to shoot back." I said, checking my own dwindling supplies, almost more from handing out extras than me using them myself at this point. "That said, make sure they each keep back at least one for emergencies. No excuses. I saw more than a few popping them to stave off exhaustion but too much will bring issues all it's own."

"Yes Sir!" She snapped a salute, and I returned it the best I could. "Will that be all Captain?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Just keep on the squad, and don't let anyone lag behind. We don't know how far back the Imps are, or how long those who stayed behind managed to keep them tied up." I said, the exhaustion nipping at my heels barely managed by the short nap and the meal with Isara. "Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst."

"Sir." Juno said, turning on her heel with the dismissal. I sighed, and shrugged the familiar weight of my rifle over my shoulder, pulling the hammer back to see the gleaming chambered brass inside. Locked and loaded, I closed my eyes and took a breath, forcing down the sapping exhaustion that seemed to press down on me as I put one foot in front of the other.

The sun was high in the sky as the exhausted militia from Bruhl trudged their way up the last few miles of road, the Edelwiess rumbling ahead as Welkin say aloft the commander-s perch, a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck as he surveilled the woods around them, the dry, hard packed dirt of the country road into Dillburg fortunately dry despite the cloying humidity in the air, the hinted whispers of rain hanging over us as the clouds thickened, and despite the shining sun we could all feel the subtle change in the wind.

There was a stolid, smokey taste to the soft northern front, the cool air almost choking at times with the thick flavor of ash and fire. It wasn't a good sign, coming from in front of us, but we all knew that the army was fighting to the north, holding a collapsing line so the last few regiments of militia could get to Dillburg, us included. It would be a futile effort if we didn't get to our rally point in the next few hours, which was a tight deadline for a fresh faced group of young men and women. These were not them, the truth as harsh as it was absolute, given the number of older folks being almost dragged along by their comrades, weapons and scant armor hanging loose on their aged bodies. Others simply slowed to a crawl, barely able to keep on their feet, much less march in formation.

It was heartbreaking to watch, exhausted as I was, I did my best to help those who couldn't keep going. More than a few of the older folks just… couldn't make that last push, even with the rest we'd taken, they were at their limits. Which, speaking of, I found myself jogging back to a blue lump in the road, another one taken beyond their ability, and not the only one who'd fallen off to the side from their legs giving out. He was, again, one of the older troopers, a man with probably three decades on me, if not more. Even before I reached him, I could see he was barely holding on.

"Come on, up you get!" I gritted through my clenched jaw as the older man groaned, his legs limp as I threw his arm over my shoulders and all but dragged him to the tank, another body to stack like cordwood on the sloped armor of the Edelwiess. He wasn't the first, or the fifth, of the fifteenth, and he wasn't the last either. We hadn't lost anyone yet to exhaustion, somehow, but the forced march was taking its toll.

"Put him up with the others, Finch." Welkin said as he caught sight of me, rapping his hand on the tank's lip before calling down, "Isara! Full stop! We need to load another!"

I could hear the "You got it Welks!" from inside as the massive machine came to a halt, and the man himself hopped out to help me drag the boneless elder up onto the chassis, where a few other barely conscious militia grabbed hold of him. We'd long since filled out the body itself, and had taken to loading anyone we could fit onto the outer frame. It would have looked ridiculous if things weren't so desperate.

Of the hundred or so we'd set out with, only a third were moving with any kind of haste. The rest were straggling, bodies breaking under the relentless weight of exhaustion. The march was bleeding us dry, and the ragged column crawled toward the last bend before Dillburg.

Welkin's calm command post sat atop the Edelweiss, his binoculars pressed against his eyes as he scanned the dense tree line ahead. Despite the steady voice he kept for the militia, I could see the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight flicker of unease in his gaze.

Alicia stood nearby, her brows furrowed as she watched the horizon. "This spot," she murmured, voice low and tense, "if the Imps wanted to hit us, this is where they'd strike."

Isara shifted her weight nervously beside her, biting her lip. "It feels wrong. Too quiet."

Welkin lowered the binoculars and exhaled sharply. "I don't like it either. The last stretch is ripe for an ambush—dense woods on both sides, perfect kill zone." His eyes met Alicia's, then Isara's, and finally landed on me.

"Jerry," he said, voice firm but edged with reluctance, "I need you to scout ahead. Just half a mile. See what we're walking into."

My stomach clenched, and for a heartbeat, I considered pushing back. Why me? I wondered. I'm no scout. But looking out over the militia, the truth was clear. Most of them were wiped out—spent bodies shuffling forward only because there was no other choice. It wasn't that no one would go with me. They physically couldn't.

Faces pale, legs trembling, weapons dragging uselessly by their sides—I saw no one in any condition to move fast or fight smart.

If I don't do this, who will? I thought, biting down the dread curling in my gut.

I looked back at the Edelweiss, where Welkin's expression was set with grim determination. I knew he wouldn't ask unless it was necessary. He was competent and cautious, never one to throw lives away without cause.

Welkin's eyes locked onto mine, his expression hard but weighed down with regret. "Jerry," he said, voice low but steady, "I don't want to send you out alone. Hell, I wish there was another choice. But you've shown you can handle yourself when it counts. It's dangerous ahead—if we wait, we risk losing everything. I need you to scout ahead. Can I count on you?"

I met his gaze, feeling the heavy weight behind his words. It wasn't just an order—it was a burden he wished he didn't have to pass on. I nodded once, firmly. "You can."

Alicia's eyes flicked to mine, a silent wish of luck passing between us. Isara bit her lip again, but she gave me a small, encouraging nod.

Welkin placed a hand on my shoulder, firm and reassuring. "Be careful. We'll be ready if you need support."

I squared my shoulders and turned toward the shadowed tree line, the weight of every exhausted soldier behind me pressing down—but also pushing me forward. Reaching down, I gripped my rifle and with a practiced flick, cocked the bolt. The satisfying click echoed faintly in my ears, steady and real—a small comfort in the tense silence.

I reached for my canteen, tipping the last few drops to wet my lips. The cold water was barely enough to wash away the dust in my throat, but it was enough. Enough to remind me that I was still alive, still capable.

I slipped the canteen back into my pack, took a steady breath, and stepped into the underbrush. The thick trees swallowed me up, the faint rustle of leaves my only companion now. Every muscle tensed, senses sharpened, and mind ready for whatever was waiting ahead.

I slipped off the road and into the brush, the weight of the MOLL-E carrier settling heavy on my chest, the familiar bulk of magazines and grenades shifting slightly with each step. The blue shirt beneath clung damp and grimy, my cargo pants crusted with mud; nothing fancy, nothing polished. Just me, moving forward.

I wasn't some super soldier. Hell, I didn't even think of myself as a soldier at all. This was just a scouting run, one I didn't want but knew had to be done. My steps were slow, deliberate… more caution than confidence. Instinct took over, a quiet hum in the back of my skull whispering where to place my feet, how to move through the brush without sounding like a goddamn ox. I wasn't graceful. But I was careful.

Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was just my survival instinct turned up to eleven. Either way, I stayed in the shadows, slipping between trees like something feral and unseen. I didn't pretend to be better than the rest. I just knew that right now, out here in this hush of green and dread, I had to be better than nothing.

The woods were wrong. Too still. Too quiet. No birdsong, no skittering in the leaves, just the kind of silence that presses down on your lungs and makes you feel like breathing's a mistake.
Then came the signs.

A snapped branch. Fresh tire ruts gouged into the earth. Drag marks. Twigs bent back and broken in ways nature didn't do on her own. These weren't old. These weren't innocent. They were fresh, new enough that the soil still smelled of torn roots and gasoline. I slowed further, crouching low, ears straining.

Then I saw them.

Dark shapes moving between the trees. Men in red armor and helmets, shifting through the woods with quieter than I ever imagined someone in heavy armor could be. Not rushing, but not relaxed either. Focused. Intent. They weren't just hiding. They were working.

Two squads. At least a dozen. Unfolding quietly like a pocket knife. Machine gun nests went up like they'd rehearsed it, sandbags dragged into place. Someone spooling wire; probably charges laid out along the road. Others hoisted tubes onto their shoulders, antitank lances peeking from under camo netting.

It was an ambush. The worst kind… cold, careful, and surgical. And Welkin… he was parked right in the center of it.

My breath caught. I pressed myself deeper into the brush, heart pounding like a trapped animal. No time. No time to run back. If I turned and bolted, I'd be halfway there before bullets started flying and by then it'd be too late. They'd be cut to pieces.

I closed my eyes. Just for a second.

You don't have time to be scared, I told myself. But I was. I was terrified.

My fingers hovered near the stick grenades on my vest, the knife strapped to my shoulder, the pistol at my hip; none of it would be enough. Not against this. Not head-on. I needed something more. Something louder. Bigger.

Then I saw them.

Two Imperial half-tracks. Parked just outside the treeline, tucked behind foliage, their engines off but crew nearby. Both had mounted heavy machine guns in armored turrets, the barrels resting idle. Not aimed yet, not active. But they would be. Soon.

A stupid, insane thought slipped into my head before I could push it out:
If I could get into one of those... I'd stand a chance.

It sounded impossible. But so did living through the last few days.

I shifted my weight, checked my weapon, eyes locked on the half-tracks like they were the only way out of a burning room. The enemy was distracted. Focused on their setup. No one was watching the flanks. Yet.

This wasn't about bravery. This was about time. About doing something before it was too late.
I swallowed dryly, hand brushing the Ragnaid capsules in my pouch. My lips were cracked, my mouth dry. I pulled the canteen from my hip and tilted it, only to taste air. Not a drop left to ease my parched throat. It didn't matter. All I had, all I could do, was my best. For whatever little that meant.

I tightened the strap of the StG,, my hands trembling ever so slightly as I crouched, and slowly, silently moved toward the edge of the brush. The knife slid out smoothly as the plan formed in my mind's eye, and with patient steps I moved in the brush towards my targets.

Toward the half-tracks.

Toward the fight.

I counted the steps. Not out loud. Not even consciously. It was instinct, or fear. That low hum behind the ribs, somewhere between nausea and clarity. Every inch forward felt like a challenge. Every breath a question.

The sun hung low but strong, casting everything in amber and gold. The light lanced through the canopy in shafts, mottling the underbrush with shifting patches of brightness and shadow. It should've felt warm, alive. Instead, it made the woods feel like a trap, each golden ray a spotlight.

These weren't green troops, not the ones I could hear ahead. No idle chatter. No lit cigarettes. Just low voices in clipped tones and the quiet sounds of precision. Sandbags being dropped into place. Tripwires stretched taut. Someone muttered in Imperial with the steady rhythm of a checklist.

I crept through the underbrush. It wasn't silence that warned me; it was the wrong kind of quiet. Trained quiet. Predatory. I could feel the trap tightening around Welkin like a noose.
The first half-track was nestled under a wide oak, dappled in shifting leaves. The sun caught on its metal hull, glinting just enough to betray its outline. The gun mount tracked the road, motionless but primed. The second vehicle mirrored it forty meters down, covering a different angle.

A sentry stood by the back of the nearest half-track. His eyes swept left and right with lazy precision, his rifle gripped firm. His stance said this wasn't his first ambush.

I crept closer, counting breaths. Then I moved.

The knife slid across his throat before he even registered me. His eyes flared wide, not in pain, but surprise, as if the world had betrayed him. His blood steamed in the summer heat. I caught his weight and eased him into the brush, quiet as the wind.

One.

The second was crouched at the rear hatch, pulling lances out of a crate. I heard him whisper something to a comrade deeper in the trees. Focused. Careful. Helmet tight. Gloves gripping each warhead like a porcelain vase.

I slid behind him and struck, the knife angled up under the arm and into the lungs. He stiffened, one hand gripping the crate, then sagged. I kept my arm tight across his chest until he stopped moving.

Two.

This isn't skill. This is necessity. This is luck.

But the edge of luck is narrow, and I'm always a step from bleeding off it.

The third was farther out, a spotter, crouched with binoculars aimed at the road. His back to me. Watching Welkin. Waiting for the right moment to unleash hell.

I crept behind him, the late sun warm on my neck, the light casting both our shadows long against the trees. The knife slid into the base of his skull before he even flinched. He crumpled like he'd just fallen asleep.

Three.

They'll miss him soon.

I slid toward the half-track. My fingers found the hatch handle. Still unlocked. My luck hadn't run out. Yet.

Inside was cramped and hot, the air stale and reeking of oil. I moved quietly, easing up into the turret. My fingers wrapped around the grips of the mounted HMG. The steel felt cool despite the sun above, a snake waiting to strike.

Then a jolt.

The driver shifted. I held still.

A muttered curse. The man turned halfway to check behind; just as I swung the turret toward him.

He looked up, confusion giving way to horror.

I pulled the trigger.

The interior lit up with smoke and red mist. He ceased to be a person in less than a second. Gore splashed the windshield and dashboard. I blinked through it and rotated the gun outward.
Shouts broke the calm. Not panic, not yet, but confusion. One barked an order. Another hissed for silence. They moved with discipline, ducking, flanking, sweeping the treeline.
But they didn't know where I was.

Too late.

I opened fire.

The turret thundered, spitting fire and death. The late sun backlit the tracers, streaks of amber and gold ripping the ambush apart. Men dove behind logs, some firing blindly, others screaming orders in Imperial.

One ran for the second half-track. I cut him down mid-stride. Another turned to fire a rocket, but I caught him before he could line up the shot. The HMG shredded sandbags and flesh alike, the recoil hammering through my arms as I laid into the clearing.

The forest lit up, not with shadows, but with smoke, brass, and blood.

By the time the barrel began to glow, only silence remained.


000


The first thunderclap of gunfire cracked across the hills like lightning.

Welkin's head snapped up. A second burst followed, then another, long, sustained, heavy. Not rifles. Not even light machine guns.

That was a mounted weapon. Big. Loud. Final.

"Shit," he hissed, already moving. He knew what that meant. Jerry had engaged… or more likely, had been forced to.

"Alicia! You, Juno, Cael, Moroz, with me!" His voice was sharp, clipped. No time to explain. No time for feelings.

Alicia was already running, weapon in hand, eyes locked on the distant tree line. The three militia members stumbled forward behind her, jittery with adrenaline, still more fear than training, but moving all the same.

"Jerry's in trouble!" she shouted without needing to.

Welkin's voice followed close behind. "Support him however you can! Go!"

Then he turned, jaw tight, eyes scanning the forest like he could see through the trees. "Isara," he said quietly, then louder: "Start the Edelweiss. Now."

She didn't argue. She knew the sound of his voice when it was at war with itself.

As the engine roared to life, Welkin climbed onto the tank's side, gripping the steel hatch with white knuckles.

You sent him in there alone. Alone.

He clenched his jaw.

You knew the odds. You knew what you were asking.

The tank rolled forward, trees blurring past in a wash of green and gold, the late summer sun casting long shadows. Every jolt of the terrain made his stomach tighten. He gripped the hatch harder, the metal biting into his palm, but he didn't let go.

I gave an order, he told himself. There was no choice. No time. He was the only one who could do it.

But none of that made it right.

He forced the mask on; the commander's face, the man who always had a plan. But underneath, the guilt smoldered.

He trusted you. You told him he could do it. And now…


000


Alicia tore into the woods like a shell fired from a barrel, but every step deeper slowed her; not from exhaustion, but from dread.

It started subtly. A dark stain on a tree. A bloodied glove clinging to a bush. Then she saw the first body, and the full weight of what happened here began to take shape.

The soldier's face was gone… just gone. A crater punched through his helmet and skull, the edges of the wound still smoking. Nearby, another lay sprawled over the remains of a sandbag nest, his limbs twisted unnaturally, chest cavity torn open in a shower of gore and bone.

Alicia pressed on, but her steps grew slower, more cautious. Her breath rasped in her chest. Her hands trembled.

There was… order to the carnage. Not chaos. Not panic. A calculated slaughter. Bodies positioned where they'd been gunned down mid-action. Shell casings sprinkled like breadcrumbs. Shredded bark where bullets had passed clean through wood and man alike.
It was... almost beautiful. Like a grotesque sculpture of war. A canvas painted in arterial red.
And that terrified her.

Because she knew who had done this.

He's not a killer, she told herself. He's just trying to help. He didn't want this. I pushed him into it…

Her own voice came back to her like a ghost, whispering from hours ago.

"You could be a symbol, Jerry. Someone who matters."

Is this what a symbol looks like?

The trail of blood and ruin led her on, past torn bodies, dismembered limbs, helmets knocked clean off heads by the force of impacts. One man had died mid-crawl, reaching for a rifle he never got to fire. Another had fallen against a tree, slumped like a broken doll, entrails pooling beneath him.

Then came the first half-track.

The vehicle was still, partially obscured by brush. One of its doors hung open, a bloody handprint streaking down the side.

And above it, motionless, was Jerry.

He sat slouched in the open turret, one arm resting against the hot barrel of the mounted HMG, the other hanging limply over his knee. Blood soaked his chest, dark against the already-filthy blue t-shirt under his MOLL-E plate carrier. His arms were red to the elbows. Gore stained his face, matted his hair, dripped from his jaw in slow, sticky strands.

He looked at her.

Slowly. Mechanically. Like turning his head took every ounce of willpower.

His eyes were glass. Cold. Dead.

No panic. No shaking. No begging.

Just silence.

Alicia felt her legs weaken beneath her. She almost dropped her weapon.

This wasn't shock. It wasn't even trauma. It was emptiness. The kind that settled in deep. The kind that didn't let go.

And it scared her more than anything she'd seen on this battlefield.

Behind her, the others crashed through the brush. Juno skidded to a stop, staring.

"By the Valkyrur…" she murmured.

Cael didn't even make it two steps before he dropped to his knees, vomiting.

Moroz turned away, covering his mouth, eyes wide and unblinking.

The Edelweiss finally broke through the treeline, its treads parting the brush like waves. The tank growled as it pushed into the clearing, the smell of burning oil and hot metal mixing with blood and gunpowder.

Welkin stood tall on the turret, scanning the scene, and stopped cold when his eyes found Jerry.

He didn't speak. Didn't move.

And for just a second, the commander's mask slipped. Grief bled through.

But there was no time for tears. No time for guilt.

There were only bodies, and a man sitting among them, still and silent, as if the weight of it all hadn't crushed him… only hollowed him out.


000


They called it cleanup, but the word felt hollow in the face of what was left behind.

The battlefield was still. The woods remained mute. No birds sang, and the light breeze carried only the smell of cordite, blood, and churned earth. The late afternoon sun painted the carnage in a soft, golden glow. A cruel contrast to the brutality it illuminated. Long shadows stretched across twisted bodies and shattered weapons. Some of the soldiers had been torn apart by heavy rounds, others were slumped like broken dolls over sandbags or branches, blood soaking into the soil.

Alicia helped Jerry down from the turret.

He didn't resist. Didn't protest. He moved the way something does after it's been uncoiled, not broken, but emptied. His feet hit the ground with a dull thud, his boots crunching in the gravel and shell casings. His clothes were stained to the seams, soaked through with blood and blackened gore. The blue t-shirt beneath his MOLL-E carrier clung to his body, crusted stiff. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and took his arm gently.

"Let's sit you down," she said, voice soft, almost lost to the wind.

He didn't look at her. Just nodded. She led him to the Edelweiss, sat him against its cool chassis, the painted steel smeared where he touched it. She dropped her rifle and rummaged in her belt pouch for her canteen, shaking it. A few sloshes left. Just enough. She unscrewed the cap and pulled a cloth from her hip pouch, dampening it and kneeling beside him.

"This might sting a little," she whispered, though she doubted he'd notice.

She tried to clean his face first. The blood thick in his hairline, drying in streaks that ran down his jaw. His eyes were distant, barely blinking, focused on something far beyond her.

"You saved everyone, Jerry," she said quietly, wringing the cloth and wiping the side of his neck. "We'd be dead without you. I'd be dead."

Still, he said nothing.

"I… I shouldn't have said those things before," she continued. "About you needing to be something. A hero. That wasn't fair."

She scrubbed gently at a smear on his chin. Her voice cracked. "This... this is what that looks like, isn't it?"

No answer.

"Valkyrur help me," she breathed. "I didn't know."

Behind them, Isara rounded the Edelweiss with a rag in one hand and a wrench in the other. She stopped in her tracks the moment she saw Jerry, her breath catching audibly.

Her mouth opened slightly, like she meant to say something. Then she closed it.

She moved slowly forward and, without a word, leaned down and wrapped her arms around Jerry. A quick, trembling hug. Not too tight. Just enough to let him know she was there. Her hands trembled against his bloodied back, and she stepped away as fast as she'd come, wiping at her face with her sleeve as she turned back toward the tank.

Behind the quiet gestures, the rest of the militia worked. Or tried to.

They moved through the aftermath in loose groups, their voices barely more than whispers. Every one of them glanced toward Jerry at some point, even if only for a moment.

"...he did it all himself…" someone muttered.

"...slit their throats like it was nothing…"

"...walked into the middle of it and just— turned that thing loose on them..."

"...he's not even blinking…"

"...he's not even human…"

"...The Lion of Bruhl…"

"...he didn't feel a thing…"

There was reverence in their voices… but also unease. Worship, wrapped in fear.

They had expected courage. Not… this.

Welkin stood a little apart from it all, walking the edge of the kill zone like a man taking account of his own failures. His gloved hand traced along the scorched frame of the second half-track. Blood smeared in places. Bullet casings everywhere.

He stopped near a body; an Imperial soldier whose ribcage had been partially opened by a .50 cal burst. Welkin crouched, examining the jagged exit wound in silence. Then, slowly, he stood and looked toward the Edelweiss.

Toward Jerry.

He looked so small sitting there.

You did this, Welkin thought. You put the burden in his hands.

He could feel the mask of command slipping back into place, but not before something cracked underneath. The guilt was a quiet scream in his chest. He'd made the call. Sent Jerry forward. Put the weight of an army on the back of a single man because there were no other options.

But knowing it had been the right call didn't make it feel any less like a betrayal.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned back to the tank, barking orders to keep the others moving.

Later, the militia gathered around the captured half-tracks. Someone brought up the idea of drawing straws. Too many didn't want to ride in the blood-slicked one. Not after what had happened in it.

They circled up behind the Edelweiss. Whispered, shuffled. No one said Jerry's name, but they all looked toward him, just once.

He didn't hear them.

Or they thought he didn't.

But he knew.

He knew they were scared now, and not of the Imperials.

It was one thing to be a hero who pulled off the impossible.

It was another to do it so well that no one could look at you the same way again.

So Jerry sat there, quiet and still, watching the long shadows stretch across the ground, the blood on his hands drying into his palms. The cloth Alicia had used was still clutched in her hand. Her eyes kept darting toward him, lips parted like she wanted to say something more, but she didn't.

No one did.

And in the silence that followed, the myth of the Lion grew.

Not from stories told.

But from the things no one dared say out loud.


000


The railyard was a controlled chaos of bodies, steel, and sweat. The conscripted heartbeat of a nation bracing for war. Militia units from across Gallia poured in like tributaries to a rising tide. Young men barely out of boyhood stood alongside old hunters and hardened dockhands; women in field gear carried rifles with shaking hands and steeled eyes. No uniformity in look, but a shared, grim determination bound them all. The trains screamed and hissed under the weight of tanks, supply crates, and troops, each one headed east, toward Randgriz, and the Academy.

The survivors from Bruhl arrived quietly. Not triumphant, but intact.

Many were dehydrated, faces pale from exhaustion, some stumbling straight into the arms of the waiting medics. A few were ushered onto medical cars or hurried toward the overwhelmed hospital barracks. For others, the destination was still unclear. But for five among them- Welkin, Isara, Alicia, Juno, and Jerry? The fighting was done, for now. This battle had ended.
In a passenger car set aside for officers, the group sat in silence. Not because there was nothing to say, but because words could do so little.

Welkin rested in the corner, his face half-shadowed by the dull golden lamplight. He looked at Jerry, freshly scrubbed but still marked by what had happened. The blood was gone, but the silence remained. Welkin wanted to say something… an apology, maybe, but the words didn't come. Not yet. This wasn't the moment. Instead, he sat with Isara beside him, quietly chatting with Alicia and Juno, their voices low, almost conspiratorial, like laughter was still allowed if it was soft enough.

Jerry sat opposite, his eyes out the window, watching the last rays of light slip away behind the hills. His posture was relaxed in a way that suggested exhaustion more than ease. He didn't speak. Just listened to the dull clatter of the platform outside, and the distant bark of officers trying to wrangle the next trainload of war-bound souls.

He wasn't thinking of glory, or medals, or recognition. He was thinking about the man crouched by the half-track who never saw the knife coming. About the second one, who bled out gasping and clawing at armor that didn't matter. About the third, the driver, who had time to scream before being obliterated in a mist of red. He remembered the heat of the turret, the cold of the metal beneath his hands. The way the weapon bucked like an animal as it spat death.

The things he should have felt; rage, guilt, triumph… were just... distant. There was only that lingering emptiness. The realization that this wasn't the climax of a story, it was the start of one.

And that those stories lied about what being a hero felt like.

He missed his bed. His apartment. The faint glow of city lights through drawn blinds. He missed the quiet, forgettable mundanity of it all, and how, back then, he'd never even realized how sacred it was to not know what it meant to kill someone.

The train let out a low groan and hissed against the rails, wheels turning slowly, then with increasing rhythm. The station lights slid away into the warm summer night, swallowed by the darkness of the Gallian countryside. The future awaited. The war rolled forward.

And in that dim booth, five soldiers sat. Changed. Bound together not by victory, but survival.

The legend of the Lion had begun.

But for Jerry, sitting in that train car, watching the world pass by, he began to wonder if it was worth it. If all the blood and pain and killing, of the hot burn of lead and the cold calculus of the blade, and all the suffering yet to come, was worth who he was. Was worth sacrificing again and again on the altar now named The Lion of Bruhl.

He had no answers, as the train sped on, careless of the concerns of simple men such as he.

So it was.

So it would be.




AN: This is special for all of you on QQ! This fic was originally incepted in 2015. It's been a decade in the making getting to this one so that's what the following note is about. Writing is hard, go figure right?

AN: Soooo... kept you waiting, huh? I could make a lot of excuses, work, medical issues, so on and so forth, but honestly a lot of it came down to just kind of moving on from fanfiction for a while. I've really struggled with this fic, having rewritten it as a whole over the last several years and having made no less than fifty full rewrites of this fourth chapter before largely giving up on it. For those of you wondering if this is a glorious comeback? It is, a little. Life has kind of moved on and I've moved with it, but I'm finding myself longing to get back into this particular story for a while. I love Valkyria Chronicles as a whole and just the setting and world have often slipped into my thoughts as a place to examine my characters in. Some things, like the themes, the gritty setting, and the passion I've had for the people in it are the same. The plot, I think, is going to go in a different direction though, from what was originally envisioned. I hope you all enjoy the last leg of this particular journey though. It only took us a decade to get here, and yes, I realize that this is, for lack of better term, all accomplished in literally the first five minutes of the game. God help us all.

Anyway I hope you enjoy this one. I wanted to give you something more than a filler chapter like Chapter 3 was, so here you are. I hope you enjoy it more than I did writing it. Because this one literally fought me for years.

Oh, as a side note, Chapters 1-3 got some pretty hefty rewrites as well if you need to catch back up. Not surprising after all these years. Anyway, have fun!

 

[J. Finch]

…the days following the escape from Dillburg were spent in quiet contemplation. We'd all suffered to get to this point, each and every one of us. Sacrificed. Bled. Wept. But the war didn't care about any of that. Every man or woman who came aboard those trains carried stories of an Imperial blitz that tore across the reaches of northern Gallia. Word of atrocities both big and small, of mass executions for the lucky ones. Slavery and depredation for the rest. The Empire wasn't shy about how they intended to persecute this war, so long as there wasn't a man, woman or child willing to stand against them at the end of it.​

-Ch. 1: Red Skies, Days Gone By, A Memoir From the Gallian Front​

Chapter Five​

I'd started counting the cracks in the ceiling above my cot. Twenty-three. Not counting the ones near the air duct… those weren't really cracks, just shoddy Gallian plasterwork trying to pass for military standard. The barracks were quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that feels like it's waiting to pounce. A few bunks down, someone coughed in their sleep. Probably Nils again. Poor bastard caught trench lung back in '24 and it never really let him go. That, or he was allergic to everything, including discipline.

Me? I had my own room. They said it was an honor.

It didn't feel like one.

The space was barely bigger than a janitor's closet. The walls were the color of wet cigarette ash, the mattress too thin, the blanket scratchy like sandpaper against skin. But it had a door, and that meant solitude. Privacy. Isolation. It meant silence… and it meant staring at the ceiling until the thoughts in my head got too loud to ignore.

I hadn't seen Welkin, Alicia, or Isara since the day we arrived in Dillburg. We were split up like livestock in a sorting pen, some to artillery, some to recon, the rest to the meat grinder. The Gallian Army called it intake. I called it being filed away like a piece of gear. My assignment came with salutes and whispers, wide-eyed stares from people who didn't know me but knew the title.

The Lion of Bruhl.

What a goddamn joke.

I wasn't a lion. I was just a guy with a rifle, a bad haircut, and just enough training not to get myself killed. But stories spread like oil on water. The ambush. The half-tracks. The blood. They turned it into legend before I even had a chance to wash my hands clean.

Not that the blood ever really came off.

The only thing that kept me from clawing at the walls was the daily rhythm of getting screamed at. Senior Drill Instructor Calvaro Rodriguez; a tower of a man with a voice like broken gravel and an eyepatch that looked like it belonged on a flagpole. Blue-white-blue stripes, thin red trim. The colors of Gallia, stitched right into his face.

He was missing his left eye, and when he looked at you with the right one, it felt like he saw everything you tried to hide. Every doubt. Every ugly memory.

He called me "Private Lion." Not "Mercenary". Not "Recruit." Just that. Every time. I think it was his way of humbling me. If it was, I didn't mind. Felt better than the hushed awe everyone else whispered when they thought I couldn't hear.

Rodriguez had us running drills daily, rain or shine. Mostly shine. Spring here was brutal. By noon, the dirt turned to dust, clinging to your sweat, getting in your teeth. Every drill felt like a fever dream. Rifle training. Bayonet. Urban combat simulations in the skeletons of buildings they kept around for realism. I didn't hate it. It gave me something to do. Something to keep the silence at bay.

What bothered me more were the people around me.

Too young. Too old. I saw a kid with braces in the next squad over, barely seventeen by the look of him. Saw a woman whose hands shook when she loaded her rifle, age or fear, maybe both. War was chewing through Gallia faster than anyone expected. They weren't picky about who they fed to it.

And then there were the Darcsen.

Most folks pretended not to see the way they were treated. Pale skin. Lavender eyes. Black hair that shimmered like oil under the sun. You'd think they were carved from moonlight. The Empire didn't see people when they looked at them. They saw pests. Vermin. Every train brought more horror stories: whole Darcsen villages erased, children forced into labor, entire communities shoved into ghettos and left to rot.

We'd heard rumors on the train from Dillburg. Whispers of massacres. Men crucified on barn doors. Women taken. Kids vanished. The word culling came up more than once and no one wanted to ask what that really meant.

It left a sour taste in my mouth. The kind that lingered, clinging to the back of your throat like smoke.

I kept my head down in camp. Not because I had something to hide; more because I didn't know where I fit. I wasn't a conscript. I wasn't a native. I wasn't even sure if I was technically real in this world. Just some guy who got dumped here by the universe and shoved into a war he barely understood.

But I moved well. Shot straight. Followed orders.

That was enough, apparently.

Rodriguez barked at me like he barked at everyone else, but I noticed he never corrected me much. Just watched. Like he was waiting to see if I'd crack. Maybe he'd seen too many like me. Men who came back from the front too quiet, too still, too good at what they did. Or maybe he just knew.

That the silence was louder than the gunfire.

Nights were the worst. No drills. No shouting. Just me, the walls, and the ghosts.

I tried not to think about the ambush. About the machine gun's heat. The way it kicked like a living thing. The blood that sprayed across my face. How I'd sat there afterward, not shaking, not crying… just… sitting.

That was what scared me the most.

That it didn't scare me anymore.

I stared at the ceiling a lot. Thought about Noce and Juliette more than I wanted to. Two kids with dirt in their smiles and hope in their eyes. And now? Gone. Torn apart by Imperial steel. Reduced to memory. I'd watched the light go out of people's eyes. More than once. I'd pulled the trigger. Felt the knife slip in. Heard the gurgling as life leaked out of men who never saw me coming.

They called it heroism.

I called it surviving.

Sometimes, I wondered if there was even a difference.

The door creaked as I leaned back on the cot, boots still laced. I didn't undress much these days. Didn't feel right. The moment you got comfortable was the moment you weren't ready. And I couldn't afford that.

A train horn howled in the distance, low and long, echoing across the yard. Another convoy heading east. Toward the front. Randgriz, maybe. Maybe further. Rodriguez had hinted we'd be deployed soon. That we were too valuable to sit idle much longer.

Part of me wanted to go. Not for glory. Not for payback. Just… to do something. Something that made the quiet go away.

My hand drifted to the chain around my neck. I tugged it free from under the collar. Dog tags. Standard Gallian issue, freshly stamped, still too clean.


Name: Finch, Jericho.
Blood Type: O-.
Serial: 857-3224-G.

Issued to a man who hadn't existed two weeks ago.

Two weeks. That's all it had been since I stumbled through the fire and smoke of Bruhl. Since I clawed my way out of another world and into this one. The old me… the one with a name back home, with a job, a phone, a couch and a library of dog-eared paperbacks? He didn't exist here. Only Jericho Finch did. The Lion of Bruhl. A ghost in a borrowed uniform.

I stared at the tags like they were supposed to prove I was real.

They didn't.

A knock came at the door. Sharp. Precise.

"Private Lion," barked the familiar voice of Rodriguez.

I sat up and opened the door. There he was- coat draped like a curtain over his frame, that same unimpressed stare locked onto me like a hunter's gaze. His thin mustache and flared mutton chops somehow made him look even more severe.

He didn't speak at first. Just looked at me with that one good eye, heavy as a hammer. Then, finally:

"Someone up the line thinks you're important."

"Do they now," I muttered, more to myself than to him.

Rodriguez ignored it.

He didn't smile- Rodriguez never smiled. "Runner came with orders. You're to report to Captain Eleanor Varrot. Immediately."

That name cut through the fog. Everyone knew it. Veteran of the First Europa War. Captain with more steel than most generals. Ran her units tight but fair. Some said she kept a library in her quarters, full of everything from tawdry fiction to military charters. Others swore she once tore strips off an armchair general for tying up medical supplies at a border outpost. She had a reputation. The kind that came with the unspoken rule: Don't fuck with her. Because if she didn't finish the job, the people under her would.

A rare compliment, I was learning, among command.

I nodded. "Understood."

Rodriguez didn't move. Just gave a slow nod, then turned, coat flapping like the tail of a tired beast. But then, something odd happened. He paused. Turned slightly. Met my eyes.

"Watch yourself out there, Private Lion. People like you... sometimes it's not the enemy they gotta worry about."

That was all he said before he vanished down the corridor.

As I shut the door, I looked at the tags again.

Jericho Finch.

Someone thought that name mattered now.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

The walk through camp didn't take long. There was nothing in my way. I was already dressed, already awake, already resigned. The kind of clarity that only comes after too little sleep and too much reality. Boots met dirt with practiced rhythm, steady as a metronome. No chatter, no noise in my head, just the dull thud of each step and the low hum of a camp gearing up for another day of war.

The training yards were alive. Constant motion, constant noise. Recruits barked and ran, lines of fifty or more, working drills like they were being molded out of wet clay, shaped by screaming sergeants and wooden rifles. Veterans intermingled here and there, their movements more efficient, less desperate. Still sharpening iron on iron. A few glanced at me as I passed, but most were too deep in the moment. Either they didn't recognize me, or they didn't care.

Rodriguez had it right. This war wasn't slowing down. Gallia was bleeding people out faster than it could train new ones. Fresh recruits were fed into the grinder, hoping they'd last long enough to be considered experienced. Most didn't. That was the quiet truth buried beneath the sound of cadence and shouted orders.

Past the yards stood the officer quarter; well-maintained, white-plastered apartments with painted blue shutters and fresh gravel paths. The buildings sat smug under the rising sun, framed by white canvas mess tents and military flags fluttering on poles. These weren't bunkhouses; they were homes, temporary or not. They had working lights, hot water, glass windows. The smell of fresh bread and brewed coffee drifted faintly from somewhere in the back, a luxury the frontlines never saw.

Here was the domain of the elite. Gallian officers, noble-born tacticians, and the few units too important or too green to be thrown into the fire just yet. I didn't belong here. But that's where I was headed.

Off to the left, the tank yards caught my eye. Rows upon rows of compact Gallian armor. Treaded, single-barrel beasts gleaming under maintenance crews. Each one polished like a parade trophy. Armor smooth as glass, their white-and-blue coats unmarred by mud or soot. Every one bore the silver unicorn insignia. A myth painted over steel, as if it made them noble instead of efficient killers. I paused near one and caught my own warped reflection in the plating. A blank, ghostly figure beneath Gallia's painted ideals.

Headquarters loomed just ahead. The building didn't look like the others; more a fortress than a barracks. Not in size or shape, but in function. Paper walls filled with authority. Orders were given here. People were sent to die from behind these doors. I stepped inside and was met with low murmurs, booted footsteps echoing across tile, and the rustle of papers exchanged by stone-faced officers and overworked clerks. The rhythm of organized war.

Captain Varrot's office wasn't far. The door was already open, which meant I wasn't early. Or this wasn't just for me.

Inside, the room felt stiffer than usual. Alicia stood to the side of the desk, posture crisp, hands clasped behind her back. Her uniform looked freshly pressed, the brass on her collar catching the morning light. But her eyes met mine briefly, and something softened. A flicker… not guilt, not sympathy. Just recognition. Like we'd both seen the same monster last night.

Welkin stood beside her. Same disheveled hair, same calm exterior. His cap tucked under one arm. There was fatigue behind his eyes, but also something else- intent. Regret, maybe. Or purpose. The kind of thing that lives in the corners of a man who's made a call and knows he'll have to live with it.

The third figure was unfamiliar. Lean build, sharp profile, brown hair swept back in an effortless cut. His uniform was tailored, crisp in a way that said he wasn't fresh out of boot. The way he stood, relaxed but attentive, told me he didn't need to impress anyone in the room. Confidence without ego. The academic kind.

Welkin gestured toward him. "Faldio Landzaat," he said. "We studied together in our University days. I went into biology, he went into archaeology."

I raised an eyebrow. "Guess someone has to dig up the bones after we're done making them."

Faldio let out a dry laugh. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that." His tone was light, but his eyes flicked to me with curiosity- not judgment, just a quiet kind of appraisal.

And then there was Captain Varrot.

She stood behind her desk like it was a battlement, arms folded behind her back. Her posture was effortless, but deliberate. Still as a statue carved from ice.

"Jericho Finch," she said. Her tone was precise. "Irregular. Volunteer. Non-native."

I came to parade rest automatically. "Ma'am."

"You've been requested," she continued. "At the recommendation of Lieutenant Gunther, you are to be officially attached to Squad Seven. Effective immediately."

I glanced at Alicia. Her posture didn't change, but her gaze did, a faint shift, from firm to... unsure. Her voice followed.

"It's not a trick, Jerry," she said softly. "It's just... you've already been fighting beside us. This just makes it real."

I looked at her longer than I meant to. She wasn't trying to sell me anything. There was no recruitment pitch in her voice, just a quiet truth she was still trying to believe in herself.

Varrot continued. "You are also being conferred the rank of Sergeant. Equivalent in standing to Sergeant Melchiott."

That caught me. "That... seems generous."

"It wasn't my decision," she said coolly. "The order came from Command. The same Command that approved your continued presence in our military despite your... unorthodox background."

Her eyes met mine, not with contempt, but inquiry. She was still trying to figure me out. Weighing risk against reward.

"There's more," she added, picking up a folder from her desk. "You are being granted limited authority to form a fireteam. Four soldiers. Chosen from a pool of available applicants. You'll train them. Lead them. Deploy them under Squad Seven's umbrella."

I didn't say anything. I just stared.

Welkin stepped in again, tone earnest but firm. "Because you've already done it, Jerry. Bruhl wasn't just surviving. You saved lives. Mine. Alicia's. Civilians. You didn't freeze when the tank rolled in. You didn't panic when that machine gun opened up. You moved, you acted, you chose."

I swallowed hard. My hands were clenched behind my back and I hadn't even noticed.

"I didn't do it for you," I muttered.

"I know," Welkin said. "That's what makes it count. You did it because someone had to. That's what leaders do. Even when no one's looking."

I shook my head. "I'm not a leader. I'm just good at staying alive."

"No," Alicia said, and her voice was clearer now, less hesitant. "You're good at pulling others with you. That's the difference."

I glanced at her. She offered a faint smile- nothing overplayed. Just the kind of smile you give someone who doesn't know how visible they've become.

"You're stronger than you think," Welkin added. "You stood up again and again when most would've stayed down. That doesn't make you perfect, it makes you present. I need people like that."

"And you're letting this happen?" I asked Varrot, dragging my eyes away from them both.

She didn't blink. "I am. Because you've been excelling in every facet of your training. Marksmanship. Decision-making. Tactical improvisation. Even Rodriguez wrote a positive report. And he's never written one in his life."

My brow furrowed. "That... can't be right. I've barely kept my head down. I-"

"Numbers don't lie," she interrupted. "And neither do the outcomes. You're not unnoticed, Finch. You're outperforming nearly every soldier in your weight class and often under stress conditions that would break most people."

That made my stomach twist. Being good at this… at war… didn't feel like an accomplishment. It felt like a stain.

Before I could bury that thought, Welkin cut in again. "Juno Coren wants to help. She's volunteered to support the fireteam. She trusts you. You earned that."

Alicia nodded. "She saw what you did in Bruhl. She thinks you're someone worth following."

That made me scoff quietly. "They're going to regret that."

"No," Alicia said, voice quieter now. "You might. But they won't."

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for the air to feel heavy.

I exhaled, slow. My voice came out flat. "And if I say no?"

Varrot didn't flinch. "Then you remain as-is. Attached to Squad Seven. No leadership. No fireteam. You'll fight where we tell you, when we tell you. But this?" she tapped the folder, "This gives you a chance to leave something behind. Not just blood and bodies."

"Leave a mark," I said, more to myself than to her.

"Yes," Varrot replied. "One of your choosing."

I looked at Alicia. She didn't push. Just nodded, steady, warm in a way that didn't require words.

Then Welkin, who met my eyes without blinking. No command in them. Just trust.

And that made it worse somehow.

I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"Fine," I said at last. "I'll put together a team. But if this falls apart... I'm not dragging anyone down with me."

"You won't," Welkin said.

Varrot nodded. "Selections due in three days. You'll have access to the personnel files shortly. Dismissed, Sergeant."

I turned to leave. My boots felt heavier than when I walked in.

Welkin's voice caught me just before the door. "Thank you, Jerry. I mean it."

I didn't turn around. Just kept walking.

Not sure when I stopped being invisible.

And not sure if that was a good thing.


000


The command center was dead quiet by the time I finally settled in with the files.

That particular brand of military stillness- more pressure than peace- had crept in like smoke through the walls. Outside, somewhere beyond the stone and steel, I could hear the distant grind of tank engines being tuned by tired mechanics. The late-night rituals of maintenance crews keeping their steel beasts combat-ready for tomorrow's drills. The war machine never truly slept. Neither did we.

Inside, the air smelled like what it always did: dust, sweat, oil. The perfume of duty, regret, and barely suppressed exhaustion. A breeze drifted in through a half-cracked window, too weak to do anything but rustle the corners of a teetering pile of manila folders in front of me.

Juno Coren sat across the table, posture like a blade, unmoved by the hour. Her uniform looked like it had been assembled with a ruler and an iron. I don't think a wrinkle dared exist in her vicinity. In front of her, files were arranged in precise rows, each folder marked and annotated with color-coded grease pencil like some sort of tactical mosaic. Blue for strengths. Red for psychological flags. Yellow probably meant "likely to stab someone over the last biscuit." Whatever her code, it worked. You could tell just by glancing.

Me? I was surrounded by chaos. My stack leaned like a condemned building.

"You're not actually expected to memorize them all," Juno said, tapping a folder with the eraser of her pencil. Her voice was calm, almost indulgent. "Just pick the ones who won't get you killed."

"That's the hard part," I muttered, flipping a page with a tired thumb. "I don't even know what I'm looking for."

She didn't bother looking up. "Then start with what you do know. You've been in combat. You know what it feels like when everything starts falling apart. So who do you want at your side when it does?"

That one hit harder than I wanted to admit.

I glanced at her, half grateful, half annoyed. Fully exhausted. Then leaned back in my chair. The damn thing creaked like it wanted to file a transfer.

Names. Stats. Training notes. Discipline records. It all started to blur together. A lot of these kids looked great on paper. Too great. Polished like recruitment posters. Others read like complete disasters. But I knew better. Sometimes the ones who looked the worst were the ones still standing when the smoke cleared. Paper didn't bleed. It sure as hell didn't tell you who'd hold the line.

Then I hit a name. Wendy Cheslock.

Her photo caught me first. Wiry frame. Maybe twenty. Crooked grin and eyes that didn't quite belong to someone posing for a formal portrait. Like she was in on some joke the rest of the world hadn't caught up to yet. The kind of face that said: "Bet I'll surprise you."

"Shock Trooper," I muttered, flipping through the pages. "Specializes in high-intensity breaching..."

"Pyromaniac," Juno added, her tone light but edged. "Marked as such in three separate evaluations."

"I see that," I said flatly, thumbing a particular paragraph. "'Demonstrates a concerning fascination with explosives, fire-based weaponry, and... recreational demolition.' That's an actual phrase."

"She once blew out three windows on a bet," Juno added, twirling her pencil. "Still managed to win her exercise."

I kept reading. Her training reports were... a lot. Near-suicidal charges, outnumbered engagements, fire-related 'incidents' that made my eyelid twitch. She was chaos wrapped in a uniform, and all her instructors condemned her for it. She still won more often than she lost, and most of those losses… it was amazing nobody was dead, much less injured. I could almost respect it.

"She's dangerous," Juno said, watching me over the rim of her mug.

"She's effective," I shot back. "People like that don't follow orders. But they might follow someone who earns it."

I didn't say the rest aloud, because I didn't need to. I knew her type. Knew what it meant to be that type. You didn't follow rank. You followed conviction. You followed the person who didn't run.
I set Wendy's file aside. Not chosen. Not rejected. Just... considered.

Next one came faster: Marina Wulfstan.

Clean record. Top sniper marks. Minimal notes. No mess, no drama. The kind of file that read like a math problem solved by a sniper scope. Her photo showed a pale, narrow face framed by a curtain of hair and eyes cold enough to chill water. She looked more like a research assistant than someone who could end a life from 800 meters away.

Juno tapped a line in her file. "She requested solo quarters."

"Smart," I said. "People like her need quiet. Distance. That's a good sniper."

"Or she's just antisocial," Juno offered. "Either way, she won't be a problem."

I gave her a look. "You'd make a good officer."

"I've been told that," she said, tone dry as the desert. "Usually right before they ask me to handle someone else's disaster."

That got a laugh out of me- raw, short, but honest. First one I'd managed all night. Maybe all week.

So there we were: Juno. Wendy the wildcard. Marina the ghost. The triangle was forming; chaos, precision, and control. But it needed one more point. Something meaner. Something harder. The sharp edge.

I flipped through more files. Nothing. Names swam uselessly. I exhaled, dragging my hands down my face like I could scrape off the fatigue. I couldn't.


Juno sipped her coffee, then grimaced. "Cold."

"You're not going to find the perfect squad in those," she said. "Just broken pieces that fit well enough to hold together. The rest? That's your job."

I didn't get a chance to answer.

The door creaked behind us.

"Thought I'd find you here."

I looked up. Welkin stood in the doorway, carrying a battered metal tray with three mugs of steaming coffee balanced like offerings to the gods of burnout. He looked as tired as I felt, but the smile on his face was real. The kind of calm you didn't fake. The kind that came after you stopped pretending the weight wasn't there.

"Hope no one's allergic to barely-regulated caffeine," he said, setting the tray down.

"Smells like salvation," I muttered, accepting one.

He handed a mug to Juno. She nodded with something resembling gratitude, as he pulled up a seat next to me.

"Came to check on my wayward Sergeant," he said, settling in. "Or maybe I just needed an excuse for a break."

"Good timing," I said, gesturing to the chaos around me. "We're hunting for miracles."

Welkin looked over the table. All those lives, reduced to paper. He nodded.

"I remember my first time doing this. I hated it."

"I'm getting there," I said.

"My father used to say," Welkin began, cupping the mug in both hands like it anchored him, "'Don't pick soldiers. Pick stories.'"

I gave a tired chuckle. "That sounds like something you'd say."

"Maybe. He was always more about thinking than barking. Believed a unit wasn't built from stats or muscle. It was built from the ones who kept showing up, even when everything told them not to. The ones who stood when the dust settled."

Juno leaned in slightly, eyebrow raised. "What would he have said about our Lion here?"

Welkin studied me. That look he gave me felt like an X-ray.

"That he's stronger than he thinks," he said. "And that it scares him more than getting shot."

I groaned. "Great. Insecure and emotionally unstable."

Welkin smiled, but the weight behind it lingered. He reached across the table and plucked a folder from the stack like it had been waiting for him.

Jane Turner.

"Here's your fourth," he said quietly.

I opened it. Barely two sentences in and my eyebrow was doing its thing again.

"Disciplinary record exceeds normal thresholds. Subject has engaged in unauthorized violence, provoked altercations, and has it on record of attacking Imperial prisoners on more than one occasion. Psychological evaluation suggests extreme aggression bordering on sadism and potential sociopathic tendencies."

I looked up at him. "You're giving me a lunatic."

"I'm giving you someone who already lives in the deep end," Welkin said. "Someone who's been in the dark and came back meaner. Someone who won't blink when it goes bad."

Juno frowned, pencil stilled. "She's more volatile than Cheslock."

"Exactly," Welkin said. "You've got precision. You've got chaos. You've got discipline. What you don't have is someone willing to do the awful thing and not flinch."

I looked at him, skeptical. "You think I need cruelty?"

"No," he said. "I think you need someone who's willing to do the things you've had to do. Because you can't be everywhere. And when the orders stop mattering, and everything breaks down, someone has to keep moving forward. Someone has to be willing."

We sat in silence for a long moment.

"She's dangerous," Juno repeated.

"So is war," Welkin replied. "Jane's not here to be liked. She's here to kill Imperials."

I looked down at the photo. Strong jaw, sharp eyes, and the kind of expression that said the camera was lucky she didn't punch it. There wasn't an ounce of mercy in that face.

"She'll fight for you," Welkin said. "If you earn it. Not for the flag. Not for the uniform. Just you. And that's enough."

I closed the file slowly. Felt the decision settle into my bones.

"That's four."

Juno nodded crisply, already stacking the selected files into a squared-off bundle. "Should I start the requisition paperwork?"

I took a sip of my coffee. Still hot. Bitter enough to sting.

I nodded. "Do it."

Welkin leaned back, arms crossed. "Congratulations, Sergeant. You've got your monsters."

I didn't say anything.

I looked down at the folders, at the chaos, the fire, the silence, and the steel I'd just named as mine.

They weren't model soldiers. They weren't heroes.

They were broken.

Just like me.


000


The training field stretched before us like an old wound; dry, cracked earth crumbling under moonlight, the skeletal remains of old dummies leaning like hanged men in the dark. The sun was gone. Only the cold silver of night remained, leaking down over rusted poles and trampled weeds. Wind rolled through the empty yard like a breath that didn't belong here.

I stood with Juno in the shadow of the munitions shed, just outside their line of sight. She stood like an officer at parade rest. Still, sharp, coiled. Her eyes followed the women with precision, her mouth tight with calculation.

"They've been here twenty minutes," she murmured. "Are you sure these are the ones you want?"

I didn't answer immediately. Not because I wasn't sure. But because I was watching.

Three women. All dangerous. All discarded. The kind of soldiers command tried to forget.

Wendy Cheslock paced like a match waiting to catch flame. Her stance was erratic, loose-limbed and taut all at once. Arms akimbo, hands twitching toward invisible detonators. She grinned like someone who knew a secret, one with a fuse. Her eyes bounced around the yard, fixating on trees, barrels, shadows- like she expected something to explode. Maybe because she wanted it to.

Next to her, Jane Turner stood planted like a grudge. Tall, broad, still. All muscle and menace under a scuffed coat. Her arms were crossed like a barricade. She didn't look at anything; she dared it to look at her first. Her boot ground slowly into the dirt, almost absentminded, like she was trying to kill time and the ground beneath it both.

Marina Wulfstan stayed apart from them, perfectly upright, posture textbook, but there was nothing proud in it. Her arms folded tightly, jaw clenched, expression frozen in a professional mask that looked more like survival than pride. She didn't glance at them, didn't speak. She stood like someone who never stopped expecting the next bullet. And maybe hoped it came soon.

Wendy broke the silence first, her voice pitched too high for the night.

"You think we're in trouble again?"

Jane's grunt was all gravel. "Obviously. You probably blew something up again."

"I didn't blow anything up," Wendy shot back with mock innocence. "I just tested the fuel-to-pitch ratio near the barracks."

"That's arson."

"That's science."

Jane's glare tightened. "And I don't even remember what I did. That's how you know we're screwed."

"Maybe that one officer? The one with the teeth?"

Jane blinked once, then smirked faintly. "That wasn't a hit. That was a demonstration."

"Of assault?"

"It was educational."

I felt Juno bristled beside me, but a motion from me quieted her. Instead I motioned for her to follow, deliberately falling into my best prowling gait, for once leaning into the moniker of 'Lion'.

Their banter snapped to silence as we stepped into view. Boots on dirt. Sharp, deliberate. Juno moved like a blade, her uniform immaculate, her spine straight, her face carved from stone. I followed beside her, slower but heavier, letting the steps drag just enough. Letting the sound build weight.

Shoulders loose, eyes forward, jaw locked tight. I moved like something that hadn't stopped bleeding yet, like the war had followed me home and I hadn't told it no. The theater of it grated on my nerves but it was necessary. And I'd had more than a crash course in 'necessary' over the last few weeks.

Juno snapped her voice into the air like a whip. "Squad, attention!"

Marina obeyed immediately, snapping to form like she'd been slapped. It was reflex, training, rote and organized. The best of the three by far.

Wendy jerked her arms in close, standing stiffly, but she wasn't really at attention. She was fidgeting even while trying not to, still smiling that crazed half smile. My eyes bored into her and her grin began to falter as she realized this wasn't the usual disciplinary drill.
Jane just stared at me, looking at me down her nose, an impressive feat given how I was taller than her and outmassed her by half a man at least. Her posture was all challenge, mixed with just a touch of uncertainty. I was no Rodriguez, and no doubt she was expecting him.
Juno opened her mouth to bark again, but I cut in with a raised hand.

"Let it go."

She looked at me, swallowed the command, then nodded. She understood the show. This wasn't about order. Not yet.

I stalked forward, slow and steady. Each step as deliberate as the last. I let them hear it. Let them feel it. Gave them time to wonder.

Jane met my eyes first. Unflinching. Defiant.

"What the hell is this?" she snapped. "Who are you?"

Brave words, spoken from her chest, and I could see Wendy was also watching with a vested interest, but… Marina just seemed to freeze. She watched me from the corner of her eye, and as mine caught hers, her head snapped forward, as if hoping I hadn't noticed her.


I didn't answer. I didn't have to. It was Marina who finally got it. I could almost see the moment it all clicked, and she tensed, ever so slightly, her fingers grasping for a rifle that wasn't there. She watched me like someone watches a hungry, feral wolf. One that wasn't quite right in the head, that had lost something… vital, something natural, and had crossed into the realm of the unknown. Something she expected to burst into violence without pause, warning or mercy, coiled up like a spring and staring at you with eyes not full of hunger, but instead, the eyes of something that enjoyed the act of killing.


She was tense, like she wanted to run from me, and in that split second decision she broke the silence, her words quiet, measured.

"…You're him."

Wendy turned to look at the dark-haired woman. "Him?"

I watched, just letting her talk. Letting her imagination run wild.

"The Lion of Bruhl."

The air shifted.

Jane looked gobsmacked. Wendy stiffened, her grin vanishing.

"Word has it that he jumped onto an Imperial tank, took a bullet to the chest, and didn't even flinch. Ripped open the hatch, dragged the crew out one by one, and threw the commander into the treads while it was still moving." Jane said, her tone stained with approval, and maybe even a bit of awe. "When the dust settled, he rode the burning wreck into the next skirmish like a cavalry charge- All while screaming and covered in soot."

I couldn't help but hike an eyebrow. I hadn't heard that version before, and it sounded as insane as anything else.

Wendy scoffed, but not confidently. "That's a myth. Like the guy who eats tank shells."

Jane pouted at the girl, her tone low, defensive. "He didn't eat it. He caught it."

Wendy laughed again, nervously. "Like that's any better."

But Marina's voice dropped lower, reverent, unnerved.

"They say he found an Imp ambush. That he cut them apart and bathed in their blood. That when they finally caught up to him, he was drenched red with it. That the Imperials pulled back not because of orders, but because he was still there. In the dark. In the woods. Waiting. Watching."

I had to hide a wince at that one. The ambush had been a slapdash shitshow from the word go, and people were making me out to be some kind of slasher killer one second and a vampire the next. Juno shot me a secretly sympathetic look, already knowing my feelings on it, but that didn't matter in the here and now.

I let them talk amongst each other for a few moments more. Chewing on what I wanted to say, without ruining the effect. Finally, I gave a hum that sounded like grinding engine gears, a trick I had picked up years ago for quieting a conversation.

"Don't believe everything you hear."

Marina met my eyes. "But some of it's true."

I didn't look away.

"Maybe."


Something passed between them. A silent conversation that lasted only a moment, all of which was written on their faces at the end. A thought, a creeping worry really, and a question. 'Why was The Lion here now?' They all had it, and I saw it in their eyes; the shift. Not awe. Not admiration. Something simpler.

Fear.

Uncertainty.

Caution
.
"You think this is punishment," I said, voice low.

Jane curled her lip, her shoulders squaring up again, but this time, less certain. "Isn't it?"

I smiled, almost amused. But there was nothing kind in it.

"No. I don't have time to play disciplinarian and with you three," My eyes landed on Jane like the barrel of an artillery piece, "you especially, there's little enough point. No, you're here because no one else wants you. That's the truth of it."


I turned to Wendy. "You're unstable. Reckless. You think fire is funny and shrapnel is an art form. You've got more knowledge of improvised demolition than most instructors, but no leash. No control. You don't know how to stop."


Wendy curled in on herself a bit, the ghost of a smile she'd perpetually carried finally vanishing. Her body shifted, her fingers stopped twitching, and she fell silent.


My eyes landed on Marina. "You're a better shot than anyone on this base with a rifle. But you vanish. You isolate yourself. You kill from a thousand meters, cut off and cut out, then disappear and don't speak to your squad for days. You're not a team player. You're not meant for formation fighting. You're a precision weapon with no trigger discipline. A ghost."

Marina didn't flinch, but the faintest line creased her brow.

Finally, I looked at Jane, who met my eyes with a defiant glare, as if she were daring me to test her. "And you. You're angry. Always. You fight with your fists, your mouth, and whatever else you can grab hold of. You hate authority. Hate orders. Hate anything that smells like control. But you win. You rip through obstacles like they insulted your mother and keep going like the world hasn't already fallen apart behind you."

Jane bared her teeth. "So what, we're all broken toys?"

I stepped back and swept my gaze over them all again.

"No. You're all useful."

That made them flinch. Just slightly.

"You're not the cookie cutter soldiers they want. You're not safe. You're not stable. You're not a textbook anything. You're exactly what every commander hopes gets transferred somewhere else. But past all that, what you are… is effective."

Now they were really listening.

"Wendy, you know how to destroy nearly anything. You can make bombs out of trash and trigger traps with a paperclip and a prayer. You know how to level a barracks, or blow the treads off a tank, or turn a man into bloody chunks, and laugh while you do it."

Her smile returned, ever so slightly. Not wild this time, though. It was quietly prideful, like someone had finally seen her for what she was.

"Marina, you can shoot the wings off a fly from three hundred yards. You track better than half the scouts in this army. You don't miss anything, ever. You don't flinch. You don't hesitate. You're a natural born hunter with the teeth to prove it."

She nodded once. That was all.

"Jane…"

I stepped in closer to her.

"You're the monster they try to build in boot camp and never manage to keep. You break rules, bones, and anything stupid enough to stand in front of you. You'll kill with a brick, a bottle, your hands. You're what happens when someone forgets that war isn't about honor, it's about who walks away."

Jane didn't say anything. But her stance shifted. Less resistance. More intent.

"You're not here because you screwed up. You're here because I chose you. Because I've seen what happens out there. Seen what real war looks like. And I've seen what it takes to win."

I let the wind roll through. Gave the pause its weight.

"This isn't about doing your duty. This isn't about lines on maps or medals. It's about doing what has to be done. The ugly shit. The quiet jobs. The ones no one talks about. It's about killing the enemy where they sleep. Blowing their supply lines off the roads. Making them so afraid of the dark, they forget how to fight in the day."

My eyes met Marina's, holding her gaze just long enough to see the thoughts ticking through her head. "You'll shoot from the shadows, cut their command chain, and vanish without a trace."

I then turned to Wendy, whose nervous twitching had stilled into something like attention, "You'll turn their fuel into firestorms. You'll rig charges under their trucks, their beds, their latrines if you have to."

And finally, to Jane, who met my eyes with a challenging glare, back arched and eyes narrowed. "You'll go in loud. You'll crush them when they're weakest. You'll hurt them."

I exhaled slowly.

"And through it all, you'll be something more than just outcasts and weirdos and dangerous footnotes. You'll make a difference. Not in speeches. Not in medals. In results."

The wind was drier now. The words hanging in the air like a hangman's noose.

"You want out?" I asked. "Say it now. No shame. No judgment. But if you stay, understand that you're not soldiers anymore. Not in the traditional sense."

A beat.

Then Wendy tilted her head. "Honestly? Sounds like a blast."

Jane exhaled, cracked her knuckles. "You want killers? Fine. Just don't expect me to kiss your ass."

Marina's voice, low. Steady. "If it ends this faster… I'm in."

I nodded.

"Then training starts at zero-five hundred. No drills. No marches. No formality. Just pain, precision, and preparation."

I turned to Juno. "They're yours when I'm not around. Make sure they don't torch the armory."

She gave me a sidelong glance. "I'll try. No promises."

I took one last look at the three.

"You're not soldiers. Not anymore. When we're done here, you'll be something else. Something more."

I gave each of them a hard look.

"You'll be Commandos."



AN: Well well, what have we here. Honestly, I got nothing. I'm feeling inspired and I kinda wanted to just dive right back into it, plus... I was kinda jazzed about this next arc. Is it the recruitment arc? Yes, yes it is. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy. In the end I did decide to stay in universe for the people in his team, and the choices weren't just because they were all flavors of hot girl. Though I admit... doesn't hurt. Huehuehuehue

 

[J. Finch]

…the job was deceptively simple on paper. Soldiers capable of going behind enemy lines, of fighting alone or in small groups, of doing the ugly things like breaking supply lines and killing commanders. It was a new kind of war, a new idea in a world where tanks and trench lines were the norm, followed by bloody infantry battles across the open fields. It was a quiet kind of war that the Empire, and the world at large, was unprepared for. And for my part in it? I was there at its birth, had my hand in its forging, may whatever gods there are forgive me for it.​

-Ch. 2, The River of Vasel, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front​

Chapter Six​

The training yard lay under a steel‑gray sky, a churned sea of mud slicked from the night's relentless rain. At the center, the mock village stood as a battered skeleton of itself; charred scaffolding, shattered windows, and collapsed door frames now more symbol than structure. Black scorch marks bled across the walls like old scars, and the acrid stink of half-detonated charges still lingered in the cold air.

Wendy Cheslock was the first to break formation, again. Perched behind a low barricade of sandbags and scorched pallets, she hummed tunelessly to herself as she fiddled with an improvised incendiary charge. There was no precision in her work, only energy- reckless, radiant, and terrifying. Her enthusiasm outpaced her caution by whole orders of magnitude. The fuse sparked too fast. A sudden gust caught the flame and threw it sideways into a pile of hay used to simulate livestock cover. The blaze flared to life instantly, roaring up the outer wall of a nearby mock stable. Wendy stumbled backward, shrieking half in fear, half in awe, then scrambled after it with a fire extinguisher already spitting dust. Smoke clouded the alleyway before the training sergeant could even blow his whistle.

Across the compound, Jane Turner was already mid‑sprint, her submachine gun clenched in both fists, eyes burning like a stormfront. "Stand clear!" she bellowed with gravel in her voice, slamming through crates and rubble, her boots crunching glass and bone‑dry plaster. She spotted a roadblock, nothing more than plywood stacked to waist height, and charged straight into it. The barricade held. Jane didn't. Her momentum flipped her straight over the top, landing her in a tangled heap of mannequin limbs and broken scaffolding. As she sprang up, coated in mud and bruises, she barked, "Obstacle! I neutralized it!" Seconds later, the training simulation declared her 'mission killed' again, for the third time that day.

Marina Wulfstan was nowhere to be found when the scenario began. She had moved without a word, slipping into the periphery like a shadow with breath. From her vantage in a bombed‑out second‑story window, she observed in silence, calculating wind angles, escape routes, and fields of fire. But when my voice came through the headset- "Marina, shift left. You're exposed"- it was already too late. She'd gone dark. Again. Fifteen minutes later, after the mission had failed and the others were shouting over the comms, she reappeared from the foliage on the northern ridge, boots soaked, rifle clean, eyes downcast. "I thought you said cover," she murmured apologetically, voice brittle as old glass.

And Juno Coren, ever the professional, stood over the smoking aftermath like a mortician at a mass grave. She clutched her clipboard like a lifeline; charts, radio logs, field diagrams all scrawled with neat arrows and color-coded lanes of advance. "We were supposed to flank east, breach at mark zero, sweep the courtyard and converge center," she snapped, pacing back and forth. "Wendy, your fire set the timing off by forty seconds. Jane, you breached before the sweep. Marina… Marina, I don't even know where you were. We lost every advantage we had. Again."

Wendy snorted, brushing ash off her singed sleeve. "You mean we lost your spreadsheet advantage. Because Valkyrur forbids anything happen that's not in your little notebook of death."

Juno spun. "This isn't a game. If that were live ordinance, you'd be dead. Twice."

"I don't see you jumping into a room full of shrapnel to figure it out," Jane barked, stepping between them. "We're not all hoity-toity Command Center number crunchers, Juno. Sometimes you don't have time for a damn committee to decide what to do! You just have to move!"

Juno's jaw clenched. "And that's why you're always the first one down."

Jane shoved forward. "Because I lead. Because I'm out front, taking the hit you're too busy calculating out of the fight."

"Enough!" Marina's voice cut in like a sharp gust of wind. All eyes turned. "You're all talking like we're not dying out there. Like this is about who's right."

No one spoke. The fire from Wendy's mishap still hissed quietly behind them.

Juno lowered her eyes, face pale but taut. "I'm trying to keep us alive and get the job done. That's all."

Wendy crossed her arms. "Then try listening next time. Plans change. We're not chess pieces."

A cold silence settled over the team like a tarp pulled over a corpse. The sun was setting now, long shadows slicing across the ruined yard. Smoke still curled from burned straw. Shell casings and mud clung to every boot, every glove, every soul.

I watched them bicker through the haze of smoke and failure, arms folded across my chest to keep them from shaking. Not from the cold. Not from rage. From shame, most of it mine. Three days. Three days of drills, mock raids, breaching exercises, and every single one of them ended like this. Four women, all more than capable on paper, disintegrating the moment they were forced to share a battlefield. I stood there, jaw clenched, letting the shouting roll over me like static, like shrapnel I was too tired to dodge.

Wendy was on the defensive, ash-streaked and still slightly smoking from her latest "happy accident." Jane was pacing like a caged wolf, blood still up from her latest suicide charge. Marina stood half in shadow, face pale, boots caked with mud from the ridge she never should've been on. And Juno… Juno was trying to stitch together a disaster with orders and clipped reprimands, clinging to doctrine like it was a life preserver in a sea of chaos.

They were failing. All of them. But I was the one who gave the orders, and made the mission.

I thought I could build something from this. That maybe if I found four fighters who could survive alone, I could teach them to survive together. Mold them. Shape them. Like iron. But what do you do when the forge won't take the heat? When all you get for your effort is brittle steel and splinters?

Wendy's voice cracked through the fog. Something about spontaneity. Juno fired back with unit cohesion. Jane barked an insult. Marina tried to play the peacemaker, voice barely audible. It was just noise. All of it. Different flavors of the same failure.

And I hated how familiar it felt.

I hadn't said a word since the timer hit zero and the smoke bombs went off. I'd watched Jane go down in the first ten seconds, breaching without cover again. I saw the fireball lick the side of the mock barracks, courtesy of Wendy's pyromania. Juno flailing on comms, trying to herd cats with tactics from a textbook no one else was reading. Marina, off-mic, off-mission, eyes fixed on a threat that never came. And me? I just watched it happen.

Not once in three days had they completed an objective clean. Not once had they coordinated like a team. And if I'm being honest with myself, I wasn't even surprised anymore.

They were failing. But the failure was mine.

I should've known better. I should've seen this coming. I should've stepped in. Reined in Jane, channeled Wendy, given Juno room to breathe, drawn Marina back into the fold. I didn't. I just stood by, hoping repetition would teach what words couldn't. But repetition without guidance doesn't build cohesion. It just digs trenches between people. And mine were waist-deep already.

They didn't know. Couldn't see it on my face. I made sure of that. I kept my expression locked down, hard and unreadable. A wall they could lean on or bounce off of; whatever they needed. But inside? I was screaming.

The yelling stopped eventually. Maybe they noticed I hadn't moved. Maybe the smoke thinned just enough for them to remember I was there.

Four sets of eyes found me.

Wendy, chewing her lip and shifting from foot to foot. Juno, straight-backed but clearly bracing for a reprimand. Jane with her arms folded and chin up, but the fire had dulled in her eyes. Marina just looked tired. And I couldn't blame them. I was tired too. Tired of trying and failing. Tired of watching potential crumble into frustration. Tired of hearing the same damn argument play out again and again like we were stuck in a loop and I'd lost the key to break it.

I stepped forward. They stiffened instinctively. Not out of fear. Out of expectation. Like they knew what was coming.

But I didn't yell. What was the point? I didn't scold. They knew. Hell, they all knew.

I looked at each of them. Took my time.

Juno: all edge and order, trying to captain a ship that had no hull.

Wendy: fire incarnate, capable of brilliance but always one spark away from catastrophe.

Jane: guts and fury, no leash, no brake pedal.

Marina: ghostlike, precise and distant, never quite in sync.

Each of them is a perfect disaster.

"You're all dismissed for the day." I said, finally. Voice flat. No fire. Just the truth, bitter and dry in my throat. "Clean yourselves up."

That was all I could say.

Anything more and I wasn't sure what would come out.

I turned and walked away, boots crunching over spent casings and splintered wood. I didn't look back. I didn't have to. I could feel it, how the silence fell like a hammer behind me. No one said a word. No one moved. My silence weighed more than any shouted command ever could.

Let them stew in it.

Let me stew in it.

Because if this kept up, Command would pull the plug. I knew as well as anybody that the only thing Command cared about was winning. If we couldn't show that it would be my ass. It'd be all of ours. Because nobody tolerated a losing bet.

000


I sat across from Welkin and Faldio in the warm stillness of the command center, a wide, wood-paneled room that smelled faintly of old varnish, dust, and tobacco. The only light came from a shaded brass lamp above the central table, casting long shadows across the worn maps spread over its polished surface. Stacks of yellowing field reports and tactical manuals sat in tidy piles on nearby desks, and the tick of a wall-mounted clock echoed in the silence between words. The walls were lined with pinned-up campaign maps, troop movements marked in pencil or red wax pencil, faded at the edges. A rotary phone rested near a window, silent for now, and outside I could barely make out the rhythmic cadence of marching boots and the shouted drills of another unit. Inside, though, it was just the three of us, surrounded by the trappings of war bureaucracy, and the quiet weight of my own frustration

I peeled off my gloves, caked in dust, and laid them flat on the table. I didn't look up.

"It's falling apart," I said. My voice felt flat, heavy. "Three days in, and everything's a mess. Nothing's clicking. They're all skilled, I know they are, but the second we start a drill together, it just… disintegrates. It's disjointed. Dangerous."

Welkin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His brow furrowed, but not in judgment. He looked tired, same as me, but his eyes were sharp, curious. Faldio stood by the map board, arms crossed, saying nothing yet. Just listening.

"Walk me through it," Welkin said gently.

I took a breath, jaw tight. "Day one, Juno came in with everything prepped. She had the flow charted, fire lanes mapped, approach vectors timed down to the second. It should've worked. But Wendy got too excited during the second phase… set half the building on fire with a bad placement on the incendiary charges. Not once, but twice. The second time she nearly cooked a supply truck. And me."

Welkin didn't interrupt, just nodded slowly.

I kept going. "Jane ran into a fortified position screaming like she was in a damn cavalry charge. Got herself mission-killed in under ten seconds. Again. She's got guts, no question, but no throttle. And Marina? She's vanishing on us before they even breach. Slips into some overwatch perch without calling it out, and they're left exposed down the center lane with no idea where she is or if she's even there."

I looked down at the table, flexing my fingers once, slowly. "It's not just a bad start. It's every day. They collapse on every single mission."

Faldio's voice cut in, calm and measured. "What have you been doing, if you don't mind my asking? What answers are you looking for from us?"

I looked up, meeting his eyes. "I want to know how to fix it. How do I make them work as a team? I've tried discipline. Reinforcement. Encouragement. Direct control. Giving them autonomy. None of it's worked."

Welkin ran a hand through his hair, pausing for a moment before responding.

"What questions are you asking yourself, exactly?"

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the core questions," he said, tapping a finger on the table. "Are you asking yourself, 'Why aren't they following orders?' Or are you asking, 'How can I lead them, given who they are?'"

That landed like a stone in my gut. I didn't flinch, didn't argue. I just nodded once, slowly, and let the words settle.

"I want them to be effective," I said. My voice was quiet but steady. "I want them to function like a real unit. Tight-knit. Cohesive. I want them to survive."

Faldio shifted his stance and crossed his arms. "But right now, you're trying to force that cohesion through your own perspective- your own instincts. That might be the problem."

He didn't say it unkindly. There was no accusation in his voice, just observation. Honest and clear.

"You're skilled. Nobody is doubting that." he continued. "You operate like a scalpel. Precise. Focused. Decisive. But… they aren't you, Finch. And they don't have the instincts you do. You're pushing them toward something they're not built for. Not yet, anyway."

I didn't argue. There was no point. He was right.

Welkin leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced together. "When Captain Varrot gave you this assignment… what did you think you were building?"

I looked down at the map. A dozen unit positions were marked across the valley in black ink, as fragile and deliberate as the plans I kept trying to impose on four completely different women.
"A team," I said. "A lethal one. A spear that could be thrown into hell and be counted on to get the job done. Because that's what they were asking for."

Welkin gave a small, thoughtful nod. "And did you choose them because they would mirror your methods, your abilities? Or because they wouldn't?"

"I… I picked them because they had skills, they had talent, they just… they were all outcasts, some of them by choice, some by attitude, but all of them had…" Jerry struggled for the words, and Welkin gave him a winning smile.

"Because you saw something," Welkin said. "Something worth shaping."

I exhaled through my nose, quietly.
"Maybe," I admitted. "Or maybe I was arrogant enough to think I could make them into something they're not."

Faldio uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to the table. "It's not arrogance. You've done things most of us would never dream of trying and still pulled off the win. You've got the experience. You've got the instincts. The drive and the will to survive. That's exactly why they gave you this task."

"But instincts don't transfer cleanly," Welkin added. "Not without time. And not without understanding who they are."

I didn't look up. My eyes stayed fixed on the map, tracing the paths our last failed drill had taken; disjointed, chaotic, wrong.

"I know what they're capable of," I said. "Each of them. I've seen the sparks. The skill's there. But it's like trying to graft nerves together with a hammer and nails. I don't know how to make them sync. How to teach cohesion to people who recoil from it in opposite directions."

"Then stop trying to teach them your version of cohesion," Welkin said gently. "Start learning what theirs looks like."

That stopped me.

I opened my mouth, paused, then closed it.

Faldio chimed in. "Each of them has a specialty. Juno is precise, structured; she thrives with process and logistics. Wendy is chaotic, volatile, but her instincts with demolitions and traps are almost preternatural. Jane is aggression incarnate. She forces movement. She turns stalemates into advances. And Marina? She's a shadow. Quiet, watchful. A sniper with an honestly prodigious level of skill."

He uncrossed his arms, stepping closer to the table. "You didn't accidentally assemble a bunch of misfits. You picked them for those extremes. For the gaps they fill."

Welkin leaned in again. "What you're building isn't a Squad or a frontline unit. It's a strike team meant to operate in fluid, high-pressure environments. You're not assembling a chorus. You're tuning instruments for a jazz ensemble. They don't all need to play the same notes. But they do need to know when to come in, and how to listen to each other."

I let that sink in.

"So my mistake was trying to teach them how to march," I muttered. "When I should have been teaching them how to move."

Faldio gave a short nod. "Exactly. You're not the conductor of a parade. You're the one choosing which weapon fires first and when."

Welkin smiled, tired but sincere. "Try this: instead of demanding strict synchronized movements, build lessons that let them express their strengths. Get them to listen to the process as much as they do the parade. Wendy is, quite frankly, a master of ordinance. Juno is an expert tactician. Marina is, quite frankly, brilliant when it comes to stealth and hiding and Jane knows how to fight mean and fight dirty when everything else has gone to hell. Take advantage of these things, and more than that, have them take advantage of it. You'll be surprised what a little back and forth will get you.

I exhaled, the pressure in my chest giving just a little.

"And stop trying to scrub them clean," Welkin said. "You're not here to erase their flaws. You're here to guide them. Rein them in when they go too far, yes, but you don't tame a wildfire by shouting at it. You dig the trench, and let it burn in the right direction."

There was silence for a moment. I looked down at my hands… aching in the spring heat, the gloves covering callused fingers.

"I boxed them," I said quietly. "Barely three days in, and I've been forcing them into my idea of a team, instead of working with what they are."

Welkin reached out and clapped a firm hand on my shoulder. "Correction, not failure. You came here because you saw the cracks forming. That's not a weakness, Jerry. That's leadership."

Faldio gave me a faint smile. "And now comes the real test: can you shift your own thinking? Can you lead a team that doesn't move like you, or fight like you, but still wins?"

I met his gaze and gave a small, grim nod. "I can. I have to."

"Then we've got your back," Welkin said. "We'll help you design better lessons. Role-based, individual, to help you build them up. I'll talk to Captain Varrot about getting you more demolition dummies and getting you access to R&D and the motor pool. Maybe give your team a few more options to pull from to let them specialize a bit more."

Faldio turned toward the board. "I'll help you draft the lesson plans. Let's work from their real strengths, not their theoretical ones. Start where they're strongest and use that to shore up their weaknesses. And maybe let them teach you a few things too. Valkyrur knows you could stand to learn how to file your paperwork better from Juno." The man chuckled, and Jerry could only give a helpless shrug.

For the first time in days, something let go inside my chest. Not the whole burden. But enough.

I stood, nodded once, and said, "Then the new plan starts tomorrow. No more trying to make them into copies of me. No more dry runs, no more simulations. Back to basics."

Welkin smiled. "Good. They're not meant to be you. They're meant to fight with you. To fight beside you, and in the end, learn to survive like you."

He said it with such conviction that I thought maybe I might even believe him.


000


The air had that stillness you only get before something breaks. Cold, clean, sharp like the edge of a razor. The kind of morning that makes you feel like the world itself is holding its breath, waiting. The dew clung to the grass underfoot, catching pale light in quiet glints. Overhead, the sky was a wan, tired blue. No clouds. No noise. Just space. And maybe that was fitting. Emptiness, waiting to be filled.

I spotted them before they noticed me. The girls were gathered near the old pillbox ruins; half-collapsed concrete and rusted rebar marking the edge of the training field. It had become their default rally point over the past few weeks. I hadn't told them to be there this early. Didn't have to. They knew something was coming.

They looked like soldiers. Frayed, unfinished soldiers with too many sharp angles and no cohesion; but soldiers just the same. That counted for something.

Juno stood ramrod straight, trying to look composed. Her fingers betrayed her though, tugging methodically at the hem of her jacket, smoothing and folding the fabric with nervous precision. Jane was all posture and tension, arms crossed, legs planted, chin tilted like she was daring someone to give her bad news. But beneath that defiance, her eyes flicked toward the others. She wasn't angry. Just… bracing.

Wendy practically vibrated, hands stuffed in her bomber jacket like they might fly off if she let them out. She bounced on her toes like she couldn't decide if she was cold or just terrified. Probably both. Marina stood a step apart from the others, still and unreadable. Her arms were loose at her sides, but her jaw was tight, eyes locked straight ahead, a little too steady.

They were waiting for me to unload on them. A lecture, maybe. A final dressing-down before I cut the cord.

I let them sit in it for a second longer. Let the silence stretch. Let myself gather my strength, to let my voice be heard.

Then I stepped forward, boots crunching over gravel like distant gunfire. Sharp. Deliberate.

I wasn't in uniform. Just combat fatigues, my old blue t-shirt felt tight under a field jacket, my hair combed into some semblance of order, best I could get it. The belt around my waist was tight, my boots polished. Not because I gave a damn about formality, but because control starts at the surface, even when the inside's coming apart. Maybe especially then.

They snapped to attention the second I entered their line of sight. All of them. Even Jane, who'd spent the last two weeks refusing to salute even the drill instructors, god help her.

I stopped in front of them. Close enough to feel their unease.

I took a breath. One of those slow, deep ones that scrapes a little on the way in. My chest still ached from the little accident Cheslock almost sent me flying with, but the sting was welcome.

They were expecting fire. Or ice. Something final. What they got was neither.

"You're here because I failed you."

The words dropped between us like a stone. Flat. Measured. No anger. No blame. Just truth. Real truth; cleaner than the air around us.

The ripple hit them almost at once. Jane blinked, just once, her crossed arms lowering slightly. Wendy stopped bouncing. Juno's fingers froze mid-fold. Marina didn't move, but I saw her shoulders shift just a fraction, like someone bracing for impact and not getting it.

"I've been training you like line infantry," I said. "Like you're supposed to fall into step, march in time, do the job by the numbers. But that's not what this is. That's not who you are. That's not why you were chosen."

I made sure to meet their eyes, one by one. Wendy. Jane. Marina. Juno. Held each stare for a heartbeat longer than I needed to.

"This assignment came down from Captain Varrot from those above her. How high, I can't say, but someone was very interested in making this happen. They wanted to see if I could make something out of a group that doesn't fit. They wanted to know if I could build soldiers to do what I've done. A team that could operate outside the lines. Fight in the gray. Thrive where doctrine falls apart."

I let my hands fold behind my back. Familiar. Safe. Controlled.

"I said yes. Not because I thought it would be easy. or because I wanted a notch on my belt, no. Truth be told I never thought of myself fit for command. But I said yes anyway. I said yes because I thought it mattered. Because I thought maybe… maybe I could make a difference doing this."

Wendy's shoulders hunched inward slightly, shrinking into her jacket. She looked suddenly small, like a kid wearing someone else's gear. Jane's mouth had a hard line to it, but she was listening. Really listening. Marina's stare hadn't wavered, but I could tell the gears were turning. Juno looked like she was holding her breath.

"I picked each of you because you don't belong in the normal boxes. Because you're all misfits. Specialists moving in the wrong directions. And I thought I could shape that into something new. Something dangerous. Something lethal and efficient. Something elite."

I paused. Let the weight of it settle. Then I said it.

"But instead, I tried to make you into me."

That got them. Jane shifted her stance. Wendy looked up sharply. Juno blinked. Marina's fingers twitched at her side, just once.

"And that was a mistake."

The wind stirred again, a low rustle in the grass behind us. I let it carry the pause before continuing.

"You've all been failing. That's true. But it's only half the truth. The bigger failure was mine. I set you up to break. I treated you like what I thought you should be instead of what you are: a fireteam of irregulars. Independent. Asymmetric. Each of you, dangerous in your own way."

I stepped forward, slow.

"You've struggled in these mock missions because they weren't made for you, not really. I wanted cohesion from friction. Discipline from chaos. But I never taught you how to move like I do. I never gave you the instincts. The calculus. The why."

I let the next breath out slowly, carefully.

"And I can't promise I can teach all of it. Some of it you have to live. But I can promise I'm done blaming you for failing a system you were never meant to succeed in."

They didn't speak. Didn't twitch. Even Jane looked like she'd swallowed something bitter and didn't know what to do with it.

"So here's what happens now."

I raised my chin.

"This program changes. Right now. No more empty drills. No more hollow training ops. From now on, we will live together. Train together. Eat, sleep, bleed, and fight together. You'll learn each other's rhythms. Your tells. Your limits." I paused, staring into the fire, before meeting their eyes again. "You will learn from one another. See each other fail, yes, but also see each other succeed, and through it all we will master this. Together."

I pointed at each of them as I spoke, sharp and deliberate.

"Wendy… you're a demolitionist with a gifted insight into bomb making. I've seen you make explosive masterpieces that can just as easily shred a tank as cave a building in two. But you've never learned restraint, never learned when to set off the bomb, or how to direct the blast to where it matters. That changes."

Her mouth twitched like she wanted to joke, but thought better of it.

"Jane, you're a hammer built for war. You charge in without fear, but you fight like you're alone. You have the fire that would set the world ablaze but you don't know how to temper it so that you don't get burned. That ends today."

She didn't flinch, but something about the defiance in her eyes softened. Barely.

"Marina. You disappear better than anyone I've ever seen. You move like the shadows through the woods and you do it so well you sometimes forget to come back. But you leave your allies hanging in the breeze when you do it. You don't know how to communicate, to follow the flow of the fight, to be there when you're most needed. But you will be, now."

She didn't respond. Didn't blink. But I saw it, saw her shift, ever so slightly in her posture, her frown no longer just annoyed. Now, it was introspective.

"And Juno…"

She was already staring at me, jaw tight, posture rigid as ever.

"You think in tactics like they're burned into your bones. But you don't know how to bend. You have a gifted mind for seeing the big picture, and all the pieces in it, but you struggle with chaos, with disorder, and the battlefield is anything but. It's time for you to learn how to lean into the storm, instead of breaking on it."

I dropped my hand and let the air settle.

"And I'll teach you the rest. What isn't in manuals. How to think in the dirt. How to feel a kill zone. How to plan in silence and move with purpose. How to kill fast… and walk away alive."

No one moved.

"This will be the hardest thing you've ever done. You don't have to do it."

My voice dropped low. Level.

"If you want out, I'll sign the papers myself. You'll be reassigned back to your former units with a commendation from me for having taken part. No shame, no dishonor, just one more program that didn't fit. You've got until tomorrow morning to decide."

I turned, coward that I was. I didn't want to see their faces, see the recriminations in their eyes.

"But if you stay… you're going to bleed for this. And if you survive it, maybe you'll become something even I couldn't have imagined when we first got started."

I started walking. One step, then two.

"Make your choice."

The third step had just hit when I heard it behind me.

"I'm staying."

Juno's voice. Tight. Controlled. Shaking just a little at the edges.

I stopped. Turned halfway. She wasn't looking at me; just ahead, fists clenched at her sides like a cadet on inspection. But in her stance was something I hadn't seen in all the weeks we'd been working together. There was grit, yes, and determination, but also something new. Shame, maybe. And a bit of realization.

"I've been letting you down," she said. "All of you. Running playbooks like it still means something. Like there's still a rulebook that applies. Following rote doctrine like it would make any kind of difference outside in the real world. But I need… I need to learn better, be better. I'm not giving up. Not now, when things are just getting hard."

She meant it. I could hear it.

A second passed.

Jane snorted, loud and crass, her arms crossed and her trademark scowl etched on her face.

"Oh hell no. Stick-up-her-ass isn't leaving me behind. I'm in too. Somebody's gotta keep her from saluting the damn trees."

Wendy laughed. A high, nervous sound, but it was real.

"Where else am I gonna get to blow things up without getting court-martialed? I'm in."

All eyes turned to Marina.

She didn't look at them. Just watched me. Her face was blank. Then her gaze dropped to her boots. One beat. Two. Then she nodded. Once.

That was enough.

I turned to face them, and let the moment stretch.

Then I gave the only order that mattered.

"Fall in."

And for the first time, they did.


000


It took the better part of the day to get everything moved.

The barracks were clean and efficient, built to house the uniform, the predictable. They weren't for people like us. Not anymore. So I had them pack up and shift out to a patch of forest just east of the logistics depot, a clearing deep enough to be out of sight but close enough to the perimeter that we weren't completely out of reach. It was far enough to feel the separation though. That was the point. A physical wedge between them and the rest of the army. A reminder that they weren't rank and file. Not anymore.

I set up a few canvas tents, the older surplus models, each one stained and sun-faded, patched in places. They were good, if dated, but we only used one for living quarters. It would've been easier to split them up, more comfortable. But easy wasn't the point either. The other two were for storage and planning. The idea was to keep the camp lean, and lean it was.

The tent was meant for three. Maybe four, in a pinch. With five of us inside, it felt more like a coffin than a barracks. Sleeping bags lined up in a tight semicircle around the interior. A small ragnite lantern hung from the center pole, casting a flickering blue-white light that clung to everything like sweat.

The only concession to rank I gave myself was a short curtain tied between the pole and my mat, enough for privacy but not separation. Even so, it felt indulgent, but also necessary, the only nod that I could give them in light of their gender. None of them said it, but I think they appreciated the gesture.

Each of them brought something with them; pieces of themselves, the parts that made them human beyond the uniform.

Wendy's gear exploded across her corner like an IED mid-assembly. Machine parts in oily cloth wraps. Loose vials with faded labels. Chemical notebooks scrawled in handwriting even she couldn't always decipher. I could already see the first small stain forming near her bedroll where something corrosive must've leaked. And tucked behind all that chaos, a neatly folded white armband with the markings of a Medic. She didn't bring it up, and we didn't ask, but there was a story behind it, I was sure.

Jane's corner was more martial. Ammo boxes stacked neatly next to her sleeping bag, each labeled in big black permanent marker. Car magazines shoved haphazardly under her bedroll. A gun rack she cobbled together out of a weapons crate lid and some salvaged metal, holding her rifle, her sidearm, and an entrenchment tool who's blade was honed to a razor's edge. Everything about her screamed action, but there was a neatness to it. Not clean, but deliberate.

Marina's space was quiet. Not just in sound, but in presence. A camo net hung over her bed like a canopy, low enough that it blended her entire area into the tent wall. In the center of it all, a single potted fern. Nothing flashy. Just green. Living. She tended to it each morning in silence. An odd addition for the girl. She was allergic to it, just slightly. She always seemed a little congested when she woke.

Juno's belongings looked more like an annex of headquarters. A small bookshelf that she must've built herself stood by her mat, crammed full with infantry manuals, field guides, codebooks, even a few ancient officer's handbooks that were more ideal than applicable. Her uniform was always spotless. Her boots polished to a regulation shine. She made her bedroll tighter than necessary, a square you could bounce a quarter off of.

And then there was me.

My side of the tent was bare compared to theirs. I had my MOLL-E vest, laid out on a low wood crate I'd turned into a makeshift gear shelf. My StG-44 rested in a hand-carved rack just behind it, cleaned and oiled to perfection. My pistol was holstered in its place beside my mat. A whetstone, a roll of gauze, two small ration tins, and a pair of binoculars rounded it out. No photos. No keepsakes. No books. Just tools and gear, the map, the few bits of miscellaneous kit that made its way into the pockets of my vest, and weapons. It was honestly kind of sad.

The tent smelled of gun oil, sweat, and damp earth. Already, Jane was grumbling about the lack of airflow, and Wendy had tried to "improve ventilation" with a box fan she cobbled together from scrap and a hand crank. It only made the humidity worse. Marina stayed silent, her expression unreadable as she adjusted the netting around her bunk, while Juno tried and failed to press wrinkles out of her spare shirt.

But it wasn't the heat or the space that rattled them. It was the latrine.

The moment they realized there was no proper bathroom anymore, all four of them balked. Marina, who was a font of bush and camping knowledge, was the one who handled it. Dug a pit herself and quietly explained how to use it without risking disease or shame. Wendy almost cried. Jane gagged. Juno said nothing but spent fifteen minutes scrubbing her hands afterward with rubbing alcohol.

I told them flatly: get used to it. This was the new normal.

Once I was satisfied they were as settled as they were going to get, I left camp behind and headed toward the motor pool.

Welkin had come through for me, true to his word, he'd secured access to the field factory and machine shop buried beneath a squat concrete building near the base's vehicle depot. It was half-sunken into the earth, reinforced with rebar and old steel plates, an architectural relic that felt more like a wartime bunker than a workshop. The moment I stepped inside, I was met with the sharp scent of metal shavings, oil, hot solder, and old smoke; the unmistakable perfume of machinery being pushed to its limits.

Inside, two figures stood waiting. Leon Schmidt, the motor pool's grease-streaked wunderkind, and Kreis Czherny, his tall and taciturn partner. Leon spotted me first, and his reaction was immediate.

"Holy hell… Sergeant Finch." His eyes went wide. "Wait, no- The Lion of Bruhl?" He stepped forward, extending his hand with the energy of a puppy who'd just seen his favorite chew toy walk in on two legs. "Man, this is crazy. I've read all the reports. The battle at Bruhl? The last stand at the gates? The ambush outside of Dillburg? I heard you were kicking Imp ass up and down the front! It's an honor!"

I stared at his hand for a beat before finally shaking it. "It's… nice to meet you."

"Still," he said, not missing a beat. "You're a legend around here."

"I'm a soldier. Same as you."

Leon opened his mouth, probably to argue the point, but Kreis cleared his throat gently and stepped in with the social grace his partner lacked.

"You'll have to forgive Leon," Kreis said with a tired smile. "He reads every action report that crosses his desk. Getting to meet the Lion in the flesh is sort of like seeing a walking tall tale."

"I'm nothing special. Really." I muttered.

Leon grinned but stayed quiet.

"Either way, I'm here on business. I assume Welkin told you I was coming?" I asked, cutting through the haze of hero worship. Leon got serious real fast, giving me a firm nod. "Good. I need gear. Four new weapons. Not Gallian issue. Same specs as my own."

Kreis lifted an eyebrow. "Same model as your current rifle?"

I nodded. "StG-44. Fires 7.92x33 Kurz. You won't find blueprints for it in any Gallian quartermaster's guide. But the ammo's not the problem. I've seen crates of Kurz in three different supply dumps. What I need is four rifles that can chamber it reliably and match the handling profile of mine."

The two mechanics exchanged glances. Kreis looked thoughtful. Leon looked like he'd just been handed a gift-wrapped mystery.

"Okay," Leon said, rubbing his palms together, already imagining the engineering challenges. "The cartridge is short and fat. Our standard long-stroke pistons won't handle the cycling properly without a redesign. Bolt group's totally different. Receiver geometry, too."

"But," Kreis added, "we might be able to approximate it. Not replicate it, exactly, but we can build something structurally similar. It won't be perfect, but it will match the performance of your original rifle. There shouldn't be a problem getting it to feed the Kurz rounds, and it'll hold up in the field."

"Good. Very good," I said.

Leon was already pacing in a small circle, running mental blueprints through his head. "The magwell's gonna be the trickiest part. Might have to fabricate a custom lower, maybe weld in a spacer block if we adapt Gallian parts-"

Kreis cleared his throat again.

"Focus," he said.

Leon blinked, then nodded sheepishly.

"Right," Kreis continued. "It'll take time. We've got two light tanks in for overhaul, and the 7th's APC needs a new tread and differential."

"How long?" I asked.

Kreis looked at Leon. Leon shrugged. "Two weeks minimum. Three if we run into machining delays."

"That's acceptable," I said. "The other thing I need is a set of plate carriers. Nothing fancy. Just durable, functional, and modular. Something that fits tightly and won't shift when you're crawling through the dirt.

"I'll have to see what we can do but we aren't tailors." Leon asked, glancing toward a stack of materials.

"It needs to be sturdy and follow the same basic design. It doesn't need to be fancy."

Kreis nodded. "We can make something out of repurposed canvas, steel, and leather. Might be heavier than what you're used to but-"

"They'll get used to it," I said.

Leon gave a sharp nod. "Four copies?"

"Correct. Rough analogs to what I use now. Focus on usability, not aesthetics."

The two men exchanged another glance, and this time Kreis looked more confident.

"We can make that work," he said. "Same delivery window. Two to three weeks. But we'll need you to let us study your vest. Drape it over the drafting table, take some measurements, that sort of thing."

"You'll have it by morning."

I turned to leave, but then paused.

"There's one more thing."

Leon cocked his head, already excited again. "Yeah?"

"Are you able to fabricate custom parts and modifications for weapons?" I stepped back toward the tool wall and looked at the bench, where tools hung like surgical instruments, waiting to cut steel and bring form to thought. "I need the barrels on all the rifles modified. The pistols too, mine included, and something else added onto the list."

"Like what?" Kreis asked, cautious.

"Something useful. Something quiet." I said. "A piece of kit based on something I've seen before."

Leon frowned. "Like a weapon?"

"An addition. And a reminder, for what we do."

The room grew still.

I could feel their curiosity, but neither pressed.

"We'll need specs," Kreis said finally. "And diagrams, if possible."

"I'll bring them when I come by tomorrow."

Leon gave a sharp nod, smile returning. "We'll build it. Whatever it is."

I nodded once and stepped back into the early evening air.

The walk back to the tent was long, but not lonely. The forest was beginning to settle into its twilight rhythm; birds chirping their last songs, bugs starting their night shifts. A distant bark of laughter cracked through the air. Wendy, probably. Jane's voice chased it, sharp and annoyed. I caught a flash of movement near the trees. Marina watching. Juno was probably sitting near the tent, rereading some obscure manual by lantern light.

They were all still here.

Still committed.

They'd chosen to stay.

And for the first time since this whole mess started, I felt the tension in my chest loosen just slightly. Not because I thought we were suddenly going to become a perfect team. We weren't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But they weren't running.

And I wasn't giving up.

That counted for something.

Tomorrow, the real training would begin. No more drills. No more theory. No more pretending. From this point forward, everything we did was going to matter.

Because I wasn't just building soldiers.

I was building shadows.

And if we were going to survive the coming storm, they'd need to be sharper, faster, and colder than anything the Empire could throw at us.

One step at a time.




AN: Oh hey, thought you might like a chapter. This one has been run through a few times, mostly because, well, I still suck at dialogue and I had to do a lot of thinking on how to approach the issue of "My brother in Christ you know nothing about how to make soldiers into soldiers." I like to think I managed to touch on the idea that Jerry is still the same unsure goober that he's always been without him outwardly seeming like the unsure goober that he's always been. A lot of the internal and external dialogue and perspectives have seen work, with me digging through and changing things here and there. I also kept dancing between whether I wanted to keep everything from Jerry's first person POV or not. The end of Chapter 4 was meant to be kind of a closure where it's an external voice looking down on everyone after the forced march, but I'm not sure if I liked it.

That said I think this chapter came out okay. Despite it's length it still feels a little short, and a little rushed, but I also don't want to zero in on the training arc. Especially since time marches on and the war is still going on in the background. Something interesting is that from the moment they reached the training grounds at the HQ, which actually has a name that I have no idea what it is (Not Lanseal, it was named after some general or another). I refer to it as an Academy in some instances and while technically true it's really more the base of operations for the Militia under General Damon's Central Army Group. I also tried to adjust the girls for a more storied feel, so they don't match their profiles, for what they are, in VC. Well, not yet. Little bits and pieces are going to shine through here and there, as they all open up in their own way, but it's a slow progression. Though there is a fun fact in that apparently Jane's flower shop was in Bruhl. So apparently she and Juno could reasonably know one another. I wonder what drama I can milk out of that?

I hope you all have been enjoying the story so far. I encourage you to post your opinions and thoughts on it. What do you like, what don't you like, what would you like to see more of? Let me know! As a sneak peek, I've also been working on some apocrypha as well, for the Commando class, best as I can get it in game terms, for the new Unit that Jerry has basically been shanghaied into making, and for bits and bobs of gear that are going to come up, starting with the Gallian APC, which I'm pulling from the first game, as opposed to the more carlike ones from the latter games. I just like the treaded box look, what can I say?

Anyway, I'll leave it at that. This AN is getting a little too long as it is. Have a great day and remember to keep your powder dry!

 

[J. Finch]

…even today, armchair generals and Noblist revisionists try to paint the Vasel retreat as if it were anything but a chaotic collapse of all of the Gallian lines, buckling under the pressure of the Imperial blitz. If it weren't for the river and the fact that the bridge was the only real crossing for six hundred miles in either direction the whole country would have been swept away in the first weeks of fighting. As it was, the horrors of what the men saw as their commanders and captains failed them, leaving them to hold the ever-collapsing Front while they fled to safety left a bitter pill in the mouths of many soldiers in the days following.​

-Ch. 2, The River of Vasel, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front​

Chapter Seven​

The forest was quiet but not still. The kind of hush that hums with tension, where every crackle of leaf feels like thunder if you're trying hard enough not to be heard.

I crouched low in the brush, half-buried beneath leaves and the moist scent of dew. My face was streaked in black and olive paint, the training knife a dull weight in my palm. I could hear the others just on the edge of range- subtle shuffles, muffled breaths. The air still carried that golden haze from the sunrise, the kind that made everything look too soft for what we were about to do.

To my left, Jane crept like a street cat, knife drawn, shoulders high, all twitch and focus. Her hair was tucked under her cap this time. She learned that lesson fast, after getting it snagged in the thorns on day one.

Farther out, Wendy crouched behind a fallen log, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. Her hand hovered over a smoke grenade, painted yellow for training use, but her body was too wired for the job, too ready. I could feel the tension coming off her like heat.

Juno, of course, was barely even visible. She'd threaded herself into a natural recess between roots, muted uniform dusted in mud and leaves, breathing slow and deliberate. If I hadn't seen her move into place, I wouldn't have known she was there.

Up in the tower, Marina was a shadow behind a scope. Loaded down with paint rounds and ready, she hunted us from her perch, one of several scattered around the field. The idea, such as it was, was simple. She would pick a spot, and if she could spot any of us in the tall, willowy grass or dark underbrush of the woods, she'd put a round right where she saw us. And those bright orange bastards hurt like a motherfucker, but were otherwise completely harmless. The only concession I allowed was a set of goggled for each of us. Otherwise, it was fair game. That said, Marina had taken a strange pleasure in hitting us right where it hurt, and in the end I allowed it, because, as we were all finding out, pain was an excellent teacher.

I waited. The moment stretched.

Then Wendy moved. A flick of her wrist and she reared back to throw, when the sharp crack of the reduced powder cartridges rung out, splitting the quiet.

Orange paint exploded across her face.

She yelped, stumbled backward, eyes squeezed shut. "Shit! Fuck! Valkyrur damnit Marina!" A second shot caught her right in the back, and she howled as she flopped on the ground. Jane twitched beside me, shifting, and I could see the moment she broke profile.

Another shot rang out. Jane dropped, clutching her vest.

"You absolute witch! That's the third time today!" I barely breathed as I gave Jane a glance, but it was too late. I knew I was spotted, too close to Jane when she lost cover.

A third crack. The round caught me in the bicep and splattered like hot syrup. I bit down on a curse and dropped to my side, heart hammering from the sting.

I blew the whistle looped around my neck. Short. Sharp. Training over.

Wendy was still blinking rapidly, wiping paint out of her eyebrows with her sleeve. Jane stomped out from the underbrush, muttering obscenities, one hand pressed over her chest.
"Got me square in the goddamn nipple," she snapped. "Again. I swear she aims for it."

Marina climbed down from the tower, rifle slung, face unreadable. Calm as ever. I could swear she had a hop in her step, though. Just a little. Glad to see she was pleased with herself.

Juno stepped out last, untouched, of course. She moved with quiet efficiency, brushing debris off her sleeves without a word. Out of all of us Juno took to the advice of both Marina and myself like a duck to water. Not surprising, given how meticulous she was in everything she did, and honestly a little impressive.

We regrouped in the clearing by the hill's edge, covered in orange blotches. Each of us were painted by the evidence of our failures, but it was less than yesterday, and far better than it was when we'd started.

Now came the fun part, the Scoreboard. My own little bit of motivation for Marina. Most hit pays for her lunch, and for such a salt-of-the-earth girl we'd all found out she could have very pricy tastes. "Three hits on me. Five on Jane. Nine on Wendy."

Wendy groaned. "Oh, come on. I was setting up. She must've, what, read my muscles?"

"Two on Juno," I finished, not answering her rhetorical question as she fumed.


Juno raised a brow. "What, I thought-"
"Back shoulder," Marina answered flatly. "And lower thigh. Didn't break through cover, but you left a silhouette."
Juno's frown was the deepest I'd seen from her in days, looking at her leg and yep, right outside the knee on her leg armor. "I thought I hit myself on a branch."

"Everyone get something to drink," I said, sitting on a stump and rubbing my arm. "You've got five minutes before feedback."

Jane plopped onto the grass and pulled her vest off like it had personally offended her. "I swear to God, Marina, if I come out of this with one boob noticeably flatter than the other…"

"You shouldn't present a profile so distinct," Marina replied, already unloading her paint rounds into a pouch. "It draws the eye."

Wendy dropped next to Jane with a sigh, her face still streaked with orange. "I'm gonna taste this shit all day." She spit, literally, trying to get the chalky substance out of her mouth. I knew that she would be still be tasting it tonight from my own experience.

"Better than a real round," I muttered. My bicep throbbed. "Paint doesn't cauterize."

Juno crouched nearby, rolling her shoulders in quiet calculation. "I'll log the tower angles. She hit you clean through partial cover. That's not luck."

"It's Marina," Jane grunted. "She's not lucky, she's just the devil."

"Could be worse," Wendy offered. "She could be aiming lower."

"She better fuckin' not. I need those bits," Jane muttered.

I let them grumble for a moment longer, letting them get it out of their system. It was better that way, so they could come at this with a clear head. I stood, eventually, and brushed the dirt off my pants.

"Alright. Let's get to it." I said, knocking the dirt loose from my gloves.

They quieted, even Jane, and turned to me. It had become something of a habit, and I wasn't sure if that was a good thing, but it made things easier on me as it were.

"Jane, your footwork is too loud. You shift weight mid-step without compensating. Two of those hits would have been avoidable if you didn't overstress your positioning. I could see the change from across the field. Marina?"

"She was good until she broke from her crouch. I spotted her when she half-stood to reposition. You spread yourself too wide and disrupted the grass around you. I had more than enough time to line up on you too. You stay in motion too long." The sniper commented.

"So what, I gotta slither across the dirt like a snake? S'bullshit…," she grumbled.

I raised a brow. "Better than being domed because you want to rush things. Keep yourself slow and steady. Violence of action, not violent action."

She leaned back and waved a hand. "Fine, fine."

I looked at Wendy. "You're too vertical. Your center of gravity lifts every time you prep to throw. It's like watching a firework get ready to launch. Most of those shots were from you trying to get a better throwing position. You know the ranges of your explosives by heart. If you can't reach from where you are, get closer. Don't expose yourself."

Wendy gave me a cheeky smile, holding up the grenade. "Maybe I'm just excited."

"Excitement gets you shot. Which it did. Spotting you was easy, and I barely had to keep an eye out." Marina said with an air of finality. I nodded.

"Practice throwing from a prone position, maybe with different types of pitches. This is a regular issue for you Wendy. I want to see a noticeable improvement by tomorrow." That earned a sigh and a mumbled "Yes, boss." From the girl.

Juno straightened slightly at the attention when I turned to her. Out of all of them she had done the best, and had been for days. She'd even managed to loop me once or twice, which I took as a good sign of her skills. Still, she had made some mistakes that I'd noticed, but just barely.

"You moved well, but when you shifted your hips adjusting to the slope, your coat caught a root flare. It wasn't visible at ground level, but from a perch," I nodded toward the tower, "it made you stand out."

"I don't have much to say except pay attention to your surroundings. I spotted you when you moved into bad cover, things that cleared up your profile instead of breaking it. Just because it covers your head doesn't mean it covers your ass." Marina finished for me.

"I'll fix it," she said simply.

Finally, I turned to Marina. She met my eyes with that same cool detachment. A faint glint of pride there, maybe. Just maybe.

"Good spotting and good shooting, but next run, I want you to rotate stations. Different angles, different shadows. Keep us guessing. Once we zeroed your perch we started adjusting for it."

She nodded once. "Understood."

Wendy leaned toward Jane. "Think we'll ever tag her back?"

Jane scoffed. "Sure. When pigs fly and paint doesn't sting."

"We'll see," I said. "Eventually."

They all started to rise, slower now, the exhaustion creeping in. Sweat and dirt caked them all, each of them marked with bruises or stains, frustration or fire. But I watched how they moved now, closer to each other, less like strangers orbiting the same campfire and more like parts of a machine still learning to mesh.

We did these drills morning and night. No breaks. No shortcuts. Stealth wasn't an act, it was a language, and I needed them fluent.

Marina was already checking her rifle's pressure line when I caught her glance.

"Are you enjoying this?" I asked.

Her mouth twitched. "More than I thought I would."

Wendy tugged off her gloves and flopped dramatically to the ground, arms spread. "So when's the next round of getting shot in the face?"

"One hour," I replied. "Dry runs in the mock village."

Jane groaned. "Can't wait to get paint in my ear canal again."

Juno didn't look up from her notes. "There's a fifty-seven percent improvement in contact avoidance since yesterday. And no one tripped over a root this time."

"I did," Wendy mumbled, "but I styled it out."

"You fell on your face," Jane reminded her.

"Gracefully," Wendy corrected, smug.

I took a long breath and stood again. "Alright. Reset gear. Rinse off if you need to. We run it back after chow."

They moved with groans and jokes, but no one argued.

I stayed behind just a moment longer, brushing fingers against the welt on my arm. The sting was real. So was the progress.

They were rough. Too loud, too impulsive, too rigid in places. But they were learning. Fast.

Marina had already made her way to her backpack, hoisting it up and, to my surprise, making her way over. She sent me a small nod of acknowledgement as our eyes met.

I nodded back.

The rustle of gear being slung over shoulders, the click of belts and buckles, and the soft curse of someone rethreading a strap wrong, it was all there, a messy little morning ritual. The light came low and gold through the trees, cutting the air in long bars of warmth. I leaned against a tree just shy of the clearing, arms folded, watching them move.

Wendy was halfway through checking her gear and already narrating her process like a stage magician. "Ladies and... lady," she began, flicking a clasp shut with a dramatic snap, "please observe the incredible disappearing blast radius. Safety now included!"

Juno rolled her eyes but didn't rise to the bait. She was already squared away, tightening the last strap of her kit bag with a firm tug and moving to check the seal on her canteen like it was going to sprout legs and run off.

"You know," Jane grunted, cinching her belt like it owed her money, "for someone who nearly blew up the field latrine, you sure talk a lot of shit."

"It was a controlled demonstration," Wendy chirped, flicking a loose strap on Jane's rig with the tip of her finger. "I controlled it. Right into a beautiful fireball. Science, baby."

"You got literal crap on my boots," Jane shot back.

"You shouldn't have been standing so close. It's called splash damage, duh."

Juno cleared her throat. "You know, if you two put half as much energy into route clearance drills as you do into insulting each other, we might not be here every morning with orange paint on our asses."

Jane pivoted smoothly. "Oh, I'm sorry, were we interrupting your very intense internal monologue about angle of approach and optimal recon cadence?"

"It's not a monologue if it's correct."

Wendy clapped like a game show audience. "Ooh, burn! Ice queen strikes!"

Marina let out a sigh, just loud enough to be heard, as she leaned against a tree, arms folded across her chest. She hadn't said a word yet. She rarely did unless she had something to say. Rifle leaned nearby, untouched. Her gaze flicked up to the branches overhead, tracking something invisible in the canopy.

"You know," Jane said, pivoting again with the casual speed of a predator looking for new prey, "I think that was the most I've heard our favorite birdwatcher say this week. Shame it was all 'this is why you're shit.'"

Marina's eyes dropped, narrowed just slightly. "I say plenty besides that. You're just too loud to notice."

"Aww, come on," Jane teased, slinging her training rifle and sauntering over with an exaggerated swing to her step. "You can't just sit off to the side and look broody all the time. That's Juno's thing."

"I'm not broody," Juno said flatly.

"Girl, you're a walking sigh," Wendy snorted, fully leaning into the chaos now. "We could bottle your emotional repression and use it as smoke cover."

Marina gave a small shake of her head and reached for her rifle. "I'm going to start early if you keep this up."

"Promises, promises," Jane said, grinning as she backed off, giving Marina space again with mock deference.

I let the moment breathe.

It was good. Rough-edged, but good.

There was rhythm now, if not harmony, then at least a cadence. They were snapping less at each other and more at each other's jokes. The tension still hung between them, but it had mellowed, spread out into something manageable. Friction, but not fault lines.

And they were quicker to gear up, too. No hesitation. No complaints. Just movement. Movement with purpose.

Wendy still double-checked everything out loud, but now she was right more often than she was wrong. Jane still treated her kit like a sparring partner, but it held. Juno's movements were automatic now, her prep tight and minimal. And Marina didn't prep at all. She was already there, and always seemed to be.

They didn't wait for a cue from me. They just started to drift toward the treeline, one by one, like pieces falling into orbit.

I pushed off from the bark, wooden knife tucked into my belt, and followed. Not with fanfare. Not with a barked command. Just a quiet dismissal, and the rustle of leaves behind me as they melted into the underbrush.

A slow grin tugged at the edge of my mouth as I went after them. They were loud as hell, sure. But less so than yesterday. And that counted.

Six dummies down before Marina spotted anyone. That wasn't luck. That was progress.

Half the field, cleared without a shot fired, or at least not before the first takedown. Considering the elevated sight lines Marina's tower gave her, that was no small feat. She had the high ground, a full arc of vision, and the benefit of watching them from above, like a hawk with a scoped rifle. And still, they slipped through, ghosted up to half those straw-filled bastards and dropped them clean.

I didn't smile, but I felt it, low and tight in my chest. Pride, maybe. Relief, too. They were getting better. Not just in ones and twos, but as a unit.

Wendy was moving quieter, not perfect, but the bounce in her step was tempered now, paced like she understood her weight could betray her. Jane wasn't trying to rush anymore. She stalked, slow and deliberate, her impatience forced into the edge of her blade rather than the twitch of her feet. Even Juno; methodical, mechanical Juno, was starting to adapt, learning when to trust instinct instead of just pattern. Her eyes stayed sharp, her movement cleaner. Less calculation, more flow.

And Marina? She'd always been good, but now her timing was lethal. She didn't fire on movement; she waited. Confirmed. Read intentions from brush shift and profile slant. The others grumbled, sure, but they knew why she was up there. No one complained about the shots anymore. Not seriously.

It wasn't perfect. Far from it. They still clashed: Wendy too loud, Jane too quick to snap, Juno too cold in her critiques, and Marina too detached for comfort. But they weren't breaking on those differences anymore. They bent, flexed, filled each other's gaps in ways they hadn't before. Personality friction hadn't vanished, but it had worn down just enough to make space for function.

That was something I hadn't expected, not this soon.

They weren't the wolves I envisioned. Not yet.

But they were starting to move like a pack.


000


The sun had dipped low over the ridge hours ago, leaving only the burnished glow of lamplight and the faint orange whisper of dusk filtering through the cracks of canvas and flap. The tent smelled like dry paper and warm ragnite; our little corner of order in the mess of camp life, buried under mountains of reports, requisition forms, field write-ups, and gear check manifests.

I hunched over my crate-turned-desk, pen in hand, scowling at the latest set of personnel movement forms like they'd personally insulted me. Each line bled into the next, the same boxes, same fields, same vague instructions in the margins. Somewhere near the top of my third page, I forgot what I was writing. Again.

Across the tent, Juno hadn't slowed once. Her pen danced across the pages like it was conducting a symphony. Forms flipped, folders stacked, data collated with the calm efficiency of someone who not only knew the process but trusted it. I glanced up, rubbing the bridge of my nose.

"Do you... actually understand all of this?" I muttered, rubbing a hand over my eyes, trying to ignore the burn and the slowly growing headache.

She looked up and blinked, like she was surprised I was still struggling. "Of course. Most of it's just redundancies anyway. All the same information, just indifferent formats."

She stood and crossed the tent, her steps soft and sure, gathering a couple of forms from my pile before settling beside me. "See this?" she said, pointing to the top row of a logistics request. "This section's asking for the totals. Then this one asks for the breakdown by type. And this one just wants it all again, but formatted for battalion records. It's not about new data, it's about new layouts."

I watched her fill in three rows like it was nothing. Efficient. Clean. Her writing looked like a typewriter had spit it out.

"You do this in your spare time?" I asked, half serious.

She smirked. "No, but I've had practice. I studied logistics at the University of Randgriz. The classes were mostly focused on operational support and administrative strategy."

That caught me off guard. "You went to university?"

"Yeah. Bruhl didn't have much past secondary, so I moved out right after." She gave a little shrug, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Took a few classes with Welkin, actually. We were in the same year. He was all about tanks and battlefield movement. I liked supply chains. Different approaches to the same subject." She laughed lightly, then continued. "But logistics wasn't my original major. I was studying microbiology."
That pulled my eyebrows up. "Really?"

Juno nodded, a small, sheepish smile tugging at her lips. "Mmhm. It's still a pretty new field, but it fascinated me. The idea that entire systems, entire lives, can depend on the smallest moving parts. Invisible ones. It just… made sense to me. All these interactions, these unseen forces driving change. In a weird way, it wasn't that different from managing inventory and tracking supply lines. Just smaller."

I leaned back a little, eyeing her with a fresh kind of respect. "No offense, but I wouldn't have pegged you for the science type either."

"Most people don't," she replied, her tone light but proud. "But there's a rhythm to it. A puzzle. I like making things fit, streamlining chaos into something usable. You'd be surprised how many operations fall apart over a missing crate of ammo or a single wrong digit in a fuel report."

She handed me back the paperwork I'd mangled. It was already half-fixed. "Besides," she added, "if I don't do it, someone else has to."

I gave her a tired smile. "Glad it's you then."

The rest of the evening passed in relative silence, broken only by the rustle of pages and the scratch of pens. We worked under the hum of the overhead lamp, the world outside dimming into darkness. Her presence grounded me—turned the headache of admin work into something almost bearable.

By the time we called it, we were buried under finished files, tired but triumphant. It wasn't glorious work. No medals, no speeches. Just ink, paper, and quiet competence.

But damn if it didn't feel good to have help like hers.



000


The air in the supply tent was close and heavy with the scent of machine oil, ragnite dust, and canvas warmed by the dying sun. Outside, the treetops glowed with the last golden light of the day, casting long shadows that stretched through the flaps of the tent and onto the dirt floor. Inside, we were huddled around a beat-up wooden field table that had clearly seen better decades. Crates of food, ammo, and tools were stacked haphazardly around us, forming the walls of a crude little workshop nestled inside our primitive camp. No chairs; just overturned supply boxes and stacked ammo tins to sit on.

Jane was hunched over her corner of the table, stripped down to her undershirt, a smudge of grease on her bicep as she fiddled with a bent wire. Juno, as ever, sat with perfect posture, her brow furrowed in concentration, eyes flicking back and forth between her notes and the radio guts in front of her. Marina had that usual flat expression, part curiosity, part existential regret, picking at the casing of a ragnite battery with a tiny screwdriver. I leaned back slightly, arms crossed, observing them like I always did: not quite in the circle, not quite out of it.

And then there was Wendy.

"Okay, so!" she clapped her hands together with a manic grin, snapping a wire between her fingers like a conductor with a whip. "If any of you blow off your eyebrows tonight, that's a personal choice, not a design flaw. Capiche?"

Juno looked up from her receiver and gave a dry blink. "That's not comforting."

Wendy grinned wider, then spun a small ragnite cell on her fingertip before catching it and slapping it down in front of her. "This, ladies and Boss," she gestured grandly to the clutter on the table, "is what separates the mortals from the demolition divas."

Jane snorted, scratching at the back of her neck. "This is what separates my last nerve from my frontal lobe, more like."

Wendy ignored her. "We've already gone over your basics: Hexolite, Myonide, and Ragnaputty. Together they make Ragnadexotol, or RDT. It's stable, moldable, great for mining charges, tank shells, and everyone's favorite: landmines!"

I watched her carefully measure out a tiny lump of the dull green putty, spreading it on a metal plate like a kid with finger paint.

"Now," she continued, turning to the shelf behind her and rummaging in a crate, "if you introduce just a pinch of this stuff- Titronucleide powder," she lifted a stoppered glass vial full of slate-grey granules, "the whole thing gets ten times more fun."

Marina's eyes narrowed faintly. "Define 'fun.'"

Wendy grinned, eyes wide. "Booms. Huge booms. Cataclysmic 'oh no, I vaporized the bridge again' type booms."

Jane leaned back slightly. "Wait. Again?"

"She's joking," I said flatly, even though I wasn't completely sure.

Wendy wiggled her hand. "Mostly!"

Juno set down her toolkit and frowned. "Then why don't we use that in, say, artillery shells?"

"Great question!" Wendy pointed at her, then snapped her fingers. "Because it's a pain in the ass to set off. This stuff needs an arc charge. A nice, focused zap to excite the ragnite particles enough to detonate. So, no good with a standard primer. That's why it's not in shells. But," she tapped the metal plate, "with a homemade arc trigger? Now that's the ticket."

Jane gave her a skeptical look. "And that's safe?"

"Safe is a state of mind," Wendy chirped, moving on to another toolkit. "Anyway! Let's talk remote detonation. You've all got those old broken-down radios, right? We're going to turn the batteries and receivers into boom buttons. And don't worry! It's very simple. Even Juno can do it."

Juno arched a brow. "Is that a challenge?"

Wendy winked. "It is now!"

"Valkyrur save me," Jane muttered, "you two need to fight or kiss already. I can't take this weird rivalry anymore."

"Careful," Wendy sing-songed. "Say that too loud and I'll rig your bedroll with flash powder."

Marina didn't even look up. "You already did."

"That was a training aid, Marina!"

"Uh huh."

I let the back-and-forth roll as I leaned an elbow on a crate, resting my chin on my knuckles. This was how it had been going the past few nights. Wendy would drag them into her own brand of mad science with wide eyes and too many wires, and somehow, by the end of it, they always learned something. That manic energy of hers; chaotic, but never out of control, was infectious. I'd seen her blow up exactly one dummy crate during a trial run, and instead of panic, she just cackled and took notes on the blast radius.

She was nuts. But she was our nuts.

"Alright, alright," Wendy clapped again. "Tonight's goal: working radio detonators. Same materials, same timers. Once you're done, we'll wire the dummy charges to the test board, go outside, and fire 'em off. Biggest boom gets bragging rights and the last chocolate ration."

Jane grunted. "Sold."

"I'll win it for the good of Gallia," Juno said, straight-faced.

"Oh please," Wendy rolled her eyes. "You just want it because you labeled the last one as contraband and confiscated it for inspection."

"It was not on our documented rations dispensation. Just because you claimed it was a morale booster-," Juno said with a deadpan look before she was cut off by Marina of all people.

"I was feeling more morale after eating it," Marina added, completely serious.

That got a snort out of me.

"See? I'm not the only one who loves science and sweets," Wendy beamed, already assembling the pieces of a demo detonator. "Alright. Strip your wires, crack those radios, and keep the polarity straight. Last person to finish has to stir the latrine trench tomorrow."

Jane immediately started prying open her radio with a combat knife. "Not it."

"Already halfway through," Juno said, focused and smug.

Marina gave her a side-eye and then, with her usual quiet elegance, picked up her toolkit and began.

I watched the four of them work, the stresses that I had been worried about, the fact that Wendy was playing teacher here, that Juno tended to grind against the energetic young woman or that Marina would ignore her? They were thankfully unfounded. Even Jane was paying attention, keeping things in mind as she worked on her first attempt spoke volumes to me. I saw something real here.

Wendy, for all her chaos and manic energy, was in her element now, utterly transformed the moment theory met practice. She moved around the table like a conductor with a pocketful of blasting caps, ducking in to check solder points, correcting wire splices with a flick of her fingers, and rattling off explanations so fast even I had to pay attention to keep up. Her excitement was infectious, sure, but underneath that giddy surface was something sharper, more methodical. Disciplined, even.

Every time Jane tried to wing it, Wendy was there with a surprisingly patient rebuke, walking her through the reasoning without talking down to her. She called Juno's layout "textbook perfect" before adjusting one capacitor angle by two degrees, like she saw things the rest of us didn't. Even Marina, who normally kept her questions to the bare minimum, leaned in with a quiet, pointed query about remote signal stability, and Wendy rattled off an answer so clean and technical it could've been lifted straight out of a munitions manual.

I watched the others while Wendy worked, really watched them. Jane, who usually played everything loose and fast, had dialed down the swagger. Her brow was furrowed in real concentration as she adjusted the wiring on her detonator, glancing at Wendy every so often to silently confirm she was on the right track. Even when she tossed out the occasional smartass comment, there was no bite to it. It wasn't bluster though, it was habit. Beneath it, I could see the gears turning. She respected the process, and more importantly, she respected who was leading it.

Marina sat across the table, chin resting on one hand, the other gently guiding a tool across her setup with practiced precision. She was quiet, of course, but not checked out. Her eyes tracked everything Wendy said with laser focus, her lips barely moving as she muttered a few calculations to herself. When she asked a question, it was pointed, technical. No theatrics, no filler. She didn't waste words on people she didn't think were worth the effort, so hearing her ask for clarification said more than any compliment could.

And then there was Juno, her movements careful and exact, hands as steady as if she were crafting her next requisition order rather than laying out a homemade explosive. There was still that formal edge to her; she sat upright, measured, precise, but she'd let go of some of the stiffness, enough that when Wendy cracked a joke about "not blowing off your tits unless it's worth it," Juno let out a quiet, almost reluctant laugh. She even nudged Jane's elbow once, which earned a mock scowl and a grin from the other girl. The sharp corners were softening between them, little by little.

It struck me then, what I was really seeing. This wasn't just a class. It was trust, building one coil of wire and cap charge at a time. Underneath the jabs and sarcasm, the tension and clashing personalities, there was a growing respect, not just for Wendy, but for each other. They were learning to rely on her, and maybe, just maybe, Wendy was realizing she could be relied on. The way she moved now, more confident, more comfortable- it was like she'd stepped into something she didn't know she'd been missing.

I leaned back on my stool, arms crossed, watching them all in their strange little element. Laughing, needling each other, building things that shouldn't exist outside a war zone. They were making progress. Not just in technique, but as a unit. There was a rhythm to it now, something earned, not given. The kind of cohesion that only comes with time and bruises and a few near-disasters. I knew full well what this was going to look like when the smoke cleared. Another awkward conversation with Captain Varrot about why exactly we'd been lighting off explosives outside of HQ again. But as I looked over their faces, their messy work, the smirks and smudges and half-hidden satisfaction, I didn't feel a lick of regret.


000


The rifle bucked in Marina's hands, each shot ringing out as brass spat from the side of the StG-44 and clinked across the gravel. The smell of powder hung heavy in the spring air, sharp and acrid like burnt coffee grounds soaked in iron. I watched her stance; shoulder square, cheek tight to the stock, eyes narrowed through the mounted scope as she tagged the plywood silhouette downrange again and again. Her precision didn't surprise me anymore, but the way she moved, fluid and automatic, like her body knew the answers before her mind did, yetstill had a kind of quiet poetry to it.

"Shoots hot," she murmured, lowering the rifle and stepping back from the firing line. "Recoil's manageable. Muzzle climb is high, but nothing that can't be reined in."

I nodded and stepped forward to take my turn, Marina handing me the rifle. "Lighter round's got less chop, but you lose some reach." I raised the rifle, sighted in, and tapped out a few three-round bursts. The StG kicked, but not hard. The Kurz rounds snapped through the late afternoon, punching into the chest of the target with crisp, sharp rhythm.

"Rate of fire makes up for it up close," I added, lowering the rifle and glancing back. "I wouldn't want to trade with a full-caliber machine gun, but it fills the gap."

Marina crossed her arms, giving a faint hum of agreement. "It'll work well in the cities. Bigger bullet than the nines, so more punch, more range." She gave the rifle another once-over, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Still wouldn't give up the GSR. This thing doesn't breathe right for the distances I like."

"It's not a sniper rifle," I said, half-smiling. "That's true, but it does the work it needs to. Trust me, I know."

Her lips quirked at that. "I believe you, sir. I don't dislike it. It's just that…"

"It's not ideal." I said, setting the rifle down on the crate between us. "But that's the war we've got."

She was quiet for a bit, just looking downrange. The afternoon heat settled around us, the kind that made shadows stretch and sweat cling to your collar. Then, softly, like a stone dropping into still water, she spoke again.

"My dad taught me to shoot," she said. "Out past the tree line where our land ran long and flat. We hunted elk and boar mostly. He'd have me track for hours before ever touching the trigger. Said the shot's only the end. Everything before that… that's the part that matters."

I didn't say anything. Just listened. She didn't talk much. When she did, I paid attention.

"He taught me how to read wind in the trees, how to smell a storm before it hit. When I was ten, I could hit a rabbit at two hundred paces. When I was eleven, I could disappear into the brush and not be seen 'til sundown." She paused, and there was something close to a fond smile on her lips. "He called it 'the old way.' Said if the world fell apart, I'd be fine."

Her eyes fell to the rifle again.

"Then the allergy hit. Grass, dust, flowers… damn near everything made my eyes swell up and my nose run. Couldn't go a day without sneezing my head off. It felt like I was starting from day one all over again." Her tone was nostalgic, her eyes twinkling, just barely, as she recalled a memory only she could see. "But you know what he did? He just looked at me, handed me his hunting rifle, and said, 'Then we'll adapt.'"

I smiled at that. "Sounds like a good man."

"The best," she said simply. Then she picked up the StG again. "Not sure what he'd think about me carrying one of these."

"He'd probably be proud," I said. "You're still hitting the target."

"Maybe." She leveled the rifle again. "Let's run it again. I want to see how the scope tracks under repeat fire."

And we did, side by side under the bleeding sun, until the shadows grew long and the ammo tins sat empty at our feet. Not a word wasted. Just the rhythm of breath, the crack of fire, and two soldiers doing what they'd learned to do.


000


Jane came in low, fists clenched, eyes narrowed with the kind of feral glee that only shows up when someone really, truly enjoys this kind of violence. She didn't waste time. No pretense, no circling. Just straight in with a snap kick toward my thigh and a jab aimed at my throat. I blocked the kick and twisted my head just in time, but the edge of her glove scraped my neck anyway. She grinned. I didn't.

She was quick. Real quick. And she fought like a cornered animal- mean, unpredictable, and absolutely willing to maim. I barely got my guard up before her hand chopped toward my face, feinting high and then swinging low toward my groin. I pivoted hard and caught her with a hook to the side of her face. She staggered a step, but stayed upright, wiped a smear of blood off her lip, and came back swinging.

"You losing your edge, Boss? I barely felt that!" she snarled, ducking my next strike and shoving me backward. "C'mon, thought you were supposed to be the big bad Lion."

I didn't answer. No point. I could feel the dull throb of the bruise blooming across my ribs from where she landed an earlier elbow. I stepped in close, clinched, and drove my knee toward her stomach, but she turned into it, gritting her teeth as my leg glanced off her hip. Then she drove her forehead into mine. I saw stars. She laughed. Then I caught her with a cross and sent her sprawling.

The girls were watching from the sidelines. Wendy had her hands up like she was watching a bloodsport match, her face lit with that half-unhinged enthusiasm she always wore when the rules went out the window. "Oh-hoh! That's a shiner, Janey!"

Marina winced with a quiet, "...That looked like it hurt."

Juno, arms crossed, looked scandalized. "Is this really... regulation training?"

No. Not even close. But it was necessary.

Jane rolled, spat into the dirt, and pushed herself back up, the beginnings of a black eye blooming beneath the swelling. "Still standing, Sarge. You gonna keep hiding behind those pretty hands or throw something real?"

I obliged.

The fight danced between us, rough and unrefined. Technique only got you so far when your opponent was trying to gouge your eyes out. She went for the throat, literally, fingernails raking against my neck. I threw her off and hit her gut, hard enough that she bent double. But she grabbed my belt and pulled me down with her, flipping us both into the dirt.

Eventually, I called it. "Enough."

We were both panting, both bloodied, but there was a fire in her eyes. Not anger. Satisfaction. That meant she'd gotten what she wanted. And to be fair, so had I.

I turned, catching my breath, and gestured for her to take over. "You're up, Jane. Pair 'em off."

Jane cracked her knuckles, eyes sliding across the others like a wolf picking out her next chew toy. "Alright, let's see. Juno… you're mine next. No pouting."

Juno's face went pale. "You're joking."

Jane didn't answer. She just grinned.

"Marina," Jane continued, "You get Sarge."

Marina's soul visibly left her body. "I- I don't think I'm qualified for that."

Wendy cackled in the background, hands already clapping. "Oh no, oh no, I cannot wait to see this-"

Jane turned on her. "You're not off the hook, gremlin. You get both of 'em. After we're done tenderizing 'em."
Wendy froze mid-cheer. "...You mean that lovingly, right?"

"No."

Wendy's smile went brittle. "Oh. Goody."

Jane and Juno were up first, and it was brutal from the first second. Juno had good instincts, fast hands, sharp footwork; but Jane fought like she was chewing glass. She gave no quarter, and she expected none. The moment Juno tried to keep distance, Jane pounced, driving her down with a shoulder check and grinding her into the dirt. I saw the moment Juno snapped, when she stopped flinching and started swinging back. Her form went to hell, but her aggression kicked in hard. She took a bloody nose and a busted lip for her trouble, but by the end of the bout, she was pushing Jane back, fists clenched, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. She lost the round, but she gained something a lot more important. I could see it in her stance- confidence. She wouldn't hesitate next time.

Marina didn't go down easy, but she went down often. Slippery, smart, and precise, she was a dancer in the first few minutes, fluid and quick on her feet. But I outweighed her by a good sixty pounds and had no shame about using every bit of it. The first time I drove my knee into her ribs, she crumpled, retching and choking. The second time, she hissed something venomous and tried to kick out my knee. The third time, she growled like an animal, punched me in the kidney, and made me work for it. Something cracked open in her after that, and I saw past the quiet deadpan and into a seething fire she'd kept on ice. I didn't let her win. But I respected the hell out of how she stood up.

Wendy watched it all from the sidelines, lips tight, eyes wide. You could see the gears spinning in that manic brain of hers. When she stepped into the circle with Marina and Juno waiting on her flanks, she grinned like it was a joke. It wasn't. They came at her hard, and she folded almost immediately. But then she got back up. Again. And again. She knew how to fall, how to roll, how to minimize damage, but her hits were wild and frantic, more instinct than technique. Still, something in her refused to give. She took a kick to the ribs that left her gasping, a slap across the face that echoed like a gunshot, but she got up, cheeks flushed, teeth clenched, muttering some kind of curse or formula under her breath like it would keep her standing. Maybe it did. By the time it was over, she was on her back, but still grinning like she'd just stolen the crown jewels.

Jane clapped them all on the back when it was over, hard, bone-rattling thumps paired with blunt praise. "Not bad, rich girl," she told Juno. "You actually got teeth." Juno's lip curled, but there was pride there. "You hit like a toddler, Marina," she said, "but at least you're a fast one." Marina rolled her eyes and elbowed her in the ribs. "And you-" Jane turned to Wendy, pointing a scraped-up finger. "You're fucking insane, and I mean that in the nicest possible way."

Watching them then, bruised and beaten, laughing like idiots and leaning against each other like a row of knocked over dominoes, I could see them growing. See them becoming more, bit by bit, piece by piece. Under all the ribbing, the bruises, the sweat, there was something binding them. Respect, maybe. Or pain shared and paid for in full. Whatever it was, it felt real.

I'd laid out Ragnaid capsules already for the four of them, cooling in the shade. Not enough to take all the pain away, but enough to dull the worst of the aches. Beside them, in a bucket packed with ice I'd possibly shanghaied from the mess hall, sat chilling canteens of fresh water., cold as sin. In this kind of spring heat, it might as well have been divine.

The girls didn't say much when they saw it. But the way they took the canteens, the way they sat close with shoulders brushing, quietly hydrating and tending each other's bruises without complaint, it said plenty.
I knew I was going to have to explain the bruises, the scrapes, the swelling and blood, and the scuffed-up clearing that looked more like a prize ring than a training ground. Captain Varrot would frown, maybe sigh, maybe ask me, again, about the definition of "reasonable expectations." But none of that really stuck to me at the moment.

And yeah, maybe it wasn't fair. Wasn't reasonable, asking them to bleed like this, to fight ugly and get their hands down in the dirt with blood on their teeth. But this wasn't the last time they'd have to do it. Not by a long shot. And better they learn here than out there, where mistakes weren't bruises, but body bags. Some things, you only learn when the air tastes like copper and your heartbeat's louder than your thoughts.

Still, I couldn't shake the weight crawling up my spine. I'd been hearing things. Quiet rumors from runners and drivers coming back from the Front. Whispers about the Central Army's lines cracking. Damon's divisions losing the far side of the Vasel Bridge. Not official word, but enough to make my gut twist. I knew that bridge. Knew what it meant to lose it. And if it was true- if the Empire had pushed that far? Then we were running out of time.

I looked at the girls, laughing through split lips and bruises, proud of what they'd survived today.

I'd run them harder tomorrow. Maybe if we went far enough… maybe they'd be ready. Not to win. Not yet. But maybe ready to stand at the starting line when our number got called.


000


Evening hit the camp like a slow exhale. The kind that settles deep into your bones. The light had gone gold, filtering through the trees in long, lazy shafts that touched the tents and crates and gear like a memory of warmth rather than the real thing. Smoke from the cooking fire drifted low to the ground, hanging just long enough to sting the eyes before fading into the wind.

Training was done for the day. Weapons were cleaned, rations were passed out, armor stripped off and hung on tent poles or laid across packs. We were all cooling off in our own ways; some more visibly than others.

Wendy, Juno, and Marina had pulled together near the central crate stack, voices low. I couldn't hear them, didn't need to. Juno had that another of her books out, in a debate about this or that tactic with the others. Wendy was talking with her hands, gesturing animatedly. Marina sat still behind the two, as she always did, but even she added something or other to the discussion every once in a while.

I sat away from them, half-shaded by a canvas tarp strung between two crates. Elbows on knees. Fingers loosely laced. My eyes weren't on anything in particular, but I kept staring all the same. Not at the camp. Not at the horizon. Just... through it all. Like something was there, waiting. Some shape in the fog I hadn't quite made out yet.

The problem was, I couldn't stop my mind from circling, the memories seeming to come up in rapid succession. What if I'd been faster, better, smarter… would Noce and Juliette still be here? What if-

"Hey."

Jane's voice cut, rough as always, cut through the haze, dragging me back into reality.

I blinked and turned. She was already sitting down beside me, arms resting loosely across her knees, boots scuffed with dried dirt and carbon. She didn't look at me. Just stared out at the same nothing I'd been staring at.

"What's up?" I asked, mind whirling down now that I had something to focus on. "Something you need, Turner?"

"Nah Boss. Nothing like that." She said, and for the first time since I'd met her, she seemed a little unsure. Like she didn't know what to say, chewing on the words to see if she liked the taste. Eventually, slowly, she worked it out, though. "I just… wanted to ask if… if you were good, Boss." She pushed out, awkwardly. "It's just… you got that look again," she said, calm and quiet. "My dad used to get that look."

I didn't answer right away. Just tilted my head slightly, waiting.

She continued, fighting the words but quietly. "He fought in the last war. In the trenches, ya know? He saw some real ugly things, down there."

I could hear the shift in her voice, something… softer, worn, pained. Bad memories, from worse times.

"I was real little when he came back. But even I could tell... he wasn't the same. It was like there was something missing in him. He'd be sitting right there at the table, staring off like you were just now. Not at anything. Just... just gone."

I watched her as she spoke. Her eyes hadn't moved. Still fixed on that same empty patch of horizon. Maybe she really was seeing something out there. Maybe she just didn't want to look at me while she said it.

"Years went by, and it never really got better. He didn't talk much. Got real quiet. Always tired. Always distracted. Mom tried, but she couldn't reach him."

Her voice hitched just slightly. She cleared her throat.

"He died a few years back. Not from the war. Just... exhausted. Hollowed from the inside out. Like the things he carried never let him go."

She went quiet, and we both sat, staring into the slowly darkening forest. I didn't really know what to say, maybe something comforting, some condolence, but I stayed silent. It wouldn't mean anything, I knew. Not to her. She wasn't telling me this for sympathy.

She finally looked at me, eyes locking onto mine. "Sometimes, Boss... you've got that same look. That same weight. It's not my place, I know that. You're the one giving orders. And honestly? You're hard as hell to talk to on a good day. But still."

She looked away again, jaw tightening, thoughtful.

"He used to tell me that carving helped. Wood animals. Little dogs, cats, birds. Dumb stuff. But it kept his hands busy. Kept his head quiet for a while." She gave a soft chuckle. "Maybe it helped him not drown in all the things he didn't say."

The quiet returned. Jane let it hang for a bit, then pushed herself up, brushing the dirt from her trousers.

"Anyway. Just thought I'd say it." She looked down at me one last time. "Maybe it's worth trying. Something just for you. Something to hold onto that isn't about blood and orders and watching your back."

And then she walked off, heading back to the others.

I sat there a long while after that.

Wood carving, huh?

I rubbed my fingers together, calluses rough under my touch.

Might be worth a try.


000


I sat on a splintered crate at the back of the supply tent, arms crossed, eyes on the chalkboard but not really seeing it. Juno stood in front of the makeshift classroom with that calm, deliberate poise she carried into everything, clear voice, chalk in hand, methodical lines drawing terrain across worn slate. The tent smelled like dust and canvas, gun oil clinging faintly from the crates stacked against the walls. It was cramped, but it worked. The others sat on folding stools and upturned ammo boxes, notebooks in hand, leaning in.

"Enemy's likely to be dug in on this ridge," Juno said, tapping a ridgeline scrawled in quick, sharp lines. "Best case, light infantry with no armor support. Worst case, they've got artillery and spotters waiting."

The others were listening, really listening. Jane had one boot up on a crate, arms folded, scowl fixed but pencil moving clean and fast across her page. I caught a glimpse of her notes once; precise, tidy. That girl was full of surprises. Wendy leaned back with her usual smirk, but she asked good questions, sharp ones, often disguised in jokes. Even Marina, usually unreadable, leaned in just a little, following Juno's every motion like it might be tested tomorrow.

Juno was good at this. More than good. She didn't just teach. She laid it out like a surgeon, all steady hands, no wasted movement, no arrogance. She didn't push for authority. She just earned it.

And I should've been right there with them, should've been more present, but my thoughts kept creeping back toward the Front.

To Vasel.

To what I'd heard from wounded runners passing through; whispers about General Damon's lines collapsing west of the river, about the Central army pulling back from the far bank under fire. Nothing official. Just talk. But too much of it to ignore.

We'd been training hard. Harder than most, if I was honest. I'd pushed them through bruises and blood and long hours, not because I wanted to break them, but because I knew what would happen if we didn't get there in time. If we weren't ready. If I let them walk onto that battlefield soft.

"Stack and sweep," Juno said, catching the group's attention again. "We'll cover urban entries next. Marina, you're on me for the demo."

They ran the sequence. Quick hand signs, practiced footwork, clean transitions from diagram to motion. I watched them with a quiet kind of pride, even if the knot in my gut wouldn't loosen. They were getting sharper. Smarter. Closer.

But not ready. Not yet.

The lesson wrapped just before lights out. Juno packed the chalkboard away as the others filtered out with tired grumbles and teasing banter.

"Boss," Wendy called over her shoulder. "If we're crawling through sewers tomorrow, I'm bringing a flamethrower."

"Noted," I said, giving her a tired smile.

They trickled off into the cooling night, laughter fading into the dark.

Only Juno lingered, wiping chalk dust from her hands.

She didn't look at me at first. Just spoke.

"You were somewhere else tonight," she said softly. "I could see it."

I didn't answer immediately. The ragnite-powered lantern hummed unsteadily in the night, sending shadows dancing low along the canvas.

"Been hearing things," I said at last, voice low. "About Vasel."

That got her full attention.

"Is it bad?"

I nodded, jaw tight. "The Central Division pulled back. Word is they lost the whole western side of the river. The bridge too. No orders, no statements. Just... runners, evac teams, and field rumors getting louder by the hour."

Juno didn't flinch. She never did. Just let the silence breathe for a moment.

"If they're pulling out," I continued, "they're going to need anyone they can find to fill the gap. And we're up first. They're going to send the militia in by Squads, let us get chewed up by the Imps while the regulars reform. That means us."

She looked at me quietly, then asked, "Do you think we're ready?"

I hesitated.

"They're getting there," I admitted. "They're tough. Smarter than they act. But no. Not yet. Not by my count."

She nodded again, slowly. "They won't be. Not really. You know that."

I looked at her, the weight settling heavier behind my eyes.

Juno's voice softened. "Not until the first round cracks over their heads. Not until they've got dirt in their mouth and blood on their boots. You know that, Sarge."

"I remember my first time," I muttered. "Leading Noce and Juliette."

Her eyes flickered, just for a second.

"That didn't end well," I added, flatly.

"But you held the line," she said gently, stepping closer now. "And because you did, the rest of Bruhl made it out. The kids. The families. That matters."

I let out a breath I hadn't meant to hold. "Doesn't feel like enough."

"It never will," she said. "But you still stood your ground. And we'll stand ours, too. Because you're teaching us how."

There was faith in her voice. Unshakable. Unfair, almost. Like she saw something in me I didn't.

Outside the ring of lantern light, the flap of the tent shifted ever so slightly. Unseen by either of us, Marina hovered just outside, the faintest outline against the dark. She'd come back, maybe to ask a question about the board, maybe something else entirely, but she'd caught enough. The words "deployment" and "Vasel" lingered in the air like gunpowder.

She didn't speak. Didn't step forward.

And we didn't notice her, too caught in memory, and fear, and the steel that comes after both.

After a moment, Marina slipped away, quiet as breath, vanishing back into the dark of the sleeping tent.

Juno reached down, picked up the chalk, and packed it away.

"Then we keep going," she said. "Give them every second we can."

I nodded, throat tight. "Yeah. We run 'em harder tomorrow."

And in the quiet that followed, I couldn't help but wonder how many tomorrows we had left to give.


000


The sky was still ink-black when I slipped out of my tent, my boots crunching softly against the damp earth. The air had that sharp, pre-dawn stillness to it, like the whole world was holding its breath. I clutched a steaming tin mug close to my chest, breathing in the sharp, grassy scent of Juno's tea. It was strong, slightly bitter, laced with some dried herb that was supposed to settle the nerves. I wasn't sure it worked, but it beat pacing a hole in the ground.

The nightmares had come again, worse than usual. I'd snapped awake with my hand halfway to the knife I kept beside my bedroll, heart pounding like artillery. No faces this time, just the familiar flood of noise and shadow and blood. Nothing I hadn't seen before, or desperately wanted to forget, even as it stuck to the back of my teeth like a mouthful of iron.

I took a slow sip. The warmth helped.

A rustle came from the tent row behind me. A few seconds later, Wendy stumbled into view, rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning into the crook of her arm. Her hair was mussed up in every direction, and she wore a threadbare jacket over her uniform pants. Barefoot, too. Like she'd just rolled out of her bedroll. She noticed me and raised an eyebrow.

"Well, look at that," she said with a crooked grin. "Didn't think the Boss ever slept late enough to be up early. What's the matter, run out of creative ways to torture us?"

"No," I snorted, just soft enough to count. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." She waved the idea away as she crossed the short distance to the fire pit, squatting near the embers and holding her hands out to catch the last bits of heat. For all the heat of the day, the early spring nights still had a chilling bite to them sometimes. "Don't really sleep much. Not all the way, anyway."

I raised my brow at that but didn't say anything. She filled the silence herself.

"Used to bother me, but I've kinda gotten used to it. It's always something- jitters, weird dreams, or I'll think up some chemical mixture I haven't tried yet and it just bites at me until I write it down. Drives me nuts if I don't."

She grinned again, but there was a flicker of tired joy behind her eyes.

"Honestly?" she continued, looking into the fire, "I don't mind. I like it. Chemistry, explosives, reagents, ratios… There's a logic to it. A kind of rhythm. You mix two things, and something happens. Might be a bang, might be a puff of smoke, might be a pile of slag, but it always does something. And that something makes sense."

I nodded, sipping my tea. "Cause and effect."

"Exactly!" she said, pleased. "Simple. Clean. No gray areas. People aren't like that."

Her voice dropped a bit. She drew a small circle in the dirt with her finger, eyes suddenly distant.

"People are messy. They say one thing, mean another. They smile at you but really hate you, or cry because of how happy they are. Things like that. You never know what you're gonna get, no matter what you expect when you say something. Even when you say the right thing, and it's the wrong thing, and it's just… just dumb."

I didn't respond right away, watching her as her mind whirled around at a thousand RPMs.

"Always made it hard for me," she muttered. "Always ended up on the outside looking in. I hated it, you know? Better to just… stay with the things that make sense. Let someone else deal with people."

There was a beat of silence.

"But you…" she went on, anger leaving her voice, looking at me now, "You're different. You're… easy."

I arched an eyebrow. "Easy?"

"You know what I mean." She grinned, but her tone was serious. "You're always the same. Big. Growly. Grim. Looking like you're two seconds from ripping somebody's head off most days, but I get that. You're solid. Stable. Predictable. It makes sense."

I wasn't sure if I should be flattered or insulted, so I split the difference and said nothing.

She yawned, long and wide, then rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm. "Gonna try to catch another hour or two before the sun comes up. Goodnight, Boss."

She paused. "Or, I guess, good morning?"

I lifted my mug in quiet salute. "Sleep well, Wendy."

She padded off barefoot into the dark, her silhouette vanishing back between the canvas rows. I lingered a moment longer, letting the last of the steam rise from the mug before draining it.

And, for whatever reason, the tea tasted just a little better than before.

I turned back toward my tent, the cold already biting at my knuckles. Maybe I'd sleep. Maybe not. But the weight in my chest didn't feel so heavy now.

Sometimes, the right conversation at the wrong hour could make all the difference.


000


The weeks slipped past with the stubbornness of a mule and the speed of a bullet.

March had bled into April before I really noticed, and every day between had been filled with sweat, bruises, and just enough progress to keep the doubt from clawing too deep. I'd run the girls hard. Maybe too hard sometimes, but they didn't break. Juno took it on the chin with that cool, clipped determination of hers, Marina pushed through and simply adapted, Jane snarled and asked for more, and Wendy complained the loudest while quietly showing up earliest.

There was a manic energy threading through camp now; edgy, electric. Everyone felt it. You could see it in the way supply officers moved, in the nervous shuffles of green recruits, in the eyes of the veterans who'd stopped making small talk. HQ was always buzzing now. Command tents stayed lit past curfew. Couriers ran like their boots were on fire, and rumors hung in the air thicker than smoke.

I didn't need rumors. I'd been watching the signs for days.

But musing on the inevitable only got me so far. I had gear to check on.

I made my way across the base toward the motor pool, keeping my head down and pace steady. I was looking for either Leon or Kreis, both if I got lucky. I wanted to know the status of the equipment I'd requested. And considering the scuttlebutt, I wanted it ready yesterday.

I was halfway to the depot when a familiar voice called out behind me.

"Jerry!"

I turned, and there she was- Alicia, jogging up with a bright grin, twintails bouncing, sleeves haphazardly rolled up, and a smear of flour across her left shoulder. She came to a gentle stop beside me, hands on her hips, still catching her breath.

"You've been scarce lately," she said with a mock pout. "I was starting to think you got yourself reassigned somewhere else."

"Not likely," I said, cracking a small grin. "Training the girls has become a full-time job with overtime. You blink and three weeks disappear."

Alicia laughed. "Tell me about it. It feels like I've been chasing ghosts through orientation drills and live-fire sims. Welkin's really throwing himself into this."

We started walking together, the pace easy and familiar.

"Been adjusting alright?" I asked. "Last I saw, you were still getting your bearings."

Alicia nodded, her tone thoughtful. "We're coming along. The other sergeants have been pretty distant, Rosie and Largo especially. Welkin's doing his best to thread the needle."

I gave her a glance. "They giving you two trouble?"

"No, it's just teething issues. We're working it out," Alicia said, chuckling. "Slower than I'd like, but... eh. It's part of the game. Nobody is picking fights with us yet, so small mercies." She leaned in conspiratorially, "I've been winning them over with a little of that good old Bruhl hospitality." She whispered, brushing the flour off her uniform.

"You ever stop baking?" I asked, amused.

"Never," she said proudly. "I made cinnamon rolls this morning. Used some of the last of the good flour."

I raised an eyebrow. "The good stuff? That's rationed for officers."

"I have connections," she said sweetly. "And a certain mechanic who can be bribed with almond paste."

As if summoned, the Edelweiss came into view, and crouched beside it, wrench in hand and half inside the tank's side hatch, was Isara.

She glanced up as we approached. Her eyes lit up.

"Mr. Lion!" she said, rising to her feet and dusting off her gloves. "It's good to see you again! It feels like it's been ages." Isara was all smiles as she put her tools aside, hurrying over with a bounce in her step.

I gave her a short nod, but it was warmer than my usual. "That's one word for it."

Isara stepped closer, a rare bit of excitement edging into her voice. "They've made it official. I'm the Edelweiss's lead mechanic and pilot now."

"That so?" I asked. "Congratulations. I can't think of anyone better."
Isara smiled, flushed but proud. "Thank you. I've already begun full diagnostics and modifications. She's handling beautifully, but there's still more to do."

Alicia leaned in. "Isara here has been running herself ragged making sure that the Edelweiss is in top form. Welkin says she has a real talent for it."

"Welks has a big mouth sometimes." Isara replied, but her eyes sparkled with warmth. She was still the sunny girl that I'd met all those weeks ago, and I admit I felt bad about not checking in on her sooner, but it felt like there was never enough time. Even now I was feeling the clock tick in the back of my head, much as I wish it wasn't.
I glanced toward the motor pool. "I wish I had more time to talk, Isara. Things have been a mess lately though-" Isara cut me off with a raised hand and a warm smile, shaking her head.

"It's alright, Jerry. I understand, really. It was just good to see you though. I know Welkin and Alicia have missed you too." She gave the girl a sly smile, which Alicia took in stride.

"I'll see you around, okay? Unless you wanna join us on our trip to the workshop?" Jerry offered, but Isara shook her head.

The small girl gestured toward the tank. "I wish I could come, but I need to finish recalibrating the targeting gear before dusk. Still a few kinks."

"No worries," Alicia said. "We'll fill you in after."

Isara gave a quick wave, already turning back to her work with a spring in her step.

Alicia and I continued on, stepping into the humid noise and oil-stained shadows of the motor pool. The scent of hot steel and engine coolant hit like a slap. Clanks echoed overhead, and a radio buzzed somewhere behind a stack of crates.

Leon spotted us first, peering out from beneath a half-disassembled half-track with a wrench in one hand and his ever-present goggles perched on his forehead.

"Well, well," he called out, grinning. "Sergeant Finch and our favorite baker. Come to admire your toys?"

"Only if they're finished," I said.

Leon swooned dramatically with mock offense. "You wound me. C'mon back."

He led us through a narrow side corridor to a rear storage room. Inside, on a reinforced table under a single hanging light, were the fruits of weeks of precision machining and long nights spent in front of the mills and lathes..

Gallian-made StG-44 clones, four of them, each with a new parkerized finish and updated internals. Beside them lay my own, the template, cleaned and polished with a fresh coat of paint, waiting for me. I ran my hand over the barrel, feeling the smooth metal under my fingertips. It looked factory new, and almost indistinguishable from its new family.

"Threaded barrels," Leon said, tapping one of the rifles. "Just like you wanted. Same goes for the sidearms- your .45 included. That thing fought us the whole way, but Kreis got it running sweet."

In response to him, I lifted the pistol, the familiar weight comforting in my hand. The motions came to me easily, checking the slide, feeling the smoothness of the motion for myself, checking and rechecking it with a familiar ease.

"There's a crate of ammo for it too. Five hundred rounds fresh from the press," Leon added. "Just give us a ring if you need more in the future, but you should be good for now."

Hanging nearby were the plate carriers I asked for. Made of leather and secured using buckles, the design reminded me of a set of leather plate armor from a time long since past. That said, the stitching was solid and the two engineers managed to replicate the MOLL-E webbing faithfully.

"We weren;t able to replicate your plates, I'm sorry to say. Without knowing what's in it we found ourselves at a loss. We did manage to come up with a workaround, though." Leon said, as he fished a blue-tinted metal sheet roughly the same dimensions as my insert. "We took the standard ragnasteel plating and hammer-forged it into the right shape, and layered it with a weave of ragnite-hardened cross-hatched wire. The penetration protection is about the same as Shocktrooper-grade armor so we're hoping it's a close comparison."

"How does it hold up to Imperial 7.62?" I asked, and Leon gave me a grin.
"Full stoppage. Nine millimeter won't even scratch it, either. We added bands of single-layer ragnasteel to the sides as well. It's less protection than the plates but didn't increase the weight noticeably, but can still offer some coverage as well." He motioned to the inside of the leather carriers, pointing out the banded blue metal straps that encircled the vest. "We gave yours the same treatment, I hope you don't mind. We also uh… patched the hole."

"That's good. That's… real good. Excellent work Leon. You and Kreis really knocked this one out of the park." I said, and I meant it. This was downright impressive.

Then he stepped to the side and gestured to a straw-filled crate. Inside were small black cylinders, evenly spaced and unassuming.

"They look like piping," Alicia said, as she leaned in, running a finger down the smooth tube. "What are they?"

"Suppressors," I said. "Thread-on attachments for each rifle and pistol."

"For what?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.

"They muffle the report, uh, cut the noise by more than half, in most cases. They also hide the muzzle flash almost entirely," I explained. "Not to mistake it for completely hiding the shot, but it'll be quieter. A lot quieter. It makes it harder to triangulate your position, and when things go loud in the dark, every second you can buy before someone sees where the fire's coming from matters."

Alicia blinked. "That's... weirdly clever. How do they work?"

Leon stepped in, tapping one of the tubes. "It's deviously simple. Expansion chamber, baffles, just enough space for gas to slow and disperse. Nothing fancy. But Sergeant Finch is right, it'll muffle the bark and kill the flash. It performed amazingly well in the tests we ran. You'll hear it, but you won't know where it came from."

Alicia gave me a sidelong look. "They sound useful. Do you think you'll need them?"

I glanced at her. "Maybe not for what you'll be doing on the front lines, but what they're asking us to do, what they're asking us to do? It's the least I can do to stack the odds in our favor, especially on short notice."

She didn't argue after that. Just gave a small, thoughtful nod and looked back at the gear again, the faintest crease in her brow.

Leon clapped his hands together. "Rest of the kit'll be ready tomorrow. Holsters, rigs, sling mounts, you name it. I even found some old-style cleaning kits you'll love. Rustproof, honest."

"You're a Saint, Leon."

"Hey, I kinda like that," he said, grinning. "Saint Leon of the motor pool…"

I rolled my eyes as I stepped closer to the rifles, running a gloved hand along the barrel of the nearest one. My mind was already moving; assignment lists, fitment, firing order drills, muscle memory, adjustments. I barely noticed Alicia watching me.
.
"You know," she said softly, "command fits you better than I thought it would."

Alicia lingered beside the crate, her eyes drifting over the rifles, then landing on me with a quiet smile. She meant well, she always did, but there was a weight behind her words that she didn't seem to notice.

She said it like a compliment. A warm observation, maybe even a little admiration.

But it landed like a gut punch.

I didn't look at her right away. My hand stayed on the stock of the rifle in front of me, fingers tightening just enough to make the wood creak faintly. I could feel her gaze on me, but I couldn't meet it. I didn't want her to see the way that line scraped old wounds raw. I still felt like a fraud half the time and the other half a liar. Just making shit up as I went, pretending to be competent while I just tried to figure things out day by day, and the nights between full of names I still remembered in the dark.

A dozen replies rose and died in my throat. None of them kind. None of them helpful.

Instead, I exhaled slowly through my nose, steeled myself, and turned to Leon with forced ease.

"Hey Leon," I said, tone carefully even, "think you can have all this sent to my camp?"

Leon grinned, unaware of the undercurrent. "Already squared away. I'll have Kreis crate it up and drop it by before sundown. You'll be stocked before dinner, Finch."

"Thanks," I nodded.

Alicia's smile didn't fade, but her eyes studied me a moment longer, a slight tilt to her head- uncertain, maybe. She let it go. Turned her attention back to the array of gear, letting the moment settle into silence like dust in the corners.

And just like that, it passed. But the ache stayed.


000


The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding its final warmth across the rugged ridgeline like a dying ember. Orange and crimson painted the canvas above, streaking clouds into the horizon as the last light of day sank slowly behind the trees. The air smelled of sweat, oil and distant woodsmoke, the scent of a fortress in motion, even in these late hours. It was the kind of dusk that invited quiet reflection, a lull in the tempo of things. But there was no peace in me tonight. Not anymore.

I sat alone in my tent, elbows on my knees, my shadow cast long by the low humming buzz of a lantern's bulb. The letter from Captain Varrot lay on the cot beside me, folded once, the seal cracked, the ink still fresh enough to smear. Orders to report in the morning, and I had a feeling it wasn't for just another update. The signs had been there for days.

The war was moving now.

Faldio's unit had pulled out two days ago, one of several militia Squads sent towards Vasel. Half the motor pool was gone as well, following the train of transport trucks and APCs. Even the artillery boys, those grim bastards in their huge, tractor-pulled cannons, were packing up for somewhere far from here.

I didn't need anyone to spell it out. The clock had run out.

The weight of it sat heavy in my chest, like cold iron. Were they ready? I wasn't sure. But war didn't give a damn about readiness. War didn't wait for permission. It came when it came, like a wave crashing on a rocky shore, and either you stood or you drowned.

I exhaled through my nose, slow and steady, and ran a hand through my hair. Juno was right, in that I'd never think they were ready. She was also right that there was no use waffling over that fact. Instead I took a breath, my mind churning what I was going to say to them, now that the clock had run down and we were on borrowed time.

I rose from the cot, killing the lamp, and stepped out into the fading evening light. The camp looked different now, though nothing had changed. The tents were still pitched in their neat half circle. The chopped logs that acted like chairs still sat around a fire that crackled in its ring of stone. But the mood was heavier. Still. Like the calm before a thunderstorm.

I made my way toward the center, gravel crunching underfoot. When I spoke, my voice was even.

"Fall in."

The call was simple, firm. It cut through the quiet like a blade.

One by one, all four rose from their distractions. Wendy was first, adjusting her gloves. Jane followed, silent and hard-eyed. Juno tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she came. Marina brought up the rear, silent as the dark, eyes unreadable. They took their places in front of me, straight-backed, boots aligned. No chatter. No smiles. All of them had known something was coming.

I stood before them, arms behind my back, the firelight flickering across my face. My posture was firm, but not rigid, composed, like a man standing before something sacred. The silence lingered, just long enough for it to settle deep into the bones. I let it hang. Let the moment breathe.

Then, I began.

"I've watched you," I said, voice low but clear. "For weeks now. Day in and day out. I've seen what you are."

I started to pace, slow and deliberate, boots moving in rhythm with the crackling firelight.

"When you arrived, you were a disaster. A group of misfits thrown together with nothing binding you but uniforms and bad luck. No discipline. No cohesion. No trust. You were four pieces of a broken machine."

I paused in front of them, letting my eyes move from one face to the next.

"And now?" I exhaled, the breath like smoke in the cool air. "Now you're a unit. I've seen it with my own eyes. You move together. You think together. You fight together. You've become something real. Something more than the militia or the regulars. Something more."

I turned and began pacing again.

"I've pushed you. I've demanded more than was fair. More than was decent, sometimes. I broke you down so I could build you back up. I forced you to dig deeper, to pull strength from places you didn't even know existed. And every single time, you rose to meet it."

I stopped again, facing them. My voice dropped just slightly, quiet but edged with steel.

"I saw your worst. I saw when you failed. When you doubted. When you cracked. But I also saw your best. I saw grit. I saw fire. I saw will. And you didn't just survive it, you claimed it as your own."

I stepped closer, hands finally coming out from behind my back.

"You've cried together. Bled together. You've carried each other through the mud and the filth and the shit, and you never once gave up. You never once left each other behind, never left one to suffer alone, never abandoned one another, even in the worst I had to offer. That's something you can't train."

I looked each of them in the eye, my gaze met with a kind of determination that I could only dream of having. Each of them, as a group, they had that fire in them. That drive. The will to succeed, to exceed, what was put before them.

"And now…" My voice lowered further, heavy with finality. "Now the time for training is done."

I let that sit. The crackle of the fire filled the silence.

"In the morning, I report to Captain Varrot. She'll hand me orders, and when she does, that'll be it. The games stop. The real fight begins."

I gestured to the woods, to the horizon just barely holding onto its last sliver of light.

"Out there, past the trees, past the hills, there's a storm coming, and we're going to be charging into it headlong."

Another pause.

"And I won't lie to you. This will not be glorious. These will not be medals and stories to tell your grandchildren. This will be dark. Ugly. You will do things that haunt you. You will take lives in ways that feel less like victory and more like damnation."

My voice grew harder, colder.

"You will be killers."

I let the word land like a hammer.

"You'll be the knife in the dark. The shadow in the smoke. The thing they never see coming. When the enemy sleeps, you'll be their nightmare. When they move, you'll be the weight on their chest. You'll be the reason they look over their shoulders."

I walked back to the fire, circling around them now, my silhouette a dark figure haloed by flame.

"You will be feared. You will be hated. You won't be sung about. You won't be remembered."

I stopped in place, my voice dropping low.

"If you fall, there will be no funeral. No honors. No flag on a coffin. The only ones who'll carry your name are the people standing here tonight."

I gestured to the four of them.

"This is your family now. This is your truth. You will carry each other. Fight for each other. Die for each other."

Another beat of silence.

"Because the things we do… the things we must do, can only be done by those who understand that the rules do not apply in the shadows. That sometimes, to protect the light, we have to walk in the dark."

Inside, several uniforms sat neatly folded, the colors not of any unit in the militia, or the army, or any other unit in the Division.

"These are yours."

I lifted one, letting it unfold in my arms. The cloth was heavy; canvas weave with double-stitched seams, matte-finished buttons, and reinforced elbows and knees. The cut was lean, tailored to move, to crawl, to vanish into the dark. No shine. No trim. The color was a deep, desaturated green, the kind of shade that swallowed moonlight whole.

On the right shoulder of each uniform gleamed a new patch, subtle, but unmistakable. A Gallian flag altered to match their tones, the blue replaced with olive drab, the red trim tainted black. In the center, a cobalt badge flared, silver filigree outlining a roaring lion's head crowned with the spiraled horn of the Valkyrur. Above it, in a hanging band, the words UNIT 991 hung proudly.

I folded the uniform with care and laid it aside before opening the second crate.

"This is your shield."

Inside: a neatly packed array of custom-fitted plate carriers, low-profile chest rigs, modular pouches and sheaths, and another addition: radio harnesses. Each piece was designed with ruthless utility. Quiet buckles, matte hardware, form-fitted to minimize profile and snagging. Leon and Kreis had delivered and more.

"No more clanking armor plates or thick sheathes of heavy metal. These are designed around the principle of keeping all of your most important pieces inside without obstructing your ability to move. Modular, sleek, and made for the kind of work you will be doing, it'll serve you well if you let it."

I reached into the third crate and drew back the lid with quiet reverence.

"And these…"

The contents caught firelight like ancient offerings: four Gallian-issue StG rifles, each a work of art as they sat beside their suppressors. Beside them lay sidearms. The compact, smooth-draw pistols with threaded barrels and extended magazines, taken from the standard issue sidearm and perfected into a tool of silent killing, and inlaid beside them were four blades, each a twin of the one I wore; flat black, full tang, built for the kill.

"…are your swords."

I drew one knife, turning it slowly in my grip, letting the edge catch a glint of flame.

"These weapons are the tools of our trade. Powerful, lethal, flexible and agile. Weapons built for a new kind of war. Our kind of war," I said, almost reverently. "You trained for them. You bled for them. And now? You will wield them."

I stood again, firelight dancing on my jaw.

"You wear these, you carry these… you're making a declaration. That you are a new kind of soldier, not of the army, or the militia, or any other unit in Gallia. You fight above them. You fight beyond them. You take the war into the enemy's camps. Into their barracks. Into the places they feel most safe and secure. And from them you take it, leaving nothing but broken men and shattered weapons behind."

My voice softened, but I didn't lose the edge.

"Because we do what we must, to ensure victory at any cost."

My eyes were heavy as I watched them, the four girls, no, the four warriors in front of me. Each had proven themselves beyond my wildest expectations. Each had earned my respect, my trust, my belief in them. I had grasped it like a lifeline, and somewhere along the way I had forgotten that I wasn't a part of it. That I wasn't of Gallia, even as I tied myself to them. No, it was this moment that I had finally understood all those times Welkin and the others had spoken of what a leader was, and what it meant to command. My next words were the most earnest I had ever spoken.

"There are no finer soldiers I would choose to stand beside me."

I looked at them once more. Not as trainees. But as equals. As Lions.

"Welcome to the Pride."






AN: So this chapter was a bear and a half. I had so many things I wanted to add and it kept getting bigger. I did think about splitting it, but I never did find a good spot to do so, so here we are at a little over 15k words. I admit I'm very nervous about this one because I wasn't really sure how to write a training camp arc that covers around three weeks of in-world time. I decided to do sort of a vignettes flavored chapter, giving snippets of the important bits that showed them growing as a group. I hope I accomplished that.

All things being equal I wanted to kind of wrap this thing up in one solid go, giving everyone a little screen time as a specialist as well as a little time with Jerry, getting to know them all. I did draw a little bit from a number of WW2 dramas and documentaries when it comes to training but I also included a bit more modernized training techniques here and there. I think this feels like a solid growth arc, not really changing anything but getting everyone competent and on the same level. I really wanna know your feedback though. If you loved it or hated it or just felt kinda meh, because boring training arc I wanna know. It was really fun going outside of my comfort zone on this one.

Also, I hope you enjoy the Apocrypha post I've put together after this. Some of you may recognize the badge from Trails of Cold Steel but when I saw it I Knew it was the one. Unfortunately this is not going to be crossed over with ToCS, so don't get excited, but I like the nod.

 

[J. Finch]

…the city was a shattered ruin as we made our way down the road to Vasel. Pillars of smoke and fire reached into the sky, like tombstones marking the grave of a dying beast. The Central Army had made a valiant stand, making the Empire forces under Jaeger bleed for every inch of the west side of the city, the bridge a steel artery spewing crimson into the last refuge of Gallia. For our part, we were the reinforcements, the next wave as the shattered remnants of the Fourth, Fifth and Ninth Armored clawed their way out of the meat grinder, many of their friends left to die on the cobblestone roads below.​

-Ch. 2, The River of Vasel, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front​

Chapter Eight​

The city loomed ahead like a corpse that refused to lie still.

From my perch in the turret of our lumbering APC, I could see it now; not just the shattered skyline of Vasel, but the soul of the place, hemorrhaging smoke into the orange-glazed sky. The sun was setting low behind the hills, and from this distance the city looked like a creature in its death throes, with buildings slumped like snapped ribs, flames licking out from rooftops and shattered windows like fevered breath. It was hard to tell what was fire and what was sunlight anymore. Somewhere in that haze, machine guns chattered, distant and thin, like angry whispers through broken teeth. There were pops of rifle fire, cracks of artillery echoing off stone, and above it all the low, mournful groan of the wounded city as it burned.

I could hear it even from here. Not clearly, not sharply,but enough. Enough to know that the fight was still raging inside those ruins. The dull boom of a shell landing in a square. The thudding collapse of some forgotten tower. Screams, maybe. Or just tricks of the wind. That's what I told myself. The smoke swirled around the horizon like bruises under the skin of a corpse, thick and dark and wet-looking. Somewhere in that black sea, people were dying. Maybe losing. Maybe holding on by fingernails.

The air hit different here, too. Tasted like blood and scorched plaster. Beneath the cordite and oil, there was something raw. Something that made your gums ache and your stomach clench. The kind of smell that got under your skin and stayed there, like a parasite.

The Erma 7.92mm LMG beneath my hands rattled as we trundled over a cracked stretch of pitted earth, its frame singing with tension. I kept my grip loose, my eyes on the horizon, but the damn thing felt alive beneath my palms. Hungry. Waiting.

We passed a Gallian light tank heading back toward the capital. The front glacis was scorched black, one side riddled with shrapnel holes, a section of the turret caved in like someone had taken a hammer to it. Its gun was limp, dragging slightly to one side like it was ashamed. A mechanic rode on top, slumped low over the turret ring, clutching a wrench like a lifeline. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. His face was caked in grime, his eyes rimmed red from smoke or tears, or both. Blood stained his coveralls. Too much blood for one man.

Then came the ambulances.

Three of them, maybe four. Battered, limping on suspension meant for half the weight they now bore. Inside, the stretchers were stacked two deep. Some bodies writhed. Some didn't. One soldier- maybe a girl, maybe a boy, it was hard to tell beneath the blood, was missing everything from the knees down. Just bandages and torn cloth and the wide, wild eyes of someone who didn't know whether they were still alive. Another leaned out the back, dry-heaving onto the road, his chest barely rising. His uniform was soaked through with crimson.

God, they looked so young.

Barely more than kids. Some were younger than Wendy. Scabs and bandages where there should have been skin. Hollow cheeks. Eyes too old for their faces. I saw one with no arm, just a stump and a sling. Another had his jaw wired shut, half his face purple with swelling. The worst were the ones who didn't move at all. They just stared. Silent. Like they'd already died and just hadn't been told yet.

And for a moment, I thought I saw Marina in one of their faces.

Then Jane.

Then Juno.

The hallucinations hit like a punch to the gut, my brain filling in the blanks, pasting the wrong faces onto broken bodies. Wendy's eyes blinking at me from behind a blood-soaked bandage. Juno's hair plastered to a skull cracked open at the temple. I blinked hard, exhaled, shook my head. They vanished like ghosts in the haze, and I forced myself to focus on the road ahead, on the turret, on the next breath.

Goddamn it. Get it together.

Below me, in the sealed belly of the APC, I could hear them.

Jane was laughing again, loud and bold, but there was an edge to it, like a blade dulled by too many hits. "Told you we'd be rolling into hell first," she said, voice bouncing through the steel like she was trying to scare the tension out. "I just didn't think it'd smell this bad."

"You said it'd be fine," Wendy replied, her voice quieter, more careful. "You said it'd be over quick."

"It will be. For them," Jane barked back.

A pause.

Then Marina's voice, calm, quiet, a low counterpoint to Jane's bravado. "You'll be fine too, Wendy. You trained for this, and the Sergeant will get us through it."

That surprised me. Marina didn't speak often, and to hear that kind of… of confidence from her…

"I know," Wendy muttered. "Just… feels different now. Real."

Footsteps, a shuffle of gear. Then silence again.

Juno hadn't said a word the entire trip. I'd seen her before we loaded up, running down her checklist, adjusting straps, checking ammo boxes, rerouting canteen lines and tightening bandoliers. All quiet, all efficient. Now, nothing. Just silence. I could picture her sitting stiff-backed against the inner wall, eyes fixed on nothing, fingers still and folded. Whatever storm was brewing in her head, it was hers alone.

The vehicle rumbled forward, bearing us toward a warzone already deep in its third or fourth nightmare.

We weren't even inside the city yet.

But I could feel it.

It hadn't always been like this… this tension eating everyone up. Back at camp, the team always had some noise to offer. Even in the worst of times, someone was cracking a joke, or offering up some dry sarcasm, or asking if the next drill involved fewer opportunities to get kicked in the teeth. But now? It was like we'd all stepped onto the edge of a cliff together and nobody wanted to be the first one to fall off.

I leaned into the turret ring, letting the cold steel rest against my ribs, and closed my eyes for just a second. The wind tugged at my collar and sent the distant wail of artillery rolling across the hills like thunder on the wrong side of the world.

My mind drifted back to the morning, before the sun had fully risen. Before we'd left the camp, before the APC had even started its engines.

It was cold in Varrot's office. Cold, and wrong. The smell of stale coffee, old paper, and sweat hung in the air. The place looked like it had been turned inside out. Maps hastily stacked on chairs, a rifle leaning against her desk, a dozen reports scattered haphazardly across every surface, and files open and half-read littered the table, scattered like afterthoughts. The clock on the wall had stopped ticking at some point. No one had bothered to wind it.

It was a shocking departure from what I remembered. The Captain's office had always been a model of military order; every pen in its place, every file aligned, everything squared away and polished to regulation sheen. But not now. Now it looked like a bunker. Like a storm shelter.

I stood at attention anyway, arms behind my back, spine straight, eyes locked forward. A habit drilled into me by an increasingly irate Juno what felt like years ago. Welkin was already there, posted up to one side like it was a faculty meeting, hands in his coat pockets, one boot toeing a scuff in the floorboards. But his posture told the truth; shoulders a little too high, neck a little too stiff. He was holding the mask, but the strain showed in the seams.

Captain Varrot stood by the window, back half-turned, the pre-dawn light outlining her in cold silver. Her uniform looked slept in. Her gloves were tucked into her belt, fingers worn to creases. She wasn't pacing. Just… standing. Breathing. Staring out into the dark.

"By now you're both aware of the situation," she said, not looking at either of us. "So I'll spare the preamble."

Her voice was clipped, taut. Not from anger. From fatigue. The kind that went beyond the body and deeper… bone-deep, soul-deep. The kind that didn't fade with rest. She turned, arms crossed tightly across her chest, jaw set like stone. Her eyes met mine first.

"Sergeant Finch. Is your unit ready?"

I knew what she was really asking. Not about logistics. Not about ammo counts or gear. She wanted to know if they'd hold. If we'd break. If I had enough steel in me to carry four others through the meat grinder. I should've said yes. Should've lied, maybe. But I gave her the truth.

"It doesn't matter," I said, flat. "We're deploying either way."

Her lips twitched into something like a smile, but it never reached her eyes. It was brittle. Shallow. Almost involuntary.

"Isn't that the Valkyrur-damned truth," she muttered, barely audible. And for that one second, the mask cracked. Just a little. Just enough to see the woman beneath the exhaustion. I could see it in her face, the weight on her shoulders, the hopeless calculations behind her eyes. She wasn't just tired. She was worn through.

Then it was gone.

She turned to Welkin, shoulders back, voice sharpening to its usual edge. Orders would be given. Masks reaffixed.

"You're going to be going in as the vanguard, the point at which the remaining Militia units will follow. You're to take back the west side of Vasel by any means necessary. Do what you must, do what you can, and do it well, gentlemen. There is no more room for retreat."

That line hit like a blade drawn in a quiet room. No clarification. No conditions. Just carte blanche permission wrapped in cold doctrine. Her gaze passed over both of us again, and for a breath, I wondered if she hated what we'd become. What we were about to be. But she didn't. Her eyes were tired, but not bitter.

"Do what you must. Anything you must." she repeated, her eyes boring into me. "Do you understand?"

We both saluted.

Outside, the dawn was creeping up the ridge line, painting the sky in bruised bands of cobalt and amber. Dew clung to the earth, turning the parade ground into a field of silver.

Welkin walked with me, hands finally out of his coat pockets. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, firm, but also a bit bracing. Welkin was scared, just as much as I was, of what was to come. Still, he held himself admirably. We both did. We had to.

"Looks like we're at the tip of the spear," he said, voice low.

I gave him a look. "Just what I always wanted."

He let out a tired snort. "Tell me you've got everything squared away. Because logistics is a disaster right now. Army's too busy falling back to throw us more gear anytime soon."

"I'm ready," I said. And I was. Or at least, I had to be. "I had Juno prep us for a long deployment. We'll be good to go when you need us, where you need us.

"Good," he replied. "Because we're going to be kicking in the teeth of half the Empire by breakfast."

I nodded. "Here's hoping they brushed." I said with a confidence I didn't feel.

We didn't laugh. Not really. Just the ghost of it. The kind of sound you make when you want to pretend there's still room for some kind of joy.

The inside of the APC groaned as it jostled over the pitted roadway, each shudder running up through the armored hull like the grating of old bones. I shifted in the turret, gloved hands resting lightly on the Erma 7.92's receiver, its matte finish warm under the mid-morning sun. The wind pulled at my collar, dry and bitter, carrying with it the acrid stench of smoke and gunpowder. From up here, I had a clear view of the world beyond the steel skin of the transport, and I almost wished I didn't.

The sky was brilliant. A sharp, unyielding blue that stretched endlessly above us. Clear. Open. Blinding. It made the contrast all the more jarring. The smoke rising from Vasel in the distance looked like a wound in the sky, thick black pillars clawing upward from the broken skeleton of the city. Through the haze, I could see rooftops missing their teeth, factory stacks cracked and crumbling, skeletal girders twisted like fingers frozen in agony. Fires burned in spots- small ones, flickering hungrily in the ruin. I could hear the war even from here. The harsh crack of rifle fire, the punchy rhythm of autocannons, the dull, belly-deep echo of mortars. It came in waves, distant but constant, like thunder with teeth.

We were closing in, far too much now to pretend otherwise.

And the briefing still clung to me like sweat.

The militia was to take the lead. That was the order. Squad Seven at the spearpoint, the rest flanking and folding in behind. The brass wanted a push, hard, fast, desperate. A line drawn not with ink but with bodies. We were to hold the west side of the river, clear the ruins, retake the bridge. No reinforcements from the regs. No armor support beyond what was scraped together at the last second. The Central Army was dug in too far back, still trying to regroup, is what they said. Hiding, more like. That left us.


I understood the calculus. Use the ones with something to lose. Locals. People whose homes were still smoldering, whose families had fled or been buried in the rubble. That kind of grief forged a special kind of fire. The kind that kept you fighting when you were already half-dead. The kind that made you spit in the face of a tank with nothing but a rifle and a prayer. They were half trained, in Command's eyes. A cheap loss for a vital win, and if they managed to grit their teeth and pull it off? Great.

But grit didn't stop a bullet. And hopes didn't kill trained soldiers.

We were still just that. Militia. Farmhands. Mechanics. Dropouts. Good hearts, sure. Brave, some of them. Brave enough to run headlong into a meat grinder. But bravery didn't make you bulletproof. And the Empire wasn't sending in half-trained conscripts armed with rusty rifles and dull bayonets. They were sending forward veteran companies; armored, disciplined, brutal. Units trained by the best of the Empire, forged in conflict, and armed with the best weapons money could buy. They were killers, one and all, wholly dedicated to war, and to bringing Gallia under the thumb of their blood-red master.

And now we were going to meet them face-to-face in the streets of a city already half dead.

The last of the wounded passed us minutes ago, limping in a procession that stretched for nearly a mile. What remained of the living were barely more than shadows, wrapped in field bandages and caked in the grime of retreat. Their eyes haunted me. Some were vacant, glassy. Others locked on us as we passed, filled with something worse than pain; recognition. They knew where we were going. They knew what we'd see.

Grit and loyalty might get us through a fight. Maybe even two. But this wasn't a scuffle over a ridge or a skirmish in a field. It was a hill to die on. A desperate last stand before the Empire swept through the last vestiges of Free Gallia and ended this war as quickly as it began. This was either the end, or the beginning.

This was Vasel.

And this would cost us. In pain. In horror. In blood.

Gallons of it.

Paint the ground red, to keep the flag blue. And us? We would be right in the middle of it.


000


The tent was hot with breath and tension, a humid envelope of canvas and looming decisions. In the late afternoon light, rays of sun slashed through the open flaps, casting long, flickering bars across a war-stained table that served as our command center. It wasn't elegant, just an old field desk layered in topographic maps, coffee rings, spent grease pencils, and a smattering of scuffed mugs that no one had washed in days. Sandbags ringed the tent's base. A map case slumped open on the floor. The air smelled of canvas, dried sweat, and the powdery stink of old munitions.

Welkin stood at the center, one hand planted on the surface, the other pointing calmly at a chart marked with an angry red spiral. His face was steady, but I'd been around him long enough to see the subtle creases at the corners of his eyes, the slight tightness at his jaw. He was trying not to show it, but this was going to be a hell of an operation, and he knew it.

Across from him, Sergeant Brigitte "Rosie" Stark. stood with her arms crossed, lips pursed. Her shoulders were squared, her boots planted like she was daring the earth to shift beneath her. Next to her, Largo looked like someone had just fed him a fistful of sand. His arms were folded, tree-trunk biceps swelling against his sleeves, jaw tight. Alicia stood quiet, but not still, her fingers lightly traced the edge of the map, her brows drawn inward, eyes flicking over the markings. Like she was memorizing it all before it could be snatched away.

I stood off to the side, keeping to the shadows cast by the tent walls, hands clasped behind my back. Only the four of us were here, Welkin's sergeants, each handpicked, each responsible for a cornerstone of the team. The planning had been done, the details hammered out. All that was left was the briefing. This was just the moment before the fall.

Welkin spoke evenly, calmly. His voice didn't rise or falter. He just laid it out.

"The Empire knows we're coming," he said. "They've had control of western Vasel for several days now, and they've fortified it as heavily as they could. We've confirmed that the Armored 4th, under General Jaeger, is stationed here," he tapped a red-lined square near the Vasel Rail Exchange, "and they're using the central district as a launchpoint for mobile strikes. That's why the Central Army couldn't hold the line." The words were frank, and I could see it. The VRE was like a beating heart, it;s arteries spreading out through the city. "Between them and the constant inflow of Imperial reinforcements the western half of Vasel is crawling with tanks and infantry. Straight engagement isn't an option; we'd be crushed in an hour."

He shifted his weight, then gestured to the map, outlining the plan with his finger.

"Our only chance is coordination and calculated force. Squads One, Three, Four, and Eight are making a direct approach from the southwest along the river. They'll draw the enemy's attention, pin as many of the Empire's units as they can. While they're engaged, Squad Seven, along with Squads Two, Five, Six, and Nine are going to infiltrate the city and secure key chokepoints like apartment blocks, rail lines and industrial bottlenecks. If we can take those fast and hold them, it'll strangle the Empire's ability to respond."

He tapped a circle around a cluster of buildings.

"Once we have control of those bottlenecks, we can isolate individual enemy groups and neutralize them piecemeal. It won't be a clean fight, not by a long shot, but it'll be one we can win."

He glanced at Alicia first, the girl firming up under Welkin's gaze. I could see the trust and faith in her eyes, the echo of confidence in her stance, as he spoke.

"Alicia. You'll be coordinating the Scouts and Snipers. I need forward recon before anything moves. That means eyes on rooftops, windows, sewer exits, back alleys, and every blind corner we're going to fight through. I want to know where their machine guns are, where they're stockpiling munitions, and what routes their armor is patrolling."

Alicia nodded, her voice clear despite the tension in her shoulders. "I'll get it done, Welkin. You can count on me. I'll have teams out as soon as we hit the city's edge."

He gave her a nod, as he turned to Rosie next. She was the sergeant I'd had the least interaction with, her hair done up in two fiery buns, the woman herself what some, including me, would call gorgeous. Despite her lithe figure though, she wore the heavy armor of a shock trooper with a level of grace and ease that belied a real strength hidden in her frame.

"Rosie. You're handling the shock teams. Most of our firepower will be with you. Make sure your troops grab extra ammo and grenades- you may not get a chance for a resupply. Once Alicia calls in the targets, you hit them hard and fast. Take ground and hold it."

She let out a short breath, then smirked, though it didn't reach her eyes. "If that's what you want, Lieutenant. I'll make sure my boys and girls are loaded down. Just don't leave us hanging alright? No girl likes it when their date is late to the party."

Welkin gave a snort at the woman's response, his face belaying that this isn't the first bit of prodding he'd gotten from the redhead. Instead his eyes turned to Largo.

"Largo, you heard the lady. You're on flexible support. That means if Rosie's position is threatened, you bring your Lancers up and break their backs. If Alicia needs engineers to get her teams out of a jam or handle field repairs, you're the one who makes sure they get there."

Largo grunted, a low, gravelly thing. "I know what I'm supposed to be doing, don't you worry. We'll be where we're needed."

Then Welkin's gaze settled on me.

"Jerry, I'm sorry to say that you're going to have the toughest job of all. I hate to ask it, and I fought against it at the officer's meeting, but Command wants to see what you can do, now that you're here." I could hear it in Welkin's voice, too, as Alicia shot us a worried look, and both Rosie and Largo became… something else.

I stepped forward slightly, hands still behind my back. "I'm listening."

He pointed again to the heart of the map, to a dense residential block between the municipal station and the inner ring of the market district.

"The Empire's using a secure radio relay system to coordinate their armor. Forward comm posts encode and transmit commands from central HQ to all armored elements. Those posts are the linchpin- take one out, and the tanks in the field go deaf. Take one intact… and we can speak through it."

I nodded slowly, already thinking through the variables. "Command wants to feed them false orders."

"We know roughly where the relay is, hidden in an apartment cluster near the tram hub. It's close to the front, but still behind enemy lines. You'll infiltrate, neutralize the outpost without raising alarms, and transmit a counterfeit order directing the Armored Fourth and as many other units as you can reach to a predetermined set of coordinates."

He tapped again, his finger moving to an empty, industrial yard outside the south tram depot.

When they move to reinforce what they think is a breach, our artillery will level the grid."

"I thought the regs were hoarding all their artillery. What changed?" I asked.

"We've secured three batteries from the Capital Defense Corps, along with enough shells for a single major strike. Which is why it's vitally important that the post gets taken without having the chance to get word out. If the Imperials catch wind of this too soon, they'll change frequencies, and we'll lose our window." Welkin paused, looking me dead in the eye, his gaze almost asking me to tell him it was impossible, that we'd need to do something else. And god knows I wanted to tell him that, tell him that we'd need to try something else, but we both knew that Command wouldn't accept it.

I exhaled through my nose. "We'll be in and out. Quiet and clean."

"I know Command wouldn't ask this of you if they didn't believe your team was up to it," Welkin said, his voice heavy. "And I believe in you too. I know that you can do it, much as I hate to give you something like this." He paused, chewing his words. "But I need to be clear. This will be behind enemy lines. If anything goes wrong… I don't know how we'll get to you."

I gave a single nod, as if I should have expected anything else. "Then we'll make sure nothing goes wrong."

Rosie shifted beside me. "That's a hell of a bet you're all placing, Lieutenant."

"I know," he said, softly. "But if we want to push the enemy back, the Armored Fourth has to be eliminated. We don't have the tanks or the troops to stand up to that kind of force if it comes to it."

No one said anything more. There was no argument. No alternative plans. Just the map, the silence, and the coming storm.

Welkin dismissed us with a quiet, "Get your people ready."

Outside the tent, the air was cooler, but not by much. I'd barely taken ten steps toward my team's staging area when I heard boots crunching behind me.

"Finch."

I turned.

Largo stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, posture loose but squared, like a man who knew exactly how much space he took up and expected the world to move around him. His broad shoulders were framed against the amber dusk, mutton chops bristling in the breeze, face unreadable.

"Walk with me a sec."

I fell in beside him as we moved toward a stack of supply crates near the edge of the staging ground. The camp noise thinned to a dull murmur. Largo scratched at his jaw, eyeing me sidelong.

"You buying into all that back there?" he asked finally, voice pitched low. "The plan, I mean."

"I said I was ready to do the job," I answered, keeping my tone neutral.

"Yeah, yeah." He rolled a shoulder, eyes scanning the camp lazily. "Doesn't mean you think it's sane."

I didn't reply, watching as the large man pulled a cigarette from a pack. He lit it, but not before offering me one. I waved it off, though, as he took a drag.

"The LT's sending you into a meat grinder with nothing but dreams and good wishes. You know that, right? Not even a solid target, just a guess and a hope. No reinforcements. Just straight through the teeth."

I kept my voice calm. "He knows what he's doing, and it wasn't his choice. You heard him."

That got a snort from him, dry and almost amused as he dragged his coffin nail.

"Sure it wasn't. Kid grew up city-soft, college educated, just a baby when EW1 cracked off and raised high on his daddy's war stories. Probably thinks tactics are just chess with louder pieces. But out here?" Largo jabbed a thick finger in the direction of Vasel. "Out here, ideas don't stop bullets. They don't dig out wounded under fire or patch up a tank roadwheel with nothing but scrap and a prayer."

He gave me a look then, one I recognized. The kind old soldiers give young ones. Not unkind. But not respectful either.

"Look, I get it. New uniform, new stripe on your sleeve. Feels good, right? You want to prove you've earned it. Show the squad you're more than just some pretty nickname the radio boys love throwing around."

My jaw tensed, but I didn't respond.

Largo kept going, pacing like one of the DIs back at HQ.

"You probably think that kid sees something in you- some special quality, some spark. And maybe he does. But I've seen this story before. Officer with a point to prove gets ideas, gets clever, and then the body bags start piling up. That's what you're walking into."

"He's not looking for glory," I said quietly. "He's trying to win."

Largo stopped mid-step. His brow furrowed, and he turned toward me like he hadn't caught it right the first time.

"What was that?"

His tone wasn't angry, not yet. Just puzzled. Like he was trying to square what I'd said with the picture he had in his head. He searched my face for sarcasm, for irony, for anything that might tell him I was just being dry. But I wasn't.

I held his gaze. "I said I trust him. He knows what he's doing."

For a second, Largo just stared at me, the lines in his face stiffening. His jaw worked once, then twice, like he was chewing over the words and didn't like the taste.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, the disbelief curdling into something heavier. "You actually believe that?"

The shift came fast. His tone dropped, harder now, steel under gravel.

"You really think that flower-sniffing, soft-spoken academy boy has what it takes to pull this off?"

The idea seemed almost foreign to the large man, one of the few that could look me in the eye, as he chewed on that. I could almost see the turning of gears and cogs in his brain, the moment when he really finally got what I was saying. The look in his eyes, darkend, and his tone, once condescendingly friendly, turned outright derisive.

"Tch." He snorted, "I thought maybe you had a head on your shoulders. But you're just another glory hound. Should've figured. 'The Lion of Bruhl,'" he spat, the name like a bad taste in his mouth. "Hell of a title for someone who's about to get a whole bunch of people killed playing hero."

I met his glare with a cold, steady look. The two of us stood almost chest to chest, the large man worked up good and red as he burned up his cigarette, chewing what he'd said. Ignoring the poison coming out of his mouth wasn't easy. I'd had the same thoughts, the same fears, but I swallowed that. Instead I chose to answer his question, rhetorical as it was.

"I do."

That was all I said. That was all I needed to say.

Something in me hardened then. Not just at his words, but the way he said them, like he knew better, like no one else had a right to the truth of this war but him. But Largo didn't know what we'd fought through. What we'd bled through. What we'd lost together.

He didn't know, and I wasn't about to explain.

I didn't say another word. Just turned and walked away, leaving him behind in the fading light.

Largo stood there for a beat longer, watching my back with an expression somewhere between anger and disappointment. Then he muttered something under his breath and stalked off in the opposite direction.

Let him stew.

I had a mission to prepare for. And a war to survive.


000


The inside of the APC was tight with tension, quieter than usual, like the moment just before a fuse hits the charge. The engine droned beneath us, a constant, low vibration through the floor plates. The sharp smell of oil, scorched metal, and ragnite-charged ozone hung in the stale air, clinging to our gear, our clothes, our skin.

Jane and Juno were seated across from one another. Normally, Jane would be lobbing verbal grenades, trying to poke at Juno until she snapped back with that dry, clipped wit of hers. This time, the banter was there, but thinner, more forced. Jane's tone had its usual bark, but the rhythm was off, just a touch too practiced. Juno smirked once, half-hearted, then went quiet again, fingers brushing the lid of her pack like her mind was someplace else entirely.

Wendy sat near the back corner, knees tucked in slightly, hands resting on the edge of her plate carrier like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Her eyes were downcast. Her silence wasn't the usual kind, the focused, calculating stillness she fell into before getting the chance to set off a new bomb. This was heavier. Closed off. Worry trying not to show its face.

Marina sat in her usual place, spine straight, eyes lowered over her GSR-2. She worked the bolt and checked the scope with that same quiet precision she always had, but there was a softness to her gaze when it flicked once toward Wendy. It wasn't sympathy. Not exactly. Just...awareness. Something unspoken, but not unkind.

They all looked up when I climbed in from the front compartment, and the shift in the air was instant. The murmur died. The jabs stopped. Tension doubled.

"Boss," Jane said, her voice steady, chin lifting a hair. Juno nodded once, eyes on mine. Wendy straightened but said nothing. Marina didn't speak, she just met my gaze and waited.

My thoughts, stormy from the "chat" with Largo, still roiled in my mind. Angry, yes, but also pained, knowing the massive prick had dug into one of my own constant worries, now at the forefront of my mind. I had to chew it up, swallow it, though, because now wasn't the time for that. Bullshit introspection could wait, now that we had a mission.

"We're on." The two words fell like a powder charge into a bunker. A force of nature made whole, grabbing each of the girls as I ordered my thoughts.

I pulled the folded map from my vest, given to me by Welkin at the start of the meeting. I set it between us, the compact guide to the city of Vasel, a mess of lines and notes about what we'd need and where we'd need it. Packed in its leather and plastic sleeve to keep the mess and the gunk off, it shined in the stark, sterile light of the APC's overhead.

"This is it. Command has decided that it's time to show them what they paid for when they decided to put this little project of mine into motion. A test for us. To see if we're worth the time and the money."

No one flinched. No one looked away. I was pleased to see the confidence in them that I didn't feel.

"The city's a hornet's nest. The Empire's got it locked down hard. But they're still relying on a forward communications relay to coordinate their armor movements. It's the lynchpin. If we can cut that connection, even for a short time, we can throw them into confusion. Delay their reaction. Give the others a real shot."

I tapped the map, a marked section near the heart of the city. A cluster of four buildings sat boxed in by side streets and alleys. They were built around an open central plaza, from the looks of it, with wide roads between each building. A lot of open ground to cover, there, and good sight lines from all the buildings.

"Intel points to this block here. Four apartment buildings; Three stories each, built tough, and probably full of Imperials. One of them's our target, but we don't know which. We'll need to recon the area, find the post, and secure it." The job sounded so simple on paper, but I didn't need to look around to feel the frowns on their faces.

"We take it quietly, hold it long enough to hijack their relay, push false orders, and then we disappear before they know we were ever there." I said, pausing as that sunk in. "We have to take it without letting them get word of an attack out. If they do, the mission is over. If we get bogged down, or caught unawares, there's little chance of a rescue reaching us in time. So stealth and discretion are the words of the day. Use your knives, and your suppressors, but remember that they aren't perfect."


I turned to look at Marina, her long rifle in her lap. "When you're on overwatch, fire only when necessary. Don't let them get a lock on you. If you have to reposition, do so. Don't wait for me to give the order."

The woman in question nodded as I turned back to the map.

Juno leaned in, her brow furrowed as she studied the image. Her finger moved slowly before resting on one building set further back from the others, partially shaded by an old office tower.

"This one," she said. "It's recessed, and the height gives us clean angles on the whole plaza. It's a good vantage point. If I were to set up an overwatch, somewhere that won't grab attention, I'd pick that."

I nodded. "Then that's where I want you and Marina. And Marina, that's non-negotiable. Nobody operates alone." I cut off the protest before it began. "Juno, you're going to be on the Big Boy today. You have scout training, and you know how to operate a field relay radio. We'll be counting on you to keep eyes on us. Especially once things get in close. You're our voice upstairs."

Juno gave a brisk nod, already reaching down to check said Big Boy. The heavy ragnite-powered radio unit was a modern marvel that was straight out of a sci-fi novel. The unit was half the size of what you'd expect, not needing the bulky lead-acid batteries that were everywhere back during our own second World War. Wonders of ragnite, I supposed. Thanks to that we all had something akin to personal comms equipment, so long as someone carried the booster unit. Granted they weren't anything on modern radio tech from back home, but having up to three miles of clear back-and-forth communication in a package barely larger than a walkie-talkie was a gift.

Juno's fingers were steady as she ran them over a bevy of dials and latches. "Batteries are full. Encryption's tight. Signal strength should hold across the block- no bleed, no noise. That should keep us all on comms without any issues. We shouldn't have any issues keeping in touch with the Lieutenant either. Big Boy can broadcast clear across the city if we need to."

Marina gave a small hum, not looking up from her rifle. She was checking the chamber, adjusting the sling tension with careful, practiced movements. When she spoke, her voice was soft and unhurried.

"The city's wrecked. Buildings are going to be dangerous to traverse, and rubble is going to be everywhere. Sightlines might not hold once we're up there."

She was right. The terrain was doubtlessly chaotic, but there was little we could do about that.

"We'll improvise," I said. "If it's necessary. For now we'll run with this plan as is, but don't get too attached to it. If we need to find another way around, or through, we will."

I gestured toward the buildings on the map, each marked with rough resistance estimates.

"We're going to be in close quarters. Tight corners, small rooms, plaster and wood walls and doors. Be mindful of where you're shooting, because bullets will go through those like they aren't there."

Wendy shifted beside Jane. "They'll have to be using their own booster towers, right? Civilian radio broadcasters don't have the bandwidth for military traffic. They'll be using something they brought in themselves." Her voice was quavering, but she was getting more volume back into her tone, now that she had some way to contribute

I turned to her. "You've seen one before?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I signed up to be an Engineer originally. During the training they had us learn all the different bits of enemy tech we might run into. The towers have thick, reinforced bases and sectioned construction, shaped for quick deployment. You can tell which ones they are by the black shielding rings at the top of the broadcaster. They use them to reduce interference."

Wendy's face took on a sour note, her forefingers pressing into one another as she muttered angrily, "That was before I got kicked out." Jane, behind her, looked at us and made an exploding motion with her hands, mimicking a detonation. Somehow, I wasn't surprised.

Shaking my head, I let my gaze rest on Wendy again, who had bounced back remarkably quickly..

"You'll be with me and Jane, in that case" I told her. "Keep your eyes up. If you spot one of those towers, you call it out." Wendy gave me a curt nod, her hands tightening briefly on the edge of her seat.

Jane leaned back with a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. It reminded me of a big cat as it got ready to go on the hunt, which, all things given, was appropriate. Her teeth shined like fangs, and her eyes were vicious. "About damn time," she said. "Been itching to stick the knife into a few of those Imp bastards since we got here."

I folded the map again, tucking it into my jacket. My voice was even, but I let the weight of it land.

"You'll get your chance. All of us will."

The APC was sitting ready to move out as soon as word came down. The engine rumbled beneath the floor like a beast pacing in its cage, impatient but restrained. Inside, the tension was suffocating. The girls were checking gear, double-tying laces, snapping buckles, running their fingers along blades and barrels with silent precision. Everything was ready. Everything was set. I nodded to each of them, heading towards the hatch. I wanted some air.

I stepped out the side hatch, letting the door clunk shut behind me with a dull mechanical sigh. The sun hit me like a slap, bright, high, and unrelenting. The sky was that perfect Gallian blue, unmarred except for the thick, black smoke curling up from Vasel's broken skeleton. It hadn't changed since I first laid eyes on it. Same ruin. Same haze. Same hell.

I didn't want to stare at it anymore. I already knew what waited.

Footsteps crunched behind me. Not rushed. Measured. I could recognize Juno's controlled gait from a mile away by this point.

"Are you… alright, sir?" Her voice was unsure, like she was trying something out for the first time, and she may as well have been. In all the time I'd known her she seemed content to let me stew.

I glanced over my shoulder. She stood, missing that same confidence that I'd always known her to have, arms folded loosely across her chest. Her expression was a mix of concern and uncertainty, like she wasn't sure which she was supposed to be feeling. She looked tired, but not in the way you'd think. It was emotional fatigue, the kind that came from having your own deep thoughts digging at you. I could recognize it. Like knows like, after all.

"You were… tense, when you got into the APC. More than usual." She added, quieter now.

"I'm fine." The response came back almost rote, but Juno didn't accept it.

"It doesn't- you don't-" She tried, before pausing. "Sir- Jerry. I know that we aren't close, at least not as much as you are with Alicia or Welkin, or even Isara. But… we've been through a fair bit. Not just fighting, not just the road to Dillburg, but also through training. Learning next to one another, fighting and crying and bleeding, remember? You don't have to swallow everything up around me- around us."

I turned away, eyes drifting back to the horizon. "Maybe I'm just tired. The briefing was a lot. The mission they gave us is literally tossing us into the fire. Stress is all it is."

"Maybe, but… I don't think so. We've all seen you, Jerry. When it's late, and your eyes are somewhere else while you clean your rifle or sharpen your knife. We've all felt it, like something dark is hanging over you, like you're falling into yourself, seeing things that only exist in your head." Juno pushed, and I turned to her fully. She almost shrank under my gaze, even though it wasn't my intention.

I let out a dry breath. "It's nothing. Just me thinking about things. I have a lot on my plate, you know?" I tried for a smile, but it didn't quite manage to make its way onto my face.

She stepped up beside me, not pushing close, just… near. Like she was afraid she'd spook me if she made it feel too much like comfort. It was stiff and awkward and so very Juno, but she was trying. "Jerry, I… I don't like seeing it. None of us do. I know that what happened in Bruhl still bothers you, with Noce, with Juliette, with the ambush, with all of it. I know that's why you pushed us so hard, why you pushed yourself so hard. I appreciate it, we all do."

I didn't say anything. I didn't have to.

"But when it's all said and done and the day is over, you fold in on yourself," she said. "When things are quiet. When there's no one asking anything from you, that's when it starts. You get that look like you're somewhere else. Somewhere you don't want anyone following."

Still nothing from me. I watched the way the wind whipped the smoke, bending firelight like reflections on broken glass.

"I'm not trying to pry. I swear," She hesitated. "But… I don't know how to help when you get like this. When you close everything off. And it bothers me. Because I want to. We want to. But I don't know what's behind that wall you've built, or how thick it is."
I shifted my stance slightly, hands resting on my hips. The air was awkward, and I wasn't sure what to say, really. I trusted Juno. Liked her, even, but… this wasn't her weight to shoulder. Besides, I'd gotten better. Been trying that whole whittling thing that Jane suggested. It did… help.
"I appreciate it. I do. But this isn't something that needs fixing. It's just... part of the job."

"That's not comforting." She almost whispered, and I shrugged.

"It's not meant to be." The words slipped out, and I knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as I said it.

She frowned at that. There was hurt there, yes, and something else besides. Like she just wanted to grab me and shake me until I opened up to her, or something. But it was the truth.

"You bottle everything up like you're afraid to waste breath on it," she said finally. "And when it finally cracks... I've seen how far down that fall goes. I don't want to see you go down that hole. You swallowed up so much, kept it down, and it's just making you sick over and over again. It gets into you and turns your eyes dark and your face stormy. You don't… you don't have to. You don't have to the the Lion in front of us all the time. You can cry, you can grieve, you can let it go. Because all that rage and all that guilt and all that doubt? It's going to burn you out."

I looked at her then. Really looked. And for a moment, I wanted to tell her more. Not the whole truth, not the dark corners, but enough. Enough to let her know I wasn't just brushing her off. That I heard what she was saying. Now, on the eve of battle, right before the first major operation as a unit, I wanted to let it all go. But I couldn't. Couldn't forget it. Couldn't let it go. For as much as it was it burned me up, it also kept me warm.

So instead I just said, "I'll be fine."

She didn't believe me. I could see that clear as day. The frustration at the response, the raw worry, the quiet hurt at my distance and distrust, for all my big words about living and breathing and bleeding and all of that, I still kept myself apart from them. Even Juno, who had seen more than a bit of me at my worst as she tried to drill proper decorum and military order into me during our time at HQ.

"Right," she murmured. "Fine."

Juno stood there a moment longer, the silence thick between us. Then she turned and walked back toward the APC. She didn't slam the hatch behind her. Didn't raise her voice. But I could feel her disappointment linger in the air like cordite after a shot fired.

I stayed out there a few more seconds, watching the same ruined skyline.

Same city.

Same fire.

Same hell.

And then I followed her back inside.


000


The city loomed nearby, grey and hateful in the afternoon light. Smoke still clung to the skyline, curled up against a blue sky that was too bright for what waited ahead. The scent of war was already in the air. Burning oil, sweat, churned earth, and blood that hadn't even been spilled yet.

All around me, the militia moved like a tide, armed and geared, every man and woman bracing for what was coming. There was no idle chatter anymore, no laughter. Just the clink of webbing and the rattle of magazines being checked for the fifth time. Boots on dirt. Eyes ahead. The kind of quiet that settled in just before the hammer dropped.

I didn't hear Alicia walk up. I just noticed her beside me, two tin cups in her hands. She didn't say anything as she handed one over. It was hot, dark, and smelled like burnt beans, but it was coffee. I nodded my thanks.

We stood in silence for a while, watching the columns form up in the distance. Then she spoke, quiet and even.

"Welkin really did try, you know. He pushed hard to get them to reconsider your mission. Said it was too much too fast. He fought for you."

She said it quietly, like she was easing the words into the space between us, unsure if they would help or just weigh me down more. Her fingers were curled tight around her cup, knuckles faintly pale, and she kept her eyes on the city rather than on me.

I took a sip, staring out over the grey ruins. "I know."

"Command didn't listen." Her voice was laced with resignation. She exhaled, slow and shallow, then drew one arm across her chest and gripped her sleeve, the fabric bunching in her fingers. "I was outside the tent. They said they had high hopes. That you were showing results they couldn't ignore."

I didn't answer. There wasn't a point. The coffee sat bitter on my tongue, the heat fading fast in the tin cup.

She glanced at me again, side-on, as if trying to read what I wasn't saying.

"He was frustrated. Genuinely. I don't think I've ever seen him that angry in front of the Brass. I think he hates this part of it. Hates having to send you out like this."

"I don't blame him," I said. "He's doing what he has to."

Alicia shifted her weight, her boots crunching in the dirt. Her expression flickered, conflicted, before she finally said what had clearly been sitting on her chest for a while.

"I heard about Largo."

Of course she had.

She frowned faintly, gaze dropping to the cup in her hands.

"He's been wary of Welkin ever since he took command. Not exactly mean, just... critical. Too much so, maybe. He's not wrong to worry, but he doesn't know how to say it the right way. Largo's heart is good, it's just..." she hesitated, lips tightening as she searched for the right phrase, "he doesn't know how to make it come across like it should."

I could see it in her shoulders, the way she hunched slightly inward, like she was caught between two loyalties. She wanted to defend him. Wanted me to understand. I didn't.

I took another long sip of coffee, slower this time. "Doesn't matter how he phrases it. He doesn't get to pull Welkin down like that. Not around me. I owe Welkin. I owe you. I owe Isara. I'm not going to listen to that kind of talk." I said, my voice firm.

"Everyone gets one. He had his." I turned and met her eyes. "Next time, we'll have a problem."

The words hit harder than I expected. Alicia blinked once, then looked away, jaw tightening as she nodded. Her fingers drummed a small rhythm on her tin cup before she stilled them.

"I get it. I just..." she tried again, the words faltering, "...I worry. About the Squad. About Welkin. About Isara. There's so much on all of us."

I didn't trust my voice enough to answer. Instead, I stepped a little closer and gave her shoulder a light pat. My hand lingered a moment longer than I intended. She looked up, and I let her see the small smile I managed to find, something genuine through the fog. It was all I could give, but it was enough to soften the crease in her brow, just a little.

It helped, I think.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but a voice broke the quiet before she could.

"Sergeant!" Juno's voice cut through the low murmur of the waking camp, crisp and direct. Her figure emerged from the smoke-hazed light, her silhouette framed by the flicker of nearby lanterns and the pale blush of early dawn. She moved with purpose, boots steady, expression sharper than usual.

Alicia turned toward her, offering a small, tired smile. "Hey, Juno."

"Alicia." Juno's nod was stiff, her tone clipped and professional. One arm balanced the bulk of her encryption pack, the other loosely gripped her helmet, fingers white at the knuckles. There was tension in her posture, like a wire pulled taut- not panic, not quite, but something bracing. She stood just outside the reach of Alicia's warmth, polite and distant.

She didn't look at her for long.

I stepped forward, pulled instinctively into the space Juno carved open.

"Report."

She met my eyes squarely, nothing uncertain in her voice. There was a stiffness there that wasn't there this morning. "The unit's ready. Weapons checked. Packs sealed. Everyone's in position and waiting on your word."

The switch flipped. The warmth of shared coffee and quiet company drained from my limbs in a blink, receding like tidewater pulled under by something deeper. The part of me that could feel things; the exhaustion, the worry, the gratitude, had stepped away without protest. What remained was solid, measured, precise. Cold in the ways that mattered. It was the part that kept us alive.

I felt Alicia glance sideways, her breath catching ever so slightly as she saw the change. She didn't speak. Just held the cup a little tighter.

"Understood."

I drained the rest of the coffee. It was lukewarm now, but bitter enough to anchor me. The tin clicked softly as I handed it back to Alicia.

"Stay safe." The words were heavy on my tongue.

She took it with both hands, her expression pinched but composed. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but the moment had already shifted.

Juno lingered at the edge of the silence, her gaze flicking once more to Alicia. There was something in it- not disdain, not rivalry, but a recognition of closeness not hers. It passed too quickly for Alicia to notice.

She nodded to her, wordless, then turned to fall in beside me.

It was time to go to war.





AN: I know, I know. Where is the war? Why is the war wearing crocks? I've been trying to keep to a habit of not making it all about the fighting. Showing the logistics and whatnot, touching base on the characters, building relationships and the rest. I admit that Largo feels a little adversarial right now, but... he kind of is. There are aspects of his character that shine through even in the early chapters of the game but then there are moments. One of them is even coming up in a chapter or two. As it is there are things I haven't really touched on since they happen outside of Jerry's bubble. I don't like shifting away from his POV because that's where the storytelling is coming from but it can be kind of limiting, so I'm considering doing a set of Extra Episodes to show that off. What the world looks like from the other characters, how Gallian culture works, their flaws and triumphs, that kind of thing. Let me know if that would interest you all. As it stands I've got a few ideas there.
Also, since I'm building a back catalogue, I'm considering starting a Patreon, Subscribestar, whatever, if there's an interest in getting a look ahead on things. What kind of stuff would you all want to see in something like that? I'm open to ideas.

As a bit of a final note I've been playing around with a couple of new fic ideas, for Castlevania and Final Fantasy 10. I don't really know where I'm going with them but I've got about a chapter or two's worth in prototyping to see if the idea clicks with me. We'll see how it turns out.

 

[J. Finch]

…smoke and dust choked the air as we made our way in, the reports of rifle and cannon echoing through the city as the decoy forces made their stand, pulling as much of the Empire's focus as they could. Barely trained and armed with weapons scarcely a match for their crimson-armored counterparts, they fought like heroes, buying us time to break the back of the occupation. Time paid for in blood, suffering, and lives.​

-Ch. 2, The River of Vasel, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front​

Chapter Nine​

The west side of Vasel was a carcass, its guts a conflagration of burnt out or bombed out buildings.. The skeletons of cars and bus strops leaned over the street like mourners, as rubble choked every alley. Smoke curled through broken windows, and the stink of war hung in the air like rotting meat and burned steel.

We moved under it, around it, through it. Five shadows in formation. Five knives aimed at the spine of the Imperial line.

"Four hostiles. Shock troopers. Ahead, next alley," Juno's voice cracked through the radio, low and exact.

I blinked once. "Take them."

We flowed into action without a breath wasted. I veered left across broken stone, boots gliding silent. Jane and Wendy swept right. Marina climbed like smoke through a shattered window above. Juno stayed in the pocket, central, steady, guiding.

The first Imperial's death was clean. My knife slid into the joint below the armplate, angled up into the lungs. He spasmed. I wrenched the blade free and moved on.

A short burst snapped from Wendy's suppressed rifle. The second trooper spun as three rounds caught his upper chest, plate cratering, blood speckling the wall behind him. He slumped where he stood.

Jane's target barely made a noise. Her entrenching tool cleaved down like an axe, catching the man across the temple with a wet, cracking thunk, her wild enthusiasm and glee etched onto her face. The shovel blade made a squelching sound as she pulled it loose, wiping the blood off on the dead man's tunic.

The fourth started to run.

Marina's rifle barked once. His neck opened like a slit pouch and he collapsed into a shallow puddle, arms twitching.

"Clear," I said.

No one answered, but everyone moved.

Our boots crossed scorched pavement. Nearby, the racket of a heavy firefight roared. Gallian militia, green but determined, were caught in a crossfire. I caught a glimpse through a shattered shopfront. An entire fireteam pinned behind a flipped cart. An Imperial squad advancing on them.

"Engage," I ordered.

We split without hesitation. Wendy dropped to prone and fired twice, both shots cracking skulls. Jane and I flanked wide. I came in hard from behind a sandbag wall, buried my blade in the back of a sergeant's throat, and shoved him forward into his own men. Confusion erupted. Jane hit them like a hammer, the butt of her rifle stunning the man. She brought it up and put three almost point blank into his sternum, and he gurgled, clutching at her as he fell.

A militia trooper peeked up from the cart, eyes wide. I gave him a quick nod before we melted back into the alleys.

No time for thanks. No time for hesitation. The plan came first.

"Next route east. Two sentries on the tramline," Juno whispered through the radio's crackle.

"Jane. Wendy. Right flank. Go," I ordered.

They moved in sync, Jane vanishing into a crumbled stairwell, Wendy ghosting between shell craters. I took the center. We converged on the sentries from three sides.

The first dropped from a round that clipped his cheek and tunneled through his jaw. The second barely turned before Jane's arms were around him, dragging him back. Her blade plunged up under the chin. His body went limp in silence. Wendy held back, keeping watch as Marina and Juno followed up.

We moved on. No pause. No words.

The world behind us churned. Machine guns screamed. The Edelweiss's main gun boomed like thunder somewhere close. Screams, the whine of ricochets, the roar of fire. The city was a furnace, and we were deep in the coals.

Next contact was a four man squad around a makeshift barricade.

"Building right side, second story. Clear shot," Marina said, already slipping into the high ground, up a stairway of rubble.

"Take it."

Her first round hit the man in the center through the eye socket. The others scattered, confused. Second shot dropped another mid-step. Jane and Wendy swept around the side. I came up the middle, one hand on the grip of the StG, the other still damp with blood.

The last two didn't make it ten meters. One took a burst in the ribs and staggered back, already dead before he hit the ground. The other turned just in time to catch Jane's blade in the chest. She twisted it once, yanked free, and walked on.

"Perimeter ahead," Juno said. "Signal strength is increasing. We're getting close."

I nodded, even if no one could see me. My team was calm. Efficient. Quiet.

We hit another alley. This one was filled with smoke and the flickering light of fire. A lone Imperial engineer was hunkered behind a tank trap, repairing a comms line.

"Solo contact. Marked," Marina said.

"Silence him."

A single shot ended him. He slumped forward onto his work, mouth agape. We stepped over the body and vanished into the street beyond.

We moved like smoke, silent and curling between the broken ribs of the city.

The ruined alley spit us out into the shell of a warehouse, one wall collapsed, the other two scorched black. Gunfire cracked just ahead, sharp, methodical and constant. Not wild, though. Controlled. That told me everything.

I motioned the team to a halt, one fist up, then pointed through the blasted window. Five Gallian scouts, barely more than kids, were huddled behind the jagged spine of a collapsed wall. One had a blood-soaked sleeve tied tight with a field dressing. Another fumbled to reload a bolt-action with trembling hands. They weren't firing. They were pinned.

Across the narrow plaza, three Imperial shock troopers took turns laying down suppressive bursts, their position reinforced by sandbags and a crumpled bench turned cover. Behind them, a fourth figure loomed. An Imperial Lancer. Not with an anti-tank rocket this time, but a mortar-fitted lance slung over his shoulder, angling upward for a lob shot.

Wendy saw him just as I did. "He's gonna drop that shell right on them," she whispered.

"Not if we move first," I said. "On me."

No argument. Just movement.

We slipped along the wall, boots hushed by dust, breath tight. I angled toward the right, Wendy flanking left, Jane right behind. Marina and Juno covered our rear. No time for hesitation. Just blood and motion.

The first Imp never saw me coming. His face was pale, his eyes squinting down the sights. My knife punched through his throat before he could blink. He choked on steel and toppled into the dirt with barely a sound.

Jane dropped the next with a burst from her suppressed StG, the rounds chewing through his side as he turned. The third tried to spin toward the noise—too slow. Wendy's knife went in under his ribs, and she pushed hard, twisting until he folded like a puppet with cut strings.

The Lancer realized too late. He turned, mortar still unshouldered, mouth opening to shout a warning that never came. I was already there. I saw the boy's reflection in the glint of the Lancer's goggles. A young Gallian scout, no older than sixteen, peeking over the wall just in time to watch me drive my knife through the man's eye. Steel met skull. He shuddered once, then crumpled.

I yanked the blade free and turned back.

"Clear," I said.

The scouts stared. I didn't speak to them. No time. No space for that. Just a nod, and then we vanished back into the wreckage, the city swallowing us once more.

The outskirts of the plaza came into view a few minutes later. The buildings towered like old bones, half their windows blasted out, soot curling up their flanks. In the distance, the chatter of machineguns echoed, sharp and panicked. Gallian radio lines were full of static and desperate calls. They were holding, but only just.

We paused at a broken wall near a split in the street. The overwatch building loomed nearby, it's frame solid enough, with an intact roof and good vantage. It would do.

Marina checked her rifle, already slinging the GSR over one shoulder. Juno wordlessly adjusted the heavy comms pack across her back, her jaw clenched.

"Alright," I said, voice low. "This is it. Jane, Wendy, you're with me. Juno, Marina, you're our eyes. I want confirmation on that tower the moment you get a clean line."

Juno nodded, her dark eyes on mine, steady and sure. "We'll call it in."

Jane looked at the blond, the tight lines at her eyes betraying the fire in her gut. "Don't get shot, huh? I don't wanna have to carry you out."

She snorted. "Same to you."

Marina stepped forward, just slightly, her voice soft but steady. "We'll keep the net open. If it moves, we'll see it."

I looked at them each in turn, letting my gaze settle. "No mistakes. No hesitation. Be silent. Be deadly, and remember, we all go home or nobody goes home."

That silence after, tight, taut, full of the weight of what was coming, said more than any reply could.

Then we split. One into the shadow, the other, into the fire.

The plaza was a killbox waiting to happen, but luck favored us in the shape of ruin and rubble. Whole segments of storefronts had collapsed into the avenue, and we hugged the wreckage like phantoms. We took the long way around, slipping through gaps in broken fences and ducking beneath sagging overhangs. Every thirty seconds, I raised a closed fist, and the three of us froze. Eyes up. Ears straining.

Two blocks from our target, Jane caught the sound first.

"Tank. North street. Treads on stone," she whispered.

I signaled for silence. We melted into the shell of a corner shop, keeping low as the rumble of heavy treads grew louder. A patrol of five Imperials marched in formation down the avenue, rifles at the ready. Their expressions were alert. Disciplined. This wasn't some rear-echelon unit dicking around. They were on the hunt.

Behind them came the tank, an Imperial VK-42 "Spinne". It was a light tank chassis, but with a high-velocity autogun in its turret. The quad-barreled machinegun swiveled, scanning alleys and doorways as it crawled forward like a predator on the hunt.

Wendy pressed herself flat against the wall beside me, eyes wide but steady. She clutched a brick-sized charge to her chest. I reached over and gently pushed her hand down. Not yet.

The patrol paused at the intersection. We were less than ten meters away. The tank's turret turned toward us, and for a heartbeat, I thought it would fire.

But then the commander barked something I didn't hear, and the patrol moved on. The tank followed, rumbling away with a sound like grinding teeth. Jane exhaled slowly. Wendy didn't even breathe.

We cut across to the next street, slipping between burnt-out cars and makeshift barricades. At one point we had to crawl under a collapsed balcony. Rubble scraped my shoulder. Jane muttered a curse when her entrenching tool caught the edge of a loose pipe.

"Next block has a machinegun nest," I said as we regrouped. I had spotted the barrel through a crack in the wall, three men behind sandbags and a belt-fed MG stationed near a half-demolished hotel.

Wendy frowned. "Bypass or clear?"

"Bypass. Not worth the risk. They're focused westward, and they're not expecting us here."

We moved again, slow and careful. Timing our steps with the sounds of distant gunfire, we crept beneath the edge of their arc of fire, using a shattered drainpipe and a collapsed stairwell to duck under their line of sight. Sweat dripped from my brow as we slid along the edge of the street.

By the time we reached the plaza, I could hear it; fighting in the distance, more intense now. Small arms overlapping with the rapid bursts of automatic fire. The heavier thuds of anti-tank shells echoed somewhere beyond the skyline, shaking dust loose from the cracked windows around us.

Jane crouched low behind a twisted fire escape, breathing heavy but steady. Her eyes flicked to mine. She was ready. Wendy knelt beside the base of a support column, checking her wiring out of habit. She didn't need to, but the repetition seemed to help her stay centered.

Juno's voice crackled in my ear. "Overwatch position secured. We have clear visual on the plaza. Two buildings are no-go. Total collapses. You're looking at either northeast or southeast. No visible relays on either."

"Copy that. Any movement?"

"A few patrols, but no signs of a fortified position yet. Radio traffic is increasing. It's bad out there."

I listened. Our headset was picking up more than just Juno. Fragmented calls bled into the background- Gallian militia reporting tank sightings, requesting backup, screaming about being overrun. I closed my eyes for a second, letting the noise fill the space behind my ribs.

Jane looked up at me. Her expression was tight, jaw clenched hard enough that I could see the muscle working under the skin. "We're on the clock."

Wendy didn't say anything. She was biting the inside of her lip again. Her eyes flicked from one building to the other like she was solving a puzzle under fire.

"Southeast first," I said. "First sweep. Move in tight. Stay low. If they're broadcasting, they're up high."

We started across the plaza.

It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that rang in your ears. Every step felt like a thunderclap, even though none of us made a sound. The buildings towered above us like gutted monuments, scorched black and coughing ash. The door was still standing, though crooked.

Inside, it was dark. No lights. No voices.

Jane took point. I followed. Wendy covered the rear.

The southeastern apartment building loomed hollow and broken, its ribs of concrete and rebar jutting like bones under skin. We slipped inside through a half-collapsed doorway, weapons raised, boots moving in near-silence across dust and splinters. No one spoke.

Inside, the air was thick and stale, the only light filtering through shattered windows and broken doorframes. We moved in low, rifles up, each footstep a whisper on crumbling tile and torn carpet. It wasn't long before we started seeing the wreckage of lives left behind. Pictures in bent frames. Toys half-melted from fire damage. Furniture knocked over, smashed. Doors kicked in. No sign of fighting, just...clearing. Systematic. Efficient. Imp work.

Bodies came next. Civilians first, collapsed in corners and doorways, some still clutching suitcases or each other. Gallian infantry too. Their uniforms faded and blood-soaked, left to rot in the same filth. One had been propped against the wall with his helmet in his lap, half his face gone. The rot was thick and full, the kind that curled in your gut. Jane turned her head, gave a single dry heave, and lost it all in a quiet mess on the floor.

I moved to her side, hand on her shoulder. "You alright?"

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, nodded once. "I'm fine. Just... caught me off guard."

Wendy didn't say anything. She just reached into her pack and handed out cloth scarves, wrapping one over her own nose and mouth before offering them out. I took one without comment. Jane did too, her face pale and set.

We climbed in silence. The first floor gave way to the second, then the third, then the fourth. Nothing but echoes and rot. The halls bore old gunshot holes and smears of blood dried to a rusty brown. Here and there we found stairs that had caved in or were scorched into ash, forcing detours through gaping holes in the walls or burned-out apartments.

One of those detours took us through a bedroom, the bed still made, two bodies tucked under the sheets like they'd just gone to sleep and never woken up. An old man and woman. Bullet holes in their heads. Execution style. Flies danced over their faces. No one spoke for a while.

Jane's voice broke the silence, low and raw. "Fucking monsters."

Wendy looked over her shoulder, her voice quiet but sharp. "This isn't right. It's barbaric."

Jane gave her a look. "Do you understand why I hate them now?"

Wendy didn't answer. She just tightened her grip on her rifle and pressed forward.

I said nothing. There was nothing worth saying. Another atrocity to file away in the back of my mind. One more notch in the weight pressing down on my chest.

Wendy didn't answer. She just held her weapon a little tighter and nodded once. Her face was pale, but her expression was hardening.

I kept moving. Another corpse. Another tally mark in the nightmare ledger that I stopped counting long ago.

By the time we reached the roof, we were tense from the climb, from the silence, from the dead. The city spread out around us, smoke curling through alleys and over rooftops. From here, we could hear the deeper thuds of artillery echoing through the blocks. The pop of small arms and the distant crack of tank guns were sharper now, overlapping into an ugly rhythm. The push was intensifying.

Juno's voice came through the radio, terse and clipped. "The enemy counterattack is underway. The distraction squads aren't able to hold. I'm picking up radio traffic from all elements. Squad Three's already taken heavy casualties and Squad Eight's lost its tank commander. They're splintering!"

Her voice was taut. Not panicked, but the edge was there.

I was raising my hand to respond when Wendy touched my arm and pointed. Her gloved finger aimed just past the lip of the rooftop, toward the far side of the plaza. "There," she said.

I followed her gaze. Nestled in the shadow of a gutted water tower, a segmented black spire rose just high enough to catch the eye if you were looking. Coaxial cables ran from the base, bundled and thick, down to the rooftop across from us, just enough to be hidden unless you had this angle.

"That's the relay," Wendy whispered, her voice tight with excitement, breathless but steady. There was a brightness in her tone that cut straight through the weight pressing on all of us. She pointed across the distance, her hand trembling slightly with adrenaline. "Northeast building. You see the segmented spine on the relay mast? That's Imperial design. And the cables, they're running straight into a room on the third floor."

Even after all we'd witnessed; the rot, the bodies, the quiet ruin of the building beneath us, Wendy's face lit up with something close to pride. I clapped her on the shoulder, giving her a nod, as my eyes followed the cables she pointed out. We had our target.

I keyed the mic on my radio. "Juno, confirm visual. Tower's in the northeast apartment block. Cables enter a third-floor room. We're moving to intercept."

A few seconds of silence passed before her voice returned, calm and precise. "Confirmed. I've got you on scope. Also seeing increased movement along the interior routes. Imperial squads are peeling off from the outer perimeter. Looks like they've stabilized against the distraction teams. They're reinforcing the choke points. Units Two, Five, and Nine are taking heavy contact."

The distraction was failing. The hammer was starting to fall toward the rest of the line.

I felt my jaw clench. "There's no time to circle back. We move now, or Welkin and the others get buried under a wall of armor."

Wendy stepped up beside me at the edge of the rooftop, her eyes scanning the gap between us and the northeast building. Her confident demeanor flickered, and her mouth tightened.

The jump wasn't short. Five stories up, with a span wide enough to rattle anyone's nerves.

"I don't know about this," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "That's a long damn fall."

Jane came up behind her and slapped her lightly on the back, flashing a crooked grin that was all teeth and nerves. "Come on, Wen. It's nothing worse than those rooftop sprints we ran in training."

Wendy raised an eyebrow, giving Jane a sharp look. "You missed most of those jumps."

Jane laughed, unbothered. "I made the ones that counted, didn't I?"

I didn't speak, just tightening the last of my straps. I checked the weight of my rifle, even as I began to back away from the edge, and took a running start. The rooftop beneath my boots felt solid, the gritty gravel digging under the rubber, as the edge approached. I let out a breath, and threw my body forward as soon as my foot left the ledge.

The air hit me like a wave. Time slowed just enough to feel the drop.

My boots slammed down hard on the opposite rooftop. The concrete cracked under my weight, knees flexing to absorb the landing. Pain shot up my legs, but it held. I straightened and turned back toward the others, raising one arm.

"Go."

Jane took off without hesitation. Her boots struck the rooftop in rapid rhythm, and she launched across with an easy, practiced leap. She landed with a clatter and rose smoothly, brushing a few pebbles from her pants. "Told you. Easy."

Wendy stood at the edge now, her face pale, lips moving in a silent string of words, maybe a formula, maybe a prayer.

Then she ran. Both jane and I saw it the moment she left the edge, though. Not enough of a lead up, not enough force.

Her jump fell short.

She hit the edge of the rooftop hard with her chest, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. Her hands scrabbled for grip, fingers clawing into the ledge. Her legs kicked out into the open air.

"Shit-!"

My rifle slammed into my chest as I sprang forward, and caught her under the arms just as her grip gave out. She slammed into me, the momentum nearly dragging us both off the edge. I threw my weight backward, boots skidding, teeth grit against the strain in my shoulders.
We landed in a heap. I let her go the moment she was clear and rolled to my feet, grabbing my rifle, sweeping the rooftop for movement. Subtle that was not.

No shots. No alarm. Nothing but our breathing.

Wendy stayed on her knees, coughing, her scarf askew. Her hands shook, but her grin broke through anyway, crooked and flushed. "Didn't fall five stories. I'm calling that a win."

Jane let out a whistle. "Damn close, though."

Wendy nodded, still catching her breath. "Let's... not make a habit of that."

Jane gave her a quick nudge. "Next time, stick the landing."

Wendy shot her a look but didn't argue. She was still rattled, but she was back on her feet.

I lifted my rifle, checking the chamber, and stepped past the two, my eyes still scanning.

"We're over, now let's get moving. We're on the clock."

The metal handle turned under my gloved fingers without resistance. The rooftop entrance creaked open an inch, but there were no alarms, no chains, no bolts. That alone said everything. The Imps weren't expecting an attack from above. Their attention was aimed outward, likely downward, and that suited our needs just fine. Still, what made infiltration easier now meant exfiltration would be a nightmare later.

I didn't dwell on it. The mission came first.

I slipped through the threshold, my boots light on the concrete floor. Wendy and Jane followed close behind. Jane's eyes were already scanning corners, rifle at the ready, while Wendy kept to my left, her fingers tight around the grip of her weapon. Neither said a word. We were all listening.

Somewhere down the stairwell, I heard them. The muted thump of boots. Voices echoing faintly against the walls. The sound of movement, of men who thought they were safe inside their lines.

I held up a fist, bringing us to a stop. With slow, practiced movement, I slid my rifle behind me and drew my knife instead. The blade felt cold in my hand, grounding.

Wendy followed suit, slinging her weapon and pulling her own blade. Jane kept her rifle, but adjusted her grip. The stairs down to the third floor were blocked by collapsed rubble, but the fourth-floor access was intact. We crept down in silence, every footstep placed with care, every breath measured.

The fourth floor was a wreck of shattered drywall, half-collapsed hallways, and broken doorframes, many of the walls torn up or blown out, and the floor was a rictus of dust, rubble and burned floorboards. Each step was going to be a pain, I could tell, but hopefully none of the damage was severe enough to send any of us through.

We moved in low, shifting around a bend in the hallway, until we spotted the first pair. Two Imperials stood near a broken window, their rifles propped casually nearby. One had his helmet off, fanning himself with a pocket calendar. They were talking about the Gallian push, about how surprised they were. The other laughed, talking about how they came here to fight real soldiers, not farmboys and store clerks. The other said that the Armored Fourth was already rolling them over, like it was a joke, as if it was being handled.

Arrogance. Carelessness. I could work with that.

I glanced at Wendy and gestured. She gave a slight nod and crept up on the right while I mirrored her on the left. The two soldiers never saw us coming. My knife went in clean and deep, under the chin and up through the jaw. His partner had just enough time to flinch before Wendy's blade severed the arteries in his neck. He dropped without a sound.

We caught our breath, wiping the blades clean on the uniforms, then pressed forward.

There were three more within the next series of rooms, all similarly inattentive. They were checking gear, chatting, standing over a broken map table. Not a single one looked up before the knives went in. Silent kills. No shots fired. Just the wet crunch of bone and muscle and the quick death that followed.

Jane moved like a shadow behind us, eyes scanning the hallways, rifle ready if anything went wrong. Her jaw was tight, the tension there beneath her calm. Wendy, by contrast, looked focused, almost oddly calm, as though this kind of work settled her nerves. Me? I had already stopped feeling much of anything. Every kill was just another box checked. Another threat removed.

The halls of the apartment block stank of mildew and smoke, and beneath it all was the copper bite of dried blood. This place had already seen violence. We were just another layer added to it.

We moved deeper, cutting through rooms and shattered doorways, hugging corners, clearing angles. I kept my breathing slow and steady, my mind focused on the rhythm of movement, the spacing of our feet, the echo of the enemy.

There was no room for mistakes. Not here. Not now.

I signaled for Wendy and Jane to halt at the stairwell door leading to the third floor. Pressing my palm flat against the door, I slowly eased it open a crack, just enough to peer into the hallway beyond. A tense silence enveloped us, broken only by faint echoes of distant combat vibrating through the building's cracked walls. Through the narrow slit of the open door, I caught sight of the first Imperial patrol, three soldiers marching down the southern hallway, their heavy footsteps precise and regular, echoing against the bare plaster walls. My heart rate quickened as I silently counted their pace, committing the pattern to memory.

Behind me, Wendy knelt quietly, carefully slipping a small mirror from her gear pouch. She angled it precisely, her movements slow and deliberate, betraying no trace of her earlier nerves. In the polished reflection, the second patrol came into view. Three more Imperials marched along the northern hallway, heading east, moving steadily toward the intersection leading southward. Wendy flashed three fingers, then made a careful gesture. The timing was clear. Both patrols circled in opposite loops, creating a brief window where neither could see the other, a small opening, barely thirty seconds, but enough if we moved with precision.

I nodded silently, motioning to Wendy and Jane to follow. We moved smoothly and silently from the stairwell into the corridor, my pulse racing but my breathing steady. My footsteps were deliberate, boots rolling carefully from heel to toe as I navigated around shattered plaster and fallen debris scattered across the floor. The corridor was narrow and dim, with little daylight filtering through bullet-pocked windows lining one side of the building. Black scorch marks streaked the walls, grim evidence of grenades and gunfire exchanged in the retreat. Each doorway we passed stood ajar, revealing apartments ransacked or hastily abandoned, their contents spilled carelessly onto cracked wooden floors.

We reached the first apartment on the northern side, just before the hallway intersection. Silently slipping inside, we pressed ourselves against the cold, smoke-stained walls, barely breathing. Jane edged carefully to the door, peering through the narrow crack as the second patrol approached. Her face remained calm, eyes intensely focused on her prey. I could hear the steady thud of Imperial boots nearing our position, each step measured and rhythmic, utterly oblivious to our presence.

My muscles tightened, a coiled spring ready to snap into action. As the patrol passed by our doorway, oblivious and unsuspecting, I slipped into the hallway behind the trailing soldier. The man's back filled my vision, the deep red of his combat shirt contrasting sharply beneath the dull steel of his armored breastplate. Without hesitation, I moved swiftly, closing the distance with calculated strides. My left hand grabbed his mouth, silencing any possible cry, while my right plunged the knife deep into the base of his neck, severing nerves and arteries with practiced ease. His body jerked once, violently rigid, then sagged lifelessly against my grip. Carefully, I eased him to the floor, controlling his fall to prevent unnecessary noise.

As soon as I had moved, Jane struck simultaneously, precision and ruthless efficiency guiding every motion. She darted from the apartment doorway, gripping the second soldier's collar and dragging him backward with incredible strength. The man twisted violently, attempting to fight back, his hands clawing desperately for the rifle slung at his side. Before he could call out, Wendy joined Jane, her own knife flashing in the dim corridor light. Her blade found its mark immediately, thrusting between the struggling Imperial's ribs, slipping into the gap in his armor and puncturing his heart. The soldier went rigid, his eyes widening briefly before glazing over, the fight leaving him instantly. The two women quickly dragged him into the apartment, carefully setting him on the floor.

The third soldier, now isolated at the front of the patrol, halted suddenly, sensing the absence of his companions. My heart lurched painfully at the sudden realization that we were out of position, a half-second late. He began to turn, eyes narrowing in suspicion, his mouth opening slightly as if to call out to his missing comrades. Wendy, reacting faster than I had anticipated, leaped from the doorway of the opposite apartment, crossing the hallway in two swift steps. She collided into him, the impact muffled as her knife drove deeply beneath his collarbone, piercing the lung. The soldier managed a choked gasp, the sound partially escaping his lips, louder than I wanted. In a heartbeat, Jane was at Wendy's side, her hand clamped tightly over the Imperial's mouth, stifling any further sound as Wendy twisted her blade. The soldier's eyes bulged briefly, his legs weakening as he crumpled against them.

A breathless silence filled the hall again, heavy and oppressive. My ears strained for any hint of alarm, any sign our presence had been noticed. The seconds ticked by painfully slow, each heartbeat pounding painfully in my chest. But there were no shouts, no running footsteps echoing from below. We remained undetected, at least for the moment.

Swiftly, Wendy and Jane dragged the fallen soldiers into the nearby apartment, arranging their bodies hastily behind the shattered remains of furniture. Blood pooled across the floorboards, a stark reminder of the brutality we had just unleashed. Wendy stared at the crimson stains, breathing heavily, her hands visibly shaking as she wiped her blade clean. Jane noticed Wendy's discomfort, offering her a brief, approving nod, the quiet acknowledgment of a job well done. Wendy steadied herself visibly, nodding back in grim appreciation.

We moved quietly through the northern apartments again, stepping around splintered wood and crumbled drywall. Each room we passed through was a wreck, its contents shredded or scattered from explosions or firefights days old. A dining table lay split in two, dishes and silverware strewn across the floor, some cracked and shattered beneath our boots. In one apartment, a child's stuffed toy sat propped against the remnants of a bookshelf, its button eyes glazed with ash and dust. We pressed past without comment, hearts tight, nerves taut.

Jane led the way through the broken plaster of the connecting walls. Wendy and I followed closely, slipping through holes punched by shells or heavy caliber rounds. As we drew nearer to the northwest corner of the building, the sound of distant combat grew louder, gunfire popping rhythmically beyond the building's walls. No one spoke, our training keeping us silent and alert.

I paused at the wall separating two apartments, where the gap narrowed uncomfortably. The hole was barely wide enough to pass through. Wendy edged ahead, knife at the ready, peeking cautiously into the corridor beyond. She glanced back, signaling it clear. I moved through after her, Jane right behind. We took positions inside a trashed living room, our backs pressed flat against walls blistered by fire and pocked by bullets.

Through the broken slats of a window, I spotted the next patrol approaching, their shadows moving steadily along the west hallway. Three men in red combat fatigues and polished steel armor appeared, their steps measured, cautious but not alarmed. They held their rifles loosely, not expecting trouble here, behind their lines. I motioned silently, and Jane picked up a piece of debris, a broken lamp base charred and cracked from some past explosion, and took aim. We waited, breath held, as the patrol drew near the midpoint of the hall.


With careful timing, Jane tossed the lamp base lightly across the hallway. It landed softly in the doorway of an opposite apartment, clattering faintly against the wooden doorframe. The lead soldier immediately froze, raising one hand to signal the halt. He cocked his head, leaning cautiously toward the source of the sound. His companions halted behind him, exchanging glances, weapons raised now, alert but not panicked.

I counted silently to three, then lunged from the shadows, moving swiftly and quietly. My boots barely touched the warped flooring as I closed the distance. I reached the front soldier just as he turned his head fully toward the doorway. My arm looped around his neck, dragging him backward into a recessed alcove off the hall. His eyes widened in shock, a startled breath escaping his lips, quickly silenced as I plunged my knife upward beneath his jaw. The blade punched cleanly into his brain. His body went limp in my grasp instantly, deadweight that I eased slowly to the ground without noise.

I took a slow breath, holding it in as the corridor fell back into oppressive silence. The two guards stood just beyond us, oblivious to the violence that had claimed their companions only moments before. They were alert but relaxed, the tension in their bodies minimal. One watched carefully down the west side of the corridor, the other faced eastward, unaware of the shadows approaching from their blind spots. I made a quick series of gestures, signaling Jane and Wendy to get ready. Our next moves needed to be swift, ruthless, and perfectly coordinated.

We moved as one, our footfalls ghosting over the bloodstained floors. I charged forward first, accelerating into a full sprint in just a few silent strides. The guard facing east had only begun to turn toward me when I slammed into him, my shoulder driving squarely into his chest plate. He staggered back against the wall with a gasp, eyes widening in shock behind the faceplate of his helmet. My left hand clamped down over his mouth, muffling his startled cry even as my right hand thrust the knife upward beneath his breastplate. The steel bit deeply, cutting through muscle and bone until it punctured his lung. His body jerked violently once, the scream dying in his throat as I twisted the blade and wrenched it free. Blood spilled warmly onto my gloves, soaking through the fabric, slick and vivid. I held him steady as his strength drained away, guiding him down to the floor with careful control.

At the same moment, Wendy struck from behind the other guard, coming from the east side of the hallway. He barely had time to register the commotion before her knife flashed, burying itself deep into the side of his neck just above the armored collar. He fell forward, hitting the floor with a soft, wet thud. Jane was already moving, her hands hooking beneath the guard's arms, Wendy helping to quickly drag the corpse out of sight. Together they hauled the bodies toward an adjacent closet, the sound of armor scraping against the worn floorboards sharp and grating in the silence. I moved quickly to help them, shifting the dead weight with practiced ease. The bodies disappeared into the cramped darkness of the storage space, limbs twisted awkwardly, eyes staring blankly at nothing.

I turned back to the target apartment's door, assessing it quickly. The heavy wooden door was locked, and it would make too much noise to kick open. Jane stepped up, giving me a sly grin as she produced a lockpick set from one of her pockets, her fingers deftly manipulating the tumblers inside. Quickly, silently, she heard a soft click of the bolt releasing, and stepped back.

I twisted the handle, the door opening with a muffled creak. I glanced at the others for a moment, getting firm nods from both, and I pushed in. I led the entry, pistol in hand, scanning rapidly left and right as I moved into the room.

Inside the room, four faces turned sharply toward us. An Imperial officer stood near the center of the room, his gloved hand reaching instinctively for his sidearm as recognition of the situation dawned on his face. My pistol barked twice, the suppressed shots snapping in the small room. Both rounds struck him squarely in the chest, knocking him backward against the wall. He crumpled to the floor, leaving streaks of blood down the grimy wallpaper.

"Hands up," Jane snapped sharply, her rifle raised, voice hard and cold. The three radio operators reacted immediately, terror etched plainly across their pale faces. Hands shot into the air, their chairs scraping loudly against the worn wooden floorboards. None of them made a move toward their sidearms or rifles, clearly too shocked or too scared to risk death.

"Stand up," I ordered, pistol still leveled at them, barrel unwavering. "Move to the wall, kneel down facing it. Now."

They obeyed immediately, scrambling over one another, their boots skidding in panicked haste. They knelt down shoulder-to-shoulder, trembling visibly as Jane and Wendy covered them. I knew what had to be done. There was a cold calculus here, of whether or not we could keep them secured while doing what we had to, and risk them opening their mouths at the wrong moment. Not when there was a simplet, more succinct solution at hand. It would be simple. Easy. Because what's one more paving stone on the road to hell?

I moved behind them, pistol still gripped firmly in my right hand. My heartbeat slowed slightly, a strange calm settling over me as the weight of the decision rested coldly in my chest. There could be no witnesses, no risk of someone breaking free to raise an alarm later. I steadied my breathing, ignoring the sharp pang of hesitation, and leveled my pistol. In my mind's eye, I could see the family back in Bruhl. The six people, men, women, and children, turned to face the wall. The grandparents, parents, and a little son and daughter, executed. Three generations of innocent people left to rot. These men, these soldiers, I comforted myself, at least they signed up for the war. Same flag, same blood, same colors. I exhaled.

Three quick, muffled cracks echoed softly in the enclosed room, each bullet placed carefully at the back of the skull. The operators slumped forward, bodies limp, their blood pooling silently across the stained floor.

Wendy stared at me, her eyes wide, shaken by the brutality of what she had just witnessed. Her mouth opened slightly, disbelief clear on her face. I wish I could say this was the same, but she knew it wasn't. There was killing, and then there was murder, and as she looked at me she just… swallowed, and looked away. Jane, on the other hand, simply nodded, her expression hard and approving. She understood necessity, recognized the harshness of war for what it truly was. Neither of them spoke as I holstered my weapon.

Turning away, I moved swiftly to the radio equipment. The room was filled with humming equipment, cables tangled haphazardly across several mismatched tables. Wendy approached beside me, quickly inspecting the configuration with practiced eyes. Two separate radio sets sat side by side, clearly isolated. Wendy scoffed quietly, shaking her head as she examined the setup closely.

"This system is archaic," Wendy muttered softly, shaking her head. Her earlier shock was slowly replaced with professional irritation. "Primitive airgapping. Paranoid, but easy enough to work around." She took the controls, playing with the system, "Give me a second to switch the transceiver to broadcast what we need it to. Should also tie up the outgoing airwaves. Imp personal radios don't have the best range. They build for ruggedness."

"Make it quick," I urged gently, already reaching for my own radio. I toggled the transmit button, speaking low and steady into the handset. "Radio secured. We're ready."

Juno's voice crackled back immediately, tension clear in her carefully controlled tone. "Confirmed, Sergeant. Imperial units are moving heavily against the choke points. Traffic says the Armored Fourth is pressing Squad Six hard. We need this broadcast ASAP."

"Copy," I said quietly. "We're on it."

Wendy finished her adjustments, giving me a quick nod as she flipped several switches, her fingers quick and confident now. "You're live, Boss."

Grabbing the microphone, I took a steadying breath and spoke clearly, my voice calm and authoritative. "All units, this is central command. Immediate reposition to coordinates Delta-Seven-Four-Nine. Gallian regulars and armored columns have broken through our western flank. Repeat, immediate regroup at Delta-Seven-Four-Nine to repel. Execute immediately."

The response was immediate. Juno reported sudden disengagements, rushed repositioning, sudden pullbacks across the line, the threat of some dug in farmers with pitchforks so much less than a real, professional army. A sudden spearhead into the guts of held territory without even so much as a warning? That had the reds in a real panic. In moments word had spread like wildfire. Then we heard it, the thunder of the big guns. 155mm guns, the thrumming call of their shots echoing over the battlefield chaos like the tidings of doom.

The other radio unit sparked to life, an angry voice shouting orders to countermand my broadcast. But with no operator left alive to relay the messages, the furious words disappeared unanswered into the room. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, as the shells hit the ground with a catastrophic boom. I could see the plumes of smoke and fire from here, as the guns fired again and again, a staccato of hellfire, like the wrath of the gods. We waited silently, tension gripping tightly around us.

An unfamiliar voice came through the unit a moment later, deeper and richly accented, dripping with dark amusement. "Well, well, I suspect none of our boys are left at the relay post, are they? Come now, whoever you are, at least have the courtesy to pick up a call from the great Radi Jaeger, no?"

I hesitated for a moment, aware of Wendy and Jane staring at me uncertainly. Taking a slow breath, I keyed the microphone, voice steady but deliberately cold. "Hello, Jaeger."

There was a pause, then the smooth hum of satisfaction in his reply. "Ah, so the ghost speaks. I must say, you have a rather dramatic flair. Toppling my relay station, misdirecting half a division, and now sitting quietly on my line like some storybook thief. Much as I hate to say it, you got me good, you know? I didn't think these country bumpkins had it in them."

I kept my voice even. "You'd be surprised what men can do when you corner them."

"Of course, of course," he said, almost soothingly. "But forgive me, I do like to know who I'm speaking to. A name, perhaps? A rank? No? Even a codename would do. You're not militia, nor are you regulars. I've had the displeasure of speaking to their commanders before, and you're not like them. But, I get the feeling you're going to be obtuse about it."

"Then stop asking."

Another chuckle crackled through the speaker, dry and knowing. "Very well. Keep your secrets. But tell me this: was it worth it? For a few hours of chaos and a pile of bodies? Did it feel like victory, carving up boys who never saw you coming?"

I didn't respond to that. He already knew the answer.

He continued anyway. "A nasty trick you pulled, friend. I'm impressed, truly. But now that you've played your hand, I'm afraid you've left yourself boxed in. My men are closing in. You must know that. I know exactly where you are. I've already sent them on their way."

"That'd be a neat trick," I said quietly, "if we didn't already have control over your comms."

"Oh, I have no doubt," he replied with a grin in his voice. "I imagine you've got your hands all over my signals. But runners don't need radios, and I have plenty of them. They're fast, loyal, and I've already sent more than a few. It's only a matter of time."

"Time is all I need, Jaeger."

"You'll be long gone before they get here?" Jaeger continued. "I doubt it. You're too deep, too slow. And I'm quite motivated now. You've cost me a great deal of face."

"Not my concern."

He let that hang a moment, then shifted his tone again, lighter but sharper. "You could surrender, you know. Lay down your weapons, step outside. I'd have you brought in to me. In shackles, yes, but alive. I can't promise you'll be spared, but I could speak on your behalf. You've earned at least that much."

I almost laughed. "You offering me mercy, Jaeger?"

"I'm offering you a choice. The smart men take it."

"Smart men don't start wars they can't finish."

He clicked his tongue once. "So cold, so stubborn. Fine, then. When my men drag you in, bleeding and broken, I'll see what's left of that clever tongue of yours."

"Maybe. We'll see, won't we?" The words rolled off my tongue like ice from a mountain peak.

I gave a dark smile, leaned into the mic, and said quietly, "Either way, I'll be seeing you soon, Radi." With a flick, the unit was dead, power off.

I turned back toward Wendy, my voice clipped and sharp. "How hard would it be to rig this radio with explosives? Set to detonate as soon as someone turns it back on?"

A wicked grin spread across Wendy's face as she considered the request. "Not hard at all, Boss. Give me a minute." She had already pulled out a block of the Comp-R that seemed a little too big for the pouch she kept it in. As I saw it, a plan started to form in my mind, knowing that the RDX/Titronucleide mix in the three pound cube she was carefully wedging into the radio would level the whole damn building more effectively than an artillery strike.

"Jane, with me," I ordered sharply, giving Wendy a nod, already moving toward the door. Jane followed close behind, but she groaned audibly when I gestured upward, toward the roof.

Juno's voice crackled urgently over the radio, tense and rapid. "Sir, Imperial units are converging on your position from every direction. Get out now."

Wendy muttered a quiet curse under her breath, her face a mask of exasperation, even as she quickly rigged the explosive charge. I motioned toward the stairs, feeling the weight of the coming danger settle coldly across my shoulders.

"We go up," I said firmly. "Move it."

The stairwell behind us became a death trap in waiting. Wendy moved fast, crouching low and working with a kind of rhythm that spoke to years of handling unstable compounds and complex wiring. She wrapped the tripwires around railings, door handles, even a broken pipe jutting from the concrete. Her fingers never stopped. Two grenades. Three. A pressure switch jammed under a loose floorboard. I saw the faint grin tug at her lips. She was in her element, and for a moment, it grounded her.

We kept moving. I led the way back to the rooftop, Jane behind me, Wendy bringing up the rear after planting the last surprise. I could hear the rush in her breath but no hesitation in her steps. Just as we reached the ledge, a single crack echoed over the city. Marina's rifle. A puff of red mist bloomed across the shoulders of a nearby rooftop, followed by the limp tumble of a sniper rolling out of cover.

"Clear," came Marina's voice through the radio, terse and calm.

We took the jump again. My boots struck the opposite ledge hard, knees buckling slightly under the weight. Wendy landed a second later, hitting with a grunt, and Jane brought up the rear, rolling once to steady her rifle. There was no time to breathe.

"Tank incoming," Juno warned. Her voice crackled through the radio like it was soaked in tension. "Heavy armor, main road. Two others flanking it. Infantry behind."

"Status of the offensive?" I asked, already scanning the skyline.

"Early reports are saying Red lines are collapsing all over. Welkin's pushing in. They're making it count."

"Understood." I said, as we moved. "We're going the long way out, through the southeast building. Provide cover on approach E-S-E." I barely heard Juno confirm the order as we slammed through the building.

The enemy was swarming the other apartment complex, pouring into the structure like rats in a drowning ship. I saw their troops in the distance, flickering behind windows and ruined walls. Marina picked off two more who dared climb high. Her long rifle barked with deadly rhythm, and I didn't have to see the bodies to know they had dropped.

We were almost down the last stairwell when it happened.

The entire eastern building shuddered like a struck bell, and then it came apart. A sound like tearing mountains rolled across the plaza as a roaring column of fire and pulverized concrete swallowed half the structure. The floor heaved under our feet as the shockwave hit us, windows on our side shattering and spraying glass inward.

Wendy burst into laughter, not just joy but that manic, wild sound that people only made when something impossible actually worked. She doubled over, hands on her thighs, cackling like a kid who had pulled the pin on a miracle. I tried not to be disturbed by the almost orgasmic joy she seemed to be feeling. Didn't feel fair, coming from me.

The plaza was a white void.

Dust boiled up from the crater where the building had stood, coating the air in a chalky fog so thick I could barely see past my own outstretched hand. The explosion had cracked every window within a hundred meters and thrown bricks across the street like dice. What was left of the northeastern apartment block groaned as support beams twisted and collapsed inward, a slow-motion death rattle that sent tremors through the ground beneath us.

Wendy was still cackling behind me, breathless and hoarse. "God, I love that stuff. Comp-R, bay-bee. She doesn't disappoint."

"Alright, cap it Cheslock." I growled, but I didn't stop her from laughing. She'd earned it, beyond my wildest expectations.

I yanked the cloth mask higher over my mouth and pushed forward. The visibility was awful, but that worked both ways. The dust was so thick it muted gunfire and light, turning muzzle flashes into pale orange flickers and footsteps into ghosts. My rifle sat balanced on my shoulder, my left hand extended slightly as I moved ahead in a crouch. Behind me, I could feel Wendy's hand gripping the drag strap on the back of my vest. Jane's fingers were hooked into Wendy's belt. The line was tight, practiced, and disciplined.

"Keep right," I muttered into the mic. "Stay close. Watch your angles."

"Copy," Jane said. Her voice was low and tense.

"Still smiling," Wendy whispered, half-singing through her teeth.

I heard the click of safeties flicked off in tandem. We weren't sneaking anymore. The rifles were up and ready. It was time to fight our way out.

Shapes began to emerge in the haze. Shadows stumbled through the dust, hunched and coughing, weapons held low. Imperials. Disoriented and panicked, some had tossed helmets, some had their rifles slung across their backs like it was still peacetime. The shockwave had knocked them stupid.

One stepped into my path. He blinked, dazed. His helmet was gone and blood trickled from one ear. I raised my rifle and fired twice. The rounds snapped through his chest and dropped him flat. The sound barely registered over the ringing in my ears.

Two more figures sprinted from the left, silhouettes moving through swirling smoke. One raised his weapon. Wendy's rifle barked behind me and the man folded backward, a wet grunt lost in the choking fog. Jane pivoted right and squeezed off a burst. The third soldier staggered, tripped over rubble, and didn't get back up.

"Contact front," I said calmly. "Engaging."

"I see them," Marina replied through the radio, her voice faint with static. "Sniper overwatch active. Taking targets."

Her rifle cracked once. Then again. Each shot felt like a punctuation mark against chaos. Clean, decisive. Distant metal screamed as a structure shifted somewhere north. More collapse.

"Sir, armored unit moving up through the east corridor," Juno reported, her voice clipped and clear. "Looks like one of the new VK-101s, the Heavies. Infantry with them. You need to move."

"Copy. Status?" My eyes slipped side to side, the dust burning them, making me tear up. Next time I'm bringing goggles. All of us will be.

"Already falling back to the secondary line. Marina's covering you until you're clear."

We moved faster. The plaza was a maze of wreckage now. We were far enough away that the dust wasn't blinding, but that didn't make the trip any safer. Collapsed storefronts spilled broken glass and twisted signs into the streets. Shattered carts smoldered beside shell holes filled with dust and blood. We moved steady, not fast, but smooth, eyes peeled more for potholes and trip hazards than enemies. I didn't want a broken ankle to fuck us now that we were almost at the finish line.

I ducked through the remains of a bakery, leaping over the counter as I cleared the wall. The others followed without hesitation, Wendy slamming into a broken support pillar and using it to redirect her momentum. Jane slid under the hanging remains of a roof beam, her boots skidding on cracked tile.

Another squad of Imperials emerged from the south entrance, rifles raised and shouting commands. One of them saw us. "Over there! Gallians!"

I didn't wait. My rifle came up and barked. I shot the lead soldier through the faceplate and didn't stop moving. Wendy stitched a burst through the next two, dragging her sights smoothly across the line. One fell backward into the dust, the other dropped to his knees and screamed before Jane ended it with a round to the neck.

The radio crackled again. "You have thirty seconds before armor has line of sight," Juno warned.

"Understood," I replied. "We're moving. Marina, priority on anything with optics or heavy caliber."

"Already on it," Marina replied coolly. "Eyes up. You've got another two on your left flank, behind the burnt-out truck."

I pivoted without hesitation. Sure enough, two soldiers tried to use the vehicle for cover. One raised a long rifle. I dropped him with two rounds through the windshield. The second barely got his finger on the trigger before Jane shot him through the throat.

"Cleared! Thanks, Marina," I said.

"Anytime," came the reply, faint and distant, followed by another sharp report from her rifle.

We reached the edge of the plaza just as the tank's silhouette emerged through the haze. Its angular frame looked ghostlike in the smoke, the barrel swaying side to side like a blind predator sniffing the wind. I saw a glint as the turret rotated toward us.

"Run!" I shouted.

We bolted. Boots slammed on rubble and glass as we dove behind the collapsed storefronts ringing the western end of the square. The tank fired. The shell tore through the air behind us and exploded in a geyser of flame and shattered concrete. The shockwave slammed into our backs and sent us sprawling into a ditch behind the butcher's shop.

"Everyone good?" I barked.

"Still alive," Wendy coughed.

Jane nodded, cradling her rifle. "I'm fine. Keep moving."

Smoke poured in through the alley behind us as the Imperials closed in. The fallback point was only a few blocks ahead, but we were running out of time and terrain. I led them through a hole blasted into the side of a laundromat, ducking between ruined appliances and powdery walls. The backdoor had been blown open by something, and we sprinted out the other side into a narrow alley that led toward the old tram line.

"We're close," I muttered.

Juno's voice came through the radio again. "You're almost at the checkpoint. We've got control over the fallback lane. Come through fast. No more rear guard."

"Understood," I said.

We pushed forward one last time, boots slamming over shattered brick and steel. Shots rang out behind us. Wendy flinched as a round ricocheted off the corner to her right. I spun and fired two suppressive bursts, then turned and ran again.

At last, we broke into the open. Beyond the line of sandbags and hastily constructed barricades, Gallian soldiers waved us through. Marina was perched on a rooftop nearby, rifle still in hand, covering our retreat. Juno stood beside a field officer, eyes narrowed as she scanned for movement.

We passed through the checkpoint, breath ragged and limbs burning, but alive. Behind us, the plaza was still cloaked in smoke and fire. The Imperial response was underway, but they were too late. The relay was down. Their orders were jammed. Their forces in chaos.

We had done it. For now.








AN: You know what time it is, kids. It's tanky time with Jerry Finch! Very exciting, I know. This one was one of the easier chapters I've had, but also we're coming up on the edge of what I have prewritten. That said, between working on this I have an official second project I'm going to be launching some time next week, so if you like Resident Evil keep your eyes open. As for this one, I really don't have a lot to say about it. I tried to capture the same kind of realism that I like to dig into, and it's been a bit of an uphill battle on it. Not a lot in the way of edits though, so there's that. Anyway, it's the first all action chapter in a hot minute, and by hot minute I mean, like, a decade give or take? Jesus. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. And as always, like it, hate it? Tell me about it. I need feedback like a drowning man needs water.

Wait.

Eh, you know what I mean.

 

[J. Finch]

…there are choices made in the heat of the moment that define the course of your life. The ruins of Vasel were choking, the dust and debris clinging to our bodies like the ash of the dead, and for all that we called it victory, what was left of the city itself was a grim testament to the nature of our war. As the filth tainted our clothes, our armor, and our skin, so did the blood and violence taint our souls.​

-Ch. 2, The River of Vasel, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front​

Chapter Ten​

The fight wasn't finished yet, but it was losing its breath.

I could feel it in the way the gunfire now came sporadically instead of relentlessly. Each crack of rifle fire sounded isolated, hesitant, almost cautious. Even the Imperial tanks had started to move uncertainly, pausing too long at intersections, their turrets sweeping nervously across empty buildings. Their infantry stumbled backward, losing cohesion, no longer the well-drilled monsters we'd faced earlier. They were breaking, retreating toward their last stronghold: the bridge. It was their final lifeline, and they clung to it desperately.

We were the wedge forcing them apart.

I led the team down a shattered alley, blackened walls looming close, scorched by yesterday's fires. Broken glass and rubble crunched beneath our boots, and though we moved swiftly, each step was deliberate. Jane and Wendy advanced on my flanks, their weapons raised and steady, bodies low, eyes scanning. Marina ghosted silently behind, rifle at ready, watchful and calm, her breath measured. Juno carried the heavy radio gear without complaint, her face grim and determined, her fingers tight on her weapon.

We didn't speak; words would have been redundant.

Our first engagement was swift and vicious. Near a crumbling bodega, four Imperial soldiers huddled around a field map, arguing heatedly. Jane didn't pause, didn't hesitate. She swung around the corner, weapon blazing, the sudden chatter of her rifle filling the air. Two men crumpled instantly, bullets punching through their armor with deadly precision. I raised my rifle, my shot taking the officer square in the chest, dropping him like a stone. Wendy hurled a grenade with a casual toss; it detonated before the fourth man could even raise his rifle. The concussion rolled over us, sharp and heavy, leaving a grim silence behind.

No words exchanged, we moved on.

A frantic wave from a pinned Gallian scout team drew our attention near the tramline depot, the soldiers caught in the crosshairs of enemy snipers. Marina immediately veered off, climbing a rusted staircase like a shadow, positioning herself with practiced ease. Two precise shots cracked through the air moments later, and enemy silhouettes slumped limply, tumbling from their hidden nests.

Meanwhile, Jane and I maneuvered through debris to flank an entrenched machine gun position attempting to reclaim a street junction. Jane unleashed short, disciplined bursts, suppressing their return fire. I fired carefully, my rounds punching through sandbags and armor alike. The enemy position quickly crumbled, broken bodies left sprawled over shattered bricks. Behind us, Juno got their radioman patched into our network with crisp efficiency. We didn't linger. They had what they needed.

We slipped away like ghosts.

The city had become a twisted maze of rubble and smoke, the sky heavy with gray, ash-laden clouds. The echoes of war persisted, but quieter now, distant and dulled by exhaustion. Our movements became a precise rhythm: flank, strike, fade, repeat. We weren't soldiers now. We were surgeons, cutting deeply into already wounded flesh, carving the enemy's cohesion apart.

When we encountered the enemy tank, a VK-39 prowling through a deserted street, its turret swung menacingly, scanning the road. Marina's voice crackled softly through the radio, her tone detached yet precise.

"On the rooftop. Target in sight."

"Confirmed," I replied steadily. "Jane, distract left. Wendy, charge ready."

Jane burst from cover, letting out a wild, primal yell that shattered the heavy silence. The tank immediately swung its cannon toward her, eager to claim an easy kill. Marina's bullet found the tank commander's head first, his body slumping lifelessly, helmet splattered with blood.

Wendy surged forward without hesitation, a satchel charge gripped tight. She weaved past ruined cars and debris effortlessly, sprinting low and fast. The charge slapped firmly onto the VK's radiator, glowing vividly blue with excess heat, a bright target in the gloom. She vaulted clear an instant before detonation. The explosion blossomed brilliantly, crumpling the vehicle inward. Metal groaned and buckled, the tank dying in silence, its steel corpse sagging amidst rising smoke.

We moved onward, leaving wreckage behind.

Minutes later, Juno's radio hissed urgently. "Fireteam Three caught on the west flank. Heavy machine gun and sniper support. Requesting immediate assistance."

"Coordinates?" I demanded, calm yet sharp.

She rattled them off, her voice tight but clear. We altered course without another word.

We found Fireteam Three pinned in a partially collapsed courtyard. They'd been torn apart by relentless fire. One soldier clutched a bloodied stump, his leg shattered by shrapnel. Another stared vacantly at his fallen comrades, weapon hanging limply in his hands. Jane and I struck from opposite flanks, bullets biting through enemy bodies in precise bursts. Wendy tossed one of her care packages, with a level of gleeful sadism I would have expected out of Jane, the detonation scattering and stunning the nest. Marina's rifle cracked once, twice, the sniper across the street tumbling lifeless from his perch.

As the smoke cleared, Juno rushed forward without hesitation, quickly securing the wounded soldier's tourniquet, speaking low and soothingly as she worked. Wendy stood nearby, covering them vigilantly. Jane was breathing hard, blood streaking her face and armor. I watched the streets, silent and wary.

We didn't stay to witness their retreat. Time wouldn't wait.

The bridge loomed ahead, the Empire's final line. We moved swiftly through ruins and narrow alleys, closing the gap. Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of armored footsteps echoed around us, close and heavy.

"Shock troopers incoming. Ambush positions," I ordered, instinctive and sharp.

Eight Imperial shock troopers marched cautiously through the street, eyes narrowed, weapons sweeping in careful arcs. Their armor gleamed dully, splattered with dirt and blood. They were experienced, deadly, and prepared, but they weren't ready for us.

Marina fired first. Her bullet split the lead trooper's helmet neatly, and he crumpled instantly. Chaos erupted. Jane lunged from the shadows, driving her entrenching tool brutally into another trooper's head, bone cracking sharply beneath the blow. I pivoted, firing short, controlled bursts. Bullets sliced through body armor, leaving crimson trails. Wendy sprinted from her concealed position, pistol barking twice, two more soldiers toppling without a sound.

The remaining three scattered, panicked. One turned toward a narrow alley, fleeing directly into Juno's path. Without hesitation, she met him head-on, slamming him bodily against a wall, knife thrusting upward beneath his armor. The blade sank deeply, and the trooper shuddered violently before collapsing. She stared at him, eyes hard and unflinching, pulling the knife free with cold precision.

We regrouped silently, exchanging brief, confirming glances. Another grim victory tallied.

The minutes stretched into hours, and exhaustion became a relentless enemy, weighing heavily on our limbs and minds. Eventually, Jane stumbled slightly, fatigue finally catching up. I halted us beside a ruined storefront, shadows offering fleeting shelter.

"Five minutes," I said quietly.

No objections rose.

Jane sagged onto a crate, wiping blood and grime from her face with a tired hand. Wendy crouched against the opposite wall, eyes closed briefly. Juno meticulously rechecked her gear, fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion, and Marina took position silently by a window, her gaze never leaving the street.

Jane broke the weary silence first. "How many?"

I met her eyes, knowing what she was asking. "Today? At least thirty. Probably more."

Wendy exhaled shakily, her voice quiet. "Valkyrur..."

Juno's voice held quiet strength. "We're not finished yet."

I nodded grimly. "No. We're not."

The city was folding inward, the Empire buckling beneath relentless pressure. We had cut deeply, severing critical arteries. If we maintained our momentum, Vasel would hold. But the day wasn't done, and neither were we.

The five of us rose once more, wordlessly, rifles shouldered, bodies aching but determined. Outside, the war dragged onward, relentless but faltering.

We slipped into the fading daylight again, shadows moving purposefully through the dying echoes of battle, determined to finish what we had begun.


000


Two hours later, the war was quieter.

Not silent. Not finished. But quieter.

We had withdrawn to one of the old command posts, a hollowed-out bank whose once-grand interior was now reduced to sandbags, reinforced windows, and shattered counters. It was a makeshift sanctuary from the chaos outside, a stark reminder of the violent struggle we had just survived. The air inside carried the harsh scents of gunpowder, charred wood, and something metallic, maybe blood, maybe just the aftertaste of war.

We sat dispersed around the dim room, each locked into our own rituals of winding down. Juno had her notebook open, scribbling notes and thoughts, written with the military precision I'd come to know her for. Marina sat by the front door, long rifle ready, her eyes staring out into the streets beyond, keeping watch. Wendy sprawled across a broken counter, eyes half-lidded but fingers twitching occasionally, betraying her restless mind still wired for explosives. Jane reclined on a broken bench, her hands busy with a sharpening stone and her knife, the scraping a steady grinding rumble. As for me, I stood against a crumbling pillar, carving slow, deliberate strokes into a scrap of wood, each movement steady despite the tremor of exhaustion in my bones.

No one spoke. We didn't need to. The weight of the day's battles hung heavily in the silence, a shared language of fatigue and relief.

Sunlight began its gentle decline, casting amber patterns through the shattered windows. Dust motes floated lazily in the fading glow, touching our grime-streaked faces and bloodied gear with a softness we hadn't known for hours. Even amidst the soot, sweat, and dried blood, there was a strange peace; fragile but welcome.

The radio's sudden crackle broke the silence. Juno's voice carried softly but clearly. "Command just sent a general update. The bridge is holding firm. Imperial forces are pulling back across the river. The regulars are moving in to take positions on the west bank. Looks like the fight's winding down."

None of us cheered. We'd already heard the militia outside, their voices rising in jubilation as the last enemy tank turned and retreated. Their shouts echoed far louder than we could muster.

Not long after, a young runner arrived, breathless and flushed from exertion. "Lieutenant Gunther wants all Sergeants at the Edelweiss immediately," he panted.

I rose without speaking. Juno gave me a careful glance. "You want company?" she asked quietly, clearly aware of my recent tensions with Largo. They all knew about it.

"No," I said evenly, offering a small nod of appreciation. "Not this time."

The brief walk to the Edelweiss felt like a marathon. My body protested every step, muscles tight with fatigue and soreness. The square was scarred by battle, littered with burned debris, pocked by shell impacts. At its heart, the Edelweiss sat proudly, silent yet imposing, a battered sentinel amid the wreckage. Soldiers moved slowly around it, bandaged and bruised but resolutely alive.

Welkin stood inside a hastily erected command tent, clipboard in hand, finishing instructions to Rosie and Largo. Alicia stood close, attentive and composed despite her dirtied uniform and exhaustion evident in her eyes. Welkin raised his head as I approached, acknowledging me with a subtle nod.

"Jerry," he greeted simply, indicating I should join them.

I stepped into the loose circle, feeling Rosie's assessing glance and Largo's pointed avoidance.

Welkin addressed us collectively, voice firm and authoritative. "We held our ground today. The Empire's major offensive is broken. They've retreated across the bridge, and there aren't any fresh forces incoming. I have a general idea of what happened out there, but I need clear, concise reports from all of you. Alicia, you first."

Alicia stepped forward, calm and clear. "Scouts and snipers performed well. Several injuries from early engagements, but no fatalities. Med-tent is busy, but the wounded will recover. Morale is high. Everyone understands today's victory matters."

Welkin noted it with a nod of approval, then turned to Rosie. "Shock troopers?"

Rosie exhaled, arms crossed defensively. "We bore the brunt near the east tenements. Two troopers took a heavy mortar blast. They'll live, but they're out for now. Ammo's low, but we're still operational."

Welkin met her gaze steadily. "Understood. Ammo resupply is now a priority. Good job."

His gaze moved to Largo, whose posture was rigid with barely restrained frustration.

"Lancers stood firm, and the engineers are still clearing mines, but no injuries worth mentioning" Largo reported tersely. "Six tanks down. But those damned lances aren't packing enough punch. Feels like we're firing blanks half the time."

Welkin nodded thoughtfully. "I'll have R&D take a look at them. They've been jammed up getting Regulars' armor operational."

Rosie scoffed quietly. "Think they'll actually listen?"

"They will," Welkin replied firmly. "Leon and Kreis know the score."

Then he faced me, expression carefully neutral yet expectant. "Your unit, Jerry?"

I squared my shoulders slightly, meeting his gaze. "Combat effective. No injuries. No losses. Tired, but intact."

Welkin's jaw tightened subtly, satisfaction evident behind his controlled expression. "Excellent work, all of you. We made them bleed today, and we'll be back at it tomorrow. For now, get some rest, get some food, rearm and resupply if you need it and rest up. You've earned your downtime."

The others dispersed slowly, movements weary yet relieved. As I moved to follow, Welkin gently caught my sleeve. "Jerry, wait a moment."

Once alone, his voice lowered seriously. "That relay operation… Command's altering the official report. They're marking it unsanctioned, an independent action without oversight."

I stared incredulously. "You serious? We put our lives on the line for that shitshow."

Welkin sighed bitterly. "Officially, they're claiming ethics concerns, saying it isn't how proper warfare's conducted. Unofficially, General Damon's embarrassed. Militia did what the regulars couldn't. It's a slap in his face." Welkin grabbed a mug of coffee from the table, shaking his head slightly. "Captain Varrot fought it, but the word came down. It's all politics, Jerry. I'm sorry."

I snorted, shaking my head in disgust. "Politics. Figures."

He gave a weary smile. "That's the way it is, especially when it's bullshit. No medals, but Command isn't pushing any citations either. They're pretending it's the actions of an 'overenthusiastic' unit and leaving it to us."

I clasped his shoulder briefly, mutual understanding passing silently between us. "Such is life, Welkin. We both knew this wasn't going to be about the glory." I sighed, looking out the flap of the tent. "It never was."

Welkin nodded, giving a wan smile. "I know what you did. So does the Seventh. Command can't erase that."

Those were his parting words as I stepped out into the ruined city.

Outside, Largo and Rosie lingered, clearly waiting. Largo shifted awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Heard your unit pulled a lot of our boys out of the fire today. Didn't have to, but you did."

I stopped, meeting his hesitant gaze evenly. "Wasn't about having to. Job just wasn't finished."

He nodded grudgingly, respect evident though unspoken. Rosie stepped forward, eyes sharp yet appreciative. "Didn't think you'd make much difference. Glad you proved me wrong." She paused, awkwardly. "You proved both of us wrong."

I inclined my head slightly. "Happens sometimes."

"Listen," Largo started, awkwardly, stumbling, before Rosie elbowed him in the gut. "Listen, I was... outta line, back there. Some of my boys and girls got ta have one more day, because of you and your team. I'm a stubborn ass, but I know when I'm wrong. I owe you for that." He said, finally. I stared at him long, and hard, pondering what to say. I had nothing, though, so in the end, I just nodded to him, before heading back to our little bank bungalow.

I wasn't too far when I heard Rosie say, in a half amused, half leery tone, "Cold bastard." Not to me, but to Largo, who had watched me go.

Largo grunted softly in agreement. "Yeah, but reliable."

I turned away, the voices and movements of tired, living soldiers filling the square behind me, echoing the day's harsh lessons.

Peace was a long road coming, but for today, the fight was over. But not the war, even as the troops around me sang their songs of victory and hardened their defenses, I could feel the static in the air, like a great beast, inhaling before it's next roar. I knew we wouldn't be done, not with the fighting, or the killing, not until the bridge fell truly silent.


000


I sat alone on an ammunition crate, hands trembling subtly. It wasn't fatigue alone, though exhaustion had certainly wrapped itself around every muscle and nerve. My fingers, however, held stubbornly steady out of sheer determination. The knife scraped rhythmically against the scrap of wood, shaving thin ribbons away, slowly revealing the figure hidden beneath. A dog. Probably a dog. I liked dogs; they were honest creatures. Loyal without question. They understood duty instinctively, no matter how heavy the burden. Right now, something simple and honest was exactly what I needed.

The ruins around me whispered the echoes of a dying battle. Vasel belonged to us, for the moment anyway, but it wore the victory like a shroud. Smoke twisted lazily from shattered windows and charred piles of debris, drifting through the streets as silent reminders of today's cost. Soldiers passed by, murmuring quietly to each other, their faces streaked with dirt and blood, eyes hollow with weariness. Many of them glanced toward me as they walked past, their gazes tinged with awe, fear, or curiosity… sometimes all three at once.

Stories had already begun to circulate through the ranks. Tales of the Lion and his Pride had grown wilder with each retelling. Rumors claimed we'd annihilated entire battalions, that I'd personally dismantled the Armored Fourth single-handedly. One particularly imaginative young corporal had sworn I'd thrown a lance straight through the armor plating of a heavy tank. All nonsense, all fantasies born of desperation and hope. But those rumors persisted, and now soldiers stepped carefully around me, whispering quietly in my shadow, unsure of whether to revere or fear me.

I kept silent, eyes focused on the task at hand, blade meticulously carving the small figure in my palm. It kept my mind anchored in reality, a tiny, tangible barrier against the intrusive memories that pressed constantly at the edges.

Nearby, my unit had settled into a loose semicircle, their voices drifting toward me. Wendy's animated tone cut clearly through the quieting air. "And then- boom! The satchel charge detonated and blew the radiator sky-high! You should've seen it!"

Jane laughed roughly, a low, tired sound with genuine pride mixed in. "I did, remember? After I baited it for you. Nearly lost my head to that turret trying to distract it. Thought I'd bought it for sure."

Wendy waved dismissively, though her grin was warm. "Details, details. Point is, it went up like a firecracker."

From beside them, Juno's voice added smoothly, controlled but tinged with subtle amusement. "If by firecracker you mean a high-yield demolition charge rigged to blow out a VK-39's entire radiator housing, then yes, firecracker indeed."

Wendy rolled her eyes dramatically. "Thank you, Private Technicality."

Marina spoke up quietly, her voice calm and even, eyes distant as she methodically cleaned her sniper rifle. "Juno's right. It was a good kill, Wendy. Precise and well executed."

"See?" Wendy grinned triumphantly. "Even Marina agrees with me. That settles it."

Jane shook her head, chuckling softly as she stretched, muscles clearly sore. "Alright, alright. Don't let it go to your head. Next thing you'll be taking credit for the whole battle."

Their conversation faded into a comforting background hum as I carved, though I didn't truly listen. Their camaraderie was reassuring, but I felt strangely separated from them, like watching a warm room through a cold, fogged-up window. It wasn't their fault. They deserved this brief moment of ease. But my thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in memories that wouldn't leave me alone.

Again and again, my mind replayed the faces of those three Imperial radio operators, the ones who'd knelt in front of me, defenseless. Unarmed. Waiting silently for a mercy I couldn't give. I'd acted quickly, decisively, without hesitation. Operational security demanded it; one cry for help could have turned the entire operation. But still, their faces lingered. And with them came others, innocent civilians I'd seen executed by Imperials in exactly the same manner. Men, women, children, with one to the back of the head, lined up on the sidewalk.

My blade bit too deeply into the wood. The knife stopped abruptly, gouging a harsh scar into the small figure. I closed my eyes, took a careful breath, and steadied my trembling hand, forcing myself back into the present.

A sudden, blinding flash snapped me from my thoughts. Instinct sent adrenaline surging, my hand dropping automatically to the pistol at my hip. My eyes narrowed sharply toward the source, expecting danger, but found instead a young woman standing boldly before me, camera in hand. She smiled brightly, completely unfazed by my fierce glare.

"Perfect! Absolutely perfect!" she declared, sounding delighted. "Exactly the image I needed! Gritty, victorious, exhausted heroism in one shot!"

I stared at her, speechless, heart still racing. She wore a tidy journalist's outfit beneath a green and red pageboy cap perched jauntily atop bright blonde hair. Her intelligent eyes gleamed eagerly from behind round spectacles, pencil poised against a notepad already half-filled with rapid, scribbled notes.

Without pausing, she launched immediately into a breathless introduction, her eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity. "Sergeant Finch, isn't it? Sergeant Jericho Finch? Irene Ellet, Gallian Broadcasting Service. I'm here covering Lieutenant Gunther's Squad Seven, but honestly, your unit- the Lion's Pride, isn't it?- has become the talk of the entire front. Remarkable work today, Sergeant. People say your unit played a critical role near the bridge, with word spreading that you were responsible for dealing with one of Jaeger's personal hunter-killer units."

She took a quick breath, adjusting her glasses eagerly. "Tell me, Sergeant Finch, when you started skirmishing up the imperial front as it collapsed, were you scared? How many enemy units do you think your team took down? And the nickname 'Lion's Pride', was that something you came up with, or perhaps inspired by your legendary braver at Bruhl? Could you share a little about what motivated you to join the militia?"

Her questions, though energetic, weren't accusatory or condescending, yet each word pressed in uncomfortably close. I opened my mouth slightly to respond, but my throat tightened involuntarily. The probing for personal details was worse than any exaggerated battlefield glory; it peeled back layers I wasn't prepared to show.

Jane stepped forward aggressively, her hand shooting out to grab the enthusiastic woman by the collar, her voice cutting sharply through Irene's stream of inquiries. "Hey! What's your problem, grilling the Boss like that?"

Irene pivoted smoothly, her enthusiasm undimmed, though now touched by caution as she eyed Jane's clenched fist. "Ah, Private Turner! I've heard quite a bit about your exploits today, too! They say you were instrumental in several intense engagements. Is it true you've developed a particular reputation among Imperial soldiers? Some even seem afraid of you- care to comment on that?"

Jane hesitated, momentarily caught off-guard. Irene had deftly sidestepped outright violence, yet still tapped into something raw and personal. Jane's eyes flashed dangerously, fist rising as she struggled visibly to contain her temper.

Seeing the tension spike sharply, I cleared my throat quietly but firmly. "Turner. Stand down. She's harmless, just loud."

Jane looked at me incredulously, clearly skeptical, but slowly relaxed her stance. Irene, seemingly undaunted by the confrontation, immediately returned her bright gaze and pen to me, scribbling quickly in her notebook.

I could see her inhale for another tirade of questions, and braced myself for it as Jane snorted and stalked back to her perch.

I opened my mouth again, desperate to interject, when another familiar voice interrupted. "Jerry! There you are."

Welkin strode toward us from down the street, moving with a calm, reassuring ease that immediately relieved some tension from my shoulders. Irene, however, pivoted instantly toward him, her face lighting up with renewed enthusiasm. She surged forward eagerly, practically bowling past Jane and me.

"Lieutenant Gunther! Exactly the person I wanted to see! Irene Ellet, Gallia Broadcasting Service. You've led your squad spectacularly today! Can you comment on today's victory? What are your thoughts on the militia's growing capabilities under your leadership? Also, did you hear that word has it that General Damon is praising the regulars for, and I quote, 'softening up the Imps for the militia'?"

Welkin shot me a weary, resigned glance as Irene's barrage intensified. His shoulders sagged just slightly, already resigned to absorbing her relentless energy. I managed a faint, apologetic smile back. Better you than me, my friend. He gave a small, accepting nod in reply, already skillfully deflecting her questions with polite charm.

Jane crossed her arms, glaring at Irene with barely restrained frustration. Wendy covered her mouth, trying and failing to stifle laughter at the situation.

"Poor Lieutenant," Juno chuckled softly. "Think we should rescue him?"

Jane raised an eyebrow skeptically, her mouth curling into a faint smile. "And risk getting caught in that crossfire ourselves? I'd rather face another tank."

Marina nodded slightly, continuing her rifle maintenance calmly. "He's managing fine. She'll tire herself out eventually."

As their quiet laughter and chatter returned, I settled back onto the ammo crate, slowly resuming the careful carving. The wooden dog took clearer shape now beneath the patient strokes of my blade. You know what else I liked about dogs? They knew when it was time to be quiet. That was the thought that held me as I watched the reporter yap-yap-yap.

Irene's bright voice continued to echo energetically from nearby, with Welkin's calm, measured responses interspersed with her rapid-fire questions. The steady banter of my unit drifted warmly around me, reassuring even if I couldn't fully join them. The weight inside my chest hadn't eased, not entirely. But the tremble in my hands had finally stopped.

In the ruins of Vasel, the slow quiet of evening finally began to settle over us, gently cooling the heat of the day's battles.


000


The city was quiet, finally. Not peaceful. Not calm. Just quiet.

I crouched in the shadow of a crumbled wall that overlooked the river, half-shielded from the dying light. The edge of the bluff had a decent vantage on the bridge and the Imperial side beyond it. The binoculars were warm against my face, hands steady despite the ache behind them. Through the lenses, the world narrowed to movement and silhouettes- soldiers dragging crates, voices too far away to hear, Imperial medics tending to the wounded. They looked like us. Same slumped shoulders, same bruised faces, same bone-deep fatigue in the way they moved.

I adjusted the focus slightly. The bridge was still lit, but dim now. Lanterns strung at uneven intervals. The enemy was falling back, slow and deliberate. No panic. No counterattack coming. Just soldiers retreating with discipline and caution. I found myself admiring that. Briefly.

Beneath the bridge, the water churned slowly. Not violent, but constant. Bits of debris floated downriver; burned fragments of paper, a shredded tarp, once maybe part of a field tent. The current took everything. Maybe that was fitting. A long-dead street sign bobbed in the current before vanishing under a tangle of blackened tree limbs. Even now, nature tried to reclaim what the war had ruined.

Then I lowered the binoculars and rubbed the edge of my thumb across my brow. The air was cooler here by the river, touched by the evening breeze. Smoke still hung over parts of Vasel, but it had thinned. Even the city had started to exhale. Far off, someone hammered a new support beam into place. Somewhere else, a generator hummed weakly to life. A cart creaked in the distance, its wheels crunching over broken stone as someone hauled salvaged supplies toward a provisional checkpoint. The battle was over, but its echo still lived in every motion.

I didn't move when I heard footsteps behind me. Soft. Measured. No weapon drawn.

"I thought I'd find you here," Alicia said, voice quiet, almost cautious.

She approached slowly, holding two dented tin mugs. Steam curled from one. She handed it out. I accepted it without speaking, took a sip. Bitter, a little burned, but warm.

The taste lingered too long on my tongue. My throat felt dry even after the sip, but it was something. The warmth helped. It gave the illusion of comfort, even if the rest of me stayed locked in a cold coil of exhaustion.

She stood beside me but left some space. The silence stretched.

"You watching them?" she asked.

I lifted the binoculars again, passed them wordlessly.

She looked through them, adjusting the focus with practiced ease.

"They look just as tired as we are." I said, tonelessly.

The light was starting to fade into deeper shadow, washing the ruins across the river in cold gray. Somewhere in that sea of dim shapes, the Imperials moved with the same weary discipline we'd learned to adopt. Alicia lowered the binoculars slowly, then handed them back.

I let them hang from my neck. My hands had started to ache. Fingers stiff from too many hours gripping a rifle, a knife, a radio cable. It didn't matter. The ache was normal now. Just part of the uniform.

"What about you?" she said softly. "How are you holding up?"

I didn't answer right away. Instead, I watched the river, dark and steady, flowing past the broken city like it hadn't noticed the war. The water whispered to itself against the stonework banks, and a pair of gulls drifted overhead, their cries muffled by distance.

"We're alive," I said eventually. "The mission succeeded."

She let out a breath. Not annoyed. Just disappointed.

"That's not what I asked."

I looked at her, then back at the water. She didn't push again, just waited.

"I don't know how I am right now," I said.

There wasn't judgment in her face. Only concern. I didn't deserve it.

My chest felt tight, like a weight sat just behind the ribs and wouldn't let go. The kind of pressure that didn't come from injury but from something deeper, harder to name.

"We did everything right," I continued. "The infiltration, the capture, the timing. Every step executed to the letter. Every goal accomplished. And still..."

Still I saw their faces. Kneeling. Hands behind their heads. Waiting.

I blinked slowly. The memory didn't fade. It never did.

"They gave us a job," I said. "And they fucked us for it, Alicia. Unofficial action, because some stick-up-the-ass general got egg on his face." I sighed, sipping my coffee. "Thing is, I don't care about what it means for me, but those girls in there did a hell of a job on shoestring training, grit and guts. They didn't quit, and they didn't stop, even as I dragged them up and down the lines. They deserve a medal for what they did." I growled, ice in my voice.

I realized I was gripping the mug too tightly. My knuckles pale. I forced my hand to relax.

Alicia didn't interrupt. She didn't fill the silence with comfort or platitudes. She just listened.

"A lot of us down here agree, Jerry." Alicia's tone was soft. "It's a bad call, and sets a bad precedent. But it's-"

"Politics, I know," I said, finally. "I still see them, Alicia. The shocked faces, the crying eyes, the light that fades. I feel their breath when I cover their mouths, in that slow, empty rattle. That's what the job is. It's a painful, personal, ugly death. But... I stopped feeling it. Stopped caring. Had to, because there were so many."

A breeze stirred the tall grass near the bluff, and the river caught the light from a lantern behind us, shimmering gently. The world felt still, but not safe. Never safe. A dog barked faintly in the distance. Not dangerous, just life, returning in cautious steps.

A crow landed on the broken remnants of a nearby wall, staring at us with unblinking eyes before cawing once and flapping away into the dark. I followed its path for a second. It didn't matter. It just stood out.

"They're the enemy, Jerry. You know what they did in Bruhl, what they did here. I can see it in you, in Juno, in Jane, even in Wendy and Marina. If we don't stop them, that'll be all of Gallia. Just like Fhirald. Crushed under the Imperial boot and ground to nothing." Her words were supposed to make it easier, I thought, but they didn't. They just left a sick feeling in my chest that I decided to call the truth. I left it to hang, though.

The distant clang of metal echoed once from somewhere near the edge of the riverbank, then faded. Probably someone salvaging plating. The little sounds of a wounded city trying to rebuild.

"You've changed," she said finally. "Since Bruhl. You're colder. Even with us. You don't even realize it."

She wasn't accusing me. But the words landed like a stone dropped in still water.

"Maybe I had something to lose then," I said. "Innocence. Or I just had the time to think of it as something other than necessary and desperate. Time to choke it down and digest it."

She looked away. Her jaw was set, but her shoulders slumped slightly. A gust of wind picked up, ruffling her bangs across her cheek. She didn't brush them aside.

"It's not you," I added, quieter. "It never was. You're trying to save your country, your people. I can't hate someone for that, and even if I could, I wouldn't hate you."

I shook my head. "I'm tired. Not from fighting. From what it takes to win. There's no end to it. Just more lines to cross, and fewer reasons to care when I do. When this is over, I wonder if there'll be any lines left."

She placed a hand lightly on my arm. Her grip wasn't forceful. Just present.

"You don't have to carry it alone," she said. "Not with us. Not with me. I know it's not easy. You aren't Gallian, not by blood or loyalty, but Welkin, Isara, me, even your unit, and a hundred militia beside, we call you brother. You earned that. And we take care of our family."

I stared out at the moving lamps in the distance. Like ants, they crossed back and forth, men with guns and tanks and cannons, readying for a renewed fight come the dawn. For a moment, I glanced at her, as she watched me.

"Maybe."

We stood there in silence. The river whispered below. On the far side, the Imperials moved like shadows.

Alicia didn't leave. She didn't press. She just stayed.

The water between us and the enemy glimmered with lantern light.

And somewhere in that reflection, maybe, there was something else. A flicker. A memory. A good man with clean hands, that died in a sunny field what felt like years ago, and in it, the shattered mirror that showed what was left.


000


The lamps burned low in our corner of the ruined bank, where Unit 991 had pitched camp away from the rest of the militia. We didn't have tents so much as lean-tos and salvaged beams arranged over tarps. There was a fire pit we'd made in a bomb crater between two ruined support pillars, ringed by scrap metal and shattered bricks. A low flame flickered in the coals, and above it a kettle hung, slowly boiling the worst coffee in Gallia.

We'd kept to ourselves since the debrief. The squad wasn't exactly gloomy, but there was a heavy edge to everything, like no one wanted to be the first to bring up the obvious. Still, people weren't just sulking. Wendy and Marina were hunched together over a scuffed ammo crate, playing some half-invented card game with scavenged pieces of old ration labels and makeshift rules. Wendy cheated often. Marina never called her on it.

Jane had claimed a rusted oil drum as her throne, swapping exaggerated horror stories with Juno about something or other. Juno kept a straight face while she spoke, but her eyes held a faint glint. Jane, animated and loud, waved her arms in mock outrage every time Juno calmly contradicted her. It was a far cry from their usual warfront silence.

The air smelled like burnt wood and old canvas. Someone had managed to boil water earlier, and a weak brew of tea, bitter and slightly metallic, sat cooling in mismatched mugs nearby. It wasn't festive, not really, but it was the closest thing to comfort we'd allowed ourselves. Things were still tense at the line.

I walked in without a word. They looked up, barely.

"They're holding on the far bank," I said, dropping my rifle and sliding down onto a supply crate. "But they're not pushing. Not yet."

Juno nodded. "Saw movement before sundown. They're settling in."

Jane looked over. "How's Alicia?"

"She's holding up," I replied. "Worried, like always. Sorry about how things went, as if she had any say in it. Too rough on herself."

No one asked about the talk. They didn't need to. They'd all been around long enough to know how it went.

"You know," Jane said, quietly, "I thought this whole thing, all this..." Her arm swung around, motioning to all of us, "Would mean they stopped fucking us over. Don't get me wrong, I was always up on something, I own that, but this? There was no good reason at all."
"Rarely is war fair, Jane." Juno said, leaning back. Even she was looking rougher than normal. "And that goes double for politics. We knew going in this wouldn't be easy."
"That's crap! Tell me it's not, Wendy, Marina? They gave the boss this job, tossed us into the deep end, and we nailed it. We kicked ass." Jane huffed. Wendy put a hand on her shoulder, and Jane didn't brush it off.

"We did. And I couldn't be more impressed with it, but this came from above Welkin. Even above Varrot. No sense crying about it now." I said, settling in. The tea was biting, but it was hot, and for all that April in Gallia was warm and humid, the nights were downright chilly.

"Still not okay." Marina's quiet voice came from the side, as she slipped over to grab another tin of the leaf juice pretending to be a beverage. I just shrugged. What else could I say, as silence fell over the little camp.

Then something strange happened.

"Hey!" came a voice from the door.

We all turned as one, hands briefly shifting toward weapons, but froze just as quickly.

Isara Gunther stood at the edge of the camp, balancing a basket on one hip and wearing that cautious, hopeful smile I remembered from Bruhl. The lantern light caught the edges of her scarf, her boots still dusty from the road.

"I brought something."

There was a long pause. None of us moved. Then, out of nowhere, Jane stood up like she'd been kicked.

"Isara?! What the hell are you doing out here?"

"I came to see you," Isara said simply. "And I thought you all could use some bread. Fresh from the mess hall. Well, mostly fresh. Still warm at least."

"You... walked all the way from base to bring us bread?"

"I had time," she said. "And you looked like you needed something good today."

I watched in stunned silence as Jane jogged up to her and took the basket.

"You're insane. You know that, right? What if you'd gotten lost or-"

"I asked Welks before I left," Isara replied patiently. "And I stayed on the main road."

Jane turned back to us and gave a helpless shrug.

"She's too damn nice to yell at."

Wendy laughed quietly. Juno had stood now too, brushing her hands off and stepping forward.

"It's good to see you, Isara. You've grown."

"You're just taller," Isara said with a small grin. "But thank you."

They hugged briefly, and for a moment it felt like something light pierced the camp gloom. I
hadn't seen Juno smile that way in a while.

Isara looked around. "May I join you?"

Jane blinked. "Of course. Yeah. Come on, sit by the fire."

Marina shifted to make room on the crate beside her. Isara sat gracefully, unbothered by the dirt or ash. She pulled the cloth from the basket, revealing half a dozen small loaves.

"As promised," she said.

Wendy reached first, pausing only to mutter a grateful "Thanks," before biting in with an audible crunch. Juno took one carefully. Even Marina accepted hers with a silent nod.

Jane hesitated, then took two. She handed me one with an embarrassed huff.

"Don't make anything of it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, eyeing her. "Though I have to admit, I didn't expect you to be the one jumping up like a schoolgirl."

Her face went red instantly.

"Shut up, Boss. She used to come by my flower shop back in Bruhl, alright?"

"Really? Somehow I struggle to see you having the patience for botany." I said, with a raised eyebrow. She gave me the stink-eye as she slugged me in the shoulder, harder than usual.

"Yeah, well-" Jane muttered, grumpily, as she struggled to redirect the topic. "Isara here bought bluebells for her brother. Every damn week."

Isara smiled. "You always picked the freshest ones."

"Damn right I did," Jane said, trying and failing to sound tough. "Had a reputation."

"She did," Juno confirmed, sipping from her canteen. "She ran one of the most popular flower shops in town. She'd even put on this cute little apron with smiling daisies on it when she was behind the counter."

Jane groaned and pulled her hat further down.

I couldn't help it. I laughed. And once I did, the others followed. Even Marina cracked a smile. The tension broke like a shell around us, just for a moment.

Isara didn't hold back once she settled in. She passed out the bread like a hostess at a family table, offering little comments with each piece; about how the mess staff was grumbling again about flour rations, how Welkin had taken to sketching birds on the backs of requisition forms, how she swore she saw a Gallian fox pup hiding near the motor pool.

Juno responded with quiet amusement, clearly content to let Isara take the lead. Jane, for her part, surprised everyone by being downright sociable, nudging Isara with her elbow, smirking at her stories, even teasing her about some boy back in the village. Isara gave back as good as she got, needling Jane about her flustered act and hinting at some long-forgotten prank back in Bruhl that had involved flower dye and a very embarrassed postman.

Wendy jumped into the fray, asking rapid-fire questions about Isara's work on the tank team, what the mechanics were like, whether the Edelweiss had a name before Welkin started sketching birds on it. Isara fielded each one with easy, sincere energy, like she was grateful to just be around people who she could relax with.

Even Marina seemed a little more animated. She didn't speak much, but she leaned in when Isara described a faulty track repair they had to jury-rig using little more than wire, patience, and a brick. Marina offered a rare chuckle at that, and Isara caught it with a bright smile but didn't comment, as if she knew not to press her luck.

The basket gradually emptied as the fire shrank to coals. I leaned back and watched them, my team, my unit, the women who'd bled and endured beside me, and something in my chest ached, but not in a bad way. It was strange, hearing them laugh. Strange, but good.

Above us, stars crept into view, speckled behind beams and broken stone. The fire crackled. Someone coughed. Someone else snorted at a joke half-finished. And Isara, smiling softly now, didn't seem like a guest anymore. She seemed like she'd always belonged.

It wasn't till late when she excused herself, needing to head back to get some sleep, but thanks to her, the dark mood had been lifted, and the cold didn't feel quite so chilling. For that, among many other things, I was thankful for.


000


The air had turned cold just before dawn. One of those Vasel spring nights that dipped down into your bones when the wind cut through the cracks in your shelter. I'd pulled the canvas tighter over the lean-to and curled beneath my jacket, but it hadn't helped much. I kept my boots on, half out of habit, half out of unease. Even in sleep, I didn't trust the quiet.

The dream didn't creep up. It hit like a rifle shot.

We were back at the radio post, only it wasn't real. Not truly. The shapes were wrong. The walls stretched up forever, twisted like wet wood, bending toward a sky smeared with smoke and ink. Everything pulsed, the colors too rich, shadows too deep. I stood over them… the operators- no, not quite. Not yet. They knelt, backs to me, motionless like puppets waiting for their strings. Their hands were bound with wire, and the cords disappeared into the floor, vanishing into blood-slick cracks.

I didn't remember raising the pistol. I didn't remember aiming. But it was there, heavy and humming with heat. My arms shook as I pulled the trigger.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

They fell forward, boneless, scattering like puppets with their strings cut. But the silence that followed wasn't right. It rang with something hollow, like a bell underwater. And then they moved. Slowly. Turning back, not with surprise, but with inevitability.

Welkin. Alicia. Isara.

Their faces were pale, too still. Eyes empty as blown-out windows. They stared through me, not at me.

I took a step back.

The pistol was gone.

My hands were empty, trembling, dripping. Blood ran down my fingers in thick rivulets, hot and syrupy. I looked down. It coated my sleeves, soaked my pants. It sloshed around my ankles, a black-red tide stretching out in every direction.

They stared still. Their lips parted. No breath came. Just the low, endless sound of my name.

"Jerry..."

It echoed. Warped. Distant and close at once. The bodies didn't move, but the blood rippled beneath them, stretching fingers toward my boots.

"Jerry."

The world twisted sideways. The sky collapsed into itself. My breath stopped.

I felt the earth tilt.

Someone was shaking me.

Hard.

The world snapped back like a hammer blow. My eyes shot open.

Darkness. The lean-to. Dim coals from the fire.

My hand was wrapped around a throat.

Juno.

Her eyes were wide with alarm, face pale in the half-light. Her fingers clawed at my wrist, her mouth open but no words coming.

I let go instantly, jerking backward like I'd touched fire.

She stumbled away, coughing, dropping to her knees and gasping for air. My hands stayed frozen midair, trembling.

"Shit. Juno, I-"

She looked up at me. Not afraid. Just stunned.

I stood too fast. My boots scraped the dirt. My breath rattled. I couldn't stop shaking.

"I'm sorry. I didn't... I didn't know."

Her voice came out hoarse. "It's okay. You were dreaming. It's over."

But it wasn't. Not really.

I turned and stepped out of the lean-to, out past the low firepit and the stacked gear. The others were still asleep, dozing in their rucks. I passed between the tarps and crates, boots crunching softly in the dust.

The air hit like ice.

I walked until the camp fell behind me. Not far, just to the shattered front of the old bank building where the ceiling had collapsed, letting the morning air creep in through the broken archways. Dust clung to the columns, and scattered bits of broken tile glinted faintly in the early light. I found a corner where the fresh morning dew from the night before had pooled in a bent section of sheet metal. I crouched beside it, dipped my hands into the collected water, and splashed it across my face. Cold. Sharp. Real.

I stared at my hands again.

They were clean now. Just skin, worn and dry.

But the feeling didn't leave.

Blood. I could still feel it. Still smell it. Still hear the way the pistol cracked three times and everything changed.

I sank down beside the riverbank, head low, elbows on my knees. The sky above was shifting slowly to dawn, the clouds thin and tinged with gray.

Behind my eyes, I still saw them.

Not the real Welkin, Alicia, or Isara. But the ones my brain had painted in blood.

Juno's throat under my hand. Her eyes wide. I could see it in her eyes, the fear, the visceral moment where she thought I would break her neck on sheer strength alone.

I didn't know how long I sat there. The river kept moving. The world, thankfully, kept turning.

But for me, time stalled out.

And the silence in my chest had never been louder.

A hand settled on my shoulder.

I stiffened, ready to pull away, but the touch was gentle. Familiar.

I turned.

Juno stood beside me, her eyes tired but steady. The early light brushed over her face, catching in the curve of her jaw and the quiet crease in her brow. I opened my mouth to speak, to apologize, to say something that might undo the last hour.

She beat me to it.

"You don't have to explain," she said, voice still a little raw but calm. "I've seen it before."

She eased herself down to sit beside me, drawing her knees up and folding her arms across them.

"My uncle fought in the First War," she continued. "Not all of him came back when he did. Used to wake up screaming, crying, hands shaking. He never talked about it, but he didn't have to. He was always drained when he came to. But sometimes, if you didn't wake him up right, he would get up swinging. Hit my aunt a few times. Not intentionally, of course, he would cry, begging her for forgiveness. He was a gentle soul, like that."

I said nothing. The words jammed in my throat.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. "You weren't really awake, Jerry. I knew that. If I thought you meant to hurt me, I wouldn't have come looking for you."

I swallowed hard. The morning was so still it made everything louder, the distant calls of birds, the hiss of wind through the ruined walls, the dripping water from the sheet metal behind us.

"I could've killed you," I said. It came out rough.

"But you didn't," she answered.

I shook my head. "I could've. That doesn't go away."

She looked back at the broken sky. "Then I'll be more careful, next time." The unspoken, 'but there will be a next time', rang quietly true.

We sat like that for a while. Two silhouettes against the ruin, shoulder to shoulder but worlds apart. I didn't know what I was supposed to say. How do you apologize for dragging someone into your nightmares?

Juno saved me from trying.

"You carry a lot, Jerry. You always have. No one walks the path you do without bleeding somewhere inside. But you're not the only one bleeding. We all carry it, just in different ways."

I rubbed my face with one hand, the cold sting of water still clinging to my skin.

"Doesn't make what I did okay."

"No," she said. "But it makes it understandable."

I looked at her, trying to read between the lines, trying to see if there was fear behind her eyes. But there wasn't. Only a kind of quiet understanding. An old pain that matched my own.

She smiled a little. "You don't choke that hard anyway. One of my ex's back in college did it better."

That startled a breath of laughter out of me. "The hell, Juno!"

"I'm just saying." She said with a sly smirk that was so unlike her I wondered when she was replaced with a pod person. "So don't be sorry. That said, I think I'll stick to Boss, if you don't mind. You aren't much of a Daddy."

I huffed, almost choking and shaking my head. "Damnit Juno, I can't believe you just said that."

Juno gave a quiet chuckle. "And neither will any of the others, so this'll be our little secret, alright?"

The weight in my chest didn't go away, but it shifted. A little.

She nudged my arm lightly with hers. "We're your unit. But more than that, we're your friends. I don't care what you've done. What matters is who you are to us. And we're still here. I'm still here."

I nodded slowly. "Thanks."

She stood and offered a hand. I hesitated, then took it.

We walked back toward camp in silence, the morning growing brighter with every step. The fire pit was still cold, but the others were stirring. Somewhere behind us, the water glinted in the light of a new day.

The nightmares would return. I knew that.

But maybe next time, I wouldn't need to face them alone.





AN: Well, here we are, once again. Honestly this chapter fought me every inch of the way, just to get the interactions just how I wanted them. Unfortunately though, this is the end of my prewritten content. Everything after is going to be as I produce it, but that's not so bad. I admit I've been having a lot of fun working on this one but I also wrote like 60k words in three weeks, so I'm pivoting to a new project for a bit to recover my creative juices. Coincidentally, keep an eye out for it, since I'm going to be posting the first chapter of it sometime this afternoon (I'm in Sunday right now for all y'all. As it is, I'm hammering away at that, taking a bit of a different tact to a tried and true formula of starting as nothing and then gettin' gud. So the next chapter for this one is going to be on schedule for... week after next, I think. Might go two, since I have a lot of backlog for the new project too. It really depends on how inspired I'm feeling.

Anyway, keep your powder dry and your aim straight, all. I'll see you next time!