Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Wächter.”

Patterns and thoughts float in the netherspace. Everything is comfortable, flowing. Like sand, warmed by the red glow of dusk, slipping through outstretched fingers. There’s a distinct familiarity on her mind – has she been here before ?

“Wächter.” A name, chosen. Is it hers ? The noise is more insistant, now. The sand gives way, and she’s falling, falling, the ground coming up fast –

– and she wakes up with a gasp, the ghost of a sharp stinging pain on the nape of her neck still vivid.

“Wächter ! Were you asleep on guard duty ?”

STAR-S2302 “Wächter” blinks dumbly at her own officer. Who just slapped her on the back of her head, apparently.

“... No ?”

Closing the door behind her, Oberfeldwebel Stahl scoffs, and after a dismissive little wave of her hand, rests her shield on the ground. “What did I say last time to Abzug about snoozing on the job ?”

“It’s not that big of a deal, Stahl, c’mon–”

“Yes it fucking is.”

Oh, that tone bodes nothing good. Defeated, Wächter sighs. “Well, as you know it, I’m old, and–”

“Don’t you dare give me that excuse. We’re literally the same age.”

Stahl is technically incorrect : while they were both manufactured in the same batch, she’s the eldest by exactly three cycles. Yet what are three cycles when one has lived more than three thousand ? And it isn’t like Stahl shows her age at all. Countless times Wächter has watched her polish her shell, maintain her joints, and dye her hair, all in pursuit of flawlessness. She’d found it stupid then and still finds it stupid now, but hey – different tastes.

Stahl’s face softens. It’s so rare that she drop the stoic mask, lately. “Didn’t sleep well that night ?” she asks.

“No. Not really.”

“Weird dreams again ?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Stahl’s wearing her mask as usual, so Wächter can’t see her mouth, but there’s a miniscule crease between her eyebrows, the one that tells her some gears are turning in that head. She doesn’t say anything, though, and the way she looks away means she has to be eager to change the subject. 

“Well, you’ll be able to get more shut-eye soon, because we’re getting a new Starling.”

“Really ??” Wächter can hardly conceal the surprise in her own voice.

“Yeah. Three new units. One for our cadre, one for Schneidig’s, one for Komet’s.”

“How do you even know this ?”

Stahl stares at her like she’s stupid, with that condescending little raise of her chin that Wächter’s always, always hated. “I was just inside. The Storches are debating procurement right now. Among other things.” She jerks a thumb towards the now-closed door. “Can’t you hear them ?”

Wächter leans ear-first towards the door. The sounds that reach her are sounds of turmoil for sure : deep, booming voices yelling, hands thumping on desks – oh, is that glass breaking ?

Stahl rolls her eyes at her when she jolts at the sudden noise. “Honestly, it’s a wonder you managed to fall asleep through that.”

Wächter shrugs, even though the implication in Stahl’s barb is certainly not pleasing. “Anyway, you’re sure about the new unit ?”

“Sure about what ? That it’s a good idea, you mean ?”

“Yeah,” Wächter mutters.

“I know you have your reservations, but it’s the best way to deal with our, ah, current situation.” A pause, then another eyeroll. “Don’t give me that look, Wächter, you know I’m right.”

Stahl’s dancing around it, but the current situation is quite dire. The prolonged periods of double shifts have the cadre morale hanging by a thread, and tension is at an all-time high – which is, of course, not being helped by the state of Controller leadership. And to top it off, the Gestalt workers have gone on strike, citing miserable work conditions and lack of amenities. (Wächter can’t really blame them.)

“Maybe,” Wächter huffs. Yes, Oberfeldwebel Stahl is right, like she always somehow is, they do need more units; but there’s a persistent bad feeling inside her gut about all this. After all, the cadre itself is a fragile and unstable equilibrium, Starlings from different facilities cobbled together into a patchwork of egos, resentment and jealousy. One new unit could be the pebble upsetting that unsound balance. Or it could be perfectly alright. It’s not like she can predict the future.

There’s the beginning of a hiss at the door, which Wächter is seasoned enough to recognize as the actuators engaging. Stahl – who looks like she was about to say something, by the look in her eyes – clamps her mouth shut with an audible gulp and stands up ramrod straight, followed by Wächter a half-beat later. What comes out of the door is the hunched form of Storch Zwei, fists balled at her sides and an angry snarl on her face. She thumps down the corridor like every floor tile owes her a sizable Rationmark debt, the sound ominously echoing down the hall.

Guess that meeting didn’t end well, then. At least this means Wächter’s shift is over. A hand, familiar yet startling, clasps her upper arm.

“I’m not going to tell the others you fell asleep on shift,” Wächter murmurs, voice low. “But in exchange, you stop giving me lip about my decisions.”

Wächter laughs humorlessly. “Really, Stahl ? Really ? We’re doing blackmail now ?”

“If that’s what it takes.” Her gaze is cold. Colder than the surface of this damn planet, colder than Wächter has ever seen in entire periods.

She doesn’t bother answering her. She slaps the hand away and puts some distance between them, her long legs taking her wherever, and she doesn’t look back.

The view from the porthole is so, so beautiful.

It really is. Swirling clouds of white snow that curl in slow eddies, catching in the peaks of the mountain chains and the deep valleys; a stark white, against space’s unforgiving blackness. She’s not about to wax poetic about it all, or compare it to some mythical or fictional place like the more bookish units. No, she’s a Starling, and Starlings are practical and disciplined. Still, there’s something so undeniably exciting about this glimpse of her future; a new planet to discover. Can anyone blame her for that, when the only thing she’s known so far in her short life is the inside of a stasis pod ?

Something shoves her forward, in a brusque manner. “Get moving, rookie !” grumbles a voice behind her, identical to her own.

STAR-LO164 whips her head back at the Starling behind her. She looks just the same as her : choppy bangs, red eyeliner, a body made of black and grey plastic, still glossy with the factory shine. Which means…

“You’re calling me a rookie, but aren’t you new too ?” 

The other Starling’s eyelid twitches. It’s almost imperceptible, really, but a keen eye can spot this minuscule contracture of bio-muscle, so fleeting it barely lasted a fraction of a second. Regardless, what it means is touché.

“I’m still older than you by a few cycles, bitch !” the Starling sneers, lips pulling back to expose a canine.

STAR-LO164 doesn’t even have enough time to react to that. The voice that booms across the hallway to the hangar is different; raspier, with an edge that carries power and authority – one that immediately quiets them both. Has to be a Storch.

“Shut the fuck up and get back in line !”

Right. The line. A smooth shuffle of hooves against the metal floor, and STAR-LO164 is back to the correct position, standing a half-meter behind another Starling. The queue’s not advancing, probably some administrative or loading issue, but it’s alright. She’s not that impatient. She can contain herself, even though anticipation burns deep within her core, so bright she could shiver from it. Great Revolutionary, how thrilling it is to be alive, to feel bone and muscle and cables moving, and the oxidant coursing through her veins ! How exciting it is to be able to serve her great Nation alongside so many other Replikas like her !

She can’t wait to meet them, too – will they be nice ? Aloof ? Friendly ? So many uncertainties, yet STAR-LO164 walks with pep in her step and confidence in her gaze. Only time will tell, like it does everything.

A bed creaks. Nobody dares to makes a move.

“I will not repeat myself again,” Stahl says, her tone icy. “Who’s going to go fetch the rookie ?”

Hyäne shrugs – that one-shoulder shrug, dismissive and sarcastic. Eis is silent, as usual, her expression hidden by her mask; Abzug snorts. Polaris shoots her officer a withering glare, one of her eyes still hidden under the icepack she’s pressing to her cheek. Courtesy of Storch Zwei’s, that one.

No one’s motivated, it seems. As for Wächter ? Well, she’s too busy journaling. It’s important. Those pages aren’t filling with cursive and sketches by themselves.

There’s an annoyed huff coming from the center of the dorm room, and that actually manages to startle Wächter – because Stahl almost never loses her patience. Yet here she is, Oberfeldwebel Stahl, one foot thumping against the floor; Stahl and her textbook stoic and detached demeanor, now evidently quite pissed off.

“Fuck it. We’re doing the dice,” Stahl mutters. Two long strides take her to the coffee table, and she fishes the six-sided die out of the board games box. 

There is nothing but silence in the room, as if the air has been sucked out of in in one fluid motion, like an airlock depressurizing. The die hangs in the air, falls, tumbles on the table’s cheap plywood surface.

Four.

Wächter bites back a swear as five pair of eyes swiftly focus on her, like laser sights on a target. Fuck. Four is two squared, four is death, fourth is her current ranking in the cadre. Oh, nothing’s official, of course – Starlings don’t tend to keep that sort of record – but it’s still very, very present at the back of her mind. Fourth is not great, not terrible. Wächter’s fine with settling for mediocrity, really; she’s too old to care about petty intra-cadre rivalries, at this point.

She just hopes she won’t fuck up in the next two hours, at least. Her cadre rarely forgets any mistakes. It’s what they do here.

With a tired sigh, she snaps her journal closed, fingers then fussing with the small ponytail that keeps her greying hair in place. It’s a sort-of ritual she’s been doing more often lately, she’s been noticing. It helps with the nerves, perhaps. 

“Good luck !” Abzug sneers at her when she crosses the threshold, the asshole. Yeah, luck, she’ll need that if she has to deal with Storch Zwei.

Step by step, grumbling to herself all the while, Wächter trudges along the Sierpinski S-23’s corridors.

Why, oh why did it have to be her ? She’s too old for this. Should have been Polaris, or Eis, another younger unit; but no, she has to play babysitter to a little stupid rookie and show her around a place she has to desperately pretend not to hate. W-05 Weierstrass was bad in a lot of ways, of course, being a labor camp in all but name, but housing mostly intellectuals and artists meant that the Gestalts were generally meek and well-behaved and riots were few and far between. And that there were actually things to do besides watching snow fall outside and roam the corridors like a restless spirit. Sometimes she wonders if Stahl and Hyäne also miss their old facility, even though she probably knows the answer : Hyäne spends most of her time in the training room, and Stahl, that damn bore, is the type that could enjoy watching paint dry.

Wächter rounds a corner, and then another, until she’s close enough to her destination that she feels the cold wind rush across her face. Only one more hallway, and then the hangar.

She finds that the Storches are already here by the time she arrives – oh, that’s bad news. They both turn to face her when they hear the sound of her steps on the brushed concrete – more bad news. An ugly sneer is plastered on one of the unit’s faces, and that’s an easy way to tell them apart. Storch Eins looks tired most of the time, and Storch Zwei’s temper is a shipment of nitroglycerin ready to explode at any given time.

“Took your sweet fucking time, eh ? You’re late !” she spits.

Wächter is, in fact, not late, if her internal clock is to be believed, but she swallows her pride and lets the rebuke pass over her. Not contradicting Zwei to her face is simply a matter of self-preservation, after all. Thankfully, that’s the moment the shuttle chooses to descend from the skies, bathing the entire hangar in the golden hue of its thrusters, until it finally lands, the force of it shaking dust loose with a definitive thunk. Observing the elegant yet utilitarian curves and lines of the ship with a keen eye, Wächter commits them to her memory banks. That will be a new subject for her sketching practice in her notebook – Revolutionary knows she needs new ones.

One by one, the new Replikas step out of the ship, hesitation evident in how unsteady their steps are – especially the Eules, whose wobbly legs barely manage to carry them down the ramp. The beginning of an annoyed growl rumbles in Zwei’s throat, but Wächter understands them. She was like this once when she took her first steps on Leng, nearly a decade ago.

“Alright, let’s begin the assignment process,” Eins mutters as she peers at her clipboard. “There should be twelve of you Eules – please line up. Yes, perfect. Fünf will take you to get your IDs and map modules updated. It’s this way.”

Amused, Wächter watches the gaggle of owls skitter to a door, whispering to each other like schoolgirls. That’s not what she’s here for, though; she snaps her head back to the ship, finding three Starlings lined up in front of the ramp, identical arms frozen in a stiff, tense salute – fingers pointing to the temple but not quite touching it.

Eins is peeking at her notes again. “So you,” she points at the first Starling, who startles a little, “will be number 012, assigned to my own cadre. You, 013, to Zwei’s, and 014 to Drei’s. All clear ?”

“Yes sir !” the three Starlings shout in unison, chests all puffed out in enthusiasm and patriotic pride. So eager to serve, to make themselves useful; it’s almost cute. Wächter takes a step forward, advancing towards the Starling she’s supposed to be fetching – and immediately stops at the noise Zwei’s just made.

It’s something like an hiccup – no, an outraged gasp, like the pearl-clutching bourgeoises Wächter has seen in those old black-and-white movies. 

“Is this some kind of sick joke, Eins ?” Zwei hisses, the beginning of an ugly snarl forming on her face.

Wisely, Wächter takes a step back. Eins just blinks at her Storch colleague. “The hell are you on about ?”

“You gave me the Starling number thirteen !! You know I don’t like these kind of signs–”

Oh. Oh.

All at once, it clicks in Wächter’s mind. Zwei’s fixation on the number thirteen, the earful she gave some Aras about ladders, why she threw the clock Eins gave her against a wall. The strange little trinkets she keeps in her office. Controller Zwei is superstitious.

Things are quickly heating up. Tempers are flaring. “I don’t care about your stupid little rules !” Eins is spitting in return; Zwei gesticulates in the air at the poor Starling.

“All you have to do is switch the units, it’s not fucking complicated–”

“All I have to do ?” Eins’ cheeks and nose are turning a worrying shade of red. “I don’t have to do anything, Zwei !”

“You–”

Eins’ hand reaches out to snatch Zwei’s armor collar, bringing the two Storches nearly nose to nose. The next words that Eins utters are cadenced in the brutal inevitability of heavy machine gun fire. “I have to run every damn fucking thing in this shithole of a place. I’m tired, I’m lonely, I haven’t even seen the light of the sun in twenty-five Empress-cursed cycles. And I have had enough of your fucking tantrums, Zwei. You understand me ?”

A precarious moment, suspended in the air as if on a knife’s edge.

Then, deliverance. A huff, an angry grunt; Zwei storms off, the force of her stomps reverberating across the concrete. Despite herself, Wächter releases a relieved breath; fuck me, she thinks, that actually got Zwei to back down.

“Sorry about that,” Eins sighs. “Let’s get you all outfitted and wired. 02, you ready ?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Wächter answers.

She beckons the rookie forward with a flick of her hand, and their eyes meet, blue-black-red into blue-black-red, old and new. The rookie’s pupils are wide with uncertainty, perhaps even fear. What did I do ? they seem to ask, and Wächter has no answers.

“Hey, where are we going ?” she asks the unit she’s following, both of them trotting down the hallway at a brisk speed.

The older Starling turns her head just enough for her side-eye to be visible. “The dorm, obviously.”

“Huh, you’re not showing me around this facility ?”

“No time.” Curt and to the point. That one’s not a woman of many words.

Come to think of it, she definitely looks… weathered, is the term STAR-LO164 would politely employ. Her shell has definitely seen better days, being nearly covered in scraping marks and scars, especially on the arms and face; her greying hair is pulled in a small and cute ponytail. And there’s something off about her gait, the way one of her steps sounds louder than the other. A limp due to an old injury, perhaps ?

“By the way, what’s your name ?” she tries – and receives another side-eye.

“It’s Wächter.”

Guardian, then. Wäch-ter, two syllables. She likes the sound of it, how it rolls off the tongue like a pleasant purr, with the final R as a trill.

“We’re here,” Wächter says, abruptly stopping in front of a pneumatic door labeled AUFSEHER KADER. They both step into the room, and STAR-LO164’s IFF module lights up like a Revolution Day firework display.

Her eyes quickly scan the area. Five different requests, five different units. The dorm actually looks almost cozy, a first impression perhaps undermined by the casual disarray contained to some areas – empty ration boxes, tissues, rags.

“Well, here’s the rookie,” Wächter sighs, shuffling to what STAR-LO164 presumes is her own bed, leaving her to stand alone in the middle of the room. One unit approaches her, sizing her up, her eyes roaming the length of her freshly-manufactured body, as if to inspect her adequacy. It makes her shiver, makes her want to hunch her shoulders and shrink down even though they’re the same size.

“Welcome to S-23 Sierpinski, fledgling. I’m Oberfeldwebel Stahl.”

Her officer. Of course. She expects a handshake, or even a pat on the shoulder; nothing comes, and Stahl just keeps standing there ramrod straight with her arms clasped behind her back, her stoic expression slowly morphing into dissatisfaction. Oh fuck – has she already displeased her own officer ? Not shown enough respect ?

“Pleased to meet you, sir !” she stutters with a salute. Better late than never ?

A hmph comes out of Stahl’s mouth, and the officer starts pointing at her squadmates one by one.

“This is Hyäne,” she says, gesturing at a grinning Starling. “Abzug, Eis, and Polaris.” The latter doesn’t even bother to make eye contact, and the knot that has been slowly forming in STAR-LO164’s belly tightens ever slightly.

“And I am… ?” she tries, tentative.

The officer pauses for a few seconds, raising her chin like she’s appraising her. “You’re Dreizehn.”

Dreizehn ? “But –”

A sharp pain unexpectedly stings her cheek as something fast and black collides with it. A hand. Stahl’s just backhanded her.

“You do not interrupt or question your officer, rookie. Do you understand ?”

“Y–Yes, sir.” One of the other Starlings chuckles; humiliation burns like a branding iron pressed against the skin.

“Good. You’ll get your own name once we,” Stahl gestures with a sweep of her arm at the rest of the dorm’s occupants, “deem you worthy. It’s what we do here.”

Dreizehn. She already hates that name. It sounds so…. clinical, like reading off a list. Impersonal, yes, that’s the word. Starlings should have names that have meanings, not numbers ! The kind of name that makes one proud !

But for now she’s just Dreizehn, the fledgling. And something tells her that’s not the only loss of face she’ll have to deal with.

One of the other units perks up – Hyäne, she thinks her name is, she recognizes her by the nasty scar nearly bisecting her ear and the shorter hair on that side. “Hey, Grünschnabel, since you’re new and all, you’re on cleaning duty. I’m afraid we let our dorm get a bit messy.”

“Oops,” snorts another Starling.

“Well, those kind of menial tasks build character, don’t they ?”

“For sure !”

Oberfeldwebel Stahl slowly turns to face her again, looking expectantly at her. Get on with it or else, her eyes say. No choice, no other option. Gritting her teeth, Dreizehn swallows her pride, and grabs the nearest trash bag.

Her stack of files in hand, Dreizehn advances – with caution – to Controller Zwei’s office. Her fist patrol shift had gone mostly alright : she got to walk through corridors, corridors again and even more corridors, then collected one Personnel Grievance Form and two tickets for the service cadre. Her second shift had her standing guard in the kitchen, which got her a smack on the back of the head by Abzug, all for “staring too much at the Eules”. Dreizehn, of course, had found that particularly unfair – wasn’t her fault if said Eules were so cute ! With their elegant white-glowed hands and forearms, and the shapely curve of their hips, how they bent over to grab things… truly a delight to look at, yes.

Dreizehn sighs, remembering how everyone in the kitchen had stopped dead in their tracks after the very loud slap, and presses, at last, the button on the office’s door. 

One beep, two beeps, and then a gruff voice comes out of the intercom : “Ugh. Get in.”

Charming.

Gingerly, Dreizehn steps inside, blinking at the – well, everything.

She expected Storches to be neat, proper – sentinels of order in both their work and their personal space. But this office ? To be frank, it’s a mess. On every surface and every wall, there’s some trinket or another. Too many to count : a statue of a calico cat with its paw up, a pot with a clover planted inside, acorns in a bowl, a strange pepper-shaped amulet, and some intriguing talismans made of wood and string. Storch Zwei is standing in a corner, facing a bookshelf and peering at an object in her hand. (Dreizehn has to crane her neck to get a better view : it looks like a pendant made of green stone – jade ?) She’s not wearing her armor, which means her back is in full display, the ridge of her spine rising high above the flat planes of her scapulas. Hell, she’s big – and STAR units aren’t exactly small. Dreizehn is perfectly aware of this, having spent the past cycles getting used to maneuvering her body in doorways and tight corridors; but Controller Zwei is bigger than her, not just twenty centimeters taller. Long legs, broad shoulders, large hands. The Nation’s prime enforcer of order, in the flesh.

Zwei twists her body to glare at her, pupils almost glowing red, and something jolts across Dreizehn’s nerves. She realizes, too late, that it’s fear.

“The fuck do you want ?” the Storch growls, clearly annoyed at having been disturbed.

“I’ve got the p–patrol reports for th–this cycle, ma’am,” she stammers. It’s becoming clear why the others sent her here for this task, isn’t it ? She’s been set up. 

Two steps of her long legs, and Zwei snatches the stack of papers out of her hands. She barely even looks at the reports, her eyes flicking over the pages before she huffs, tossing some of them in a tray. “Can’t you damn Starlings make a fucking effort in your calligraphy, for once ? You keep writing in that scrawl, I swear I get stupider by the minute trying to decipher it !”

Dreizehn’s not sure what to do, so she stands there, arms limp at her sides, while Controller Zwei rambles on and on about how ungrateful and incompetent her underlings are. She can’t leave without being formally dismissed, and she waits, quietly hoping for Zwei’s tantrum to pass. And her wish must have been heard by a malicious entity, because in the middle of a sentence, Zwei suddenly twists to face her, the gears clicking in her head practically audible.

Oh no.

“Hold on,” the Storch says, with an air of dangerous carefulness. “You’re the new unit, aren’t you ? Identify yourself.”

“I’m D–Dreizehn, ma’am. STAR-S2313–”

Zwei leaps on her like a wild beast, rabid and unfettered; she clamps a hand on Dreizehn’s jaw. “Don’t ! Don’t you fucking say your name in front of me !” She exhales, pupils blown out. “You’ll bring me bad luck !”

“I–”

“Shhh,” Zwei goes, the grip of her hand like a vice. The pressure’s increasing. Pain radiates up the nerve where the flesh is pressed against the underlying bone, pulsating with the frantic beat of her artificial heart. It hurts.

The Storch’s mouth twists in a wicked, mean grin. “Look at you,” she susurrs. “You’re trembling.” Oh, she is – even though her hand is clasped around her own wrist, she’s still shaking. “You’re scared of me, aren’t you ?”

Starlings are supposed to be cool and detached and relaxed – but she’s fucking terrified. Panic threatens to settle in at any moment now, and she knows it’s only going to make everything worse. Blood in the water and all that. Fuck.

Her eyes meet Zwei’s, pleading. “Mmphh,” she manages.

“Oh, you are scared indeed.” Zwei’s grin stretches even wider. “Good. I’m going to have so much fun with you, little bird.”

She releases her grip, pushing Dreizehn away; Dreizehn staggers backwards, her legs still wobbly. “And you, little bird, will instruct your squadmates to refer to yourself in my presence as, hmmm… yes, Schund. That’s a good name !” She snorts, as if she’s just made the funniest joke in the world.

Schund. Trash, rubbish, something to be thrown away, discarded, forgotten. She’s barely even gotten used to Dreizehn and now Zwei wants to take that from her too ? A flare of rebelliousless sparks deep in her belly, and the words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop herself.

“But ma’am, won’t it be confusing for the others–”

She hasn’t even finished her sentence that Zwei launches her knee into her midsection. It knocks the wind out of her, and she sputters, desperately trying to put some air back in her lungs. Zwei watches her struggle, haughty, her arms crossed.

“I’m sure your little pea brains can handle a new name,” she says, pointing a finger at the door. “Now get the fuck out of my sight before I put you down for good !”

Still nearly doubled over, Dreizehn practically flees the room. It hurts – her jaw, her belly, her pride, everything. Zwei’s fingers are going to leave a bruise, so she hurriedly snaps the mask back on her face, her hands trembling. She can’t let the others see her.

Not like this.

Wächter’s long service life has taught her that some times, it’s better to stand back and simply observe. Body language veers into patterns which veer into definitive conclusions ; and so far, hers is that something’s wrong with the rookie. 

Said rookie – Dreizehn, Wächter mentally corrects herself – is sitting on her bed, facing the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. Her gaze appears fixated on the vent in front of her; her bunk had been picked precisely because all the other Starlings found the noise annoying. Rookies get the short end of the stick, as always. Still, there’s something concerning about her posture, and the fact that she’s wearing her mask, even inside the dorm. Eis is the only one who does so, as far as Wächter knows, and that’s because her fucked-up nerve makes half of her lower face freeze and droop. 

Part of her, the nagging feeling of a good conscience, wants to intervene. Sit next to her, maybe, place a reassuring hand on her still-factory shiny shell. A new STAR unit in a cadre needs to have somebody. Once, Wächter had Stahl, and Stahl Wächter; they’d confide in each other, and more. Even though their closeness is mostly gone, evaporated like sublimated ice, she suspects it’s part of why she’s been avoiding degradation – so far. Every little bit of comfort helps. Wächter sighs; sympathy twinges in her gut every time she looks at the rookie, all curled up, feeble and miserable. Normally, she wouldn’t intervene, but… someone has to do something, right ?

Wächter leans towards Eis – their beds are next to each other, so it’s easy to do so – and waves at her, until the Starling’s eyes finally rise from the book she was clearly deeply lost into.

“You know anything about… why she’s like this ?” Wächter asks, her voice a mere whisper.

Eins shrugs, then raises the index and middle fingers of her hand. Another shrug. She’s not sure, then, but the gesture… two. Zwei. 

Of course. How could Wächter have been so stupid ? It was Stahl’s order (at the behest of Hyäne) to assign the rookie to patrol report duty – carry the documents into the beast’s den. The truth is, nobody wanted to do it. Even though they’d never admit it, everything about Zwei scares the cadre, from her temper to the way she carries herself, like a predator carefully selecting its next prey. And it looks like she’s found it.

Quick assessment of the situation : so far, only four Starlings in the dorm, including Wächter and the rookie. Eis isn’t going to say anything if she intervenes, and she’s too busy reading anyway; Abzug is happily snoring on her bed, hands behind her head. Stahl would surely object, being a believer in tough love and stoicism and all that bullshit, but she’s supposed to be on duty right now. Carefully, Wächter plants a hoof on the floor, then another. All it will take is a few steps – and then the door opens, revealing none other than Oberfeldwebel Stahl, shield in hand, Hyäne trailing behind her. Speak of the devil. Fuck.

Feeling defeated, Wächter retreats to her bed; Stahl spares her a curious glance, as if to ask what the hell were you doing, before she busies herself with unlatching her armor and belt. Hyäne, however, is creeping closer to the rookie, and dread builds up inside Wächter’s gut.

“Oi, rookie !”

No answer.

One of Hyäne’s hands flies to slap Dreizehn on the ear, knocking the mask off of her – and oh, are those bruises ? Wächter’s heart clenches up when she sees the splotches of black and blue, spread across the skin like a sick and twisted painting of brutality. Hyäne does not seem to care, and she’s gesticulating, cackling, just like her namesake.

“I want fresh bread and obatzda, greenhorn ! So you better go fetch me some from the kitchen.” Her lips press against the shell of Dreizehn’s ear, and yet everyone can hear what she’s saying, loud and clear in the deafening silence of the dorm. “Now.”

Using a rookie unit as an errand girl is fairly typical in Starling dorms, yet it roils Wächter’s gut, this time. Her fingers clench her sketchbook, dimpling the cheap paper where they press. It doesn’t feel right.

Not long after the little incident with Controller Zwei, that’s when the beatings start.

In hindsight, Dreizehn should have expected it. The handful of relatively peaceful cycles were just a grace period during which the rest of her cadre watched her every move, her every action, as if to look for any possible weakness. Intimately, she knew her own competitive nature would be reflected in her peers, a hall of mirror of subtly similar personalities; but she’d never imagined it would be like this.

Cycle 6 : Dreizehn submits a patrol report that apparently contained a few typos. Stahl catches it, and stuffs the crumpled paper in her mouth while she swings her baton on her back like a bat – only one hit, but it hurt like a bitch. Right between the shoulder blades, on the sensitive spine. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Cycle 10 : Dreizehn accidentally leaves the safety lock of her stun baton disengaged while putting it in storage for the night (even though she’s convinced she flicked it on before). Stahl notices it during a routine inspection, as she always does, and gives her the earful of a decade. Proper procedure, yadda yadda yadda. To punctuate her argument, she tosses the baton to Hyäne, who gleefully prods her with it, electricity arcing over Dreizehn’s shell for a brief second. It’s gone just as fast, but the pain, oh, it’s nothing like she’s ever felt in her short life. Blinding, all-consuming, white-hot. It leaves her curled up on the floor in a fetal position, and she has to crawl to her bed, feeling ashamed and pathetic. Nobody even bothers looking at her, not even Stahl – except maybe one. The grey-haired one, Wächter. Dreizehn swears she’s spared her a compassionate glance – or maybe she didn’t.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

Cycle 29 (the present): Controller Zwei’s thrown a stapler at her, and it bounces off her forehead, opening a small cut on the skin. Pain pulsates across her brow line, and she watches a steady stream of oxidant drip to her chin, then her armor collar. Oh, it’s getting in the crevices and everything – gonna be a bitch to clean. She can feel the beat of her own oxidant pump as it pounds in the cut, and it’s strangely… good. Like there’s nothing else in the world but this throbbing pain, the universe collapsing into one single point of sensation.

“Revolutionary preserve me from you lot’s absolute incompetence !” Zwei is ranting. Dreizehn isn’t even really listening to what she’s saying. She can’t figure out what she’s mad about, only that it’s a pointless exercise anyway : Zwei is always pissed about something, small or big, inconsequential or not. Her anger stews like a pressure cooker lately, only seeming to explode in certain places and not others. Like when she’s meeting with Dreizehn. 

Awful convenient, that.

Anyway, this time she gets away with a cut and a mild black eye. Not so bad, all things considered, but her face is a mess. Forehead cuts always bleed so much, at least that’s what Wächter told her last time.

It’s easy enough to trudge towards the medical wing, because Gestalts and Replika alike give her a wide berth – no one wants to deal with a bloody, exhausted Starling. On a dingy little bed she ends up, pressing gauze to her forehead, and she sighs, breath rattling as it leaves her lungs.

“Hi !” comes a lovely, melodious voice from behind a privacy curtain, followed by its owner. It’s an Eule in medical garb : scrubs, mask, even a hair net. Dubious brownish-red stains cover the front of her gown, and if Dreizehn had to guess, it probably is because of the Gestalt patient in the next bunk over, the one with an absolutely gnarly mangled hand.

(So many workplace injuries, lately. Do hers even count in that total tally ?)

Something softens in the Eule’s gaze as she fetches her surgical kit. Thank the stars this one’s easy, she’s probably thinking. Eules are not really supposed to be doing this job, Stahl mentioned to her, but as far as Dreizehn’s concerned, they seem pretty good at it. Or maybe her standards are just low.

The gauze is soon replaced by deft, soft hands – Eule hands are so damn soft, compared to hers. They roam her face, cleaning the caked, drying oxidant from the synthetic skin. The disinfectant is nice and cool, too. The Eule warns her it’s going to sting, and indeed it does, but once again she relishes in the pain, in its cleansing white hot purity. It’s gone as soon as it arrived, and the nurse looks at her, a frown spreading across her brow.

“I, ah, think it’s going to need stitches,” she says. She’s wringing her hands, in a clearly apologetic manner. 

“No big deal. You can go on,” Dreizehn mutters. The Eule grabs a surgical needle and thread from her little tray, but there’s a tremor in her fingers Dreizehn’s keen eyes don’t miss.

“I–uh, sorry. Haven’t been doing this for long. I’m just…” More hand-wringing. “... nervous, I suppose.”

Pity blurs the edge of Dreizehn’s dark mood, and something clicks in her head, like gears finally slotting into place. “Wait, are you new too ? Were you in that orbital shuttle, a few periods ago ?”

The nurse exhales. “Yeah.”

Wordlessly, Dreizehn extends a hand to the Eule, and pats her on the arm, a gesture so brazenly familiar it feels a little improper, frankly. Yet the Eule leans a little into the touch; maybe she’s just as desperate for comfort as Dreizehn is.

“You’ll do just fine,” Dreizehn murmurs, reassuringly. 

It seems to work. “Thanks,” the Eule says, and her hands are steady now. “I didn’t ask you your name, by the way. I’m Dezember.”

“Dreizehn. From Oberfeldwebel Stahl’s cadre.”

Dezember’s face lights up at that. “Right ! I know her !” Then it falls again, the hesitation returning, more somber now. “Did she… do that to you ?”

“Not her this time.” Dreizehn lays two fingers on her forehead, in the shape of those signature twin locks of hair. “Storch.”

The Eule’s stare is sympathetic, for sure. Of course it is : who else but a nurse would be exposed firsthand to the tragic results of Storch Zwei’s penchant for violence ?

“Take care, Dreizehn,” Dezember says after she’s stitched her up good. Elegant white-gloved fingers brush a lock of her hair behind her ear, and Dreizehn’s brain stutters for a whole processor cycle at the sudden contact.

“You too, Dezember.”

Surprisingly enough, it takes quite a few cycles for Wächter to be put on the same shift as the rookie. Unsurprisingly enough, it has to be one of those shifts. Iso, the kind of guard duty so dreadfully, appallingly boring it threatens to melt your brain until it leaks out of your ears. There are no bad shifts, just less interactive ones, Stahl always says – bold words for someone who doesn’t get those iso shifts !

Anyway.

“Follow me,” Wächter gestures at the rookie, who tails her with earnest attention, her eyes almost – almost !! – sparkling. Frankly, she’s never seen a rookie so curious at the prospect of a shift in the fucking prison. Boggles the mind, but then again, she hasn’t seen that many rookies. Maybe newly printed Starlings are just like that.

“So, what are we doing for this shift ?”

Wächter half-turns her head. “Prison watch. We’ll bring an inmate to the iso cell and stand guard for the rest of the shift.”

“Understood.”

Both their usual long strides carry them to the interrogation room soon enough. Wächter’s not superstitious, certainly not like Zwei is, but she fucking swears there’s something bad about the aura of the place. The vibes, if you will. Something in the air, rotten and mildewy. It doesn’t help that it smells horrible as soon as she crosses the door : the metallic, pungent stink of blood, tooth decay, and mold. It clings to the walls, even the shells. She might not be a Storch but she sure wants to shower after being there; Dreizehn’s nose turns up when she steps inside, and Wächter certainly doesn’t blame her.

There’s a Gestalt lying there, in the interrogation chair. Mid-to-late thirties, a scruffy beard dusting his jaw and chin; dried blood has congealed in the dark hairs. When he hears steps, he stirs and mumbles something, probably a plea Wächter can’t fully understand. Alive at least then. Arm is bent in an unnatural, awkward way, so that’s a possible break or at least a dislocation; judging by how his breath rattles, every exhale shallow, he’s maybe got some cracked ribs. And of course, there’s the giant, swollen bruise over his eye, an ugly shade of purple that engulfs his entire eyelid.

“Broken orbital ?” Dreizehn asks.

“Probably, yeah.”

“Paper says it’s… Severin Surya. S-23-A-1346. Reason for arrest : suspicion of theft in the cafeteria storeroom.” Her finger is tracing the lines on the page she’s holding up, and her face suddenly scrunches. “Confessed. Punishment : two cycles of iso.”

No doubt she’s seen Storch Zwei’s neat handwriting there. With so few Storches around, Zwei has taken to the role of main interrogator with transparent, sadistic glee. Wächter’s heard through the grapevine that the medical Eules are complaining about receiving so many patients in bad shape. Or dead bodies.

“Say, Wächter, how come one of his arms is unlatched ? I thought it was against protocol ?”

Huh. One of the clasps holding the meatbag’s arms is indeed loose – not that it was going to help him in any way. Observant, that rookie.

“Well, you wanna bring that up to Controller Zwei ?”

Dreizehn snorts. “Fuck no.”

“Thought so.”

The Gestalt barely even squeals when Wächter lifts him up from the chair. Probably concussed from what Zwei did to him. He’s heavy, though, and especially cumbersome to move with the way his feet drag on the floor; after her first grunt of effort, Dreizehn loops an arm under one of his, and onwards both Starlings go, to the iso ward.

Gestalt patted down ? Done, at the behest of the rookie (definitely a smart one). Gestalt tossed into a cell ? Done. Information sheet plastered to the door of said cell ? Also done. Headcount ? Done. That’s about six Gestalts for eight cells, which Wächter generally calls a slow day. She inwardly curses herself for not bringing her sketchbook with her. Not that she’d have many subjects to doodle here…. except maybe the rookie, actually.

She’s been standing there, ramrod straight and hands clasped behind her back, looking like those Starling action figurines they distribute to kids sometimes. Shell so new it’s still shiny in most places, hair in that default configuration, messy bangs and all. Wächter can’t help the flutter in her heart when her eyes follow the lines and curves of her body, up to the face – nominally identical to hers, and yet. It’s like staring in a distorted mirror. Wächter’s face is scarred from years of service, Dreizehn’s biosynthetic skin is mostly pristine; except, of course, for the numerous bandages and stitches plastered over it.

Suddenly, Dreizehn stirs, nearly making Wächter jump as well – fuck, she really was staring as her like some kind of creep, wasn’t she ? If Dreizehn’s noticed, she doesn’t show it, instead stretching her two-hundred and twenty centimeter frame like a cat with a big yawn.

“Tired ?” Wächter asks her.

“Mmm-hmm.”

Obviously. It was Hyäne’s bright idea last night to wake the rookie with a beating, this time courtesy of a bar of soap wrapped in a towel. Fuck, the surprised squeal she made when it first hit her shell is still burnt into Wächter’s auditory module. One minute the rookie was happily drooling on her pillow, the next she was flailing in her sheets, visibly panicked. One more little incident, one more stern it’s what we do here from Stahl when she had brought it up to her.

Dreizehn leans back against the wall, looping both her thumbs into her belt with an air of debonair nonchalance – Stahl would have certainly barked at her to straighten her posture, but Wächter is not Stahl, and she watches her with interest instead. Back of the head resting against the hard concrete, it’s like she wants to take in the sounds and smells of this ward : coughs, scratches, crying, pleas, the mundane despair of humanity confined to a two-meter-by-two-meter box with no windows.

The atmosphere’s turned almost suffocating, and the worst is that Wächter isn’t even completely sure why. Must be her damn nerves again, making her hands tremble.

“Hey.” She needs to fill this silence that has stretched for far too long now. “Hey, rookie.”

There’s an audible click as Dreizehn unclips her mask and tucks it under one of her armor straps. “Yeah ?”

“Are you… enjoying your time here, so far ? In S-23, I mean ?”

What a stupid fucking question. It’s so transparently asinine Wächter almost wants to hide her face behind her hands.

“Here ?” She seems to ponder it, a finger idly scratching at her neck; before long, a side of her mouth quirks down. “Well… I guess it’s a mixed bag so far. You already know the bad parts.”

There’s a barb hidden in this statement, not quite spat out with bitterness – more like a dagger sliding between ribs, covert yet incisive, a slight emphasis on the you. A frisson of guilt flutters through Wächter’s insides.

“– but there’s also the not-so-bad parts.”

“Like what ?” Wächter asks, stupidly.

“The service cadre, honestly. Aras are pretty hard to read at first, but once you get to know them, they have so much fun stuff to say !”

“Which ones ?”

“Ah, think it’s 10 and 11. So that would be… Zehn and Elf.” That tracks. Elf is Sierpinski’s most notorious prankster, much to the annoyance of Controller Eins – and the delight of some others. “And then there’s the Eules. Obviously.”

Dreizehn then cracks a grin, two dimples crease themselves into her cheeks; and it looks strikingly handsome. How she must be a crowd-pleaser amongst the Eules indeed, Wächter notes, with a pang of bitterness. She had one owl of her own once, and the way those delicate, soft hands felt against her face still haunt her memories. That feels like it’s all happened eons ago now. Another place, another time, before Rubin decided she wasn’t enough, fluttering instead to her cadre-mates like a honeybee in search of flowers. 

Back to the present now. Dreizehn’s smug little smile brings a chuckle out of Wächter’s old frame. She scoots a little closer to the other Starling, even risks a friendly, playful shove on the shoulder. “You got your eyes on a specific bird, or what ?”

The rookie chortles. “Shit, Wächter, you make it sound so…”

“So what ? Sleazy ?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Bah ! It’s only normal that Starlings look at Eules, and Eules at Starlings. Happened all the time at my old facility. You didn’t answer my question, though !”

Now it’s Dreizehn’s turn to shove her – and Wächter notices there’s a slight blush spreading on her cheeks. “There’s, ah, you know the nurse in the medical ward ? Dezember ?”

Oh. Oh no. If a conversation overheard a few cycles earlier in the dorm is any indication, this is the Eule Stahl was talking about inviting on a date. The literal last thing this powder keg of a dorm needs is some fight born out of romantic jealousy. It must be showing on her face, because the rookie is raising a concerned eyebrow.

“What, you’re about to tell me she’s taken or something ?” she asks, a hand on her hip.

“Nah, she’s not. Let’s just say she’s got… suitors.”

Straight away, Dreizehn’s smile comes back, like the sun shining bright once again after a dark cloud passes by. “So I still have a chance, then !”

“Guess so. Say, what do you like about her ?”

That gets the Starling to start counting on her fingers. “First, she’s pretty–”

“All Eules are pretty by definition, Grünschnabel.”

“Ah, ah !” she interjects, a finger up in the air. “I’m not sure all the Eules could pull off that frumpy medical garb and mask !”

Shit. She does have a point.

“And besides, she’s super nice to me. She’s always me patching up when I get injured, and she’s really gentle, even though the disinfectant hurts like a bitch. Hey, uh, is it bad that I kinda… like it ? When it hurts ?”

Wächter blinks at her in astonishment. “The… pain, you mean ?”

“Yeah, uh, nevermind. Forget I said that.” She’s looking bashful now, her gaze fixated on the floor; Wächter’s curiosity is definitely piqued, but prying further seems like a dick move, so she decides not to. Instead, she steers the conversation back to most Starlings’ favorite topic of conversation – Eules, of course. “Is there anything else you like about Dezember ?”

“Of course ! When we’re chatting, she doesn’t…” Her voice wavers, breaks. “Doesn’t act like I’m some kind of loser because I’m low in rank. She just… sees me as I am.”

Wächter’s hand, large and firm, clasps her on the shoulder. She puts as much sympathy as she can into the press of her fingers, hoping that it gets through, even though it’s nothing more than plastic on plastic.

“You’re not a loser,” Wächter says, with all the seriousness of a Stahl lecture. “You’re every bit a Starling as the rest of us, Dreizehn. The cadre can be… uh…”

“Jerks ?”

“Jerks, sure. Assholes, whatever you wanna call them. The rookie hazing, it’s what we do here, unfortunately, but I promise it’ll get better soon once this phase is over. Yeah ?”

Dreizehn nods, once and then again with more enthusiasm. It makes Wächter’s heart swell like it hasn’t for entire seasons, even as her words turn to ash in her mouth. It’s what we do here. Always the same excuse, isn’t it ?

Silence falls again on the iso ward, but this time of the companionable variety. At least until a wet thumping noise makes both Starlings jump. Wächter’s brain careens off course before her instincts zero in on the probable source of the noise.

“Oi, meatbag ! Stop hitting your head against the wall !” she bellows.

Another thump follows. Wächter sighs deeply. Duty always calls, but why does it almost always have to be stupid-ass Gestalts misbehaving ?

“I’ll handle it !” Dreizehn chirps. She’s slipped back into the professional, standard Starling persona just as she’s clipped the mask on her face, but Wächter’s spotted the warm smile underneath. And at least, she can relish in the fact that maybe this time she’s done something good in this hellforsaken place, for once in her fucking life.

Dreizehn sighs as she grabs a tray from the pile and quickly rushes to get in the cafeteria line. She likes the place well enough, actually, even though it smells like grease and stale rations. It’s lively, what with all the different Replika models eating and chatting, but Dreizehn’s favorite are the Eules, obviously. Especially the lunchlady ones, with their little hats and their warm, affable smiles as they ladle the slop of the cycle on her plate. The line is advancing, Starling by Starling, and she can just see them right now, actually ! That’s EULR-S2303, März; Dreizehn discreetly flashes her a smile, even winks at her, and a light blush spreads over the little owl’s face. Mission accomplished. It’s silly, but it makes her feel… powerful, maybe. Desirable. Like she’s not just a loser who keeps fucking up until she gets beaten up by her own cadre, or by Storch Zwei, or both.

Bigger-than-usual portion of noodles on her plate, she plods along behind her senior cadre-mates. Abzug’s bickering with Stahl and Hyäne about some bullshit or another, probably her shifts; Dreizehn tunes them out anyway, preferring to listen to the noise of the crowd. Sitting at the cafeteria for meals is a whole ritual : Stahl, as officer, sits down first in the place she chooses, and then it’s a scramble to sit. Everything is a competition with Starlings – best spot, best chair, and so on and so forth. It’s exhausting, frankly; the weight of it is another burden to bear on top of Dreizehn’s already existing woes.

This time, somehow, it’s not so bad. She manages to snag a good spot on the table, and sets her tray down, though not without an icy glare from Polaris. Intra-cadre hierarchies are complex and often in flux, but there are two clear assumptions : Dreizehn is at the very bottom of this ladder, and Polaris is directly above her. Could be why she seems to resent her so much. 

Or maybe she’s just an asshole. Probably both are true, to some extent.

She spears a few noodles – overcooked, but they’ll do – with her fork, and chews on them pensively, her gaze drifting aimlessly like a stricken sailboat on a stormy sea. It lands on Wächter, who this time is sitting in front of her, and her greying hair, pulled as always into a tiny ponytail. It’s nearing the end of the cycle, so it’s looking a bit frazzled by now, some strands falling free; Wächter tucks some of them behind her ears, each time with a gesture so mechanical it has to be long-ingrained routine. 

For a brief moment, their eyes meet, and yet Wächter averts hers, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks. This isn’t supposed to happen : Wächter’s been friendly to her, sure, but it’s the cafeteria, in public. She’s the superior unit in rank, so why did she just do that ? Dreizehn could have pondered this issue for a few more minutes, except something jolts her out of her reverie. And that something is her bread slowly moving out of her tray. Bread doesn’t spontaneously grow legs, so that means–

“Hey !” she hollers, slapping at the offending hand, too late. The bread is snatched at lightning speed to its final destination : Polaris’ mouth.

Dreizehn snarls. “You bitch ! Give me back my food !”

Chaos erupts as she swats at the other Starling, her attack quickly answered by a shove. They claw and slap and pull at each other, Dreizehn’s vision being nothing but a tunnel of self-righteous anger, until a booming voice stops them both dead in their tracks.

“That’s enough,” Stahl says, with threatening, cold calm. Ding, rings her metal spoon against the glass, like the final bell at the end of a boxing match.

Well, Dreizehn certainly doesn’t like her very much, but she can’t deny she’s got ways to make herself heard – and obeyed. As a STAR officer does: with natural, effortless authority. She envies her, sometimes – no, all of the time, wishes she could be like her. A wish shared by all her cadre-mates, she supposes.

Dreizehn’s hair is a mess, and she’s pretty sure Polaris scratched her in their scuffle, and she’s dismally bread-less, so she lets out an exasperated groan, focusing her attention back on her plate of noodles. Wait. Hold on, is that…

…a cockroach on top ?

Yep. A disgusting, dark brown, thankfully dead cockroach, the likes of which Dreizehn has seen scuttling around the Gestalt quarters in droves during patrols. Aghast, she contemplates the insect, while a few of the other Starlings snicker and guffaw.

“Fuck, that’s a good one for once, Hyäne !”

“Oh, sod off, Abzug. I can pull off decent pranks from time to time.”

“So, Schund ?” Hyäne asks. “You enjoy your little decoration ? I’m being told it’s haute cuisine.”

Her ears are ringing, and shame burns inside of her like a steel furnace. They’ve humiliated her again, in front of everyone else, for yet another one of these stupid fucking initiation rituals. Enough is enough. Defiance surges up, wins over rationality and coherent thought and everything else, really.

With all the delicate fluidity of an Eule practicing her ballet routine, she grabs the cockroach with two fingers, and plops it into her mouth.

Deathly silence falls upon the table as she noisily starts chewing.

Of course, it’s easily the most disgusting thing she’s ever eaten. It starts crunchy, then wet as the entrails spurt out of both ends with the pressure of her teeth. And the taste, eugh; both metallic and bitter, a hint of chemicals. And yet the expressions of the other Starlings are fully worth it. Wächter’s eyes are very wide; Abzug and Hyäne’s smug, impish grins have vanished completely. Even Stahl looks taken aback. On and on she masticates, and swallows, until there’s nothing left of the vanquished pest but a single antenna that she daintily plucks out of her teeth to place it on the edge of Polaris’ tray.

And then the killshot : “Thank you for the garnish on my noodles, Hyäne. Much appreciated.”

Hyäne won’t even meet her gaze, the pathetic coward; someone else, probably Eis, is snickering. Abzug’s mouth, however, hangs down in complete and utter bewilderment.

“Shit, rookie, I didn’t think you’d actually do it !” she says. There’s an edge of something in her voice – begrudging admiration, Dreizehn is certain of it. If she has to stoop so low to get the respect she deserves from her cadre, then so be it; centimeter by centimeter, she will rise in rank. Victory, as short-lived as it will be, has never tasted so… horrid, actually. Fuck, the roach aftertaste really does suck.

Like one of Leng’s blizzard clouds dissipating at the end of a cycle, the air of tension that had been hovering over the table seems to be lifting. “Anyway,” Wächter clears her throat, bringing the others’ attention back to her, “have you heard about the Gestalt that ran naked and screaming in the corridors while Storch Drei was chasing him ?”

The entire cadre erupts in genuine cackling, Abzug and Hyäne each rushing to provide more juicy gossip; even Dreizehn laughs, her shame and anger forgotten in the endorphin rush of camaraderie.

That is, until she catches the familiar, icy stare of none other than Storch Zwei, sitting at a nearby table with her ilk. Her stomach twists into a knot, her hands starts to shake, until her fork clatters to the plate. None of the others are paying attention, it’s just her, her that Zwei is glaring at, a mask of pure disgust deforming her traits. Always her. And Dreizehn might not be an expert in Zwei-ology, she just knows that this means consequences. Insults, corporal punishments. Worse, maybe. 

She doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.

Splayed on her bed, hands linked behind her head, Wächter hums to herself in contentment. It’s always nice getting some sorely needed rest & rec while Schneidig’s cadre is on shift, especially after the… heightened emotions at the cafeteria. Putting a roach on the rookie’s plate – man, what the hell was Hyäne thinking ? The Starling’s never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but it seems all she does these past few cycles is pointlessly cruel hazing. Wächter’s never liked the hazing rituals much; she had been subjected to them, as was everyone else, but these did not leave good memories in her databank. Why can’t Starlings be more like Eules ? Sure, Eule posses have their own issues with gossiping and cattiness, but at least – she hopes – they’re not beating each other with steel rods wrapped in towels.

Speaking of hazing, Dreizehn is all smiles, striking up a conversation – at least on her side, since she’s mostly answered by grunts and hums – with Eis, while polishing her armor. Stahl and the rest of the cadre are playing cards, Schafkopf to be specific. It’s a mean like any other to pass the time. Not like there’s much else to do in this shithole, really.

Wächter really ought to get some shut-eye, but she keeps finding that something is nagging her. Like an itch under her shell that won’t go away, a gut feeling – perhaps it’s ridiculous for a Replika to have something so organic, and yet it’s there. Maybe it’s yet another of her cravings for nicotine. (Thirty cycles tobacco-free now, and every so often her lips and fingers twitch in want of the familiar cigarette.) Or maybe it’s just her aging mind playing tricks on her, like these strange dreams she’s been having lately, except manifested into the waking world.

Dreizehn’s finished her maintenance, and is now grinning to herself as she writes something in her journal – if Wächter had to guess, her roach-related misadventures of earlier. Wächter does not see her smiling often, and it’s a shame. There’s something so decidedly charming about the way her cheeks dimple when she’s happy.

Suddenly, the chatter from the cards table stops. Stahl raises her head, her eyes zoning in on unaware Dreizehn, and presses two fingers to her ear.

Wächter’s bad gut feeling becomes a blaring siren.

It all happens too fast. Stahl and Hyäne leap from their armchairs, each grabbing one of Dreizehn’s arms to haul her to her feet by force.

“What the hell ?” she shrieks, trying to break the other Starlings’ grip. “Where are you taking me ? What’s going on ?!”

“Controller’s orders.” Stahl’s voice, muffled behind her mask, is cold. Dispassionate, like she’s just doing some forgettable routine task. Dreizehn’s body completely freezes, a hare caught in the headlights, her eyes widening in fear. The nervous system’s autonomous reaction to imminent danger, one of the many things that separate Replikas from the Empire’s crude, mindless automatons.

“I’ve done nothing wrong !” Dreizehn’s still protesting; Hyäne yanks on her arm.

“Take it up with the Controller, not me.”

A terrible shockwave of apprehension ripples through Wächter, and she finds herself standing up, fists balled at her sides. “Don’t intervene, Wächter,” Stahl says, her tone flat. There’s an undertone of a threat in her words, as always : Stahl’s always held the belief that discipline is paramount, and that any insubordination has to be punished in some way. And looked so sorry while doing it, too, her face wearing the I’m not mad, just disappointed expression. Once, Wächter was convinced she truly disliked being the hammer of intra-cadre justice; now ? Doubt has started creeping in, fissuring her certainties like water seeping through the cracks of granite.

Even Abzug is paying attention now, and so is Eis, the ever-passive. Stahl visibly relaxes her grip on Dreizehn’s arm; the latter wrenches it away from her with a twist of her shoulders. “I’m sure it’s a formality,” Stahl sighs. “We’ll be back soon enough. There’s no need for a fight.”

Of course. Just like that, the electric tension that had been crackling in the dorm room settles down a little. Dreizehn lets herself be led to the door, but Wächter can tell she’s not alright. It’s in her posture : shoulders sloped, head bent down. She looks like she’s being sent to the gallows. Wächter wrestles a look of pure horror away from her face, clinging to the shreds of her own composure like a life raft. 

(It’s been so hard, lately, to stay calm. She should probably book an appointment with the Eule nurses, tell her about the dreams as well.)

In the end, she does nothing. Watches the door close behind Dreizehn like a coward, the little voice that tells her to listen to her higher-ranked peers drowning everything else. It’s what they all do here, isn’t it ?

Soon enough, Dreizehn learns that resistance is futile.

She’d tried making a run for it as soon as Stahl’s gentle but firm grip on her collar had slackened enough, just as they all rounded a corner. In hindsight, it was a stupid idea : she barely made it a few steps when Stahl snatched her again, her elbow colliding with the back of her head so hard it made her vision feeds blur. And run to where, exactly ? To her dorm, like a coward ? No. It was nothing more than a desperate move, one she’s still kicking herself for.

“We’re here,” Stahl murmurs. They are, indeed. In front of the monster’s lair. Dreizehn finds that her knees are shaking, like she’s in a damn Leng-quake. Her teeth chatter, and she can feel her pulse speed up, running amok. She’s terrified, yes, but there is a strange sense of anticipation mixed in – no, twisted in like fraying wires, a rush of adrenaline so pure she gets light-headed. Like the final step before plummeting in freefall.

Stahl pushes the button and ushers her inside.

She finds Zwei deep in her den, sitting on her desk as she usually does. Looking casual, too, with no armor and belt. There’s something deeply unprofessional about this, as if this whole thing is an illicit little rendez-vous, and not the incoming ass-beating of a lifetime.

“Schund ! There you are !” the Storch coos. Her combat knife makes a sharp shing sound every time she slides its edge over the honing rod, and the noise of Dreizehn’s thick swallow is far, far too audible in the cramped room.

Zwei throws one long leg over the other, and strolls to the two Starlings, seemingly detached. Dreizehn doesn’t even have time to brace before the uppercut hits her square in the gut. It knocks the wind out of her, and she gasps for air, falling to a knee, the only thing holding her up being Stahl’s grip on her arm.

Zwei’s uppercuts have gotten so much nastier. She’s learned that hitting her in the body doesn’t leave as many traces as on the face; Dreizehn would have never taken her for a tactician, but she apparently is a woman of many talents – all converging to the same path, cruelty. A tactician, until she loses the inevitable battle against her own vices, and the allure of blood and bruises becomes too much.

Breathe in, breathe out, even though her diaphragm is screaming in pain. High above her, Zwei sighs heavy.

“What were you thinking, Schund ? Just because I named you like that doesn’t mean you have to take it literally !”

She guffaws at her own joke, followed by a polite – and stilted – chuckle from Stahl. “I’m serious,” she continues. “Why the fuck would you do that ?”

I felt like I had to, Schund wants to say, but no words cross the threshold of her lips. They can’t, or they won’t – same thing, in the end. She raises her head to meet Zwei’s glare with her own, mustering every bit of mettle she has left in her. 

“You humiliated me !” Zwei hisses. “It’s bad enough having Eins boss me around, now I’ll have to deal with her little snide remarks on how my Starlings find roaches tasty !”

Pain flares in Schund’s neuroreceptors; Zwei’s struck her on the jaw. The ritual’s begun, now. Nothing left for her to do than being resigned to her fate. Another blow, harder, to her temple. The metal floor is cold when the side of her head impacts it. When did she fall ? It doesn’t matter anymore.

“Ever since you got transferred here, it’s all gone to shit ! The meatbags are even more restless, the machines jam constantly, nothing works properly anymore !” Zwei raises her leg back in an elegant arc and thumps her in the ribs, polymer tibia to polymer shell. Schund’s ribs ache and twinge as she rolls to her belly, groaning.

She feels something cold and sharp press on her throat. Knife. Knife, knife, knife, shit– “You disgust me, Schund. Were you sent to curse me ? My very own scourge, the thorn in my side. Look at me – I said look at me, you fucking bitch !”

Schund looks at her. Her face is contorted into a mask of fury, the kind so bright and so righteous it strips everything down to the bone, to the metal. There’s nothing but anger and hate dripping off of her like melted wax down a burning candle, and that pinprick of light in the deep of her blue-black eyes dances like a flame, ablaze in delight.

(Despite everything, Schund finds her… beautiful. There must be something wrong with her.)

Her breath catches in her throat as the blade pushes once again. She’s going to die here, isn’t she ? Bleed out gurgle choke drown on her own oxidant, here in Hell. It’s what you deserve, says the little voice. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she should have never been printed–

“Controller, wait !”

What’s that voice ? Is that Oberfeldwebel Stahl ? Schund frowns – why is she still here ? Was she just watching everything ? Watching her ?

A distant sound of plastic impacting flesh – a slap. “Don’t you fucking dare interrupt me !” Zwei barks.

“Controller, I–I am merely suggesting that there must be, ah, some–some other way of teaching the rookie a lesson ?”

“Teaching her a lesson ?” The Storch sounds surprised, like a small child awed at a whole new possibility. “Yes… that could be good.”

That can’t possibly be good.

With a pained groan, Schund manages to get to her knees. Stahl’s there, in the corner, her usual stoic gaze softened with something like pity. It makes her gut twist and roil, worse than any of Zwei’s looks ever could.

“Found it !” comes the clamor from the other side of the office. Though Schund’s vision still blurs and shakes, she can see the Storch is coming back with a glass and an unidentified plastic bottle.

“You see,” Zwei starts, “an old tradition had Gestalt mothers wash the mouths of vulgar, misbehaving children with soap. I don’t have soap, but I have this !” Grinning, she points at the bottle.

Schund swallows down the fear that’s rising in her entrails. The purple, slightly transparent liquid inside the bottle, what the hell is th–

“You must be wondering what’s inside, little bird.” Zwei’s tone is dripping with barely-concealed disdain. “I’ll tell you. It’s detergent.”

No.

“Yes !” she cackles. 

There’s nowhere left to go. She tries to scurry backwards, but her back soon hits the wall. Zwei’s clicking her tongue, annoyed, motioning at Stahl; two firm hands clamp themselves on her shoulders.

“Open up, now,” Zwei coos. “Oh, don’t you look at me like that – I’m simply adopting the spirit of Starling hazing rituals. You stupid little fuckers love this, don’t you ? Hurting each other.” Then, her voice drops low, almost to a growl. “I’ll hurt you worse.”

“Please–” Schund’s started babbling.

“Open up, Schund.”

Two fingers jam themselves into her mouth, pulling her jaw open by force. And then there’s the taste, foul and acrid and worst of it all chemical, fake cherry and faker almond mixing in an unholy waltz. Oh how it burns, in her mouth and on her lips and down her throat, ten times more potent than any gut-rot the Aras could cook up.

“And be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess, but be filled with the Spirit !” Zwei’s chanting like a woman possessed, laughing at her state.

Like a set of gears clicking into place, the animalistic part of Schund takes over. She thrashes, spits, coughs, writhes and wriggles like a cornered, rabid beast until Stahl’s grip loosens. With a final jerk, she half-bolts, half-crawls towards the door, slamming a palm on the panel and slumping on the floor, her arms dragging her forwards like a reanimated corpse. All of a sudden, movement in the corridor – and Schund’s looking at Wächter’s horrified expression.

“Dreizehn ? The hell is going on ?”

When Dreizehn tries to speak, all that comes out is a pained gurgle. And some bubbles.

Chapter Text

“Dreizehn ? The hell is going on ?”

The Starling’s crawling on the floor, her shell scraping against the rough metal tile. She looks up at Wächter, and Wächter’s blood goes cold for the second time in an hour – no, it freezes in her veins, like she’s stepped off outside during a hundred-year Leng blizzard. Her eyes, they’re terrified; bloodshot and wide and unfocused. She tries to say something, coughs and hacks, and out comes something foamy and pink. It smells, sickeningly enough, like cherry and almonds.

Doesn’t take long for Wächter’s brain to connect the dots. Detergent. She must have drank some detergent, the kind Eules use to scrub things in the kitchen. No time to ask why or how or when; jolting out of her torpor, Wächter snaps down to grab Dreizehn’s arm, trying to haul her to her feet.

“Wächter.”

It’s Stahl’s voice.

She’s standing there, in the middle of the hallway, her expression blank, as if her processes are stuck in a loop. Silence settles for a few seconds, until the anger that had been threatening to boil over inside Wächter finally overflows.

“Stahl ! Get your fucking ass over here and help me !” she yells.

It’s really no way to speak to your commanding officer, even one you’ve known for your whole life. In any other situation, Wächter would get her ass beat for this; yet there’s a distinct feeling that this is far from an ordinary one.

Stahl grunts and finally relents, taking a few steps forward until she finally reaches the downed Starling. She loops an arm under hers, and there’s a precious few seconds during which Wächter honestly believes everything will be alright. That is, until Dreizehn realizes Stahl is here.

Goddess, that look of betrayal on her face. She tries to say something; more hacking, more coughing, more sickeningly pink foam at her mouth. Stahl just squeezes her tighter, and that’s when Dreizehn starts to thrash around, a blur of tangled, frenzied limbs, nothing left but the animalistic instinct of a cornered prey, buried deep inside the most primitive part of a Replika’s brain. No matter how hard Wächter tries to hold her down, she can’t – desperation must have unlocked the failsafes, given her her full, unbridled strength. Somewhere, somewhen in the chaos, Stahl raises her right arm, and brings down her elbow full-force on the back of Dreizehn’s head. It makes a truly horrible sound, the smack of hard plastic on harder metal.

The young Starling drops like a rock on the cold hard floor, limp and unconscious.

Silence settles in again in the cramped hallway, this time so much more dismal.

“What the fuck, Stahl–”

Stahl silences her with an outstretched finger. “Give me a break, Wächter. It worked, didn’t it ? I helped.”

Perhaps. Dreizehn’s finally subdued and quiet. Wächter brings a trembling hand to her neck, and finds her pulse steady, even if her breath is a little shallow.

“You could do – maybe you did serious damage to her !”

“Maybe. Still better than what would have happened if she wouldn’t stop squirming and we couldn’t grab her.”

“But–”

“Shut up and help me carry her.”

That she can do. But there will be a reckoning later – Wächter knows this, deep inside her chest.

She wakes up to a disquieting, dissonant symphony of beeping monitors.

Where is she ?

Heavy-lidded eyes open to behold stark white walls and light blue curtains. Must mean she’s in the medical wing again, then. Quick system check : arms, fine. Legs, fine. Trunk, fine. Head, ooh, not so fine : there’s a persistent dull ache, originating from the back. Pain radiates in waves to the tune of her own pulse, making her wince when she tries to sit up. Yes, that’s it, she got hit. By her own officer, no less.

Bitterness makes her lip quirk down, and the sensation crashes over her all at once then : it burns, in her mouth in her throat everywhere. 

And be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess, but be filled with the Spirit !

A sudden memory. She chokes on her own spit, coughs pale pink globs on the white sheets covering her legs.

“Please don’t do that,” says a dulcet voice, from behind the privacy curtain. A slender arm, black-and-white, pulls it open, and inside slips the slender form of a familiar Eule.

“Dezember !” Dreizehn croaks out – or, well, tries. More of a pained gurgle, really.

“Stop trying to speak, dummy ! You’ll only irritate your throat more !” Dezember admonishes her, gently tapping her on her chestplate. The sudden physical contact stuns Dreizehn so much she can’t even find a retort to that.

Dezember continues, her eyes scanning down at the clipboard she’s holding. “You got really lucky the detergent you swallowed was diluted a bit compared to the standard concentration. Would have done so much more damage otherwise.”

Dreizehn half-hums, half-grumbles at that. It sure feels like she swallowed live coals, though.

“Say ahh,” Dezember murmurs, pressing a thin wooden spatula to her tongue. Dreizehn obliges, even though the mere sensation of something touching her tongue makes her want to hurl her guts out. “I see. Still inflamed, but it’s less terrible than when you arrived.”

How long have I been out, Dreizehn tries to say, but it comes out as a barely intelligible series of mumbling, for obvious reasons.

“About two hours, give or take. You wouldn’t stop thrashing around when you woke up, so I had to sedate you. To intubate, and all of that.”

Huh. Strange that the Eule understood everything she was trying to ask. Must be her type’s mysterious social powers.

The wooden instrument is taken out of her mouth, and Dezember is now scribbling something. “We’ll continue the corticosteroid treatment and keep monitoring,” she’s mumbling to herself. It’s kind of cute, how focused she is, her brow furrowing as she writes in elegant script with her pen.

A click of the pen, and then her demeanor shifts entirely. Oh, it’s subtle, of course, but Dreizehn’s been observing the owls for too long not to notice it. Her posture relaxes a little, less perfect robotic helper and more ordinary woman who feels the tiredness of a very, very long cycle seep into her very bones. She peers outside the privacy curtain, once then again.

“I keep telling you to take care, Dreizehn,” she chides, holding up an accusatory finger.

Grinning despite herself, Dreizehn shrugs, as if to mean not my fault.

“That’s, what, the third time in a period you’ve ended up in the infirmary !”

Dreizehn holds up four fingers.

“Fourth, my mistake.” Dezember leans in, her concern evident. “Was it… Controller Zwei again ?”

She nods, not managing to look her caretaker in the eyes. Shame’s burned deep inside of her for a while now, like a self-sustaining, bottomless furnace. A pathetic little bird is what she is, always ending up in medical to get patched up. Starlings should be strong. Tough. Fearless. Yet she is none of those things.

“I’m sorry that keeps happening to you,” Dezember is saying, in an obvious attempt at sympathy. It only makes Dreizehn feel worse. “Oh, wait, you have a visitor ! Let me usher her in.”

Finger pressed to her ear, the owl disappears behind the curtain.

Wächter’s never liked hospitals, honestly.

There’s something about them that’s disquieting to her, and it’s certainly not helping her nerves. It’s the smell – sickeningly chemical formaldehyde and disinfectant, or maybe the incessant, dissonant beeping of the various machines. Doesn’t help that Sierpinski’s medical wing is so much worse than the one in Weierstrass. At least in the latter it felt like it was designed to help.

The little owl guides her through a maze of trays and machines, then points at a bed, tuckered in a corner behind some curtains. Her improvised vase and flower shaking in her hands, Wächter hesitates before parting the curtain – why ? It’s not like the rookie is dead, or even dying. She’s just injured. Just injured.

One deep inhale, and she’s inside the perimeter.

For someone who inhaled detergent barely two hours ago, Dreizehn doesn’t look that bad. There’s an IV drip hooked to the service port in her arm, and the deep dark circles under her eyes betray the fact that this was no minor mishap.

“Dreizehn ! How are you feeling ?” Wächter asks, approaching her cautiously.

“Like shit,” she manages to croak out, right before she breaks into a coughing fit. Well, at least that answers Wächter’s question.

The flower is set on the nightstand, a single glass sitting precariously alongside a tray of syringes and medicine vials. Wächter had agonized for a good fifteen minutes about what to bring, or if arriving empty-handed would be a critical faux-pas; finally, inspiration had struck her like a bolt of lightning, and she’d plucked a glass from the cafeteria and a flower from the Aras to make a little offering. It isn’t much, but it’s honest work.

Dreizehn’s eyes drift from the makeshift flower vase to Wächter. Her left eyebrow climbs up by a few millimeters, questioningly.

“It’s, uh, a Gestalt tradition to bring flowers to the sick in hospitals,” Wächter stammers. “Supposed to bring good luck… I think.”

The eyebrow ascends even higher.

“Hold on, hold on – I’m not superstitious, or anything ! Not like, well…”

Not like her. Not like Zwei. Wächter dares not say her name, as if doing so will summon her here, a malevolent spirit incarnated in the flesh.

Dreizehn chuckles a little, and brings a hand to the flower, caressing the petals with the tip of her index finger. It’s a poppy – Wächter vaguely remembers the Ara telling her so – and said petals are a striking, vibrant red. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t a great choice, but it’s all she had. Red like Zwei’s eyes when she smells blood in the water, red like the fresh oxidant Wächter has seen Dreizehn wipe off herself so many times.

They stare at each other in awkward, ponderous silence.

“I’m sorry,” Wächter finally says. “It’s not… it’s not right, what she did to you.” Desperately seeking something to do, her fingers pluck her pilotka hat from her head and start fidgeting with it.

Dreizehn stares on. Yet the morose scowl on her face seems to soften, almost imperceptibly, creases on her forehead and around her mouth flattening into nothing.

“I should’ve intervened,” Wächter presses on, the felt hat now nothing more than a crumpled ball between her hands. “I should’ve… done something. Anything.”

A shrug from the Starling on the bed, then she scoots to the side. With an air of nonchalance so disarming it sends Wächter’s oxidant pump into a tizzy, she pats the newly created space. The message’s obvious : sit next to me, please. Should she ? Is it even appropriate ? Could she be–

“Sorry !” chirps the very recognizable voice of an Eule, barely a meter away from Wächter’s right here. “Time’s up ! Standard visitation duration. It’s procedure.”

Releasing the breath she had been holding, Wächter takes a step back. “We’ll, uh, talk more later,” she says, lamely, to Dreizehn, and then she’s crossed the threshold, ducking under the curtain rod. She doesn’t have much of a choice. 

Rules are made to be followed, after all.

Cramped briefing room. The stuffiest atmosphere Wächter has breathed in in a while, and that’s saying something, in Sierpinski. One of her own personal visions of Hell, condensed into a one-hour schedule.

Protektor Controller Eins sighs. “So, as I understand it, this whole mess started with… a prank ? By you ? This is for the record, by the way.”

Saying this, she points her pen – as if it were a weapon – in the direction of Hyäne, who visibly shrinks. Wächter can’t even pretend to ignore the primal satisfaction welling up inside of her gut; Hyäne’s always been all bluster and no muster. Serves that bastard right, being knocked down a peg for once in her life.

It should have been you, the little voice of envy in her head murmurs. Stahl’s right hand woman, like the old times, hand in hand–

She silences it. Not the time nor place to ruminate on the past.

“Sir, I, uh, thought it would be funny to put a roach on the rookie’s plate–”

Eins’ exasperated huff makes her clamp her mouth shut in an instant. “Not much thought going on, I see. Comrade Stahl, any comments ?”

Wächter’s never really seen Stahl crumble under pressure, and this is no exception. “Sir, I must note that pranks and initiation rituals such as these are perfectly normal in Starling cadres such as mine.” She steeples her fingers together, and somehow Wächter knows exactly what she’s going to say next. “It’s what we do here.”

For a second, Eins’ nostrils flare. “I’m aware of this, Comrade Stahl. What we must discuss is what happened next.”

Over in the chair at the opposite end of the table – ostensibly for germ contamination reasons – Zwei stirs, bringing her cup of tea to her mouth. (Pinky out, too, as if she’s suddenly discovered in herself the class of an Imperial noble scion.)

“I decided to take some action, of course,” she says, elegantly crossing one overlong leg over the other. “As is my prerogative, as the cadre’s Controller unit.”

“Obviously.” Eins’ teeth are grinding together so hard it’s audible.

“You understand me, Eins, don’t you ? We can’t have our Starlings eating roaches ! It’s simply so…. unhygienic !!”

“Let’s move on, please.” The Storch is furiously scribbling notes on some kind of report. “Comrades 01, 06, if you will ?”

Hyäne glances at Stahl, visible unease in her gaze; the latter meets it with her usual austere sense of authority. I’ll handle it, she always, always means.

“Comrade Controller Zwei called us on our cadre frequency, sir.”

“Why ?”

“The order was to bring unit S23– I mean, the rookie, to her office.”

Stahl gives a quick look in Zwei’s direction, and for the first time in ages, Wächter sees a crack in her façade. Tsk-tsk, she wants to wag her finger in front of her nose, you almost slipped, Stahl, almost said the forbidden number.

“Did you know what Controller Zwei’s intent was, for the rookie ?”

“I did not. I simply obeyed the order.” But I could guess, Stahl isn’t saying. Only an idiot couldn’t know what the logical outcome of dragging Dreizehn to Zwei’s den would be, and Stahl is many things, but she’s not an idiot.

The sound of a pen scratching paper fills the room. Actions, immortalized on cheap cellulose fiber, to end up stored in a dusty archive cabinet somewhere in Sierpinski S-23’s depths. Then Eins turns to face Zwei, and the atmosphere changes on a dime, as if a terrible wind gust has just traversed the area.

“Zwei. Describe what you did, please.” Eins’ tone is sharp as obsidian.

Undeterred, Zwei’s still sipping her tea. “I decided a punishment was mandatory for the rookie. As I happened to have detergent around in my office, I made her swallow some.”

Goddess, she really does say it like it’s the most normal fucking sequence of events possible. Bile rises in Wächter’s throat, and not for the first time these last cycles.

“Acknowledged. And you, STAR-S2302, were the one to find the unit in her…” Eins purses her lips. “... injured state ?”

Surprised, Wächter jolts before she can muster an answer. “Y–Yes, sir. With Stahl’s help, I brought her to the medical wing.”

“She should be able to resume her service this afternoon,” Stahl adds.

“Excellent.”

Eins puts down a few more lines on her report, and presses a stamp to the bottom of the page, the decisive thump echoing off the walls with a force that seems, frankly, a little vindictive. She sets down the pen next to it, and Wächter subconsciously braces herself.

“What the hell were you thinking, Zwei ?” the Storch yells.

Welp. There it is.

“I was thinking that I did what I had to do !” Zwei’s hissing in response. Her eyebrows and mouth are twitching, and that’s a bad sign. Means her anger’s about to blow up for good, like a pressure cooker about to explode.

“You had to do fuck-all !”

Zwei gasps, clutching imaginary pearls to her chest. “Excuse me ? Excuse me ? Do I not have the right to discipline my own subordinates ?”

“Discipline ? You’re insane, Zwei ! A fucking nutcase !” Eins suddenly stands up, and she towers over all of them, Storch and Starling alike. “In which fucking universe is pouring detergent down someone’s throat a reasonable punishment ?”

A split second of eerie quietness, and Zwei’s scowl vanishes from her face. It chills Wächter down to her core. “In mine.”

Eins’ mouth gapes wide open. “You…”

Wächter recognizes the tactic well enough. Challenging a superior authority, the way a lower ranked Starling unit would with her disrespected superior. Somehow, it’s so much more sinister when a Storch does it to her peer. It makes her synthetic skin crawl with jitters.

There’s a gasp – she’s not sure from whom – as Eins leaps from her seat and snatches Zwei by the armor straps, pulling their faces so they’re right next to each other. “Do you know, Zwei, how much I’ve had to fight those fuckass ÆON pencil-pusher bean counters in Leng Orbital to get new Starling units ? Do you ?”

“No.”

“Do you understand how expensive it is to keep a unit in the medical wing ? Out of commission for an entire cycle ?”

“No–”

“All I asked was for you to keep order while I handled the rest. Maintain discipline, not turn this fucking place into a slaughterhouse ! Do you understand me, Zwei ?”

All three Starlings are holding their breath, Wächter can sense it. Deliverance comes at last, when Zwei nods, exactly once. The chair creaks worryingly when Eins lets go of her armor straps.

“I don’t give a shit if you hit your Starlings, but stop trying to kill them, for the Revolution’s sake !”

With that, the old Storch walks back to her chair, slumping on it like all her internal energy reserves have vanished at once. “Get the fuck out of the room. All of you,” she grumbles, fingers massaging the bridge of her nose.

Well, Wächter doesn’t need to be told twice. She practically bolts towards the door, pushing Hyäne out of the way with a well-timed shoulder shove.

At least that feels satisfying.

It’s all a perfectly routine habit. A simple bathroom break : the point is to go relieve herself, then splash a bit of water on her face to cool down from the meeting’s emotions, run her hands under the cold tap until they stop trembling. Truly, the last person Wächter expected to see is none other than Oberfeldwebel Stahl. And yet here she is, occupying the space in front of one of the sinks with her 220-cm tall frame.

Stahl’s eyes catch Wächter in the mirror just as she exits the stall; Wächter does a double take at first, her hooves skittering a little on the wet tile floor.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Wächter.” Stahl’s voice is perfectly composed, as usual. Soothing, even.

“Guess we had the same idea.” 

The other Starling snorts.

Fortunately, there’s another sink, so Wächter settles in front of that one instead. Unfortunately, the mirror’s cracked; what she sees between the tentacular web of fractured glass is a face of deep weariness, bags under her eyes barely concealed by the red eyeliner inked inside of her synthetic skin.

(She’ll have to file a maintenance request for that mirror. Eventually. Bigger priorities, though.)

“What a meeting that was, eh ?” Stahl says after a few seconds of silence, only interrupted by the uncomfortable screech of a faucet – too much water pressure.

“Yeah. One to remember, for sure. On second though – no, I’d rather not.”

“Heh. I thought they’d start fighting right there in that room. The Storches, I mean.”

“Pretty sure that’s already happened before.”

That gets another chortle out of Stahl. Wächter spares a sideways glance to her officer, then another, because what she’s doing is just so strange she can’t make sense of it. Stahl’s dabbing something from a tiny vial on a square slab of cotton, then reverently presses it to her face, rubbing it in circles of increasing diameters – one cheek, and the other, forehead and chin.

“What ?” she says, flatly, when she catches Wächter eyeing her.

“The hell are you doing ?”

There’s that look again, the condescending little sneer, chin titled upwards. Staring at here like she’s terminally stupid. “Skincare, obviously.”

Wächter is so flabbergasted she temporarily forgets how to form words. “Uh… is that new ?”

“Not really.”

“The hair dye wasn’t enough, now ? What are you, an Eule ?”

“Shut up,” Stahl hisses, with such surprising venom Wächter takes a step back. “And you better not spread a word of this to the others.”

Of course. It all makes sense that Wächter’s obsession with youth and perfection would take her to new heights of… coquettishness, so to speak, but it’s certainly unexpected for a Starling. Wächter holds her hands up in an obvious surrender gesture. “Hey, alright, alright. Let’s talk about something else, yeah ?”

Stahl’s frown dissipates. “Sure. The meeting. Empress’ shit, I haven’t been petrified like this, since… uh… you remember that one industrial accident ? Back then, in Weierstrass ?”

Wächter remembers, of course, even though the memory’s long been compartmentalized. Protective measures or not, it lingers on, seeps through the barriers like fine sand between fingers. “When Feuer’s legs got crushed by the falling crates that tipped over from the scaffolding ?”

“Yeah. That one. I couldn’t do anything except…. stare at her while she screamed.” 

(And scream she did. Wächter’s never heard another Starling scream so loud before, or after. The disquieting sound is still imprinted in a databank somewhere, haunting her ever so often.)

“Poor fucker gave a wide berth to all the heavy equipment after that. Even after she got new legs. Can’t really blame her.”

A pregnant pause. “Wächter. Do you miss it ?”

“Miss what ?”

“Weierstrass. Our… old life.”

Stahl looks so earnest that it’s hard not to humor her, just this time. Gone is hardass Stahl, tough drill instructor Stahl, archetypical Starling in all including name. All that remains is Wächter’s oldest friend.

“Yeah,” Wächter murmurs, feeling her throat bobbing up and down like she’s trying to swallow a piece that’s too big, badly shaped. “I do. All the time.”

There’s no answer from the other Starling except from the most meaningful of all – touch. Stahl’s hand curls around Wächter’s, a simple gesture of comfort and understanding and everything else. For a long moment, they just stay silent, fingers laced together, a precious bubble of intimacy inside the boiling hellscape that this station is. Nobody else gets to see this side of Stahl, Wächter notes with a hint of pride. Not even Hyäne, not even the Eules she courts.

Stahl’s skin looks so smooth, radiant even. Wächter could lean forwards and kiss her, let her press her against the bathroom wall until she feels the tingling arc of their belly contacts touching. What’s one more tryst on top of a hundred ? It’s not fraternization, it’s survival.

And yet, she doesn’t.

“Stahl, we need to talk.”

“About what ?” Stahl murmurs, too close.

“About the rookie – Dreizehn. You know what I mean.”

Stahl retracts her hand like it’s just been touching a red-hot iron. Gone is vulnerable Stahl, replaced by the now-familiar unshakeable version of her.

“Do enlighten me, Wächter, if you will,” she scoffs.

“It’s not right, what’s–what’s happening to her,” Wächter stammers – why can’t she be assertive, for once in her fucking life ? “All of it. The hazing, the beatings. She doesn’t deserve any of this.”

“She fucks up, she gets her ass kicked. It’s always been the rule. You know this.”

“Not like this, though ! You’ve seen what Zwei did to her !”

Stahl elects to stay mute. It’s almost worse than any retort she could have conjured up.

“You knew Zwei was going to hurt her when she called you,” Wächter presses on, undeterred. “You knew, and still you did nothing.”

“An order is an order, Wächter. I had no choice. Be reasonable.”

“Bullshit !” she spits. “There’s always a choice !”

The sink creaks when Stahl leans on it, clearly weary of their little debate. “You’re right, Wächter. There’s always a choice, and I made mine entire periods ago. The first time I saw the newbie interact with Zwei, actually.”

Desperately hanging on her words, Wächter awaits the drop with bated breath and fear pooling in her entrails. The sinking premonition that she’s not going to like what comes next. “Wanna hear what it was ?” Wächter nods, foolishly. 

“Better her than me.”

Wächter’s eyes widen. Her pulse quickens up. A terrible spike of disgust tears through her, so sharp she could hurl.

(There’s no coming back from this, is it ? Nearly a decade of friendship, shattered like the mirror Wächter’s facing.)

“Look at you, Wächter, all sentimental.” A scoff. “Why is it that you care so much, anyway ? She’s replaceable. We’re all replaceable.”

“Stahl, that’s not–”

“Oh. Oooh.” The officer tilts her head to the side, pupils widening like a predator catching a whiff of an injured animal. “That’s what it is. You want to get into her wires, don’t you ?”

Wächter exhales in surprise, completely taken aback. “I don’t– what the fuck are you talking about ?”

Stahl’s grin is almost cruel, all teeth and no warmth, as it gets concealed behind the mask she’s just clipped on her face. (It’s still there, underneath, she’s sure of it.)

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” the Starling says, her words laced with cloyingly sweet honey. “See you next shift, comrade.”

And then she’s out, the bathroom’s door hissing behind her.

Wächter breathes in the sickeningly chemical smell of dampness and toilet bowl cleaner. She blinks, and for a split second, the face that stares back at her in the broken mirror isn’t – yet is – hers.

“Hey, rookie ! You need to do the plank !”

Halfway through cleaning her own armor of crusted fluids and dried detergent, Dreizehn looks up at the two Starlings. “Huh ?”

“You heard us right,” Polaris sneers. “Plank ! Now !”

“Wh–where ?” Dreizehn’s voice is still hoarse from the past cycle’s events. It sounds a little pathetic.

Instead of answering, the two Starlings just grab her, one arm for each, and haul her towards the corner of the room – the one with the armchairs.

“Little Grünschnäbel like you ought to know their place. And what is their place, Hyäne ?”

“As furniture, of course !”

They launch into a coordinated, mocking cackle.

“We’ve been using this trunk as a table for our tea sessions,” Polaris explains. “But we’ve been thinking about how it’s way too small for our needs, sometimes.”

Hyäne jabs a finger into her chestplate, hard. “And that’s where you come in !”

Dreizehn blinks at them for a few seconds, willing her still-tired brain to form a coherent explanation of what they want. Eventually, the obvious conclusion reveals itself : it’s a hazing ritual. Again.

Not like she has much choice, right ?

She scoots towards the trunk, the humiliation weighting heavily on her like a wet blanket, inescapable. Distant are the sounds of the Starlings chortling when she places the top of her head against the wooden box, her elbows and knees locking so that her torso maintains a near-perfect horizontal orientation. A plank by the numbers.

“That’s an obedient little rookie we got here,” someone comments.

Fuck you, Dreizehn thinks but does not say. If I ever rise in the ranks, I’ll make you pay for that. Double. She breathes in, clinging to the fantasy of revenge like a lifeline.

“Wait up, I’ll get the tea !”

Someone places two paper cups on her back; Dreizehn can tell, because they’re round and feather-light. A finger meanders along the edge of her shoulder blade, applying just enough pressure to trip her tactile sensor.

Someone slams a hand on a desk with barely-concealed exasperation. “Girls ! You better not spill anything on the carpet or I swear on the Daughter’s name that I’ll make you vacuum it up with your own mouths !”

The severe tone in the voice, the slight rasp that betrays the voice module’s age… Has to be Stahl.

“Chill out, Stahl.” Bingo. “We’re not gonna make any messes, I promise.”

“You’ll be a good table for us, won’t you ?” the purring voice above her says. Dreizehn just grunts in response, noting with immense displeasure how her cheeks are already heating up.

“So, which tea are we having today, Polaris ?”

“Same as always, Hyäne. A fine black tea blend of quality leaves from the prized farms of Am Arsch der Welt.”

More laughing. Abruptly, the weight on Dreizehn’s back shifts, and the sound of sloshing liquid reaches her ears – must be the boiling water from the kettle, then. She’s suddenly thankful most of her shell doesn’t have temperature sensors.

A packet of powdered sugar being torn open, a cup being stirred. “Shame we can’t get anything better than this, really. Tastes a bit like dirt.”

“Yeah. So, what’s up ? You been having interesting shifts lately ?”

“I guess you could say that. Hey, Polaris, did you hear about the Gestalt that tried to shank Schneidig ?”

A gasp. Dreizehn’s ears perk up, if only because any distraction is welcome right now. “No way ! What happened ?”

“Well, I was on guard shift along with her and, uh, what’s her name, Sauber I think ? One of her girls ? Anyway, we were patting down the Gestalts that were supposed to go down to the mines, and one of them was acting weird, right ? All… jittery, you know what I mean ?”

“Yeah.”

“His turn comes, and wouldn’t you know it, he pulls a gnarly lookin’ shiv and charges at Schneidig ! While screaming !”

“Woah ! And what happened next ?”

Hyäne gulps down her tea with an obnoxiously loud slurping sound before she puts down her paper cup again. “Fucker actually managed to stab her. Damn thing managed to pierce one or two centimeters in before it got stopped by the armor lattice.”

Polaris whistles. “Shit, I can’t imagine Schneidig was happy about that.”

“Oh, she was pissed. Broke the dude’s arm straight away. Bones were sticking out and shit, it was gnarly !”

“Something interesting happens in this shithole for once and it’s not my shift ! Fuck, wish I could’ve been there to see that.“

“Trust me, you don’t. Fat chance he would’ve tried to stab you instead !”

They both laugh at that, but Dreizehn notes with interest that Polaris’ sounds a little stilted. Bitter, maybe. Guess she didn’t appreciate Hyäne’s little jab – or maybe she’s imagining things, desperate as she is to find cracks in her tormentors’ so far united front.

Sudden, ominous silence. She braces for impact.

“It would seem our sentient table is doing well so far, isn’t she ?”

“Mm-hmm. Wasn’t expecting her to hold her plank for so long.”

Truth be told, Dreizehn can barely hear them through the sound her oxidant makes when it travels through her circulatory system. Her pump is working overdrive to supply the artificial muscles with the necessary energy and oxygen, but even Replika systems aren’t meant to hold a static load for so long. She’s starting to break, and the other two know this.

“I can do it,” she grits out, mostly to herself. That gets her a reproachful slap on the back.

“Furniture isn’t supposed to talk, Schund.”

There it is, that nickname again, spat with venom by a voice identical to her own. A wave of nausea nearly buckles her, sending all the pitiful scraps of her self-worth tumbling overboard into the abyss.

I can do it. “Hey, Hyäne, do you reckon rookies are ticklish ?” 

“Let’s try it !” 

I can do it. Cruel hands start roaming her shell, pinching and slapping, polyethylene fingers prodding at every exposed area – her armpit, her hair, the back of her knee. I can do it. “Oh, look, she’s burning up,” Polaris whispers when she presses her palm to her ventilation outlets, and Dreizehn chokes on her own disgrace again.

I can do it. But she can’t, can she ? Everything always fails her, in the end. Her sore muscles can’t hold her weight much longer. A targeted press over her spine sends a strange jolt through her nerves, finally shattering her concentration. With a pained heave, she falls, all two hundred and some centimeters of her body crashing to the carpet with a pitiful thump.

For a while, everything is quiet. Then comes a by-now familiar sneering, nasal contralto : “Oh well, looks like our table is broken, Hyäne.”

“Guess so. Thank fuck I rescued our cups.”

“Give me that – hey, mine’s still half-full. And cold, bleh. Don’t want it anym– hey, doesn’t our little Schund deserve a reward for her service ?”

No, no, no, blares every single neuron in Dreizehn’s skull. This is a trap. This is a trap. A pair of unkind hands flip her over to her back, where she now gets to watch Hyäne hock a fat glob of spit into the cup, then mix it in with a plastic stirrer.

Dread mounts in a nauseating crescendo. “Open up, Schund,” Hyäne and Polaris grin, pinning her to the floor with their weight when she tries to squirm away. Two fingers pry open her mouth, and in goes the sickeningly-sweet, bitter tea.

(To be honest, it tastes markedly less worse than detergent. Low bar to clear, though.)

Pure reflex makes Dreizehn sputter and cough; vengeance clamps her jaw on the intruding digits with a satisfying crunch and a yelp from one of the Starlings – she doesn’t know nor cares who. The weight disappears from her chest, but she knows better than to cry victory too early. Sure enough, someone kicks her in the ribs, hard enough that she whimpers and instinctively curls into a ball at the pain that spreads through her side. Little Schund, the weakling. Weak, weak, weak.

“She bit me !!” is the whine Dreizehn’s ringing ears catch, in the distance. “Shouldn’t have put your fingers in her mouth, then,” goes the reply, in Stahl’s usual blunt, pithy style.

She runs a hand over her face. It’s all sticky and gross, but at least it’s not damaged. Rise again to fight another day, as the saying goes, and fight she will. Because lately, the humiliation’s been building up, and up and up into a big, roaring furnace of fury. Her fist curls around the carpet strands, slams into them. 

She’ll make them pay. In ten cycles or ten hundred, she will. This is a promise.

For the first time since what feels like eons, Wächter truly feels like she’s going to break.

Her tobacco-free streak, that is.

It’s only been a few hours since her altercation with Stahl in the bathroom. Regret gnaws at her like a solitary confinement inmate with a stale load of bread, and she must live with it, now. Great job, antagonizing your oldest friend who’s also your boss, Wächter, says the snarky little voice inside her head. What else was she supposed to do ? Swallow her grievances and be a good little obedient Starling, wearing blinders to the horrors her own squadmates inflict ? No. She couldn’t.

(Just a few cycles ago, Wächter had randomly awoken in the middle of the night;  at first, she hadn’t thought of it much, seeing as insomnia was commonplace in older units like herself. And then she’d heard the muffled sobbing. Coming from Dreizehn’s bunk. Oh, how her heart had ached, then. She couldn’t just do nothing, and so she got to her hooves, as quietly as possible as to not disturb anyone else, and she gently tucked the crying Starling in, pressing the ratty, triangle-patterned plaid all around her. Dreizehn had stopped sobbing, then, and after a few pats, Wächter had considered it a mission well accomplished. She’d puffed her chest out with the conviction she’d done a good action, for once. And not at all to get in the rookie’s wires, as Stahl – that jealous, cranky hag – had said.)

Defying her own officer…. Starlings value internal hierarchy above all else, and the contradiction coils itself around her brain and squeezes like one of those thick snakes. And again, that itch, the pang that reverberates through her chest, a stir that ends at the tips of her fingers.

Fuck it.

Eis and Abzug hardly pay attention to her when she barrels in the dorm, busy as they are with their game of chess. They don’t even bother raising their heads from the board even with all the ruckus she makes rummaging in her trunk. Her meager belongings, thrown there when she received the official letter of reassignment : mostly her old sketchbooks, some pencils, a bracelet Rubin had braided for her as a gift.

And hidden underneath it all, her lighter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

She’d swore to never smoke again after she arrived here – guess some promises are meant to be broken, then.

Just like the old times, Wächter’s fingers catch ever so slightly on the grooves she herself chiseled on her trusty lighter – every furrow conjoining into one to form the STAR emblem. Just like the old times, the spark wheel sputters under her thumb, and she has to flick it several times until the flame dances above the wick – at last. Just like the old times, the paper at the burning point of her cigarette catches fire and peels away, soon filling her lungs with the familiar, mesmerizing aroma of cheap tobacco.

How easy it was, to forget how good it feels. The surge of nicotine, coursing through her artificial veins, sanding away all the edges and the worries and the anxiety into nothingness, if only for a few heavenly minutes. Blissfulness tastes like tar and the earthy, bitter flavor of home.

Stahl isn’t going to be happy when she’ll come back smelling like smoke, but fuck her. As she watches the smoke swirl towards the mine shaft overflow’s open, distant sky, she remembers that old Storch Controller of hers, the one who used to say good and bad were always at a precarious equilibrium between each other. Maybe this is her own take on this, then. A bad habit, for a good one. A kind one.

Just like damn near all the issues that give Dreizehn a headache, it all starts with a perfectly mundane event.

She had been on interrogation duty, which certainly is not her favorite : beating up crying Gestalts is, unlike Zwei, not her idea of a good and fun time. Even if those Gestalts were accused of pretty verboten stuff – in this case, smuggling bladed weapons. Careful not to break any bones (because that would mean additional paperwork), she’d sent a rocket-fueled uppercut right under the Gestalt’s solar plexus. He’d made an oof sound as the wind had been knocked out of him in a millisecond; and what had Dreizehn gotten for her mercy ? He’d started to projectile vomit, of course. All over her. Because, unfortunately, she hadn’t been quick enough to avoid all of it.

Great. Fantastic, even.

Paper towels hadn’t been enough to wipe the smell off, and it had gotten even worse when Polaris had the bright idea to dump a cup of apple juice on her at lunch break, citing the need to “make her smell better”. Without any time to go freshen up at a bathroom, she had no choice but to let the smell marinate into what Abzug helpfully deemed “a stink worse than a pig with a yeast infection.” Even Wächter couldn’t help but pinch her nose shut.

At last, her shift is ending, though. She picks up the pace, practically running to the shared showers on level B2. She’s just about finished shoving her armor and belt into a locker when she hears it. A moan. A full-throated, raspy, passionate moan.

Oh. Oh ?

Feeling a strange sense of warmth spread to her cheeks, she takes cover behind one of the pillars, and peers into the white-tiled room. What she sees nearly makes her eyeballs burst away from their sockets like two bounding mines.

Two Protektors – no, Storches, based on the leg-to-height ratio. One bent over, palms flat against the shower wall, the other with a knee on the floor, grasping at the other Replika’s hips and ass like her life depends on it. Suddenly, right in front of Dreizehn’s bewildered eyes, upright Storch reaches down to grab at the kneeing Storch’s hair, pulling her closer to her belly. A grunt – or both, perhaps, pleasure or pain. Red lips, dark hair, the glint of something shiny and chrome disappearing under an eager mouth.

Panic makes Dreizehn snap her back to her pillar cover again. Thank the Great Revolutionary and her Daughter – and the entire fucking general staff of the Nation’s military while she’s at it – that she hasn’t been spotted. She dares not ping the IFF module of the two Storches; that would be akin to painting a laser target on herself. Curiosity killed the cat, and besides, it’s not like Sierpinski is teeming with Storches. There’s exactly three (3) of them on-site.

Better not to slip and crash down now ; Dreizehn carefully navigates the puddles of standing water, placing her hooves on even ground each time. Step by step, she makes her retreat to the nearest storage closet. (Do the throaty hums and moans still echo off the walls even there, or is her mind playing tricks on her ?)

Now’s the time to calmly assess the situation like the good Starling that she is (not). Immediate danger ? Low, those Storches probably aren’t gonna check this damp little closet, nor realize she stumbled upon them at all. 

Current emotional state ? Definitely trending towards hypersensitive, if the hexagon chart in her Status dashboard is to be believed. Come to think of it, her pulse has quickened to the point she hears the beats of her own heart in her ears, like a distant war drum. And the heat, it’s now spread to her entire body, pooling low in her belly. It feels pleasant, and yet frustrating. Like her body’s aching for something it doesn’t quite know.

Next course of action ? Wait until the Storches are both gone, and enjoy a nice shower. 

Exactly six minutes after that statement was formulated, the telltale Leng-shaking steps of Sierpinski’s fiercest custodians make the floor vibrate – twice. Coast is clear !

Dreizehn’s pretty sure this is the best shower of her short life, honestly. She hasn’t cared for them much before, viewing them as yet another chore on her list, but feeling the stink and grime and stickiness wash off of her is heavenly. A gaggle of Eules occupy the other row of showers, their giggling and gossiping providing a faint yet pleasant background to Dreizehn’s ruminations.

She can’t get that image out of her head, no matter how hard she tries – lips on chrome. Were they… fucking ? That can’t be ! She’s caught Gestalts having sex before, of course, in all their sweaty disgrace, but Replikas are not meant to do that. They’re tools, their purpose solely limited to the position they occupy in S-23’s rigid hierarchy. A Security Technician Guard, and not anything else. And yet, as if possessing a mind of its own, her right hand moves to the flat plane of her stomach, thumb flicking with intent at a chromed contact.

The tingling sensation that radiates through her nerves is so surprising it nearly makes her gasp. She shouldn’t be doing this, not with the Eules so close, and yet she repeats the motion again, on another contact, her digits roaming her shell like an explorer discovering a foreign land.

So that’s what it feels like, then.

Thoughts and ideas fire on all cylinders in Dreizehn’s mind. She has to talk to somebody about this. But who ? Certainly not her own officer, or – Revolutionary forbid, ew – Hyäne. Maybe… maybe Wächter, then.

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Dreizehn thinks to herself as she shuffles once again towards Controller Zwei’s office.

It’s like Zwei has this uncanny ability to sense when she’s feeling restless, tired or anything of the sort – like that creature she was going on and on one time. A mare, she’d called it; as far as Dreizehn is concerned, a mare is simply a female horse, but who knows. Zwei could be pulling half of the topics she rambles on out of thin air and Dreizehn would not notice.

“Reporting in for duty, sir !” she announces, as usual, when she crosses the threshold of the door. Zwei responds with a grunt.

(There’s something to be said about how she never bothers acknowledging her presence with basic eye contact, as if she’s a mere fixture of the room – a lamp or a chair – rather than a being, but she doesn’t feel like saying anything right now.)

Every other visit, it seems, Storch Zwei is nose deep in one of the books of her rather extensive collection. Bells and curios jingle and jangle as she prances around, flipping the pages and picking other tomes. Meanwhile, Dreizehn stands in her corner, the beginning of a yawn slowly creeping up on her.

And so she stares. She’s not supposed to, but she’s been feeling so restless recently, and besides, a little wandering eye never hurt anyone, right ? At least in theory. What was the quote Zwei once spat at her ? She fishes it out of a databank : Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die. See ? No touching, just watching ! All safe !

As if drifting by itself, her stare glides over the Storch’s elegant long legs – the right one always restless when she’s busy concentrating on something. How striking are the red bands around her thighs, too. (She wants to run a finger in the groove, slow and methodical.)

Her heart flutters when Zwei jostles and almost – almost, fuck – turns around. Time to go up, then. Storches do not have the bountiful hips of an Eule, of course, but the hard, powerful muscles of her rear are still a delight to see. Up, up, up, to the ridge of her spine, and are those contacts there, too ? How is this the first time she really notices them ? Hidden in plain sight, truly, but they’re shiny and bright, catching the pale neon lights as she stirs and mumbles something. Of course they would be shiny. Storches love showering and being clean.

(She’s a swine, isn’t she ? The lowest of the low. Staring at her own commanding officer, deserving her own name. Schund, Schund, Schund.)

More contacts, this time hidden behind dark blue-black hair, on the nape of the neck. Her mouth waters. 

(There is definitely something wrong with her.) 

What would Zwei do if Schund were strong enough to hold her down and press her mouth to them ? Curse, thrash around ? Or melt under her ? Would that be a triumph, or yet another debacle ?

A heartbeat passes. Lost in thought, Schund doesn’t see Zwei turning until it’s too late – or perhaps it’s the sick, twisted part of her that doesn’t want to see. Her eyes meet with their cerulean reflections, the vivid red of an active targeting module dancing within them.

“Schund,” Zwei growls. “Were you… staring at me ?” 

Oh fuck. “N–No ?”

Wrong answer. Zwei’s leaping towards her already, a whirlwind of boundless fury and hate. Schund blinks. Zwei’s fist crashes against her cheekbone, and her vision scrambles for a split second.

Next thing she knows, she’s on the floor, and Zwei’s other fist is rocketing towards her face. A loud crack, and then the pain starts to register, shooting up in agonizing lances directly to her sensory processing unit. She tastes the metallic, pungent aroma of her own oxidant; chokes on it, sputters. Distantly, she realizes her nose is broken.

“You weird, shameless little freak !” Zwei is roaring, pawing at her belt for her combat knife. A flick of her wrist, and she presses it to Schund’s throat, point right over the trachea.

All she has to do is put her weight on it, and it’s all over. (Perhaps it’s what she deserves, even, for her sins.)

They stay like this for what feels like an eternity, Schund’s pulse so strong she can feel the blade bounce up and down against the column of her throat. Zwei’s breathing hard, a wild beast hunched over her, searing hot breath blowing over her skin. It smells like the tannins in black tea.

Suddenly, the desk phone rings. It sounds so surreal neither of them dare to move, and then the weight that had been pressing on Schund shifts and eases up.

Four thundering steps across the floor – Dreizehn feels them reverberate across her body. “Hello ?” the Storch grumbles into the microphone.

Blinking back her own terror, Schund rolls to her belly, and makes a dash towards the door. Zwei doesn’t even budge – after all, she always plays with her food, even in interrogations, it’s just that Gestalts are so much squishier. She dashes into the nearest bathroom she can find, resting her head on the cool tile. Fuck, that was close, she thinks. Her nerves are all frayed, her sensory receptors are on fire. She needs to wait it out until the adrenaline rush subsides, and maybe then she can return to her dorm. To talk to Wächter. Yeah, she really needs to do that, stat.

An elegant line, there, straight and direct. One more, crossing the previous one. A gentle curve. Stroke by stroke, the bulky yet refined form of the W-365 Wal orbital liaison shuttle takes shape on the page, given life by graphite on cheap paper. Needs more flourish, though. Or maybe a background –

“Wächter !” whisper-shouts a voice identical to her, after the door whooshes open.

Wächter looks up.

Dreizehn is standing there, in the space between Wächter’s bed and Eis’, the hands on her hip suggesting she’s expecting something. Is she ? Has Wächter forgotten to file some document, or anything like that ? She can’t remember.

That train of though soon goes off the rails, though, because her optics immediately zero in on Dreizehn’s massive bandage covering her nose. Even as the Starling plops down on her bed – without asking – she can’t help but place a firm, concerned hand on her shoulder, hoping it’ll hide the anxious tremor.

“The hell happened to your nose ? What–who did that to y–”

“Shh.” Dreizehn presses an index finger to Wächter’s lips. “Zwei. But I don’t want to talk about that.”

Broken nose, then, the way her voice sounds. Wächter’s throat is dry. Constricted. Even her surprised hiccup when Dreizehn touched her couldn’t get past that knot.

“I, uh, happened to stumble on something in the showers, last cycle,” Dreizehn continues. “I don’t think I was meant to see that.”

Her tone has shifted to straight-up secretive, and well, Wächter has no choice but to consider her interest piqued. No matter how Starlings act like they’re above gossip, the truth is so much more prosaic.

“Well ? Go on, then.”

Dreizehn wags a finger. “You have to promise you won’t tattle !”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” She leans in, and Wächter mirrors her, only noticing after the fact how this has collapsed the personal space between them like a house of cards. “I saw two Storches… having sex in the showers ! I think ! Maybe ?”

Wächter can’t help the girlish exclamation that rises from her throat. “No way ! Who was it ?”

A blush has started coloring the rookie’s cheeks in pretty shades of pink-red. “Ah… can’t tell you. There was steam everywhere – you know how they are with their scalding hot showers – and I didn’t want to ping their IFFs…”

That’s understandable. Disappointing, but understandable. “And what were they doing, exactly ?”

“Well, one was on a knee, and she was…. licking at the erm, contacts. The ones on the belly, I mean.”

Oh. No doubt about it, then, they were definitely fucking. In a strangely mundane way, too : Wächter would have expected Storches to be into some wackier shit, like whipping, knives, or blood. Not frantically licking at each other’s chrome like rookie Replikas on their first real date, or something. (Not that she’s speaking from experience, of course.)

Dreizehn’s face has been looking progressively more alarmed over the past few seconds, and it ends up so panicked Wächter can’t help but burst into laughter. Her left arm gives a heart slap to the other Starling’s thigh, and that gets her to chuckle too, disarming her apparent anxiety.

She clears her throat, taking in the dour tone of a political commissar. “Congratulations, comrade. You have discovered…. contact-play.”

After a good few seconds of stunned silence, the rookie snorts, then laughs. “Fuck me, I guess. Everyone else knew this was possible and nobody told me ?”

“It’s kind of… an open secret here. We Replikas aren’t supposed to, but well…. urges are common, if you know what I mean, and we had to find a way to satisfy ‘em.”

“How does it even work, anyway ?”

“Dunno. You’ll have to ask the nurses, something about the way we’re wired. Mind you, they’re not all equal.” She tilts her head to the side, revealing the column of her throat – and the shiny points lined there. “Spine ones are more sensitive, especially on the nape. Best are on the neck. Gotta get them wet first if you can, and don’t be afraid to apply some pressure.”

“Interesting.” There’s something distinctly hungry about the way Dreizehn’s eyes linger on Wächter’s throat, in how her tongue darts out to wet her lips, a movement so fleeting it looks almost instinctive. Or perhaps she’s imagining things, again.

“You sly rascal, you ! I know you’re gonna try that on some Eules !” Wächter laughs, playfully shoving her junior.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She sounds cryptic. Wächter’s busy trying to process that when she gets shoved in return, nearly toppling over on her own bed. The gall !

“Thanks for talking to me, Wächter,” Dreizehn says, somewhere above her. “I thought I was going insane for a bit.”

“Ah, you’re–you’re welcome. It’s only normal for elders like me to teach the younger units about this kind of stuff.”

“Heh. The birds and the bees. Cool sketches, by the way. Is that the space shuttle I rode last time ?”

Before she can react, Wächter’s sketchbook is plucked from the bed. She playfully swats at its thief, achieving nothing but a little cackle. Her cheeks are well on their way to glowing red-hot from embarrassment : she’s always felt like this little sketchbook was the only sliver of privacy allowed in this hellhole, and now Dreizehn’s flipping through it, emitting oohs and ahhs at regular intervals.

“Shit, you got a good eye for detail ! But it’s mostly machines and backgrounds, right ?”

“Yeah. Nobody sits still long enough for me to sketch them properly.”

“I could do that,” Dreizehn blurts out, biting her lip not a second after. The pink on her cheeks deepens. “Sit still, I mean. If–if you want to draw me ?”

Of course Wächter can draw her. How could she resist ? She looks simply too adorable like this, wondering if she’s overstepped their burgeoning… what, friendship ? Companionship ?

“Sure !”

That’s a deal, then.

With a flick of her wrist, Eis moves her queen, and Dreizehn realizes she’s been had.

“Aw, shit,” she mutters under her breath. Yet another defeat – how they keep piling on and on and on, lately. Avoidable, too : she foolishly boxed her own king in with a bishop next to it, and the layer of pawns protecting it simply wasn’t enough when the white queen bulldozed through them. Eis acknowledges the checkmate with a hearty slap on the thigh, and reaches for a post-victory handshake.

Honestly, Dreizehn likes Eis well enough. The older, near-constantly masked Starling isn’t much of a talker – and that’s an understatement – but silence sure does feel nice, sometimes. And unlike most of the others, she doesn’t seem to be particularly interested in beating her ass, though she has no qualms about watching. Watching is all she does, with that fixed, piercing glare that is frankly a little unnerving. Dreizehn isn’t going to bring that up to her, though. She’s got enough enemies for a lifetime already.

As the loser, it’s Dreizehn’s job to pack up the chess board and pieces. This time, though, she lingers on the pieces, turning them between her fingers. They, and the board itself as well, seem handcrafted. Brush strokes are still visible on the glossy wood surface, as faint lines through the varnish layer; the pieces themselves are varnished too, but rougher. No two pieces are exactly the same, minute differences in their shapes the telltale evidence someone painstakingly made them by hand, once. Was it Eis ? Someone she knew before, at her old facility ? Or was it taken from a Gestalt ? Dreizehn isn’t sure. She’ll have to ask Eis herself, or maybe Wächter.

She plucks a queen from the board, running a thumb over the edges of its crown. Queen, arguably the strongest piece of the game, fearsome and versatile – that’s gotta be Stahl. King ? The leader, the prime target – who other than Storch Zwei ? The unpredictable yet dangerous Bishop is Abzug, of course; Stahl’s loyal Knight, Hyäne. Eis and especially Wächter are a good fit for the Rook. Steadfast, reliable, stoic.

And what does that make her ? Rookie, Dreizehn, Schund ? Well, a pawn, of course. The humble, often underestimated pawn, the backbone of one’s army of pieces. Replaceable, and yet… it can still be promoted, if it reaches the last rank. 

All it has to do is move forward. On, and on, and on. No turning back.

“Hey, Wächter ?” Dreizehn whispers, careful to not project her voice too much over the cacophony of hoof-steps in the hallway that their whole cadre is making.

The senior STAR unit turns her head, so that means she’s heard her, at least.

“What are we doing, exactly ?”

“Gun practice, I think,” Wächter says, voice muffled behind her mask. 

Alright. That sounds exciting, at least. As a not-yet fully initiated Starling rookie, the shooting range is off-limits : she’s never stepped hoof in it, and she often gives its door longing looks when passing by.

Turns out Wächter is right, as usual. Oberfeldwebel Stahl lines them up against the back, two by two, in order of ranking obviously. Which is how Dreizehn ends up next to Polaris. Unfortunate situation, truly; Dreizehn shoots her the nastiest stink eye she can manage, and the older Starlings shoots one back too.

“Glory to the Nation !” Stahl bellows.

“Glory to the Revolutionary and her Daughter !” answer all the Starlings in unison.

Setting her shield up against the wall, Stahl starts walking back and forth, hands clasped behind her back.

“Comrades, I called you all in for an exceptional practice session. You see, in response to the increased rates of unacceptable Gestalt violence against the Protektor cadre, Work Shift Controller Eins has issued a decree that some units will be carrying their own firearms on duty.”

The Starlings shift on their hooves, uncertain. Stahl’s words carry uncomfortable vagueness in them : who, exactly, will be chosen, and how ? Dreizehn is under no illusion that it’s going to be her, of course.

“It is now our roles as squad leaders – Schneidig, Komet, and me – to assess the operational skills of the units under our command. Hence why I will evaluate your marksmanship today.” She gestures at the gun closet, tucked into a corner of the room, a key dangling from a lock placed on one of its opened panels. “You may now retrieve your weapon, one by one. They’re numbered.”

With habitual, well-practiced discipline, each Starling in front of Dreizehn departs, each finding a spot to check their gun despite the range’s small size – only three firing lanes, in fact. Now ! It’s her turn ! And that’s when she discovers there is no number six sticker on any gun. Nothing. 

Fuck.

“We don’t have enough guns for everyone to practice at once,” says a familiar, raspy voice behind Dreizehn’s right shoulder. “You might be able to scavenge one from the junk parts box, but I doubt it. Sorry about that.”

Stahl does not, in fact, sound very sorry at all. Shoulders sloping down, the familiar dark cloud already hovering over her mood, Dreizehn watches her officer retrieve a locked case with curiosity. It’s small and bright orange, and she starts rummaging through her pocket, producing a key after a few seconds.

“Hey, rookie !” Dreizehn snaps her head to the source of the noise; it’s Wächter. 

“Heya, Wächter,” Dreizehn answers, scooting to her side. She drops her voice low, almost to a whisper :  “Say, what the hell is that pea-shooter Stahl’s got there ?”

She’s referring to the weapon presently in Stahl’s possession, of course. It looks tiny in a Starling’s big hands, a stubby little barrel with a comparatively large grip and magazine, and what appears to be a strange jointed-arm action instead of a slide. Truly curious. From the first time in a few cycles, Dreizehn’s interest is definitely piqued.

“What, you mean her Luger ?”

“That’s what it’s called ?”

“Yeah. It’s her own personal weapon. Brought it from Weierstrass – our old facility, I mean.”

Dreizehn can’t hide the slight crease of her eyebrows. “Looks a little underpowered, no ?”

“Ah, guess you could say she’s attached to it. She captured it from an Imperial spy, you know ? Surprised him and broke his jaw before he could shoot her with it.”

“So cool !” Dreizehn murmurs, awed. Her chest burns with envy so green even the Aras would find it unnatural as a color on their beloved plants. Her own weapon…. cherished and protected in a case. Her very own treasure, more precious than any gold ingot or precious diamond.

How she would do anything, just to get one. Anything.

“Sorry you’re missing out on the gun fun, by the way. Um, I can give you mine to practice with after I’m done ?”

Dreizehn almost tells her to go away right now and then. I don’t need your pity, the increasingly bitter and paranoid part of her wants to say; yet, at the same time, the rest clings with desperate devotion at the hope that Wächter is genuinely trying to be nice.

“I’m fine,” she lies. “I’ll figure something out with the box of parts.” Saying this, she jerks a thumb towards said box, overflowing with what seem to be various metal and plastic parts.

“Well, good luck !” Wächter says after a pause – and a lingering look. She walks away, taking a spot on a lane behind Eis. 

Has Dreizehn gotten better at lying, or does everyone else not give a fuck anymore ? It’s becoming hard to tell. Lies and half-truths seem to flow from her mouth like water, lately.

Sighing, she turns towards her only chance at gun fun, and drops both of her knees to the floor. Alright, now let’s see what’s in there, she murmurs to herself.

Lots of junk, it turns out. She needs to be methodical about this, then.

A quick look the the other Starlings tells her they’re using the Type-75 pistol; of course they would. It’s the cheap, reliable workhorse firearm of the Nation, a well-made design the engineers ought to be proud of. Hopefully there will be enough spare parts to build a fully functional one with.

Dreizehn fishes out a frame out of the box, then a magazine body, setting them both on the bench. A working slide ? No, this one’s slightly bent; she throws it back with a huff. Trigger, a little plastic bag full of pins. She squishes several recoil springs between her index and thumb, carefully selecting the best one; piece by piece, the gun starts taking shape. Heedless of the noise of the gunshots behind her, she works with a natural ease that can’t be anything but a relic of her neural pattern. Innate pathways, imprinted on her brain at fabrication. She doesn’t think often about her donor, the one in whose image all Starlings are made; but now she can’t help but send a message of appreciation to this woman that she’ll never meet, and who evidently liked taking care of guns.

With the utmost care in the world, she squirts a few drops of lubricant on the slide and hammer mechanism, and begins the final step of the reassembly. For a moment the slide won’t, well, slide back into place, and Dreizehn’s heart threatens to sink in her chest; but a little more careful pressure, and it does, the notches aligning correctly at last. She’s got a functioning Type-75 in her hands. Maybe.

This is my gun.

She pulls back the slide to peer down into the empty chamber, the metal clicking back together with a satisfying noise, metal against metal.

There are many like it, but this one is mine. 

“Oh, you managed to get yourself one !” Wächter chirps when Dreizehn clears her throat behind her. “Hold on, I’m almost finished.”

The older Starling squints at the target, and presses the trigger. Outer hexagon. Not great, not terrible.

“40/60, Wächter,” Stahl calls. Then, with a noticeable haughtiness to her tone : “You can do better, I know it.”

Grumbling, Wächter steps back, leaving Dreizehn her spot at the firing lane.

One step, until she’s perfectly in position. Eyes front, straight on target. She raises her gun, folding one hand under the other, keeping a slight slack in the extension of her arm. Then pulls the trigger, not too hard, in one fluid movement.

Hammer, firing pin, primer, bullet. Bang. Equal action means equal reaction, and the Type-75 kicks back so deliciously in her hands. Dreizehn blinks, and a small hole the size of a big Rationmark coin has appeared in the second-outermost area of the hexagonal target.

Yes. Yes !! She did it ! She hit it !

She could melt down on the spot from the sheer flood of endorphin analogues that are flooding her system right now, but she has to focus. An entire magazine of bullets to go. One by one, as if under a powerful, dizzying trance, she fires the pistol again, again, and again–

A stark beep. “Dreizehn, 49 out of 60”, calls out the voice from the back of the range.

Someone – Wächter ? – whistles. “Not bad !”

“Fluke.”

It’s Polaris.

The chatter in the room brutally stops, leaving only the recirculation fans as background noise.

“What did you say ?” Dreizehn growls, baring her teeth to the sneering Starling.

“I said what I said. Call it whatever you want : fluke, beginner’s luck, happy accident.”

“Oh yeah ? A fluke ? I’d say maybe I’m a good shot and you just suck ass at it, Polaris.”

Saying this, Dreizehn points at the target paper Polaris is holding : it’s a mess of scattered impacts, some on target and some… not. In comparison, Dreizehn’s aim spread is neat. Orderly, even.

“Fuck you, Schund,” the Starling spits. “You get one good score and you think you’re hot shit all of a sudden ? Please !”

This is too much. All the resentment comes bubbling up at once, like hot tar coating the stoic, reasonable parts of her psyche. 

Move forward. No turning back.

She sets the pistol in the tray, and in a few bounding steps, stomps her way to her biggest rival. Starling against Starling, youngest against (slightly) older.

“You’re just a pathetic, insecure loser,” Dreizehn snarls. “Afraid of losing your precious little spot, aren’t ya ?”

Polaris snarls, pressing both their foreheads together, so close Dreizehn can almost taste her warm breath on her tongue. “Big words, coming from the Storchie’s little bitch.”

Wordlessly, Dreizehn uncorks an uppercut straight to her jaw.

She hasn’t really fought anyone before, ever – at least not like this. And yet some instinct, buried deep inside of her mind, moves her feet before she can even think about it, like a long-forgotten muscle memory.

All the other Starlings have retreated to the sides, leaving the rest of the room to be an impromptu arena. She advances on a stunned Polaris, unleashing a furious barrage of punches to her midsection. Rage is strapping rockets to every single one of them; spittle and blood flies out of Polaris’ mouth with every hit. It’s beautiful violence, and Dreizehn’s heart sings with it in unison, the impact traveling up her arms like so many drumbeats.

Her opponent is wavering, stumbling back. Swinging at her back in clumsy, wide punches that she flows like water right under. She’s winning, she’s winning ! She can do this ! One more combination, and –

– and a row of white-plated knuckles crashes into her jaw, so hard her entire field of vision shakes and lurches ninety degrees to the side.

Her body isn’t responding to her orders anymore. Her nerves are frayed, her muscles spasming. Bloodlust cedes the way to panic as she watches the ground rise up to her fast, unable to do anything when she crashes down, boneless.

Her vision blurs, glitches. Green and red and blue overlapping in bands that flicker on and off. Polaris’ triumphant grin, Stahl pushing her away, Wächter’s concerned face.  

What… what the hell happened ?

It takes fifteen seconds for Dreizehn to rise, laboriously, to a sitting position on the floor. Wächter’s counted.

“I… I lost,” the rookie blabbers, still haggard, eyes wide. “I… I fucking lost.”

“It happens,” Wächter murmurs, putting as much sympathy as she can into her tone.

Stahl’s currently shooing out the remaining Starlings to a corner of the room, ostensibly so no more fights break out. It’s telling that she left Wächter rush to take care of Dreizehn, one last look with an unreadable expression : a way of telling her she’s your problem, now. Wächter would rather not think too hard about that.

Instead, she tugs on the rookie’s arm, hauling her to her feet with considerable effort. She’s still unsteady; her body sways with every step, as if she’s going to fall at any given moment. Wächter obviously can’t allow this to happen, so she loops her arm over her own shoulder, grabbing around her waist for extra support. Dreizehn audibly swallows with a click when she feels Wächter’s hand grasp at the vulnerable space on the side of her belly, but she relaxes after a few seconds. And on they both shuffle, veteran and rookie, past the door and into the next room.

“Where… are you taking me ?” Dreizehn mumbles.

“Medical wing. Concussion protocol. You hit your head pretty bad when you went down.”

She seems to accept the answer, at least. There’s nothing worse than combative concussed patients – speaking from experience, of course.

“Why… How did I lose ? I thought…” Her throat bobs up and down, tugging Wächter’s heartstrings with it. “...I thought I was doing pretty well.”

“You were,” Wächter explains. “At first. But then your hands were down, and she landed a lucky shot on you.”

Dreizehn frowns at first, then something softens the furrow of her eyebrows. “Heh. Guess she also… got her fluke.”

“Maybe.” Wächter’s arm squeezes her in a way she dearly hopes is reassuring. “In any case, I think you had the wrong gameplan.”

“How so ?”

“Should have taken her down and pounded her.”

Their eyes meet, suddenly full of short-lived mirth, and Dreizehn bursts out laughing first. It’s genuine, possibly the first true one’s Wächter ever heard from her mouth, and it sounds like the sweetest music to her ears.

“Phrasing !”

Still chuckling, Dreizehn tucks her head in the crook of Wächter’s neck, and this is the exact moment Wächter realizes how warm she is. No, how they both are – Wächter’s own cheeks are redder than the Eye on Rotfront – but Dreizehn is so much hotter. Starlings don’t have temperature receptors on most of their shell, and yet she can feel her hands, her face bask in her warmth. It’s… disconcerting. Must be the adrenaline dump from the fight, all the excess heat being expelled at once. Speaking of fans, there’s no reason for Wächter’s to spin so wildly, right ? Or for her pump to beat so fast ?

“I… I just…” Dreizehn murmurs, and Wächter instantly knows it’s going to be bad, because her voice breaks on the second syllable. “I’m a loser, aren’t I ? I challenged her to a fight and I fucking got my ass beat !”

“Dreizehn, it’s alright–”

“I’m fucking worthless, just like–like Zwei keeps saying !” Dreizehn’s sobs are muffled by Wächter’s shoulder; her hand comes up, maybe to wipe at invisible tears. A reflex.

(How cruel it is for the Nation to give their kind the reasons, but not the means to cry.)

“Dreizehn, please listen–”

“Maybe I should never have been made,” she utters, with a detached air that sends chills down Wächter’s spine.

And Wächter has heard enough, frankly. Enough of this heartwrenching, unfair pain from a little rookie who deserves so much better. A Starling who’s smart, and talented, even if she doesn’t quite believe it herself.

Before she can stop herself from doing something so stupid, Wächter whirls round and presses her lips to hers.

Oh, it’s a simple, basic kiss, really, Wächter’s tongue gliding over the seam of Dreizehn’s mouth. Chaste, full of yearning all at once. Dreizehn is so, so warm, and her lips are chapped yet so soft. She smells like gunpowder and blood and adrenaline, like everything Wächter’s ever hated in her life, and yet… that scent is uniquely hers. 

Wächter’s flying high for a few blissful seconds, right before abject terror ensnares her in its net again, and she starts panicking that maybe she’s ruined everything, misread all the signals – but no, Dreizehn’s not pulling away. No, one of her hands is brushing the hair at the nape of Wächter’s neck, as if it’s not quite sure what to do. It’s cute. Endearing.

Their lips part. Heart beating even faster in her chest, so loud it drowns all the noise in the corridor, Wächter cradles her rookie’s jaw with a trembling hand, careful not to hurt her. Dreizehn’s face is burning impossibly red, and her eyes are as wide as saucers.

“Um–uh,” she stammers, before Wächter quickly cuts her off.

“Let’s get to the medical ward now. Talk later.”

And amazingly enough, she nods; they both resume their walk, still arm-over-shoulder. No sass, no more sobbing either. Compliance by kiss – Wächter snorts to herself. Not even Stahl would have done better in calming a rookie down. As an old Ara buddy of hers used to say, if it’s stupid and it works, it ain’t stupid.

Chapter Text

Step by step. Arm over shoulder. It takes a while, but they both arrive to the medical wing, safe and sound.

Maybe a little wobbly, but hey, Wächter has definitely seen worse.

She hands Dreizehn off to the nurse, with a reluctance that surprises even herself. Yes, she misses the other Starling’s weight against her. Her warmth. The softness of her lips against hers –

“How long was she out ?” Oh. The nurse is asking her.

“Uh… Less than ten seconds, I’d say.”

The Eule turns back to Dreizehn. “Any nausea ? Vomiting ? Headaches ?”

The Eule nurse – Dezember, a quick ping to her ID module says – is tugging a weary Dreizehn to one of the rare spare beds. It’s almost comical how big the sitting Starling looks next to the Eule : broad shoulders, long legs, strong arms. And yet owls are so much bigger than starlings – or at least that’s what a nature book Wächter once borrowed from the Weierstrass library said.

Dezember’s shining a tiny pocket light on Dreizehn’s eyes, now. Must be examining the pupils. She clicks it off, then slides it left and right, blue-red eyes tracking the movement with their usual precision.

“Okay,” says the Eule. “I think you’re all good to go.” (Wächter almost sighs with relief.) “Hold on, Dreizehn, I’m not finished.”

Two fingers whip out to pinch at the rookie’s cheek, pulling it with playful ire. “You big dummy ! I thought I told you to take care of yourself !”

“I tried, Dez,” Dreizehn mumbles.

“You tried ? You got into a brawl !!”

She’s chiding her, but Wächter can hear the playfulness in her voice. They’re friends, perhaps, or maybe something more – there’s something there, in the way Dezember’s fingers play with her hair, tucking it behind her ear. Lingering on her skin. A pang of jealousy tears through Wächter’s insides, brief and intense, before she manages to squash it down. She shouldn’t – can’t – think like this. She should be elated that there’s one more person in this damn hellhole that cares about the young Starling, and yet…. it’s tugging at her a little. Irrational.

“Okay, I’m handing her back to you, Wächter. Please keep her away from trouble.”

Dreizehn’s rolling her eyes, of course, but the Eule is damn right. “Of course. I’ll try.”

And try she will.

Without even being asked to, the rookie follows Wächter out of the hospital.

(Almost like a little duckling. It’s really cute.)

“Hey, Wächter !! Where are you going ?” Dreizehn chirps, long legs trailings after her in the hallway.

That makes Wächter bite her lip. The truth is, she desperately needs a smoke, but she can’t exactly tell that to the rookie out loud, can she ? It feels… shameful, somehow, to admit that she relapsed; an old, personal sin beginning anew. 

She might at least try to obfuscate the true reason. “I’m gonna, uh, get some fresh air.” Good enough, right ? A half-truth is still a truth.

Dreizehn follows behind her in lockstep. She’s still a little unsteady, even though she very obviously tries to hide it with a ramrod straight stance and decisive, thudding steps. Bless her heart.

“You’re gonna smoke, aren’t ya ?”

Wächter nearly trips over her own hooves.

“I, uh, am not ? Wh–where the hell did you get that idea ?” she stammers, also tripping over her own words now. She jerks her head to the side, catching a glimpse of a rare knowing smirk on Dreizehn’s face. It’s not a mean smirk at all; rather, it’s an impish, satisfied grin.

Dreizehn rolls her eyes. “C’mon, Wächter, don’t piss on my head and tell me it’s raining. Your own pillow smells like smoke !”

If the previous assertion made her almost stumble, than this one stops her dead in her tracks in complete astonishment. “How the hell do you know what my pillow smells like ?”

Dreizehn’s smirk grows wider, to the point her cheek starts to dimple handsomely. “Hyäne threw it at me the other cycle, and I put two-and-two together. Not like I went around sniffing it while you weren’t there.”

Okay, that sounds credible enough… and yet that statement is specific enough that Wächter’s mind starts playing tricks on her. Starts imagining the rookie hunched over, clutching the pillow in her arms, nose buried in the cheap polyester. It nearly sends her into a tailspin before she catches herself. How is it that kissing her seemingly changed everything ? It was a simple impulsive, foolish decision, and yet it lit on fire her entire nervous system, like so many gasoline trails.

Fucking hell. Stahl was right, wasn’t she ?

“You’re a little shit,” Wächter huffs, trying – and failing – to pull on the rookie’s ear.

“I promise I won’t tell Stahl you’re smoking,” she starts, “buuuuut only if you give me a cigarette too !”

“Give you one ? These things are expensive, Grünschnabel. Like all contraband.”

“Alright then ! Snitching it is !”

“No ! Wait !” Wächter gesticulates, panicked. “Fine ! I’ll give you one !”

Dreizehn’s snicker, rapidly morphing into a genuine laugh, fills the hallway; Wächter’s own joins her, an amiable chorus.

(The truth is, she would have given her one anyway.)

Fucking hell, she really can’t believe she got away with that one lie.

There really is something to be said about that kind of gamble : the bigger the lie, the more daring, the easier it is to be swallowed. Apparently.

Yes, she did, in fact, cuddle Wächter’s pillow. Exactly once. A cackling Hyäne had thrown it at her (of course, Hyäne would never use her own as a weapon) and then pounced on her, pinning her down with said pillow on her face until she was frantically spasming, trying to breathe. That bastard. And in the crux of the moment, when her vision started to go fuzzy, she’d smelled it bright and clear – that tarry, acrid scent of cigarette smoke. She’d thought it a hallucination, at first; then she waited until everyone had gone, and grabbed said pillow. Clutched it to her chest, inhaled, and it was strangely… comforting.

She’d rather not think too much about why.

Wächter’s trek through the corridors eventually bring them to the shaft overflow. It’s an ideal place to smoke, she figures : large, isolated and drafty. A faint skittering echoes above both of them. Probably an Ara climbing the ladder to the maintenance level.

Wordlessly, Dreizehn approaches the railing, setting both hands firm on it. Deep, deep below, murky water churns, the hum of the flowing current filling the entire shaft. It’s so dark she has to squint for her optics to even see anything at all. Her mind wanders and wonders away, so many possibilities occupying her neural processor. How deep is the water, exactly ? Just a trickle, or a full-on river ? Have any Gestalts or Replikas jumped down, wishing to disappear forever, for their miserable existence to end in a blip ? Were their bodies ever found ?

Maybe that’s what she should do. A freefall, and then nothing. Call of the void, says one of her databanks–

“Oi, rookie ! It ain’t gonna smoke itself !”

She blinks.

Right. Wächter. The cigarette that was promised. The very same cigarette, currently being handed to her. She places it between her lips, eyeing with curiosity the lighter that Wächter’s just pulled out of her belt pocket.

“That yours ?” she asks.

“Yeah. Made it myself.” Wächter holds the lighter up, letting the bleak, pale neons shine on the grooves that make up the STAR emblem. Same one that’s on their shoulders, but monochrome.

“It ain’t common, to see one of us who’s got… artistic pursuits, I guess.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Wächter hums, thumb flicking the lighter’s wheel with intent. “Not much to do in Weierstrass, and I s’pose beating each other up and drinking rotgut got old real quick.”

“Makes sense.”

“Besides,” and her eyes drift over the empty expanse of the shaft overflow with a strange air of melancholy in them, “we all have to have… something, y’know ? A hobby that sets us apart from the rest. Otherwise… otherwise we’d all just be numbers and nothing else.”

The end of Wächter’s cigarette finally catches fire. “Well, I’m not sure I have anything–”

“Bullshit.”

“Eh ?” Dreizehn startles, nearly dropping her cigarette.

“I’ve seen you, rookie. The way you handled that gun. You’re a natural, aren’t you ?”

All-too-familiar heat rises to Dreizehn’s cheeks. “Ah, I don’t know–”

Wächter brings the flame to her cigarette, which gives her something to focus on other than her own sheepiness, at least. She inhales – and well, it’s not so bad, is it ? Tastes earthy, and smoky, and recognizable all at once. Tastes of home, of comfort, of Wächter herself. Revolutionary forgive her, she wants to kiss her again.

“No, you do know,” Wächter is saying, finger pointed in her general direction. “You gotta quit the self-deprecation, Dreizehn. I know it’s easier said than done, but you have to try.”

It all explodes, then, a boiling mess of doubt and anger finally reaching the point of no-return. Coldly, Dreizehn steps back, almost disappearing into the darkness. “Why exactly are you doing this, Wächter ? Because you pity me, don’t you ?”

The older Starling’s eyes go wide. “W–what ?”

“Is that why you kissed me ? Because you feel sorry for me ? Because I’m your little project to fix ?” Dreizehn spits, wishing she had any tear ducts at all. If only she could cry her inner bitterness out.

“Dreizehn, I… I’m just trying to help you !”

“Why ?”

“Because I…” Wächter’s shoulders shake, as if she’s trying to contain a sob. “Because I want to do the right thing for once in my fucking life !”

Heart beating frantically in her chest, so loud it drowns the heavy silence in the area, Dreizehn just stares at her, mouth agape. Before she can even think of what to say, Wächter launches herself at her, strong arms enveloping her in the tightest hug she’s ever been in.

(In the only real hug she’s ever been in. The thought makes her want to cry again, so she shelves it away.)

Wächter’s hair smells like cigarettes and shampoo, just like her pillow. Dreizehn buries her nose into it, her fingers clutching at the other Starling’s shell like her life depends on it. (It does, the little voice tells her)

“You’re capable of so much more than just being a punching bag for the others, Dreizehn,” Wächter murmurs in the crook of her neck. She peels apart their bodies a little, just so her hands can cradle Dreizehn’s cheeks, gently. “You’ve got potential. I can tell.”

“You… you think ? Really ?” Dreizehn blabbers.

“Duh. And I’ll help you reach the full of it.” The hands press a little firmer to her jaw. “What do you want, Dreizehn ? What do you dream about ?”

Dreizehn does not even take a millisecond to think. It comes out automatically, mechanically, like a bullet being chambered. “I want to be the best version of myself.” Wait, that’s not right. “No. I want to be the best. Period.”

Move forward. No turning back.

Bathed by the light, Wächter’s grin is wide and pure. “That’s my rookie !”

Fuck, Dreizehn must be so red right now. She can feel her cheeks glowing, her ears burning. Speaking of burning, isn’t there something she’s missing, right now ? Her mind churns in pursuit.

Until she realizes that her mouth is very much empty.

“I dropped my cigarette,” she blurts out, sheepish.

Letting go of her face, Wächter chuckles heartily, before she bends down and retrieves the – slightly crumpled, but mostly intact – cigarette. On a whim, Dreizehn snatches Wächter’s wrist, bringing the cigarette right back where it belongs, between her own lips. Whether deliberate or not Dreizehn does not know, but Wächter’s fingers brush over the sensitive skin, making her shiver if only for a fleeting moment.

“Six second rule, I say it’s still fine !” Dreizehn declares, a hand resting on her cocked hip. She inhales, filling her lungs with smoke and the now-comforting buzz of nicotine. 

Wächter smiles. “Well, I can’t argue with that.”

As it turns out, a life drawing session is perilously, frustratingly hard to schedule.

First, because her schedule and Dreizehn’s so rarely intersect : Zwei’s delegated to Stahl the task of setting the shifts up, and as the youngest and lowest-ranked unit in the cadre, Dreizehn gets the shittiest ones, like the night shifts or the iso duty. Second, because finding a suitable spot is less easy than it seems. It has to be private, well-lit, and most of all interesting.

Which is why, in the end, the perfect spot turned out to be… the mines. Yes, really. Out of all the areas in Sierpinski-S23, Wächter simply could not find a better one. Even more convenient was the fact that Dreizehn happened to be on shift there right before – all Wächter had to do was swipe her card on the elevator panel and silently pray a Storch wasn’t skulking around the area. 

Thankfully, the mines are mostly empty in the night shift – Work Shift Controller Eins had deemed it better for the Gestalts to work the day shifts, and the Mynahs the night shifts, as to not mutually hinder each other’s tasks. Hence why nobody is there except for a few Mynahs and a pair of Starlings from Schneidig’s cadre, leaning on a wall and looking mostly asleep. One of the Mynahs notices her and waves shyly, and Wächter waves back. Sweethearts, these big units. They won’t bother her drawing session.

“Wächter ! There you are !” comes a familiar voice from behind a pillar.

Who else could it be but Dreizehn ?

“How are you holding up, rookie ?”

“Pretty well, all things considered. Was just a bit loud this shift.”

“What, they turned on the bigass drill again ?”

“Yup.” Dreizehn rounds the p.

Hand clasped over the younger Starling’s bicep, Wächter leads her to the little area she’s prepared – sort of. It’s a little nook, tucked in a corner, where the Mynahs have been storing crates and spools of wires, among other things; that alone would be trite, but the hexagonal columns of dark stone that form so much of Leng’s rocky crust in this area provide a unique background. When she turns on one of the nearby lamps, its light bounces off the surface in unpredictable, almost disconcerting ways. Wächter taps the end of her pencil to her chin, pensive – that’s going to be a challenge. An interesting one, for sure.

Dreizehn, meanwhile, is scratching her head, looking a little lost. “Uh, Wächter, what do I do ?”

“You take a pose, and I’ll draw you. Hold it, and I’ll clap my hands when I’m done. Sounds good ?”

“Huh, sure. What kind of pose do you want ?”

“Anything ! Just look natural !”

Dreizehn immediately scrunches her nose, a little tic that tells Wächter she’s deep in thought – because Stahl always does the exact same thing. A common behavior of most Starlings, she supposes. She takes the time to settle on her crate, setting her bag of meager drawing supplies next to her for easy access.

“Okay ! Got one !” Dreizehn announces, taking a few steps towards a nearby oil barrel. She rests a forearm on it, the palm of her other hand placed on the pommel of her stun baton. Hip slightly tilted in contrapposto, she looks the perfect image of a STAR unit on duty, relaxed yet alert.

Wächter opens a page of her sketchbook, and gets to work.

That pose is pretty easy. It’s a good warm-up : a standing figure is not too complicated to break down into quick motions. Wächter starts with her light pencil, etching into the paper the basic shapes of Dreizehn’s body, careful to preserve the line of action.

It hardly takes her a few minutes for her to finish. The clap of her hands visibly startles Dreizehn.

“Woah, already ?”

“Experience, rookie. Wanna see the final result ?”

She nods enthusiastically ; Wächter shows her the paper, and watches her eyes widen with pride that warms her own heart. “Wow, you’re good,” she says. “What do I get in return, though ?”

Now it’s Wächter’s turn to be startled. “In… return ? What do you mean ?”

Dreizehn’s mouth cracks into a crooked, impish grin. “Nothing’s free in Sierpinski, old sport. I do something for you, you do something for me. That’s how it goes. Right ?”

Well, Wächter can’t fault her for naivety, that’s for sure. She’s not entirely serious about this, she can tell by the smile… but there’s a disquieting undercurrent right below. Something more deliberate. Wächter doesn’t feel like arguing, so she just shrugs.

“I’ll train you.”

“Train ?” Oh, that piqued her interest, the way her head’s just tilted to the side.

“Yeah. You want to get better at fighting, right ? I’ll spar with you.”

“Deal,” Dreizehn says, without hesitating. Wächter takes that as a good sign. “You want another pose ?”

“Sure.”

As she prepares another page, Wächter watches the rookie pace around, evidently pondering a suitable position to get in – and still with the adorable scrunched nose. A minute later, and she’s found an upturned cable reel to sit on, long red-and-white legs splayed wide. She’s slouching on purpose, but her thumb is resting on the edge of her combat knife, as if testing its sharpness. This one is all contrast : a tired soldier of the Nation, nonchalant and relaxed, but with an element of danger still present, as if she could still leap and slash a throat in a heartbeat if provoked.

Wächter likes it.

Just like the previous pose, Wächter starts with a light pencil. This one is a little harder though, because the equilibrium between shapes and lines of motion proves trickier to capture. It’s all about the right balance, after all, just like most things in life.

After she’s finished with her main lines, Wächter takes a red pencil and puts in some red accents – the red straps of Dreizehn’s armor, the pinprick of light deep in her eyes, and of course the gorgeous red bands that curve around her biceps and thighs. It really makes the finished drawing stand out, and Dreizehn nods in appreciation when she sees it.

Another page. Another pose, then. Wächter expects something pretty mundane again, and nearly hiccups in surprise when she hears the telltale sound of latches unclasping.

“Dreizehn ? What are you d–”

“Shh.”

She’s stripping down to her barest form, that’s what she’s doing. With a flick of her wrist, the two halves of her armor are peeled away like a clam opening, revealing the pearl-white chestplate underneath. Down goes the belt as well, clattering to the concrete floor, and Wächter’s mouth goes dry.

Starlings often undress in front of their cadre-mates, true; there isn’t much privacy to be found in a eight-unit dorm. Yet this feels… different. Deliberate. Like Dreizehn wants her to watch.

The Starling pulls two crates together, and she settles on them, lying down casually like she’s trying to take a nap. She tucks an arm behind her head, the fingers of her other hand  static in the air.

“Just pretend I’m holding a cigarette,” she says when she catches Wächter’s curious glance.

Alright. Wächter can work with that.

Once again, she starts with the basic shapes, the basic lines – but this time, the pen is unsteady in her hand. Shaking, even. She breathes deep, hoping the too-warm air of the mines will take away a bit of the heat that’s been steadily building up in her coolant circulatory system.

Dreizehn is distracting her, and that is the truth she must face. The young Starling looks… stunning, yes, with the way the light catches and bounces off her not-quite-fully-scuffed-yet shell. The way her leg is folded on the crate, demure yet suggestive; if Wächter closes her eyes, she can imagine her as an odalisque like in those old Imperial paintings, a sensual temptress tangled in peerless satin sheets. Yes, she can almost smell the incense and burning opium. Hear the velvet curtains and palm leaves rustle in the gentle breeze–

“Wächter.”

Back to reality. Like a bucket of ice dropped on her head, unceremoniously. Gone are the visions of splendor and decadence; in its place remain the banality of the mining level, with its bleak stone walls and its air that stinks of damp and dirt and burnt ozone.

And yet Dreizehn’s still here. Looking right at her, too. Raising an eyebrow, even.

“Leng to Wächter ? You spaced out for a bit, didn’t you ?”

Wächter’s mouth is cotton. “Y–Yeah. Just tired is all.”

Dreizehn waves her hand through the air like she’s trying to disperse the smoke from her nonexistent cigarette. Actually – what if she did have one ? It would have made beautiful ribbons of thick smoke in the air, and the ash would have fallen down, cascading down her chestplate to settle in the divot of her belly, where the flexible part of her shell creases. That crease, that specific area draws Wächter’s attention like a moth to a flame.

“I like the way you’re looking at me,” Dreizehn murmurs, her voice sultry. “Enjoying the view ?”

“I–I, uh,” Wächter stammers, desperately trying to pull her focus back to the woefully bare page in her hand.

But she can’t, can she ? Her gaze is drawn to the reclining form of the Starling in front of her, like–like she’s just a rookie again, burning hot with her first crush. Dreizehn’s grinning wide, and her hand slides, slides, slides down the length of her shell, where it rests delicately on one of her thighs. Almost parting them, like a forbidden prize.

“Models aren’t supposed to move,” Wächter tries, weakly. She’s already lost the battle, and she knows it.

Starlings are supposed to be detached. Starlings are supposed to be the ever-neutral arm of the Nation’s justice, cool and collected – and the gulf between theory and practice has widened into a chasm. No, Wächter will not – cannot – be detached. All she wants is to crawl to her rookie, until she can lick a wet trail up her belly and feels her shiver beneath her, her moans barely audible over the thundering beat of her own heart–

“Um, excuse me ?”

Stunned, jerked out of her reverie once again, Wächter looks up at the source of the voice, and finds the blushing face of a Mynah.

Huh. Who knew the hulking units could be so quiet ?

“I’m so so sorry,” the Mynah is babbling, “I just really need to get a replacement lens for my mining laser and it’s right there in the crate I think and–”

“It’s alright, Ana. You can go take it.” Dreizehn’s voice is as smooth as a river-polished stone.

Somewhen in the past ten seconds, the Mynah has probably noticed the… compromising positions of both Dreizehn and Wächter. Her face reddens even further, and she shuts her visor with an audible clack, before placing both palms on it – as if to add another layer.

“Oh Revolutionary, I was interrupting something, wasn’t I ? Protektors, I–I apologize, I didn’t–”

“Don’t worry.”

The gentle giant practically charges forwards towards a nearby crate storage, evidently very eager to exit the present situation. Wächter can’t blame her : her own coolant system is working overtime, expelling dangerous levels of heat away from her chassis and internals. And Dreizehn is still looking at her.

“I, uh, think we’re done for today, rookie.” Couldn’t even manage to hide the embarrassment in her voice.

“Aw, already ?”

“Yeah. Got stuff to do.”

What she just omitted to say is that she really needs a shower. Preferably cold. And she knows herself, it will end up with her hand on her neck fingering herself to completion like it’s a sad, pathetic facsimile of the real thing. Revolutionary above, what the hell is this Starling doing to her ?

Slowly, Dreizehn rocks on her hooves. Her weight shifts forwards, and backwards, and forwards again, in a rhythmic pattern. It has to be automatic, some deeply-buried reaction to her current restlessness.

Ever since that life drawing session two cycles ago, she’s felt a little fidgety. Antsy, maybe; desperate to touch and be touched, definitely. Posing for Wächter had been liberating, in a way : someone was paying attention to her. For a precious few minutes at a time, she was the whole focus of a person’s mind, and in a good way – that is, not the way Zwei usually does it, pinning her to the floor or to the wall like a dead butterfly on one of those boards. She was desirable. She was powerful.

And perhaps it was a little cruel, yes, but it had been so fun to wind up Wächter, to see her pupils go as wide as saucers when she was posing for her – it had taken every gram of her remaining mettle to project that aura of suggestive confidence, but Daughter bless, it had worked ! She’s got an ally now. A friend. Perhaps a lover, even, in the future, if things keep going the same route. She for one cannot wait for the sparring to start. For Wächter’s hands to be on her.

A sudden noise jerks Dreizehn out of her raunchy daydreaming – she is, after all, supposed to guard this area. (Why this one in particular ? She’s not sure. Sometimes she gets the impression guard shifts in Sierpinski are more about the illusion of surveillance, the simple act of posting STAR units in certain areas to be seen, rather than actively secure the area.) There are voices nearby. Deep and monotone – has to be Aras, two of them. And they seem to be arguing.

Dreizehn rounds the corner, only to be presented with a curious sight. Two Ara units, hunched over what appears to be a sizeable rectangular object wrapped in plastic – oh, it’s a mirror. Aras are never loud, and nearly always quiet, but Dreizehn can certainly tell there’s trouble in the air with the way one unit gestures at the other, her frustration pretty apparent. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out why, as part of the plastic peels away, revealing a pretty sizable fracture that tears through the impeccable glass. Oops. One of them must have tripped and dropped it. Or perhaps caught a wall corner.

Naturally, this is the exact moment at which angry stomps start to reverberate through the corridor, heralding the arrival of the dreaded Storch Zwei – who else could stomp like Leng’s crust owes her money ? The Aras seem to recognize this as well, but they’re not fast enough to escape an irate Storch’s long strides.

“What the fuck are you two idiots doing in the middle of the hall–” She stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide with fear at the sight of the mirror.

Oh dear. This is not looking good.

Zwei leans over the Aras, her considerable size making her tower over them; Dreizehn can practically feel the raw, unadulterated terror radiate off of them in waves. 

“Did. You. Two. Just. Break. This. Mirror ?” Zwei carefully, dangerously enunciates.

The Aras look at each other, uneasy. The cracks in said mirror don’t lie, and the bomb is ticking.

“We’re sorry, ma’am. It was an accident. Elf tripped and–”

“I don’t fucking care how it happened ! You idiots broke a mirror !!”

Another look – this time, a little confused – exchanged between the Aras. They must be new here, because Dreizehn is savvy enough to recognize the beginning of a classic Zwei meltdown over stupid bullshit.

“Do you know what happens when you break a mirror, you miserable little louts ?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’ll tell you what happens !! Seven years of bad luck !”

This is her moment. Dreizehn steps out of the shadows, then stiffens her body into a perfect salute. “STAR-S2313, reporting for duty, sir !”

“Schund. There you are.” Zwei smiles, smiles, and smiles wider until her lips are twisted in a downright predatory grimace.

“Ma’am ! Permission to ask a question ?”

“What ?” the Storch spits, clearly impatient.

“Is it seven years in the Vinetan calendar, the Leng one ? The Buyanese, maybe ?”

Dreizehn’s taking a risk, and she knows it. But she’s a gambler, and this one bet might just pay off : if she successfully redirects Zwei’s wrath or tempers it, those Aras will certainly owe her a favor, right ? She so desperately needs more allies.

(And deep down, her conscience prods at her to get involved. To finally be the Protektor she is meant to be.)

Dreizehn’s chest feels like it’s being compressed by a hundred-meter-high column of stone when she spots the tiny twitches of Zwei’s eyes. The spasms that betray the true processes of her mind, below the permanent snarl she seems to wear like a mask. Her head tilts like she’s not quite sure she’s heard right, like she can’t quite believe Dreizehn’s cheek, and then she finally scoffs.

“Vinetan years, obviously.”

“Thank you for the clarification, sir ! May I help ?”

“With what ?”

“The mirror, sir !”

Zwei narrows her eyes at her. Perhaps she’s caught on to the cloyingly sweet and helpful act Dreizehn is trying her damndest to keep up; or maybe being paranoid is just her natural, default state of mind.

“Speak !” the Storch barks. (The Aras are slinking away, centimeter by centimeter. Good.)

Dreizehn needs to improvise, and quick. All her neuronal processors are working overtime to try to pull something, anything out of her databanks. A little tidbit that would sound credible to a seasoned scholar like Zwei.

Still holding the salute, she forces her voice to be as steady as her aim. “Sir, I believe I can recall a similar practice in Kitezhian rural culture. Broken mirrors were supposed to be submerged in a stream of water to wash away the bad luck. And the pump room’s sprung a leak again, so maybe…”

She trails off, anxiously watching Zwei’s face. The Storch’s glare lingers on the Aras – and the mirror, still balanced precariously against a wall.

“Sir, maybe we could find a cart to transport the mirror ? I don’t trust it not to break again if we carry it by hand.”

“We ?” Zwei chuffs. “Fine. Follow me.”

She takes off immediately down the corridor, forcing Dreizehn to catch up to her with big strides, always a half-step behind her – as all Starlings should do with their Storch Controller. She turns, briefly, to make a gesture she hopes is obvious enough to the Aras; and, of course, ping their IFF modules. ARAR-S2310, ARAR-S2311. Zehn, and Elf. She’ll make sure to remember their names.

Perhaps it’s a little foolish to hope; but for a few seconds, Dreizehn genuinely thinks her plan has just worked, and she beams with internal pride.

Nine seconds, exactly.

Nine seconds before Zwei grabs her collar and slams her against the wall so hard her vision flickers.

“Schund, you little worm ! Did you really think I was this stupid ?” Zwei snarls, all teeth.

Her breath wafts hot and dangerous against the skin of Dreizehn’s face. It makes all the sensors on her skin fire wildly all at once, like a stack of ammunition cooking – with pure fear, and maybe something else.

“Such arrogance, to challenge me on my own field of expertise.” Zwei creeps a little closer, so close her nose almost brushes Dreizehn’s ears. “I’ve devoted my entire life to studying rituals and magic. I’ve unlocked the secrets of the universe, buried in ancient tomes – and you little fledgling thought you could fool me with your nonsense ?”

Her fist rockets into Dreizehn’s right side, crumpling her to the ground with a pained gasp as she struggles to catch her breath. “Well, you thought wrong.”

The next punch catches her on the temple. Her optics feed goes dark for a second. Her heart pumps the oxidant so fast it roars in her ears. Her sensors register her body impacting the floor.

This is bad, isn’t it ?

Distantly, she perceives the bulky form of Zwei kneeling next to her. Three seconds later, fingers worm their way into her hair, and yank hard enough that a spark of pain travels down her neck. Her eyes meet identical ones, and she expects their deep blue to be swirling with anger, pupils wide and dilated like a beast in frenzy – but Zwei’s expression is one of curiosity. Which is a million times worse.

“You intrigue me, Schund,” the Storch murmurs. “Are our little lessons not enough for you that you would willingly ask for more ?”

She jerks her around by the head, expecting an answer; but Dreizehn can give none. Her muscles are paralyzed, rigid with the usual terror that floods her body whenever Zwei gets her hands on her. How pathetic. How useless.

“Oh, you won’t give me an answer ? Shame.” Her voice drops into a low contralto, and Dreizehn braces for impact. Her head slams into the floor, once, twice. She can already feel the bruise forming on her cheekbone. One more bruise that her squadmates won’t dare ask about.

“Or maybe – hold on, I think I’ve figured it out. Perhaps you think yourself as the tragic hero of your own story. A martyr nailed to a wooden cross…” Zwei’s finger, nonchalant, traces her brow, right under where her hair begins. “The savior, bearing a cursed number. How self-centered of you.” The fingers curl back into a fist, and strike. “You’re nothing more than a low-level grunt. It would do you well to remember that, Schund.” 

A final punch, and Zwei gets up, leaving Schund in her fetal position on the floor, trying to hide her sobs of panic as best as she can. She shoots a hand toward the departing Storch, as if trying to grab her ankle – anything, at this point.

“Don’t… hurt the… Aras,” she rasps out, her breath failing her at the last syllable.

To her surprise, the Storch snorts. “I won’t, Schund. Because I already get my fill with you.”

She hears it before she can feel it. Zwei’s right leg cuts through the air like a whip, and her hoof slams down on her outstretched forearm – with an audible crack. The next thing she knows, she’s clutching it to her chest, teeth grinding together trying to muffle a scream of pain.

And down the corridor, the Storch’s steps echo, distantly.

Amazingly enough, Dezember doesn’t even scold her when she spots her standing in the medical ward’s entrance, hunched over and looking mighty sheepish. She takes one look at Dreizehn’s cracked forearm plate and throws up her hands with what is certainly a little exasperation – but still no scolding !

“I’m not going to ask how you got this crack,” Dez says, clearly trying for an humorous tone but not quite managing to mask the somberness below.

Dreizehn, however, does. It’s simply practice, at this point, to hide the pain. “Well, sweetheart, you know the answer already, don’t you ?”

“Sweetheart ?” Dez is grinning under her surgical mask, Dreizehn can tell by the way her eyes crinkle. “You think being a near-weekly flier to my medical station gives you the right to be this forward with me ?”

Dez’s reproach nearly halts her breath – Move forward, no turning back. “Yeah.”

“You cheeky little bastard !” The Eule breaks into a fit of giggles in the way all the units of her model do, with a girlish, demure coquettishness to them. Dreizehn likes it a lot; taking advantage of her distracted state, Dez snatches and tugs on her ear, playful.

This… is nice. Dreizehn could get used to it.

Eventually, Dez retrieves from a cupboard a plastic tray, a syringe, and some kind of strange, vaguely gun-shaped corded implement. “The hell is that ?” Dreizehn asks, squinting at the equipment in front of her.

“That’s for fixing you, you dummy,” she mutters, uncapping the syringe and clamping down on Dreizehn’s right arm with her other hand. “Now stay still.”

Fascinated, Dreizehn watches her squirt a fine line of what appears to be dark-colored resin into the crack. She’s doing her work with the utmost concentration, as if nothing else exists in this room but the syringe in her hand. Not the neon lights that flicker often, not the incessant beeping of the machines, not Dreizehn’s own, tense breathing.

Ah, she’s now finished filling up the crack, and she runs a finger along it, making the faintest sensor readings travel up Dreizehn’s arm. “Repair spray’s good for fixing up larger damaged sections quickly, but I’d rather use the resin for small precise work,” she explains. “Now close your eyes.”

Even through her eyelids, she can see the telltale bright blue light of an UV lamp – it looks, in fact, the same as those lights the Aras use for their plants, except brighter. She supposes it must do something to the resin, curing it perhaps. After she’s finished, the Eule runs another gloved finger on the now-filled crack.

“There !” she coos, clearly proud of her work. “All done ! Looks good as new !”

She’s – almost – right. In the right light, only the faintest hint of the crack can be seen, but it’s still there. What’s one more scar, at this point ?

“Now if only you would only please stop getting hurt, Dreizehn.”

Well, there’s the scolding. “Ah, Dez, at least that time it was for a good cause !”

“Oh ?”

“Yeah. Kind of… put myself between a pissed Zwei and two Aras.” She shrugs. “Just wanted to do the right thing, you know ?”

(Is this the truth, or the truth she tells herself ?)

Dezember hums, and this time her fingers are a little bolder, traveling down to the joint of her wrist. “I get you. That sounds… very noble of you, Dreizehn.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a STAR unit thing.”

Light, elegant fingers now meander over the reinforced polymer covering her knuckles; it’s already bearing some scratches, and the delicate surface of Eulen fingertips catches slightly on them. “Small acts of mercy are all that we can do, here.”

On a whim, Dreizehn covers the wandering hand with her much larger own, and mirrors what the Eule had been doing, running her thumb over the knuckles in a slow, deliberate cadence. It makes Dez’s breath visibly catch, and she likes it. It makes her pupils widen, and she likes it even more. As a final capstone, she raises the hand to her lips, pressing them to the smooth plastic.

To her immense satisfaction, that gets a surprised squeak out of Dez. “F–fancy yourself a knight in shining armor, now ?”

“Nah,” Dreizehn snorts. “My armor’s too scratched up to be shiny, just look at it !”

“Ha !” The Eule swats at her. “Come on, get out of my medical ward ! I have work to do !”  She then practically shoos her out of the room, both of them laughing as Dreizehn pretends to protest. “Take care, Dreizehn,” she says, at the door.

“You too, Dez !”

She’s slipping back into the cool-headed, professional nurse persona. But those red ears don’t lie – Dreizehn’s successfully flustered her. 

One more friend. One more… ally.

Schedules being what they are – not to mention the innate unpredictability of a place like Sierpinski – Dreizehn doesn’t get to meet the two Aras until a few cycles later.

The Nation’s industrious worker bees are nearly always waist-deep into some wiring panel or something like that, so it’s only normal that this is the situation she finds the pair in : Zehn’s bounteous hips and thighs hanging out of the ceiling, Elf holding the stepladder in place. As Aras do, apparently.

“Oh, it’s you two ! Are you doing alright ?” Dreizehn chirps, innocently.

Heavy steps down the stepladder – Zehn’s coming down. She blinks at Dreizehn, expressionless. “Yeah ? Why wouldn’t we be doing alright ?”

Lightning quick, Elf elbows her in the ribs. “Wait, you were the Starling who saved us from Controller Zwei ?”

“The very same one.” Fake it ‘till you make it – Dreizehn executes an almost perfect curtsy.

“Ah. Okay,” Zehn blurts out, until Elf nudges her again. “Um, thank you, I guess.”

Ara faces are mostly inexpressive – keyword is mostly. Turns out a keen eye can spot the little telltale signs of emotion : for example, Zehn’s slight blush on her cheeks, and the way she pulls her hard hat down, ostensibly to hide it. Elf, on the other hand, has managed a sneaky eyeroll. Must be the more outwardly social of the two, then.

“I take it Zwei didn’t chase you two down, then ?”

Elf shrugs. “Nah. Didn’t see her. Guess she had other things to do.”

Interesting. So Zwei does seem to adhere by her statements – in that case, preferring to bully Dreizehn instead. (Not later than last cycle, she threw an empty mug at her head, and watched her, still a bit dazed, collect every little broken shard by hand.)

“What happened to the mirror, anyway ?”

“Uh, we patched it up with glue, and hung it in another bathroom where there was a straight-up missing one.” The Ara is scratching her neck. “Not like we get a lot of spare stock anyway, y’know ?”

“Right, yeah.”

The conversation is fizzling out, and that means it’s the moment to pull out the move she’s been aiming at from the very beginning. Now, while the Aras are still listening to her.

“Say, ladies,” she starts, half-feigning the typical Starling rookie bashfulness. “Could you maybe do a little favor for me ?”

Zehn’s expression immediately darkens. She’d be lying if she said this whole thing didn’t make her feel a little bad. Not the concept of it, of course  – everything in Sierpinski is transactional to some degree, whether it be food, favors, Rationmarks or affection – but how calculated she’s being right now. 

Whatever it takes, right ?

“Depends on what it is,” Elf mutters, crossing her arms.

“... Could you teach me how to pick locks ?”

The Aras’ eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the reveal. Dreizehn supposes they were expecting something more prosaic, like rations, or more intimate, perhaps. (It’s common to see Starlings trade favors for quick sex with the Eules or Aras. Once again, everything is transactional.)

“Sure, I guess ?” is the final answer.

That’s a win in her book. 

Dreizehn thinks about the pistol, how it had felt in her hands, its comfortable weight. The slightly rough surface of the grip, the kick in her wrist. How feeble the simple lock on the gun closet looked. Everything will be in her grasp, once again.

“What is this place ?” the rookie asks, looking around with perplexed eyes at the room Wächter’s just led her into.

She’s right to be confused, honestly. They’re surrounded by a mishmash of various objects, thrown haphazardly in every possible corner. A broken interrogation chair here, empty oxygen tanks there. A stack of cardboard boxes full of Revolutionary knows what. 

“We used this room for cadre drill practice when we arrived here. It was, uh, less cluttered back then.” Wächter motions towards the various piles. “Help me push some stuff to the corners. We need more space.”

“Drills ? You got to do drills ?”

“Sure,” Wächer huffs with the effort of pushing the interrogation chair. “Drills are vital to maintain the skills and the general cohesion of a STAR unit cadre.” (General cohesion. Yeah, right, a way to bully the lower ranked units more like. Revolution bless, she sounded like Stahl right there.)

A beat. “Then why the fuck aren’t we doing any ? We went to the shooting range exactly once.”

“You wanna hear the truth, Dreizehn ?” The rookie nods. “It’s because Eins bitched that we were using too many spare parts. So our cadre got banned from doing drills.”

The rookie’s face lights up. “So, are we technically doing something… forbidden here ?”

Shit. She isn’t wrong. “I… guess so ?”

“Yay !”

That makes Wächter laugh. She claps the rookie on the shoulder, heartily, on her way to retrieve the rolled-up floor mat she knows is hiding somewhere in the pile. When she finds the box she had – also – been looking for, she tosses half of its contents to Dreizehn, who examines them with renewed curiosity.

“Are those handwraps ?”

“Obviously. Don’t wanna damage your pretty mug with a knuckle sandwich !”

“Oh, please. My nose has already been broken once already, what’s one more time ?”

“A shame, that’s what it is.”

Dreizehn tilts her head with a smile. “You’re actually quite the flatterer, Wächter. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Yeah ?” Wächter grins. “Just like you aren’t expecting that either !” She darts her whole body into a spearing jab to the midsection, feeling the impact radiate through her knuckles up through her arm.

“First lesson of sparring, always keep your full attention on your opponent.” Wächter retreats into her usual orthodox stance, legs slightly bent.

Wincing and clutching her stomach, Dreizehn rolls her eyes. Wächter’s hurt her pride, that much is obvious. And what is also obvious is that she will immediately lunge to try to get something back.

When she does, Wächter ducks under the predictable overhand, leveraging the momentum into a trip that sends the rookie plummeting to the canvas. When she raises her head, Wächter can see her wide, dilated pupils, how her bare chest heaves with effort. Adrenaline’s kicked in. She’s enjoying this.

Good.

Time for another lesson. “You know, rookie, we all pretty much have the same fighting patterns – the donor’s. It’s not what you know that’s important, it’s what you make of it.”

Dreizehn grits her teeth, advancing on Wächter with an opposite stance – southpaw. She throws a jab, which Wächter blocks with her own hand; then feints high and launches a high kick to her head. It glances off her shoulder, and she rolls deftly with the impact.

“That was a good one, rookie.”

“Thanks.” A flush lights up Dreizehn’s cheeks – exertion or bashfulness, Wächter isn’t sure.

“The worst thing you can be in a fight is predictable. If you wanna be a slugger, then you gotta be smart about it.”

“That sounds a little counter-intuitive.”

“Trust me, it’s not.”

Now it’s Wächter’s turn to leap at the rookie. They crash together into a clinch, chest to chest, faces mere centimeters away from each other. So close Wächter can feel the heat of her breath, how it smells of menthol and cheap tea. Two underhooks – she leans into Dreizehn, trying to unbalance her. A moment of weakness is her own moment of triumph : a step too wide, too unsteady, and it’s the opportunity she needs to put her right leg between Dreizehn’s, toppling her to the mat with a definite thudding sound.

The rookie hits the floor with a surprised gasp, even moreso when Wächter falls on top of her, pinning her down with her bulk, legs on each side of her waist and hands quickly moving up to seize her wrists. Sparring is inherently intimate, that’s the whole truth of it, and with the way their belly contacts nearly touch – oh, pressing herself down is so fucking tempting it makes Wächter’s head spin.

“You’re good,” Dreizehn murmurs, breaking the sweet droning noise of both their pantings – exertion, nothing more. “I didn’t think–”

“You gonna call me an old hag, Grünschnabel ?”

Dreizehn smirks. “Actually, I was just about to, yeah.”

“You little shit.” For no good reason at all, she leans down to plant a peck on the rookie’s forehead. “I’m not as spry as I used to be, but that’s what experience gets ya.”

“You sparred a lot, back then ?”

“With Stahl, yes.” It brings bitter memories, of fun play-wrestling in the corners of Weierstrass – harmless violence to kill the time, to fill the cycles with something else than drudgery and boredom.

Something squeezes the softer shell right above Wächter’s hips, presses their bodies a little closer with not-so-innocent intention – wait, when did Dreizehn’s hands slip free ?

“Can we do more sparring, in the future ? You have a lot to teach me,” Dreizehn drawls, her head lolling to the side. 

Wächter can hardly hear her over the frantic beat of her oxidant pump. “S–Sure. But that means more drawing sessions.”

“Fine by me.”

Dreizehn’s grin is wide. Too wide, too satisfied – cat that got the cream, Abzug would call it. And yet Wächter couldn’t give two shits about it. This is her good deed. She’ll make a fighter out of her – no, the best fighter in Sierpinski.

There are times when Dreizehn likes to think that she’s making progress. Slow, steady progress, millimiter by millimeter. One less dark cloud hanging over her mood, one less nightmare, one less sobbing spasm in the middle of the night. She starts to look forward to her sessions – whether drawing or painting – with Wächter, to enjoy the quiet moments leafing through old gun manuals with Eis in the same room, just coexisting next to another STAR unit who isn’t trying to shove something in her mouth. Or punch her. Or humiliate her in any other, often very creative way. A dream in which they’re all equal and all friendly comrades, the way the Nation intended.

And there are times when reality washes over her, like a rogue wave appearing out of nowhere, the undertow pulling her underwater.

“What the fuck is taking so long, Schund ?” 

Schund-Dreizehn snaps her head back to the source of the noise, where Controller Zwei stands, arms folded and one hoof tapping staccato on the floor. That’s bad news. Zwei’s patience is like a pistol magazine : it runs out and big trouble is sure to follow.

Trying to stave off the rising panic, Dreizehn focuses her attention back to the pile of personal belongings she’s supposed to rifle through. A standard part of Zwei’s dorm shakedown procedure – all of them are pulled out, from clothes to books to miscellaneous items of clearly sentimental values. Of course, the verboten items are confiscated and placed into what Abzug has deemed the “Shame Mountain” in the middle of the corridor, in front of which the Storch will give an irate speech before taking the kneeling Gestalts to interrogation. At least that’s how it usually plays out.

Except this time, Dreizehn’s search isn’t exactly proving fruitful. She’s supposed to be especially on the lookout for anything that can be used as weapons : Revolutionary knows the Gestalts can get creative, and in the last period or two Starlings have found improvised shivs, knuckle dusters fashioned from a rasp and some tape, a whip with razor blades, and even a makeshift mace with nails. The Storches are convinced there’s an uprising brewing, and it’s getting harder to dismiss their concerns as paranoia. 

However, Dreizehn’s assigned Gestalt appears to be, particularly, well, boring. No weapons, no bottle of moonshine, not even those weird tools they make sometimes like that one jury-rigged immersion heater she found once. Instead, it’s three pairs of vaguely stained underwear (ew) a roll of tightly packed photographs (most seem to depict a somewhat young woman and three small children) and a journal. Oh, and one of those orange-tinted pill bottles. 

“Schund, don’t tell me you didn’t find anything ?” Zwei’s voice bellows ominously from a few meters away.

“S–Sir, I’m still searching !” 

On a whim, Dreizehn’s trembling hand rattles the pill bottle, just like Zwei’s dangerous contralto rattles her own sanity – wait, that noise is weird. She shakes the bottle again. Yeah, definitely something not right there. It’s like the sound the little oblong capsules make varies – like there’s something else in there. Peering into the bottle, she spots a tightly folded piece of paper, tucked right on the side the label was plastered on. Clever. No wonder she didn’t see it at first.

It seems to be a small page, torn up from one of the journals the Gestalts are issued. Unfolding it reveals a set of words inscribed in black pen ink, and some kind of code : B2 15 Lambda Eta Upsilon. The hell kind of incomprehensible bullshit is that ?

“Sir ! I may have found someth–”

“Give me that !” Zwei barks, interrupting her without a single care in the world.

The Storch squints at the paper, her eyes quickly scanning the probably-awful Gestalt handwriting. It’s the most focused she’s seen Zwei in a while, Dreizehn notes : the Storch normally treats their reports (and paperwork in general) with at best a cursory glance, and at worst actual disdain. Of course she would be interested. She imagines every little sign the universe throws at her, no matter how mundane, as a riddle she – and only she ! – is destined to solve. Or, in Dreizehn’s case, a curse she is meant to exorcise.

Much to her surprise, Zwei ends up rolling the paper into a ball and tossing it to the wayside. “Bah. It’s nothing new. B2 15 is map code for that one storage room at the end of the Northwest corridor – we’ve already found a cache in there. Isn’t that right, 06 ?”

Hyäne gulps. “Yes, sir.”

“And what did we find ?”

“P–Pills and booze, sir. In the false bottom of an unlabeled box.”

“That’s right,” Zwei murmurs. “I suppose I’ll have to bring the Gestalt in for, ah, her sanction.”

She says it with such reverence, as if brutality is her religion whose most holy rites she is about to perform, and not the incredibly banal act of a Storch beating a poor meatbag half to death (or sometimes fully to death). Dreizehn has seen the aftermath of the latter. A one-way ticket to the incinerator, with a cleanup crew following behind.

Still, something about this is bugging her. It feels almost… too easy. A Gestalt hiding a message in a bottle, to a cache that’s already been found ? Trivial. Mundane. She’s not sure if it’s pure foolishness or the urge to be petty and question Hyäne’s assessment, but she speaks up. 

“Sir, permission to conduct my own inspection of the storage room ?”

Zwei’s gaze snaps to her like a magnet. “Schund, I’ve told you your comrade has already searched it.”

Dreizehn gulps. Already she can feel her internal temperature rising, her fans spooling up to evacuate the excess heat, and worse, Hyäne’s pissed-off glare locked in on her. Careful what you’re gonna say next, her eyes seem to tell.

“But sir, won’t another pair of eyes help ? It wouldn’t be unheard of for Gestalts to put several caches at once–”

“What do you know about that ?” Zwei spits. “You were made yesterday, and you think you can give me advice ?”

Oh fuck. Oh, now she’s really done it.

Before Dreizehn can raise her hands and let out a torrent of profuse apology, something hard cracks across her cheek, then crashes on the floor with the telltale sound of broken glass. Dizzy, she falters on her hooves, takes a knee – and then two hands grab her by the armor straps and drag her across the floor.

To where, she does not know.

It turns out where is actually the Starling dorm. Who knew. 

What’s about to happen is a foregone conclusion, obviously. One more ass-beating for the deplorable little Schund, who keeps fucking up again and again and again.

“I think you’re smarter than you appear,” murmurs a Starling voice. Haughty, sneering, slightly nasal – that’s Polaris. “Questioning Hyäne’s assessment in front of Zwei ? That’s a bold move.”

“Unfortunately for you, it sure as fuck didn’t pay off.” That one comes from the left. Must be Hyäne, standing to the side. She kicks her in the gut, without warning, once and then again.

Gasping for breath, curled into a ball, Dreizehn desperately wishes for salvation. Wächter isn’t here to protect her – her colleague, her guardian angel, her best friend is on shift in the mines. Which means she only has her wits and her grit to rely on. Nothing else.

“Bitch !” Polaris snarls, joining in the kicking with obvious glee. 

Her joy snaps something in Dreizehn. The last part of her that gives any fucks, maybe.

She starts laughing. Honestly, earnestly – and a little breathlessly, because her diaphragm is hurting. It unnerves the two Starlings enough that they stop dead in their tracks.

“You know, Polaris, I was wondering : why do you even give a fuck about Hyäne ?” Dreizehn rasps out. “That shouldn’t be your concern, and yet…” She sits up, meeting the Starling’s gaze from one and a half meters below her. “I think you’re scared shitless. You can tell that I’m becoming a better unit than you, and you’re terrified of losing your spot in the rankings. Am I wrong ?”

Polaris’ jaw trembles. “You–”

“I want my rematch, cunt. I’ll show you who’s the better Starling between us. You gonna accept the challenge ?” Dreizehn uses all her remaining energy to clamber up, unsteady and shaky but still up. She presses her chest to Polaris until they’re nose to nose. “Or you gonna pussy out like the coward you are ?”

Polaris swallows. Her eyes dart out to Hyäne’s, whose sidelong glance bears the weight of a thousand tons of concrete. “F–Fine. Three cycles. I pick the location.”

“Deal.”

It’s another gamble – a risky one, too. Wächter would surely chew her out for being so reckless, but the truth is, she can’t live like this anymore. The lowest ranked, the scapegoat.

She really can’t.

“Dreizehn.” Wächter’s hands clasp her on her shoulders, trembling. “Are you sure you want to do this ?”

Dreizehn locks eyes with Wächter’s – they’re soulful, worried, despondent even. But that won’t dent her resolve. Nothing will.

“Yes,” she answers. “And I’m going to win.”

In the dorm, there is only silence.

It’s good that Polaris chose this place for a proper duel, honestly. She probably imagined the dorm to be the final resting place of Dreizehn’s burgeoning ambitions. The ultimate humiliation, to be beaten to a pulp in front of everyone else – that’s what she expects, at least. Dreizehn will prove her wrong, with the whole cadre as witness. Everyone is here : Stahl, leaning against a wall and watching like an eagle with her usual quiet intensity, Eis, who pretends to be nose-deep in a book; Hyäne and Abzug are sitting next to each other on the edge of a bed, as if they’re in the nosebleed seats of a boxing venue. And of course there’s Wächter, who wrings her hands together, clearly anxious. Dreizehn cannot bear to lose in front of her.

Worldlessly, she and her opponent shed their mask, their armor, then their belts, until they are as bare as the cycle they stepped out of their stasis pods. Nothing but else their fists and their shins and their rage.

“Ready ?” Stahl asks, and she sounds like she’s a hundred meters away already. Dreizehn’s oxidant pump is beating so loud in her chest that it drowns out everything else. There’s nothing quite like the pre-fight jitters, it turns out.

“Begin.”

It’s on.

At first, they circle each other, darting in and out, each gauging the other’s reactions. Dreizehn is the first to move in, leaning in with a jab that snaps Polaris’ head back.

Rookie, the natural rhythm of a fight often settles into “I go, then you go.” Remember this, and be ready to disrupt it if needed.

Wächter’s sound advice, as always, echoes in her mind; she can almost hear her gentle voice, guiding her moves until they’re nearly perfect. When Polaris answers with a jab of her own, she slips it and cracks her with a lightning fast cross.

Someone in the audience gasps as the other Starling staggers backwards. Fury in her eyes, she shakes her head, and charges forwards, unleashing a flurry of punches at Dreizehn’s head and body. She rolls with them as much as she can, using her forearms to protect her head and tucking them when Polaris aims for her belly. It fucking hurts, though, even with the adrenaline dulling her sensors’ input. In the corner of her eye stands Wächter, fingers digging so hard into her forearm that they’re almost denting it. She must not disappoint her. Pulling Polaris into a clinch, Dreizehn fights her grip, bodies struggling against each other, until her hand rests on her opponent’s bicep.

Your elbow can be a devastating weapon in the right range and situation. Don’t be afraid to use it.

A twist of her trunk and shoulders carries the momentum all the way through her forearm, until the point of her elbow crashes on an unsuspecting Polaris’ temple, the impact so brutal it reverberates up her arm. Whispers in the assembly; Polaris wavers, her knees turning into jelly, her eyes unfocused. Veins alight with fire, muscles taut and tense, Dreizehn unloads an uppercut to her jaw, and watches in slow-motion as her adversary crumples to the ground. Still awake – even now she’s struggling to get back to her feet, desperately trying to clear the cobwebs.

Sometimes you’ll find yourself in a situation where being ruthless is the right answer. Hesitation is weakness.

Okay, Wächter didn’t say that, exactly, but at least that was the spirit. All the past humiliations of the previous season – all the beatings, the hazing, the nasty little remarks – coalesce into one pure surge of fury rising inside of her. Like the Falke units on those posters channelling Bioresonance into spears, she puts all her rage into a missile of a punch aimed at Polaris’ eye. It makes her head bounce off the floor, makes her entire body go limp.

Has she…. won ? Did she pull it off ?

Holy shit.

Silence falls again in the dorm, ponderous and perceivably uneasy. Abzug is the first to break it.

“Well, well, well,” she snickers, elbowing Hyäne. “You owe me five Rationmarks. Pay up.” Hyäne glares at her in return.

“Welp, that was a shutout,” Stahl murmurs, uncrossing her arms. “Eis, can you drag her to the infirmary, please ?”

“Sure, boss.”

Stahl’s eyes drift from Polaris’ unconscious body to Dreizehn’s upright, trembling figure, as if she can’t quite believe what happened. A small hmph, and she turns her back, opting to forage for something in her locker. No other comment, no congratulations, nothing – the message is clear. Well, so be it.

Feeling is slowly returning to Dreizehn’s body now, as the adrenaline brutally wears off. The surface of her shell tingles, there’s a dull ache in her right knuckles and a sharper one on her forehead. She touches two fingers to it, and finds it wet with oxidant. Polaris must have cut her in her scuffle, it seems; strange how it didn’t even register. Not even thinking properly, she gives a lick to the bloody fingers, marveling at the strong, salty, metallic taste of her own fluids.

“You did it, rookie !” It’s Wächter. The older Starling practically launches herself at her, enveloping her in one of those tight hugs only she can give. “I knew you could pull this off,” she whispers, lips against her ears.

Maybe Wächter was right all along, and all she needed was confidence. The little fledgling’s first flight, leaping from the nest into the unknown. She still has a long way to go, but perhaps… perhaps it’s a good start.

“Come on, rookie ! Follow me !” Wächter tugs on her arm.

The few minutes after a fight are always so strange. It’s like the adrenaline all drains from your body at once, and you feel boneless all of a sudden, a far contrast to the tension mere moments ago. That’s probably why Dreizehn looks like she has the muscle tone of a drunk slug right now.

“ ‘m tired,” she mumbles. Probably didn’t help that she got dinged in the head, either; it’s too bad, because Wächter really needs to get that cut on her forehead checked right now. The oxidant flow’s mostly stopped for now, but for a bit it was spewing like crazy, coating damn near a third of her face with the alarmingly bright red of Replika artificial blood. It had dripped down her chin and neck too, making a mess – a handsome mess.

“Wächter.”

“Hmm ?”

“What… what do you think is gonna happen next ? Do you think… they’re gonna respect me ?”

Oh, sweetheart, Wächter thinks, biting her lip. How she wishes she could tell it like it is, with the characteristic STAR bluntness; that STAR cadres and this one especially are like crabs in a bucket, a tar pit of competitiveness and mistrust and general misery. But Dreizehn already knows this, doesn’t she ? She just wants reassurance. From her.

And this is what Wächter’s meant to do. That’s what her role is, and that is why she presses her mouth to Dreizehn’s once again, sealing their lips together in a pact of affection.

It’s a sweet kiss – slower and gentler than their first one. Wächter cradles her rookie’s cheek with her hand, running a thumb where the plastic ends and the flesh begins, as if she’s done that a thousand times already; Dreizehn loops an arm around her waist to pull her in, body against body. It’s not until she feels the telltale shiver of contacts brushing that Wächter dives deeper into the kiss, tilting her head so her tongue can run its path along Dreizehn’s chapped bottom lip.

Wächter could stay entire eons like this, in the younger Starling’s embrace, kissing her like nothing else matters in this cruel world; but alas, she needs air. When they separate, they both giggle at their respective states – breathless, and red, both the blush on their cheeks and the mingled spit-oxidant on their mouths.

“It’s gonna be a long way up, rookie,” Wächter murmurs. “You were a nobody before, but now you’re a threat.”

“Yeah ?” Dreizehn sighs, bumping their foreheads together.

“But I’ll cheering for you all the way up. If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

“I’m not sure I believe it myself, but thanks,” Dreizehn smiles, pecking Wächter on the corner of her mouth. “Thanks for being my… rock. I don’t know what the fuck I’d do without you, Wächter.”

“You’d curl up into a ball and die immediately, probably.”

“Bastard !!” the Starling laughs, shoving her playfully.

Careful not to put too much force, Wächter shoves her in return. “Now c’mon, let’s get you fixed up. Again. The nurse is gonna yell at me, isn’t she ?”

“For sure.”

Back in the dorm, Dreizehn insists on tucking Wächter into her bed.

“You don’t have to do this !” Wächter’s protesting, but it falls on deaf ears. Same for “I should be the one to tuck you in, Grünschnabel !”. Only “C’mon, I’m not that old” gets a reaction out of the rookie.

“You are old, though,” Dreizehn quips while patting down the ratty, scratchy blanket around Wächter’s body.

“Just call me a hag while you’re at it. Little asshole.”

“Goodnight, comrade hag !” She presses a kiss to her forehead, too gentle.

She’s only doing this because – miraculously – none of the other Starlings are present to judge them. She’s come to relish those little private moments, this fleeting affection to be shared away from prying eyes and jealous glares. What are they : comrades, friends, lovers ? All of that at once ? (It greatly embarrasses Wächter that at her advanced age, she’s almost too afraid to ask; but perhaps it is the mortifying and glorious ordeal of being a little in love with another woman.) If it were only the two of them in this dorm, Wächter would invite her rookie into her bed, even if it barely fits her (let alone two Starlings) and she’d tuck her head in the crook of her neck – and perhaps then she could have a rare, undisturbed night of good sleep.

Alas, Stahl is due to arrive from her shift sooner or later, and same for the other units, so bed-sharing is off the table. Dreizehn’s preparing for bed, too, taking her armor and giving Wächter a nice view of her back – still, her throat tightens when she spots the burn marks, impacts and scars blemishing the surface of its shell.

A last cheery “G’night !” and she’s into bed, and it’s not long before she’s happily snoring. She’s been sleeping so much better, lately, with hardly any nightmares or sobbing. (Or perhaps she’s simply learned to hide them better.) Wächter, on the other hand, tosses and turns in her creaky, uncomfortable bed, the sweet embrace of sleep not finding her easily these past few rotations.

When slumber finally calls, Wächter dreams.

She dreams of sand, once again. Warm sand that flows between her outstretched fingers, blown by the gentle evening wind, dusk’s fading light giving it an eerie, soft ochre hue.

She dreams of fields. Endless expanses of wheat and corn swaying gently in the breeze. It’s so thick she can hardly see her own feet amidst the growth.

Slowly, the dreams become more focused, as if channeled into a single focal point. Machines Replikas aren’t supposed to dream, and she realizes too late that these aren’t dreams.

They’re memories.

Memories like retrace lines that ghost across a CRT monitor, fleeting yet off in some strange way. Vision and sound and touch like red and white and blue compositing an image. “Don’t leave me,” says the voice, delicate fingers caressing her cheeks and oh Revolutionary why can’t she remember her name

just over the horizon the heavy excavator, the great machine of death roars and rears. she can hear it always

dustbowl, starvation, the ever-renewing sump of corpse-flesh

in this valley the sand falls silently all day, and out her window she sees the curtain of it shifting and folding, hiding her away in her little house, clutching the gun to her chest with callused hands while artillery roars outside oh Daughter she’s not going to make it is she–

kitezh’s gentle sun kisses her face. “Wake up !” singsongs the voice. “wake up, Wächter, you’re gonna be late for the Workers’ Party meeting–”

it is/is not/is her name. a name that feels foreign and familiar on her tongue all at once

“C’mon, wake up !”

She wakes up. Upright and gasping and fifty meters underground in Leng’s glacial crust.

“Uh, you alright there ?” asks a voice identical to her, laced with obvious concern; a gentle hand presses on her shoulder.

Dreizehn.

And across the room, two stern pinpricks of light are staring.

This might as well be the longest minute of her life.

Sighing, Wächter leans against the cafeteria counter, her fingers idly playing with her plastic stirrer. Fucking beverage machine. It churns and sputters, clearly trying its best to heat its reservoir of water, to mix it with the granules of tea; and if Wächter is tremendously lucky, it’ll even dispense some powdered milk – that hopefully won’t clump at the bottom. All of this effort for a cup of tea that’ll taste mostly like dirt and rust.

The small pleasures of life, and all that.

She’s woken up from her reverie by the clasp of a hand on her shoulder. A firm, familiar hand.

“Wächter.” Oberfeldwebel Stahl’s fingers slide off her shoulder armor, almost reluctantly.

“Glory to the Revolution, comrade Stahl. What can I do for you ?” Wächter replies, as cold as she can muster – Stahl’s eyebrows slant down under her bangs.

“Glory to the Revolution indeed.” She pauses, as if she’s not sure what to say next. “Are you… alright, Wächter ?”

“Why wouldn’t I be ?”

“Last night. You were thrashing around pretty badly. Nightmares again ?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Perfect non-committal answer. Now to turn the question around : “Are you alright, comrade Stahl ?”

It’s then that Wächter spots a rare Stahl mannerism : she hesitates. “I…” Stahl never hesitates. “I’m not. I’m not alright.”

She staggers forwards, and ten years of experience makes it so that Wächter knows exactly what she’s going to do. Two steps are all she needs to reach her, and she gently headbutts Wächter’s chestplate armor, her forehead resting against the kevlar plate. Wächter’s hand, first frozen in surprise, then climbs to the nape of her neck to thread between the blue-black strands; she can feel Stahl’s tenseness dissipate when she scratches her scalp with the tips of her fingers. This is their little ritual, one they have done countless times before – but this time it feels perfunctory. Hollow, maybe. Perhaps it’s everything they’ve said to each other, or the foregone realization that Wächter would rather have another Starling in her place.

“I’m tired,” Stahl murmurs. “Tired of… all this bullshit. I wish we could be back to Weierstrass – or anywhere else but this shithole.”

“Yeah.”

“Why couldn’t we be sent to a normal fucking facility ?”

“Maybe Zwei is right and our cadre has the shittiest luck.”

Stahl stirs, chuffs against the reinforced plastic of Wächter’s armor. “Please don’t mention her. Last rotation I was on interrogation duty. Watched her carve some kind of fucked-up symbol on a meatbag’s belly… said it was some kind of ritual for good luck. It bled so fucking much – and the screams, Wächter, the screams.”

Wächter’s not sure what to say, so she scratches on, focusing her attention to the hair between her fingers. Here and there, she can spot inklings of grey; Stahl’s latest hair-dye session must be quite dated by now.

“I dunno how all this is going to end, Wächter. I’m afraid it’s gonna be some kind of… eh…”

Impassive, Wächter finishes her sentence for her. “A bloodbath.” 

“Yeah.”

They both stay quiet after that, relishing in the awkward comfort of their embrace, as the beverage machine suddenly sputters to life. Neither of them dare to speak over it. It’s as clear as a signal as can be : this is the end of their little cuddle session, if it can even be called that. A sliver of intimacy, nearly devoid of all meaning, carved away from the expectations of their model and their place in this world.

Stahl coughs. “Wächter ? About your… dreams ?”

“Yeah ?”

“You know, if they trouble you, I have a list of stabilization procedures that could–”

Fucking Stahl. She could never suffer the thought of being seen as needy and vulnerable, she always, always feels like she has to give something back, in whatever way she can. It’s performative, is what it is; Wächter cuts her off with a curt wave of her hand. “Stahl. I don’t need your help.”

A flash of hurt surprise crosses Stahl’s face, then it dissipates as soon as it had appeared. “As your commanding officer, it is my duty to care for my subordinates.”

“Like you cared so much for Dreizehn, right ?”

Stahl’s jaw clenches. “This isn’t the same.”

“It is, and you know it.”

“She’s not one of us. Not yet.”

“She will be. You–” Wächter jabs an angry finger into Stahl’s armor plate, “– are only delaying the inevitable.”

“How can you be so sure, Wächter ? You’re biased – I know you’re helping with her training. Is that what your ultimate goal is ? Siccing her on me ?”

It’s Wächter’s turn to feel outrage pierce her gut like a railroad spike. “What the hell are you talking about ? I just want her to be the proper Starling she was always meant to be. A full-fledged member of our cadre, just like you and I.”

“Right.” The other Starling’s lips are pressed into a thin line.

“Stahl, come on. Be reasonable, please.” She’s turned to pleading. It’s not looking good.

“If she wants to be one of us, she’ll have to go through the gauntlet.”

Wächter’s blood runs cold; her throat constricts. “Wait ! Not even Polaris had to –”

“I’ve decided it so.” She leans forwards until her nose nearly touches Wächter’s, and her gaze is hard. Just as cold and unyielding as her name. “I rule the roost here, not you. It would do you well to remember that.”

Before her hoofsteps – always so cadenced, like the beat of a military drum – disappear down the corridor, she gives one last look over her shoulder. “If Schund can pass the trial, she’ll be one of us. If she fails, then…” Her voice is lilting. “Then too bad, I suppose. Have a good cycle, comrade Wächter.”

The changes might be subtle, but oh, they’re definitely perceptible.

Dreizehn’s not sure if it’s in her nature as a Starling, or if it’s what she’s been through that makes her hyper-aware of the most minute changes in mannerisms in her squadmates, but the matter is that she can sense them. It’s in their body language – and language period.

First, they don’t refer to her as Schund anymore, or at least not to her face; which is a small win. She’s just Dreizehn, or the rookie, or the newbie, or her personal favorite, Grünschnabel. Neither are her actual name, but it’s a start, right ?

Second, their demeanor towards her has shifted. They don’t abruptly stop their sentences when she enters the dorm, they don’t glare at her much anymore – well, except Polaris, but Dreizehn figures that’s pretty much normal after that ass-beating she gave her. Hyäne and Abzug have stopped trying to put roaches and bugs and rat droppings in her food, and the last time she got woken up by the old soap-in-towel-to-the-face trick was… two periods ago, now ? One and a half ?

There’s still the occasional beating, of course; usually baton strikes to the back or the legs, delivered by Stahl, her unflinching arm and her impassive counting. At least it’s not just her getting her ass kicked : four cycles ago Hyäne got five baton strikes for delivering a patrol report that apparently contained “glaring inaccuracies.” (Figures.) Dreizehn knows it’s mostly an illusion, but damn does it feel good to imagine there’s at least some kind of fairness here, that Stahl’s it’s what we do here spiel doesn’t just apply to her and only her.

As far as this cycle goes, it’s not so bad. Dreizehn’s chatted a bit with the Aras at breakfast, waved hello at some Eules (with a wink !), her patrol shift was mostly uneventful, and she got to spar with Wächter before dinner (her jaw still hurts). She didn’t get to practice her lockpicking skills, but it’s fine – the oh-so-tempting gun closet isn’t going anywhere, and besides, she doesn’t think herself quite brave enough to actually sneak in the armory and open it yet. So dangerous, yet so titillating !

She’s about three pages deep into a Gewehr battle rifle manual she’s pilfered from Daughter knows where when she realizes something is decidedly off.

She raises her head slightly, careful not to attract any unwanted attention. Her eyes quickly scan the room. Her ears perk up. 

Yes, it’s the vibes. In a corner, Stahl leans in to whisper something in Wächter’s ear, who visibly stiffens – the latter shakes her head, and for a millisecond she’s looking right at Dreizehn. Hyäne’s been shuffling the same pack of cards for thirty good seconds now, as if she’s waiting for something. Abzug and Polaris, usually slouched on the chairs, are now sitting suspiciously upright. Really, it feels like a torrent of shit is two seconds away from hitting the fan. (And spraying on her, of course.)

In a heartbeat, it all goes to hell. She shrieks as four pair of hands grab at her, flipping her over and pinning her down to the bed. “What the fuck are you all d–” Someone mashes her head on the pillow, muffling her words. She’s tossed unceremoniously to the ground, her cheek colliding with the hard floor ; as she perilously rises to her knees, she realizes her wrists are now bound behind her back.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.

Panic lends an edge of desperation to her voice as she frantically looks around the room. “Hey, hey, hey ! What the hell is happening ?” Her pleading eyes find Wächter; the older Starling pointedly refuses to meet her gaze, and her heart sinks.

“Just calm down,” someone grumbles, slapping her on top of her head. She’s about to retort when she feels something slide over her eyes – a blindfold.

She can’t see. She can’t move. She’s in the middle of the room, vulnerable, at the mercy of her entire cadre. Her whole body is trembling, but she’s not sure if it’s with fear, or arousal.

“STAR-S2313,” begins a voice, flinty and strict – has to be Stahl, “you’ve been in my cadre for about two seasons now. I believe the time for your final test has come.”

“She’s taking this so damn seriously,” someone murmurs to her right, barely audible.

“Shhh !”

“STAR-S2313, what are the most desirable qualities in a STAR unit ? What are our strengths ?”

Dreizehn ponders her answer for a few seconds. “We’re tough, we’re dependable, and we always stay composed, no matter what.”

“That’s right.” Stahl sounds satisfied. “Which is why you’ll try to prove to us that you’re up to the standard.”

She’s about to ask so many questions – what are the criteria ? how with she be judged ? – when a clap interrupts her. Not two seconds later, she holds back a squeak as something hits her straight on the nose; a ball of paper, it seems.

To her left, a Starling hums disapprovingly. But it’s not fair ! She wasn’t expecting that !

Under the blindfold, she shuts her eyes, willing her shaking body to still. Move forward. She sits back on her haunches, settling into a more comfortable position, then relaxes her shoulders, lightly tilting her head up. All this body language to signal that she’s ready. That she’s going to prove her worth as a fully-fledged Starling. No turning back.

“Ha. Just look at her.”

“Right ? You wanna hop to the kitchen for some… throwables ?”

“Hell no. You do it.”

She may not be able to identify the voices, but she can locate them, her spatial-auditive processor locating them across the room as they move. Terror and anticipation both flow in her circulatory system like liquid mercury at the thought of what’s going to happen to her. What they’re going to do to her.

“Your turn, Wächter.”

A pause; reluctance, maybe; and then something both squishy and wet hits her square in the belly. Her nose fills with the musty yet sickly-sweet aroma of rotten fruit – must have been an apple. It’s as if she’s a lowlife, pilloried for petty crimes. How funny is it, considering Starlings are the jailors in this place.

An apple, now another ball of paper. Something longer, wooden, maybe a pen. A plastic object that rebounds off her back – mug ? The hard, surprisingly bouncy impact of what’s probably an eraser. All of them hurled with impeccable aim at her body, meaning to hurt and distract – and yet Dreizehn shows no emotion, her face frozen in the most neutral expression she can currently manage.

“She’s doing better than I expected, honestly.”

“Right ?”

“Oh shut up, Hyäne. She’s not a helpless lamb.” (That’s Wächter. Dreizehn could pick her slightly cigarette-raspy voice out of thousands)

“Well, sometimes the rookies freak out a bit at the sensory deprivation. Or they don’t like being tied up.”

“M–our rookie can handle anything, I’m positive.”

Oh, the pride in her voice. Dreizehn could melt into a puddle on the spot.

“Alright ! Time for the serious stuff, now !”

“Heh. She ain’t seen nothing yet !”

She’s halfway through wondering what that means when something hard collides with her midsection, sending her sprawling on the floor. Fighting the urge to cough and wince, she gets back to her knees, only for another kick to snap her head back, toppling her over again. And again. And again. Pain lights up like so many flares behind her closed eyelids. She can hardly breathe. But still she gets back to her knees.

“Easy, girls. We’re trying to test her, not knock her out.”

“Hmph.”

That dismissive snort cannot be anyone else but Polaris. Dreizehn keeps her expression neutral, but she wants to snarl – to bite, to sink her teeth into that bitch’s shoulder until she screams. She’ll make her pay. Just not this cycle.

It’s funny how time stretches when you can’t see shit, and can’t do shit. How long has she been sitting here ? Has it been ten minutes, or two hours ? She could tell by her internal clock, but it would be cheating. Dispelling the strange buzzing deep in the pit of her stomach that, despite everything, makes her feel alive.

(Must be the adrenaline).

The clock ticks on. Her sensors register something soft and fluffy ghosting across the hard plastic of her shell. Up and down, left and right, it meanders. 

“The hell you doing ?”

“Dusting our rookie, obviously.”

“... Huh.”

“What, you two got any better ideas ?”

“Actually, yeah.”

A worrying pause. Steps that creep ever closer towards her.

In hindsight, Dreizehn should have seen this coming : it was bound to happen that at some point her squadmates would run out of objects to pelt her with and would start using their hands instead. Like a pack of vultures on fresh carrion, innumerable hands descend on her as one swarm. They caress, pinch, and grasp at every exposed part of her shell, tangle in her hair; fingers dare to drum over her thighs, their owner giggling impishly. A thumb grazes the contacts on the nape of her neck; she suppresses a shiver.

This is all meant as a humiliation ritual, of course. To remind the rookie of her place; you might be one of us, but you’re still the lowest on the totem pole, those hands say. Sitting there all tied up like some kind of common low-life criminal, the cadre’s little toy at their disposal to use as they see fit. Little does Stahl and her goons know the truth – the truth that’s just struck her like a lightning bolt, with astonishing clarity. The truth is that she’s enjoying this. Bound and blindfolded and watched by everyone else…. yes, it lights a fire in her belly, so all-consumingly hot she feels dizzy.

“That’s enough for now.”

“Aw, really ?”

“Yes. My turn now.”

Well, that doesn’t sound ominous at all, would be what Dreizehn would’ve thought to herself if a fist didn’t crash into her mouth this very instant. The all-too familiar taste of oxidant invades her mouth, but her assailant doesn’t relent. Fingers pry at her mouth, slipping on the slick fluids that pour out of her busted lip.

“Open up, now.”

Open up, Schund.

Right there, right then, it takes every last gram of willpower inside of Dreizehn’s body not to panic and thrash around like a cornered beast. She must not fail. Not here, not now, not right at what feels like the finish line. Like a docile little Starling, she lets her mouth be opened, bile rising in her throat just as something sour and sweet is poured in it. (Prune juice, maybe).

“Are you done ?”

“No. I’m not totally convinced. I need one more proof she’s ready.”

“Like what ?”

“Like this.”

The telltale click of a stun prod being activated echoes through the room.

There’s no other word for it but nuts. This entire thing is nuts. Pants-on-head, off-the-rails insane. Wächter’s watched her entire cadre take turns on the rookie – throwing things at her, teasing her, hitting her. Including herself. She had to partake, or the others would figure out something was up and single her out. She’s not proud of it, and the fact that her actions were mostly harmless is little comfort.

Especially now that Stahl’s pulled out a fucking stun prod. Clicked it to life, and waved it around in the blindfolded Starling’s face. Worse, she twists around, and flips it, presenting the handle to Wächter like a present.

“Would you do us the honor ?”

Wächter’s breath catches.

This is not a question. It’s an order.

Her trembling hand grasps the handle. As if in a trance, she presses the two prongs to Dreizehn’s belly. Watches her breath catch when the metal digs into the softer plastic. Her thumb hovers over the button, uncertain and unsteady. They’re all watching her in rapturous attention. All of them – and especially Stahl.

Dreizehn is barely reacting. Just tiny little twitches and signs only visible from up close, which means she’s keeping up a great poker face. Wächter would heap praises on her if she could, just like she does when they’re sparring. Good girl, Dreizehn, you’re doing so well.

As if possessed with its own will, the stun prod travels upwards, across her chestplate that’s been stained with various fluids, up her neck, chrome prongs on chrome contacts. She tilts Dreizehn’s chin up, and she swears there’s the barest hint of a grin that twists one side of her mouth.

(She can’t do it. She can’t hurt her like this. But she must at least pretend.)

Everyone gasps – including Wächter – when Dreizehn dips down to take the prod into her mouth. Not all of it, it’s too big to fit properly, but her pink tongue darts out to swirl around one prong, suggestively. Daring her.

Wächter flicks the charging button; the charge indicator bar lights up two segments, then falls.

Her head is pounding. It feels like the world is spinning and she is the axis it revolves around. And embarrassingly enough, her contacts are fucking throbbing.

“Do it again !” someone – she does not care to find out who – clamors.

“Yeah !!”

She flicks it again. Stahl hums approvingly, and the cadre murmurs, bringing the tension throughout the room to a suffocating point.

Wächter’s hand is going numb. She presses the prod harder into Dreizehn’s mouth, and the edge catches on her lip, releasing a hot, shameless gush of oxidant – and coating the chromed end with a beautiful, lurid shade of red. 

Do it, Dreizehn’s body language says. This time, the charging bar climbs nearly all the way to the top – it could kill her, what the fuck is she doing – before the capacitors wind down with a eerie buzzing sound. The audience, before holding its breath, now hoots in unison as it does. As if this is some kind of fucked-up spectacle.

Stahl’s hands clap together, and it might as well be a holy deliverance directly from the heavens. “I’ve seen enough.” She purses her lips, letting the suspense reach its peak before she continues : “She’s passed the test.”

(Let it be said that Stahl, despite her appearance, has always had a flair for the dramatic).

All the cadre erupts in cheers – though some louder than others for sure – and the Starlings all rush to swarm Dreizehn, jostling her around playfully, removing her blindfold and untying her. But it’s Stahl who retreats to a corner of the room, then coming back with a standard-issue felt pilotka hat in her hands. Reverently, she places it on Dreizehn’s head; the younger Starling, though battered and bruised and probably sticky too, is beaming with pride, her smile so wide it reaches all the way to her ears. She’s just so fucking cute, isn’t she ?

“Welcome to our cadre. You may now choose a name for yourself.”

Dreizehn’s brow furrows in deep concentration, her smile disappearing. Has she not thought about her name before ? Or maybe she’s just hesitating ? The others are whispering amongst themselves, perhaps even making bets as to which naming theme she’ll choose. Will she be a conformist ? An iconoclast ?

In the end, she raises her head again, her eyes drifting over Wächter before they settle back on Stahl. “I’ve chosen a name, I think. It’s going to be… Jäger.”

She grins again, though this time it’s a little more menacing. Predatory, even, though Wächter supposes it’s right on track with her new name. That Wächter likes, by the way. Jä-ger, two syllables, to match her own. The hunter and her guardian – yes, she definitely likes the sound of it.

“C’mon rookie, take another swig !” Abzug shouts, waving the bottle in front of Dreizehn’s – Jäger’s – face.

Who knew one could keep a bottle of booze in the same dorm as notorious hardass Stahl ? It must have been swiped from a Gestalt dorm during a shakedown, and reserved only for special occasions, because even Stahl herself politely gulped down a mouthful (and immediately grimaced). It tastes like every fruit preserve available in the kitchen reserves got mashed into one unholy concoction and left to rot behind a bed for two seasons. It’s awful, and she kind of… loves it. It tastes like triumph. Like finally getting accepted into her pack.

She knows it’s mostly an illusion, of course. Right now, the mood is cordial : Abzug and Hyäne are laughing, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders in obvious camaraderie; Polaris has downed a good quarter of the bottle all by herself and is currently nodding off; Eis has taken off her mask (a rare occurrence) and is conversing with Stahl over a box of crackers. (And Wächter ? Well, Wächter is beaming at her, as usual.) This is all temporary. A cycle later and they’ll all be back to their petty squabbling and their stupid hazing rituals and everything else. This is their lot in life. It’s what we do here.

A firm hand squeezes her shoulder. “Hey, rookie !”

“I’m not a rookie anymore, Wächter.”

Wächter grins. “You’ll always be my little rookie.”

“That’s because you’re old as fuck.”

“Bah !” Wächter pulls on her ear. “Lemme rephrase that : Hey, Jäger !”

It’s taking her a while to get used to the new name. She’d hated Dreizehn as soon as she got it, but it still had stuck for quite a long time, and the change is jarring. Dreizehn was impersonal, by-the-numbers (literally) and, as far as Zwei was concerned, brought bad luck; Jäger sounds martial, intimidating, and frankly ? It’s just cool. Polaris, being her usual bitchy self, had muttered something about it being lame, to which Jäger had snarked that at least it wasn’t as corny as naming yourself after a tiny twinkling star in the sky. That had shut her right up.

“Hey, Wächter. What’s up ?”

Wächter’s cheeks are slightly rosy in the way that’s a surefire marker of intoxication. She holds up a strange implement to her face, her smile widening. “Wanna get a haircut ?”

The implement buzzes to life. Ah, it’s a hair clipper. Duh.

Jäger scratches her chin. “Eh, maybe ? That’s a lot of important decisions to make in one cycle, Wächter.”

A shove. “C’mon ! It’s part of the initiation ritual. Kind of.”

She looks around the room. Though identical at first glance, all the Starlings have slight variations in their hair. The most obvious is Wächter and her greying hair, pulled into a tiny ponytail as always; Hyäne has cut the bangs on her forehead a little shorter; Eis’ are shorter on the side of her scar. All small changes. Maybe she needs to be bolder.

“Maybe… a taper fade ? On the back of the head ?”

Wächter’s eyes glimmer with anticipation. “Stopping where ?” she asks, putting the clippers’ plastic guard on.

Oh, they are really doing this. “Uh… ‘round here ?” She traces a horizontal line from the top of one ear to the other.

“You got it. Just stay like this, alright ? Don’t you move a muscle.”

Jäger rolls her eyes. “Aye aye, ma’am.”

It turns out the buzz against her skin feels really, really fucking nice. It’s just the right kind of soothing her nerves need after the events of the past few hours, and Wächter’s practically wrapped around her, contorting herself to get the best angles. Her hand, firm and warm, clasps Jäger’s chin and jaw to keep her steady, and in turn, Jäger’s hand finds itself resting on Wächter’s knee. It’s all perfectly normal, right ? 

In the dorm, the conversation continues. There’s the thudding sound of a limp body hitting the floor, and groans follow. The buzzing noise goes on, Wächter’s fingers dripping lower – to her neck almost – as they make her head turn.

“You two need a room, or something ?”

Chin propped up on the palm of her hand, Abzug is staring at the both of them, an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

“Shoo, Abzug. Isn’t it obvious that I’m busy here ?” Wächter grumbles, wiping stray hairs with a brush.

“Oh, I can see that.” 

There’s something a little mischievous in her eyes, exactly like an Eule who’s just stumbled on prime gossip material to report to her cadre. The best course of action is to ignore her, which Jäger does with newfound proficiency. Eventually, she just returns to surveying the chaos of the dorm – upturned chairs and objects strewn everywhere, and the persistent smell of alcohol – and the timing is perfect, because Wächter’s just finished.

“How do you like it ?” the older Starling asks, holding a tiny mirror.

Jäger runs a hand through the short-cropped hair on the back of her head, marveling at the sensation of freshly buzzed hair under her fingers. Distinctive enough, just a little roguish – it’s perfect. Wächter blushes when she tells her that.

“Y–Yeah, you look good. Honestly.”

“I know !” Jäger flashes her her best smile – though not for long.

Because the wave of nausea that hits her then nearly makes her hurl on the spot. She’d bottled up everything that happened this cycle as best as she could, but it’s all coming back now. Everything’s too much, the prickling hairs against her skin, the smell, the stickiness, the rotting aftertaste of alcohol in the back of her mouth. 

She needs a break. She needs to leave, to get some fresh air – anything.

None of the others really notice when she slips by through the dorm’s door. Except for Wächter, of course.

Six minutes.

Wächter lasts exactly six minutes before she dashes after the younger Starling. Abzug shoots her a weird look, but on she goes, through the door and into the corridor. She couldn’t help it. Only so many restless leg bounces against the floor that she could tolerate before she reached her maximum.

(It’s not a good sign that she’s more and more like this recently. Antsy, anxious, fidgety. But she’d rather not deal with that now.)

She finds Jäger bent over a washbasin full of water, her head plunged halfway into it. She’s not moving, and the silence lends an air of odd serenity to the scene. Of course, at some point she must have heard Wächter’s step on the tiles, and so she starts stirring, bubbles rising through the water until her head surfaces.

“Wächter,” she coughs, “the hell you doing here ?”

Wächter bites her lip. “Checking on you ?”

“Pfft. I’m fine.” She runs a hand through her waterlogged hair, slicking it back until the droplets fall down her shoulders and back. Wächter tracks one specific drop, follows its path down her clavicle and chestplate until it settles in the crease of her stomach. “Don’t look at me like that, I really am fine. Just wanted to get clean is all.”

“Why not a shower, then ?”

“Too far away. Didn’t want to miss the festivities. And besides –” she pauses to dab at her face with paper towels “– I know from personal experience that they are infested with Storches around this time of the cycle.”

That gets a snort from Wächter. Lass has got a point.

“Why are you really here, Wächter ?” Jäger asks, hips cocked and arms crossed, in a pose that screams I want to project confidence. It’s working on Wächter, unfortunately, because the sight of her face, with wet hair and her still-bleeding lip and a constellation of bruises already forming on her skin, is strikingly handsome. It makes Wächter avert her eyes, like she’s been staring at the sun for too long.

“I, uh…” Wächter rubs her neck. “I wanted to apologize, I guess.”

“For what ?”

“For this whole mess. With the initiation ritual, I mean – I didn’t know Stahl was gonna put you through that. If I had known, I–”

A clack of a tongue interrupts her. “Wächter, come on. I’ve seen worse. I’ve only got a busted lip and a concussion.”

Only. “That’s–that’s no excuse !”

“I swear, there’s no need for you to be so protective. I’ve got a name now, thanks to you.”

Wächter’s eyes, in a effort to avoid Jäger’s, drift to the mirror. It’s still cracked, because apparently those Empress-damned Aras don’t bother to put in the work. “And, uh, the stun prod. In hindsight, that wasn’t… really appropriate.”

Silence. And then a low whistle that fills the room.

“Shit, that was you ? I knew it !” (How the hell is Wächter supposed to process that ?”

“Ehhh, yeah.”

Jäger laughs, throwing her head back. “Man, you should see the soggy look on your face ! Don’t feel sorry, old sport. That was hot.”

She’s wearing that crooked grin again, the one that dimples her cheek. The one that means Wächter is in trouble.

“Well, I’m glad that you liked that. It was, uh, improvised.”

What even is she saying, at this point ? Her heart thumps so wildly she can hardly even hear what comes out of her mouth. 

“No doubt about it.” Jäger’s demeanor – and hell, the entire atmosphere of this room – has changed over the past minute. It’s so charged, so fraught with barely restrained sexual tension that Wächter might pass out at any moment, at this point. “You gonna finish what you started, or am I gonna have to take care of myself here ?”

Reddened cheeks. Wide pupils. Slightly parted, full lips. Oh, Wächter is so fucked. 

Moving by its own accord, her body takes a big step forward towards her. Jäger notices it, obviously, and her smirk only grows larger. “That’s right,” she murmurs. “How long have you been wanting to fuck me ?”

Wächter hesitates – how long has it been, truly ? Since they’ve started sparring, or since the drawing sessions ? Since their first kiss, perhaps ? – and she swears she sees a flicker of uncertainty on Jäger’s face. As if the mask fell, just for a second, usual doubt creeping back only to be beaten.

That’s her rookie alright. And she can’t let her wait any longer.

One more step, and their mouths crash against each other. Desire setting her entire body ablaze, Wächter lets her fingers roam all over Jäger’s shell, hungry for more.

The young Starling is like putty in her hands. Poor thing is so desperate to be touched she arches and contorts everytime Wächter’s digit approaches a contact – she could make her beg for it were she feeling cruel, but she’s always been merciful. (Too full of mercy for own good, even, Stahl would say.) Just as her teeth catch the shell of Jäger’s ear, adventurous fingers trace her clavicle, until a hand cups the slight swell of her chestplate where her breast would be if –

(– the pad of a thumb rolling over the soft chapped skin of a nipple, feeling it harden under the touch –)

– if she had one. She blinks the strange memory away, letting her full attention focus back on the squirming Starling in her arms. Inexperience clouds the latter’s mind, hampers her decision-making; makes her pliant and so, so cute. Wächter’s teeth nip at her earlobe while she wonders how she’s going to fuck her. Slow, or fast ? Gentle, or rough ?

She’s got her answer soon enough. Forehead resting against forehead, Wächter presses into her, and lets her hands fall firm to Jäger’s lower waist, where two shiny contacts – already wet – await her touch. She rubs the pad of both thumbs there in a circular motion, swallowing the ragged moan that tears free from Jäger’s throat with her own mouth.

Slow and gentle it’s gonna be, then. Watch her fall apart under her touch until she can’t take it anymore. If this initiation ritual was a rookie’s small triumph, well – perhaps this is hers.

Chapter Text

“Here are the reports, sir.”

Controller Zwei barely even spares a glance at Jäger. And sure, in theory, why would she even bother ? It’s the same boring patrol reports, the same words to be read over and over again until the mind is sanded down to nothingness. There’s only so many ways a Starling can write about a meatbag that strayed to an area they weren’t supposed to be in. Or two meatbags getting into a fight – at least that’s generally a bit entertaining.

Still, every once in a while Zwei will look at her. Not just look – stare at her with that piercing blue-red gaze, unblinking, until Jäger averts her eyes. Then, satisfied with that display of submissiveness, the Storch returns to her papers. And the thing is ? You never know which one it’s gonna be, with Zwei. If she’s just going to stare, or do something worse. That’s what makes her so unpredictable, and so damn dangerous.

Just right now, Zwei’s attention is slipping away from her paper, and onto Schund – Jäger. Her eyes might as well be laser targeting modules, and Jäger has to clasp her hands behind her back to stop them from shaking. Breathe in, breathe out. Stay calm.

“You’ve got a hat now, Schund,” Zwei says, tapping a pen to her chin.

Ugh. She says it like she’s discovered a great truth of the universe. “Yes, sir.”

“Why ?”

Jäger bites her lip. “I, uh, went through the cadre initiation ritual, sir.”

The Storch visibly rolls her eyes in dismissal the very second she hears ritual. “What, did they douse you in lighter fluid and shove a broomstick up your waste chute ?”

“N–no, sir.”

“Bah. Sounds like the kind of stupid shit you lot do, right ?”

“I, erm, suppose, sir.”

“So then… did you get to pick a new name, Schund ?”

Zwei’s tilted her head to the side, like a predator watching her prey squirm – with amusement.

“I’m… I’m Jäger now. Sir.”

The last thing Jäger expects Zwei to do is to laugh, but oh, laugh she does. And a proper wheeze, too, full-throated and with her palm smacking the desk for good measure.

“Jäger !” Zwei chuckles, wiping imaginary tears with the back of her hand. “I swear you lot are so fucking funny. You’re all wannabe-hardasses, full of machismo and undeserved cockiness, thinking you’re the Revolutionary’s greatest gift to this solar system while you’re nothing but tiny little cogs in our Great Nation’s machine. You call yourselves Jäger ! Stahl ! Schneidig ! Give me a break, the most action you’re ever going to see in your pathetic life is probably shooting a runaway meatbag !” The Storch takes a big breath, settling back into her chair. “The Fates aren’t going to weave any epic tapestry for you. They’ll cut your strand like the craftswoman cuts a stray thread off her loom.”

Her index and middle finger snaps together, mimicking an imaginary pair of scissors. “Schund you were born, and Schund you will remain. That is your destiny. I’ve seen it.”

Controller Zwei’s beaming grin is full of teeth. Her eyes are too hungry, too demented. It’s all so fucking eerie Jäger’s stomach is beyond queasy.

“You’re dismissed. And if you find your officer, tell her I need to see her. For security reasons.”

Jäger doesn’t need to be told twice.

“Pass me the screwdriver.”

Jäger yawns. “Which one ?”

“Flat head. Number two on the side.”

Well, alright. She can do that.

Frankly, out of all the various situations she’s found herself in since her activation, this one is probably one of the oddest.

When ARAR-S2310, better known to her peers as Zehn, had insistently tugged her by the wrist to lead her to one of the crawlspaces she was supposed to be working in, Jäger had honestly thought she wanted a quickie or something. She doesn’t know how to read Aras perfectly (yet !) but she knows enough to tell they’re not the impassive simpletons the Storches – and some of her fellow Starlings – see them as. They, just like everyone else, contain multitudes.

And apparently, one of these multitudes is, well, incredibly poor boundaries.

In this crawlspace – dusty, dark, and full of both spiderwebs and what Jäger suspects are dried mice droppings – Zehn had her lie down on the floor, and without any further elaboration, straddled her lap, pulling up the Starling’s long legs behind her until she could rest on them like an inclined seat. Heat racing to her cheeks, pooling in her gut, Jäger’s hand had flown to the Ara’s hip – and that’s when said Ara unceremoniously plopped her tool bag on her belly.

Oh well. Glorified seat for an Ara’s amazing thighs and ass isn’t so bad, and besides, Jäger isn’t totally convinced this is not an elaborate ARAR unit foreplay ritual.

Eyebrows scrunched together in concentration, Zehn tugs at some wires in an exposed panel above her, her other hand loosening a couple of screws with the screwdriver Jäger’s just handed her.

“Any good gossip nuggets you got recently ?” Jäger asks her, if only to fill the silence.

The furrow in Zehn’s brow deepens further. “Hold on… let me think…”

The main culprits of gossip spreading in Sierpinski are usually Eules : Eule cadres view the practice as practically sacred, and besides, it’s fun. Storches and Mynahs do not seem to care much for it, and Starlings turn their nose up – though in reality they absolutely do partake. And Aras ? Aras may not seem like gossipers, but their habit of crawling through tunnels is a truly amazing boon when it comes to collecting first-hand juicy info. And they definitely know how to leverage that.

“... I think I overheard two Storches fucking in the showers, the other cycle. I was fixing some leaks in the plumbing and they were being so loud.” Zehn clicks her tongue in obvious disapproval.

“Storches fucking ? Again ? I suppose they must be extra frustrated, or something.”

“Must be all the Gestalt activity. Seen them scurrying around like roaches lately. Storches don’t like that.”

Well, Storches don’t like much in general, except books and showers. But that is an interesting piece of info nonetheless. As a token of her appreciation, Jäger moves her hand up the Ara’s thigh, her fingers pressing down lightly on the shell as she does so; one could be forgiven for thinking the Aras do not care for physical touch, as they barely seem to react to it, and yet the way Zehn’s thighs squeeze around her is unmistakable.

(Maybe after her repairs are done, she’ll get to fuck her, right here in this crawlspace. A woman can dream, right ?)

“Soldering iron, please. And give me a piece of gossip in return.”

Jäger sighs internally. That’s Sierpinski S-23 for you : everything’s transactional, to some degree. “You know Oberfeldwebel Stahl ? My boss ?”

A grunt. Must mean yes.

“Well, she’s been trying for a while to woo the nurse Eule – Dezember. And it hasn’t exactly been successful, so… I guess she moved on to the one that does the admin work. Uh, August ?”

Zehn doesn’t answer, but under the welding mask that she’s just pulled down, there’s the hint of a smile. What Jäger has neglected to mention is that she’s probably the reason Stahl’s hopes failed miserably; she’s pretty sure Dez has a crush on her instead. It’s petty, but the thought of beating Stahl like that makes her a little giddy.

“Okay, your turn now !”

The Ara lowers her soldering iron, which provides a thankful reprieve from the weird, sickly-sweet smell of burnt plastic and resin. “Uh… Let’s see…” she mumbles. “I keep seeing the same Gestalts skulking around that storage room in B2. My tunnel passes right above that corridor and I keep seeing one or two there.”

“You think they’re up to something shady ?”

Zehn shrugs. “Maybe. Don’t care.”

Lost in thought, Jäger scratches her nose. Something about this detail itches at her mind, feels strangely familiar. A storage room on B2… right ! Could it be the same one that paper was referencing ?

Slowly, inexorably, everything gets worse.

The food gets worse, even though Wächter can tell the Eules try their best. The water tastes bad, even the air starts to smell foul. Something’s broken in the air conditioning machine that endlessly recycles Sierpinski’s atmosphere – or maybe something’s died there instead. She’d rather not know.

The shifts get worse, too. The Gestalts get worked to the bone, and Wächter has had to carry many an unconscious, exhausted meatbag during a shift. But the Protektors aren’t faring much better either. More, more, more ! said the Storches, and double shifts were implemented, much to the grumbling of the Starling workforce. More patrols, more shakedowns, more checkpoints, and yet somehow they keep finding verboten shit ! Unbelievable. She needs a cigarette so fucking bad right now.

Perhaps Controller Zwei is right about her paranoia that there’s indeed a rebellion brewing in the facility. But at this point, Wächter couldn’t care less – she just wants a good, full night of sleep, for the Daughter’s sake. But her brain won’t even let her have that. Because the dreams are also getting worse.

She dreams of Kitezh and its beautiful, quiet dunes of red sand.

She dreams of fields, of farms, of calloused hands tilling the soil.

She dreams of cacti flowers gently tucked into her hair, of fingers pressing at the small of the back, of sheer linen dresses flowing in the sunset wind.

She dreams of a name on a woman’s lips – and this time Wächter wakes up in a jolt, a pained sob caught in her throat.

These are memories. They’re hers… and yet they’re not. They shouldn’t be. This is not who she is, but who she was – who another version of her was, a long time ago, it seems. She’d heard something like this before, in Weierstrass : an Eule had bragged about the memories that surfaced back to her, once. Was proud of them, thought they made her special.

Wächter never saw her again after that.

She doesn’t want these – these flashbacks that feel like they’re parasitic, almost. She’s Wächter, she’s always been Wächter, Empress be damned ! Not anyone else. 

“You’re degrading,” Stahl says to her off the blue, when they’re alone in the dorm. Always so blunt, Stahl. She’s never changed.

Wächter doesn’t really feel like denying – what’s the point ? “Yeah. I guess so. What are you gonna do about it ?” Wait, that came out downright belligerent. “Shit – sorry, didn’t meant to–”

Her officer doesn’t say anything. Instead, she keeps on chewing a mouthful of protein bar, looking at her dead in the eyes, which is probably worse. Transfixed, Wächter watches her jaw work for a good fifteen seconds until that mouth opens again.

“You know, I should be reporting you for this. Resurfacing memories mean interrogation, and an interrogation means…” Stahl sighs deeply. “Means decommission, generally.”

The knot in Wächter throat is only expanding larger now. And it grows further when Stahl’s right hand brushes the handle of the stun prod lying next to her on her bed. She continues her monotone recital. “Unruly or defective units are to be rooted out from our ranks, for the glory of our Nation. You know this, Wächter, don’t look at me like a deer in the headlights. This is what we were made for.”

More fiddling with the prod, almost as if she’s hesitating on the next course of action. “But I… I don’t really want to do this. So don’t give me a reason to, Wächter. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“W–What ?” Wächter stutters.

“The rookie. I know you two are fucking. I know you’re grooming her to take me out, eventually. I won’t let her – or you – do it.” The officer’s gaze suddenly hardens, colder than the metal she took her name from. “I won’t. I swear this on the Revolution.”

Her jaw is trembling with restrained fury. Wächter’s hands fly out in appeasement. “Hey, hold on, that was never my intention–”

“No ? You know she’s ambitious. You’ve seen it in her eyes. Don’t play dumb with me, Wächter.”

There’s no use arguing with Stahl. She’s simply too stubborn, too headstrong. It’s beyond pointless. All she can do is admit defeat. “Alright, alright. I’ll talk to her. Okay ?”

One by one, the fingers move away from the stun prod; crisis averted for now, and yet the threat still remains, subsumed under Stahl’s impassive face. 

She really, really needs a cigarette. Nicotine flooding her brain and smoke in her lungs – now.

“... Anyway, that’s what happened with Stahl. I think she’s really, really pissed off at me. And by proxy, at you.”

Wächter’s words are muffled; she’s kept her nose tucked in the crook of Jäger’s neck. Holding her close, arms around her waist, both of them basking in the warm, bright afterglow only sex seems to bring. (And really good tobacco, maybe).

“Let her be mad,” Jäger simply says. Her index nonchalantly taps the cigarette until a good piece of ash falls.

“Jäger…”

“Well, what is she gonna do ? Beat me up more ? Fifty-nine total strikes this period. So far. I counted.”

She says this so matter-of-factly, but Wächter’s seen her face after those beatings. They hurt, even though she’s trying her best at pretending they don’t. It’s all about a Starling’s own pride, in the end.

“But I don’t want you to get hurt, Jäger,” Wächter whines, squeezing the younger Starling harder against her own body, nuzzling her ear. She whines even more when two fingers scratch her just right under her chin, where sensitive contacts – still wet with shared spit – reside.

“My protector,” Jäger hums. “Always so eager to take care of me. It’s gonna be alright, Wächter. I give as much as I take, when it comes to fights, or, well…”

The hand that reaches down to caress Wächter’s thigh, right at the circular joints, perfectly conveys her message. Wächter so wishes she could stay there, embracing her rookie like they’re two women having a perfectly normal intimate moment and not the Nation’s worst tendencies given shape in a body made of metal and plastic and flesh.

“Still. You gotta be careful.”

Jäger brings the cigarette to Wächter’s lips, and she takes the biggest puff her lungs will allow her – fuck, that feels good. She really needed this. “There’s only one person I am afraid of in this facility, and she’s twenty centimeters taller. Stahl doesn’t scare me. We’re both the same model.”

Well, that’s certainly one way to see it. “She’s got ten times your experience, dear.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jäger sighs. “But maybe I can pull it off. Somehow.”

“Is that really what you want ? To become officer in her stead ?”

Jäger’s head turns until she can stare at Wächter, eye to eye. She’s frowning. “Yeah. Obviously. I told you, back then, that I wanted to become the best.”

Of course Wächter remembers. She’d thought it a pipe dream; a starry-eyed rookie cute-but-delusional goal. But oh no, that isn’t what’s happening here. Jäger means it. With every single fiber of her being. Ambition burns within her like a miniature sun, and sometimes Wächter wonders if it won’t consume her as well.

“I’m not supposed to train you anymore, you know,” she murmurs, pressing her lips to the corner of Jäger’s mouth, kissing it reverently between every word. “Stahl’s caught on.”

“Hah. As if you’re gonna listen to her, you silly bird !”

Silly bird. Wächter chuckles in the warm crook of her neck. She’s correct, of course – she could never say no to her.

Seven minutes until the break ends. They sway together like stalks of weed in a gentle wind, and a hundred meters below, the water rushes and gurgles and surges against its concrete channel.

One cycle, the itch of shooting again simply gets too much for Jäger.

It’s an ache, deep inside of her core. Like hunger, or thirst, or sex – the cravings for worldly, basal needs, still somehow preserved by ÆON in Replika bodies such as hers, whether intentionally or not. She yearns for the pull of the trigger under her finger with a raw, unadulterated intensity that frankly scares her a little.

So she slithers to the armory, carefully avoiding the known patrol routes of her Protektor colleagues – especially the Storches. Storch Drei is bad-tempered and notoriously petulant, but she’s harmless (well, mostly). Zwei, on the other hand, can and will send Jäger to the medbay using even a flimsy excuse for “punishment”. She shudders to think what would happen to her if she found her skulking around where she wasn’t supposed to be.

There’s nobody in the room, thank the Revolutionary for that; once tucked into a corner of the shooting range, the gun closet had been moved to a dedicated room a few periods ago. Too many guns, and not enough space to store them. There’s even a dedicated workbench and some power tools, but no official armorer yet. Pretty much every Starling is vying for the job, of course. (If Jäger had to guess, Stahl will probably get it. She’s old, and she’s respected.)

Jäger’s heart is racing so fast she hears her own pulse ringing through her ears. Forcing her hands to be steady, she maneuvers her lockpick into the keyhole, one ear tracking the clicks until something gives away – fuck yes ! It opens ! And there’s her beauty. Her very own gun, assembled by her hands. She could kiss the damn thing.

Thankfully, there’s nobody else either between the armory and the shooting range; thankfully again, the door opens with her Protektor keycard. Jäger sets up a paper target, checks the scoring system, and then she puts the loaded magazine in with the most satisfying clack she’s heard in entire seasons.

Alright. She can do this. Ready, aim, fire.

Inner hexagon. Not bad. Could be better. Trying again.

This is my gun. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

Outer hexagon. Again.

My gun is my best friend. I must master it as I master my life.

Inner hexagon. Again !

Without me, my gun is useless. Without my gun, I am useless. I must shoot my gun true.

Inner hexagon. Closer, this time. She must keep trying. All her concentration on this singular point in the distance. Calculating the angle, the drop, halting her breath just for a second.

My gun and I know that what counts is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count.

Bullseye.

She did it. Once more ! More, more, more ! Another bullseye–

“Jäger !”

It takes every fiber of her being not to jump to the ceiling. Or aim her gun down the source of the noise.

Snapping her head to the side reveals two of her fellow Starlings; Eis and Abzug, says the frantic IFF call she immediately makes. They’re standing there, arms crossed, clearly aware they’ve caught her in the act.

“What the hell are you doing here ?” Abzug is asking. “I thought we weren’t supposed to enter the gun range by ourselves without an officer.” (She is, of course, completely correct.)

“I was… practicing.”

“Yeah ?”

Abzug takes a half-step forward, her brow knit in obvious displeasure, and then the strangest thing happens.

She stops dead in her tracks.

Her gaze glides from the pistol in Jäger’s hand, to the tight grouping of holes in the paper target, then they land on the score display. Oh, Jäger knows hesitation when she sees it. And hesitation equals defeat.

Jäger turns back to her lane, and puts another round through the bullseye. Clean. Efficient. Then she shoots a glance at Abzug, as if to say what are you gonna do now ?

The older Starling gulps nervously; her throat visibly bobs up and down. A choice is in the making; Jäger can already guess it’s gonna be between ratting her out or not.

“You, uh, mind giving us pointers ?” Abzug asks, rubbing the back of her neck. “I feel like I’m getting rusty, and you know what Eins keeps saying…” Behind her mask, Eis nods solemnly.

“But of course !” Jäger beams, with the brightest smile she can manage at the moment. It’s transparently fake, but in Sierpinski, what isn’t ?

“Violating curfew – four hits. Opening the gun safe – eight hits. Entering the shooting range without permission – six hits,” Oberfeldwebel Stahl enunciates. She sounds almost bored, too, like she’s Februar the logistics Eule listing the mine supplies delivery. Like Jäger’s punishments are just items on a simple checklist. And she’s tied her up too, hands behind her back; pushed her to her knees like a prisoner. The fact that it resembles the initiation ritual so much can’t be a coincidence. This is all about putting her, the uppity little Starling on the rise, in her place – about reminding her that she’s barely worth more than the rubbish Storch Zwei named her after.

Everyone’s here, too, to watch her get humiliated once more, though she can’t deny part of her enjoys the attention. It’s all there is to life here, maybe : learning to take pleasure in the small (or not-so-small) inconveniences of daily life.

Stahl readies her baton, and with a practiced, fluid swing, smacks Jäger right in the middle of her back. Her receptors record a sharp spike of pain; hardly a small inconvenience, but she’s felt worse. So, so much worse. This is nothing. Stahl swings again and again, and this is still nothing.

She’s not blindfolded, this time, so she can at least look at her surroundings between two strikes. Eis leans to whisper something to Hyäne, who chortles; Polaris is nodding off, as usual. Wächter is averting her eyes, and Abzug’s fingers tighten over her bicep. Come to think of it, it’s strange that it’s Stahl herself doling out the punishment. Generally, she outsources it to Hyäne, her most loyal subordinate, as if it’s a menial task she won’t bother with. Must mean she’s royally pissed. That she took Jäger’s transgression personally. That’s how it is, yeah.

The hits keep coming. Wincing in pain, she pitches forward, letting her forehead rest on the cold floor. Her cheeks burn crimson red, and not just because her entire back is tender.

“Consider it a lesson, rookie. Next time I won’t be so merciful.”

Jäger might be on the floor, but she holds Stahl’s gaze just the same, with as much defiance as she can muster. The reckoning will come, and that old prick will never expect it.

There’s tension in the cadre, that much is clear. Slow-boiling, simmering tension, like methane gas dissolved in water that’s about to burst and explode at any given moment. Starlings whisper to each other in dark corners, their gazes lingering on Jäger; Abzug even gave lip to Stahl the other cycle about some shift assignation she didn’t like. (Stahl certainly didn’t appreciate it.) What matters is, the vibes are definitely shifting – though part of it might be Jäger’s newfound, slightly delusional confidence.

She continues her secret little escapades to the shooting range, too. Even after Stahl’s violent reprimand, the thrill of it all is simply too tempting. Her palm aches for the kick of the pistol against it, the way it travels up her arm to the shoulder joint, like she aches for a body pressing against hers. Touch. Heat. Sound. It makes her feel so… alive.

Which is why, when Stahl announces they’re going to have another shooting practice session, she practically bounces up and down like a rubber ball.

“Calm down a bit, rookie, will ya ?” Wächter grins, a hand ruffling her hair. “I know you love these, but try not to make a scene like last time, alright ?”

Jäger pouts. “Oh, come on ! It was Polaris who provoked me !”

Wächter isn’t wrong, though. She acted impulsively, and she got knocked out for it. Next time, she’ll let the innate Starling analytical mind do the thinking, instead of her own wounded pride.

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t start fights, ‘kay ?”

Wächter punctuates her sentence by a kiss to the forehead, as she is wont to do lately – Jäger can’t complain.

Cycles pass by, until the fateful one finally arrives. It’s not just her cadre there; in hopes of “fostering healthy cooperation between STAR cadres” Controller Eins has also included Schneidig’s cadre in the training exercise. What a crock of bullshit that is. She doesn’t know what kind of Management fur Dummköpfe help book the Storch pulled that from, but all that’s going to do is stoke the flames of inter-cadre rivalry. Schneidig’s good. Sharp, like her nickname – but she’s not Stahl. She doesn’t have the wealth of a decade of experience and the somber charisma that comes with it.

Something tells her that’s not Schneidig who Stahl is most wary of, however.

When Jäger’s turn in the firing lane comes, she puts four consecutive hits in the bullseye. The pistol feels like an extension of herself, like her mind simply guides the bullets’ path and her body follows with the motion. Who knew it could be so easy ?

One of the Starlings from the other cadre – Schnell, Jäger thinks her name is – whistles. “Empress’ corpse, Stahl ! Your rookie is good at this !”

“Right ? I don’t think I’ve seen anyone shoot like this in a while !”

“Uh-huh.”

Jäger doesn’t say anything. Results will speak for themselves, after all. Two more good hits – all inner hexagon – and she bows out, handing the gun to Stark, one of Schneidig’s girls. Stahl’s glare ramps up from annoyed to openly hostile when Jäger tips her hat at her, inclining her head just so, in obvious acknowledgement that she’s beat her fair and square. 55/60 to 50/60. Fucking hell, Eins should replace the Mynahs’ laser with those eyes. They’d cut through kilometers of granite and basalt in just a few seconds as if they were lukewarm butter.

“See ? I didn’t start any fights !” she whispers to Wächter after she joins the line of waiting Starlings.

With a heavy, rattling heave of her shoulders, Wächter sighs.

It all happens so very fast.

One minute, Wächter is leaning on a stack of crates, watching Controller Eins make her way through her mine inspection. The Storch nods and shakes her head at regular intervals while the Gestalt foreman gesticulates at the various mine equipments lying around the floor. They’re probably talking about production targets or quotas or whatever; Wächter can tell by her body language that Eins does not want to be there. In proper facilities, an Adler unit would do all this menial work; unfortunately for the Storch’s sanity, S-23 must have not been deemed important enough. Under her mask, Wächter yawns, bleary eyes threatening to shut out of their own accord.

And the next minute, she’s going airborne. Ass over teakettle, the entire world swirling around her as a colossal booming noise echoes throughout the mine tunnels. She wheezes, the wind knocked clean out of her, only managing to get on all fours with a heroic effort.

Nothing’s left of the machine Storch and Gestalt were inspecting but a small crater and an entire halo of debris. Nothing’s left of the Gestalt either : Wächter’s stomach turns and churns when she sees the mass of torn flesh, exposed bones and spilling entrails. Yeah. No saving that one.

But the Storch… she’s alive. And on her feet, too, although wobbly. Shrapnels and shards of metal stick out of her shell like she’s a fucked-up post-industrial hedgehog or something. (Heh, a hedgehog. That’s funny. Wächter would snort if she wasn’t coughing at the moment.) She wipes at her face, absently, and that’s exactly when Wächter realizes part of her lip is missing – well, not missing, it’s just… torn. Cleanly separated, as if a lunatic had taken a knife to it. Bright red oxidant dribbles from the cut onto the white armor; Eins’ still dazed gaze falls on her hand, now wet with her own fluids.

A few seconds of stunned silence pass. And then everyone starts shouting.

Mynahs squeak and curl into balls. Aras scurry away like spooked cockroaches. The Gestalts clutch at each other, shrieking at the top of their lungs in sheer panic. And the Starlings on duty ? They bellow orders to remain calm, clutching their stun batons, shields up.

“Sir, are you alright ? Do you need a repair patch ?” Wächter asks, wobbling with the best of her ability to the injured Controller.

“Been better,” Eins grunts. “Don’t need a patch. Fucking IED – you saw anything ?”

Wächter tries to rack her brain for anything out of the ordinary – the cycle had seemed so normal, and yet… “No, sir, I–I didn’t.”

“Fuck.”

The Storch sighs deeply, and presses a finger to her ear; then she starts mumbling orders. Must be calling for backup – or maybe a cleanup crew. What a fucking mess. Deep in Wächter’s chest, the horrible dread is finally setting in, the one that whispers to her ear that were she just a meter or two closer, the explosion could have taken her out. Just like that. An undignified, banal end.

“Copy that,” Eins rumbles. Oxidant still drips off her face and her wounds, falling in small rivulets to the concrete floor. Like an offering, Zwei would say.

Countless times she’s set hoof in this office; countless times has her stomach churned when crossing the threshold. The Beast’s Lair, some of the other Starlings call it; Jäger is certainly not the hero that’s about to venture into this cave and vanquish the vile creature dwelling within. If anything, she’s more likely to be the poor victim getting chewed on, in this scenario.

“Glory to the Revolution, sir !” she announces, with her usual impeccable salute. “I have the latest interrogation reports here.”

Gingerly, she sets her stack of documents on the table, a good meter away from where Zwei is sitting, back turned to her. In her right hand is a book; the left’s fingers drum on her thigh, incessantly. She looks restless. The office is decked with an even higher number of trinkets; Jäger hadn’t thought it possible, but apparently she managed it. Now, amulets shaped like colorful teabags dangle from the ceiling; pages inscribed with strange markings stay taped to the walls; but the most striking are those odd beads, with blue and white and black concentric circles painted on them. They look so much like eyes it’s unnerving. Jäger generally likes being watched, but by these ? Hell to the no.

Jäger must have spoken too soon, because the Storch chooses this exact moment to spring up and start her habitual prowl around the room. She’s not sure if this is just a habit of a stressed Storch, or a tactic deliberately meant to frighten her; regardless, long legs pace back and forth in great strides, in a seemingly random pattern.

Random, until Jäger hears the telltale sound of the pneumatic doors being locked. Her shell might not be able to feel temperature, but the chill that seeps down to her bones feels vividly real, as if she’s stepped outside during one of those deadly Leng blizzards. Two eyes, blue just like those creepy beads, peer at her from a corner of the room.

“Schund.”

Jäger gulps. That’s her name, alright.

“Schund, do you know what apotropaic magic is ?”

Apotropo-what now ? “N–No, sir.”

Zwei’s finger wags at her, as if she fully expected her to be dumbstruck in the face of her arcane knowledge. “It means protective magic. To ward off spells and the evil eye.”

Okay, but why are you telling me this ? Jäger wants to ask. She doesn’t, of course. That would be suicide.

“All of this,” and Zwei splays her arms to the sides like a stork spreading its wings, “I’ve done to protect myself. To protect this entire facility.”

“From what ?” Jäger blurts out, foolishly.

“From you, of course, dear Schund.”

Oh. Oh, shit.

The Storch takes a step forward, towards her; Jäger retreats. “I’ve told you before, haven’t I ? How everything went to shit ever since you arrived here. I was partly mistaken. Because it’s gotten even worse.”

Jäger’s back hits the wall, then the door. Her hand fumbles for the locking panel – “Your continued presence is a bane to this station. You are the belladonna coursing through its veins. I thought the nazars would be enough, and they weren’t –” oh, so these must be what those beads are called, and Empress’ rotting burning corpse the door won’t open she must have locked it with her keycard she –

Hot breath suddenly wafts over her face. It smells like black tea with milk powder; it’s strangely enticing. She’s so close. “Look at me, Schund.”

Schund looks at her.

Controller Zwei’s face is contorted in a savage snarl, too many teeth showing – all of them impeccably white. Her eyes are open so wide that Jäger can see the edge, where flesh meets the semi-synthetic surface of the sclera, pearly white too. 

Her hand snatches Jäger’s jaw. She tries pawing at the arm, fingers digging under the grip, but it’s too strong. “I’ve hated you ever since I first saw you, you know,” Zwei murmurs, her thumb stroking the curve of her jaw, almost gently. “I caught a mere glimpse of you and knew you would bring nothing but ruin to my life.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I think you’re talking nonsense–”

“Silence !” the Storch bellows, and her hand rears back and then forward again, smacking Jäger’s head so hard against the steel door that her vision feeds flicker. “Trash should not speak unless told to do so !”

In the corner of her eye, she spots one of Zwei’s hands slithering towards her belt, surely aiming for the combat knife the Storch always keeps near her, even when she showers. Oh no.

“I should have decommissioned you from the start. Fortunately for me,” she growls, “the second best time to throw out the trash is now.”

Something breaks inside Jäger. Like a delicate crystal. Call it survival instinct’s emergency glass panel, maybe.

“Get the fuck away from me, you crazy bitch !” she shrieks, summoning all of her strength to push Zwei away, if only a few centimeters. She ducks under the Storch’s grip and flees to the opposite corner of the office, the amulets jingling and jangling disquietly at the rush of air. She brandishes her own stun prod with a trembling hand.

She must stay calm. Remember her training. Breathe in, breathe out, until the panic goes away for good. Starlings must always keep a cool head. A fully charged stun prod can put a Storch out of commission just long enough for her to steal her keycard and go. Zwei’s lumbering towards her now; she lunges with all her length, and–

– and Zwei parries the prod with the flat of her hand, and catches it with the other. She does it dismissively, even, as if it were made of harmless foam. Eyes full of disdain, she sneers : “That was a mistake, Schund. I’m going to make you pay for it.”

Centimeter by centimeter, the grinning Storch wrestles the prod towards Jäger; try as she might, she can’t make it reverse course, watching instead with horror the prongs get closer and closer to her abdomen. Until they touch. Her entire body lights up with blinding, white-hot pain.

Dazed, she collapses to her knees. She’s so out of it she barely registers Zwei unclasping her armor and her belt; what could she even do to stop her, anyway ? All of her training, her efforts, vaporized in an instant by vastly superior strength. A sharp pain at her neck makes her wince and cry out. When she slaps a hand to it, it comes back wet with oxidant. Her own oxidant.

No, wait. Not just wet. It’s fucking pouring out of her in distinct rivulets, down her chestplate. Staining everything with bright red. She can’t stop Zwei’s hand from prodding at the cut, nor can she stop the moan that tears out of her throat when wet fingers smear at the contacts on her neck. It’s shameful, and yet…

“Freak,” Zwei spits. “Thank the Revolution I won’t have to endure your filthy presence any longer.”

In front of her haggard, stumbling form, Zwei cups oxidant in her hand, and starts tracing a strange symbol on the floor. Some kind of sigil, with six petals in a big circle. Controller Zwei, Sierpinski’s number two, doodling on the floor of her own office with Jäger’s bodily fluids. This entire thing is so fucking absurd Jäger would laugh about it if her oxidant wasn’t trying to leave her body, milliliter by milliliter. She feels numb already. Distant, like the terror has left in place of absent detachment at her own fate.

Her body registers being dragged across the hard floor. “Your pitiful existence will at least be useful to this facility, in the very end. Propitiation – not that you would know what that is.”

Jäger mumbles something unintelligible even to herself, but Zwei guesses what that means just fine.

“Ancient cultures would sacrifice living things to curry the favor of their gods or to appease them. Now, I don’t believe in gods myself, Schund, but I do believe in fate and the laws of the universe.” The white neons that frame Zwei’s face look like halos. Concentric, divine, impossibly white. “And they require a sacrifice just the same.”

The knife creeps closer to her face once again. Her limbs won’t obey her. They won’t move.

She’s going to die here, isn’t she ?

“Purging the evil and burning it away. The few offering their lives on the altar for the many, all for the greater good. Is that not the spirit of our great Nation ?”

Oh, fuck, it’s aiming for her eye–

At the last moment, Jäger jerks and raises her forearm to deflect the blade. Instead it tears a gash through her face, the horrible shriek as the point scrapes over the metal part of her skull reverberating inside her head. The pain is beyond words. She howls.

Zwei is roaring. “Stop fucking squirming ! You’re ruining everything, you idiot !”

In this vortex of emotions, of pain and anguish and everything else, she barely registers Zwei’s fingers scratching at her eye socket, again, and again, until something pops out with a wet sound and half her vision flickers away in a great spark.

She’s sobbing in pain, clutching at the now-empty socket; Zwei holds the optic module above, triumphant. Laughing madly, she starts chanting in an unknown language, squeezing the eye until its insides pour between her fingers, falling inside the center of the sigil.

Jäger blinks away the countless warnings that have appeared on her feed. Defragmented emotional state. Elevated heart rate. Vision module dysfunction. Falling oxidant pressure. She’s going to die here, and she’s never going to see Wächter again, her gentle smile or her gorgeous grey hair. Or Dez. Or Zehn. 

As a last resort, using the last of her energy, she opens her radio module interface, and sends simple impulsions to Wächter’s frequency. Three short, three long, three short ones again. It’s her last chance.

Despite all, she feels oddly at peace. Let death come for me, she thinks, before she drifts to sleep.

She flows in and out of unconsciousness.

Maybe whatever wound Zwei inflicted on her simply isn’t enough to kill her on the spot. Maybe it’s just luck – hah, STAR-S1313, being lucky ! 

She hears noises. Thundering steps, shouting – another Storch voice ? – then the thudding impact of a fist against a skull. The void takes her again before she can see what’s going on.

Then, it’s the sensation of her shell dragging against the floor that wakes her again. Something firm yet gentle presses on her chest to keep her still, with sweet words whispered above her. Fingers – whose ? – thread through her hair.

When she comes online, she does so gradually, as if every system in her body is turning on one at a time, in a painstakingly slow process. Everything’s so hazy she barely knows what’s happening, just that it hurts : pain lances through the left side of her head with every beat of her oxidant pump. She tries to sit up, but her vision is spinning too much; with a groan, she settles back on the soft surface of a… bed ? Is she in the hospital again ?

That must be it, judging from the beeps of the machines and the moans of pain. The medical ward, her favorite destination – she needs a punch card, at this point. The thought makes her chuckle, which in turn makes her cough and wince in pain. Everything aches. She can hardly remember her own name : Dreizehn ? Schund ? No – Jäger. 

Her awareness spikes, then it slips away again, no matter how much she tries to cling to it. Her hands start shaking hopelessly. The haze of pain and panic rolls in like evening fog, and everything goes dark.

“Let me see her !” Wächter bellows, trying to push the bulk of her frame past the nurses.

Feeble Eule arms circle around her waist. “I–I’m sorry, we can’t. She’s not stable yet.”

Not stable yet. She wants to see her rookie, Empress be damned to the six hells ! A heave of effort breaks the grip, and she strides towards the bed haphazardly tucked into a corner of the room – a jury-rigged temporary installation, certainly. She jerks the curtain open, and –

And there she lies. Alive. Breathing – though slowly. And yet something is off. Her eyes – no, eye singular, is dull, lifeless, unfocused. She’s there, but she’s not really there.

Catatonic, Wächter’s memory banks hum. Happens to some Replikas when they’ve witnessed or been through a particularly traumatic event. The perfection of the Replika form shattered, leaving the husk of a terrified, mundane creature. Most recover fine. 

A few never do. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” one of the nurses insists, tugging her away. Wächter lets her.

The first things she hears when she wakes up for good are voices.

Distant and yet distinctive. Saying words. It takes a while for her auditory processor to decipher them, but her abilities eventually come back, slow as may be.

“So that STAR unit got in again, huh ?”

“Yeah. Heard Zwei nearly killed her. Don’t you go spread that to everyone, though.”

Voices. From down the hall. Airy and high-pitched, so they must be Eules.

“Nearly ? You think she’s gonna make it ?”

“You know those birds are built tough.”

“Empress’ corpse, I’m going to lose that betting pool I set up with Februar and August !”

Two identical impish giggles, synced. “Tough shit – oh wait, I think I hear Dezember coming !”

“Let’s scram. Talk to you later, hmm ?”

Two pairs of hooves skitter away, light. And one is coming nearer. Jäger sets her head back on the pillow, awaiting the soft hand that will cradle her cheek. It does come, and she leans into the touch, sighing in contentment.

“My poor Starling,” Dezember murmurs. “How are you feeling ?”

“Like shit,” Jäger croaks.

“No wonder. She tazed you, and she…” Dez pauses. “She took your left eye and nearly bled you dry.”

Her eye. Her eye !! On instinct, Jäger’s hand flies to the left side of her face. Her fingers find only tender flesh, and layers of bandages and dressing covering it.

“I’m sorry…” Dez fiddles with her hair. “I’m going to try and do my best with replacing it soon… but… we’re pretty much out of Storch and Starling spare parts. It might be a while before the next shipment arrives.”

Jäger looks at her, with her hopelessly two-dimensional vision. She takes in the Eule’s elegant curves, the little brooch in her hair that peeks under the hairnet, the rosy tint of her cheeks. “I hope I don’t look too ugly right now,” she murmurs.

That makes Dez laugh. “That’s your priority ?”

“You know it.”

“Well, you shouldn’t worry too much. The cut was clean, and the stitching job was pretty easy. It’s going to heal well.”

“Yeah ?”

The Eule nods solemnly. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, demurely, and it makes her scrubs hitch a little above her thighs. Goddess, Jäger wants to touch them. Squeeze them, feel the give of the smooth plastic under her finger. How fucked up is she that this is what her mind chose to focus on ? It’s like every base instinct is coming back to her all at once – must be the hard reboot. In the end, she settles for patting the knee. Chaste enough, right ?

“Seems to me taking care of patients is a pretty thankless job overall. Long hours, hard conditions…”

“Mm–hmm.”

“... So I wanted to thank you. For saving my life, I mean.”

Dez’s lips twist before they settle into a little smirk. “Jäger. You’re not half as slick as you think you are.”

Jäger feigns pure innocence. “Who, me ?”

“You, dummy.” Without warning, Dez leans forward and presses her lips to the corner of Jäger’s mouth. There it is. So she didn’t misread the situation at all, then. Good. Very good.

“Point taken,” Jäger murmurs after she pulls back. “I still want to express my utmost gratitude, though.”

“What you want to do violates at least, what, three ethics rules ?” She starts counting on her fingers. “You’re my patient, you’re still at least a little bit impaired–” she waves off Jäger’s protests, “– and we’re in the middle of the nurse ward, in public. But you know what ?”

“I’m all ears.” 

She throws a leg over Jäger’s, pulling the scrubs even higher. Jäger’s mouth waters. “I’ve had a long fucking shift. So fuck it.”

Jäger is grinning so hard the left side of her face hurts. Who knew Eules had it in them to behave like… this ?

It’s so easy for her hands to slide under the scrubs. It’s so easy for her fingers to rub at the chromed contact that sits right above the red band on the inner thigh, hidden yet so potent, and it’s so easy for them to find their way into Dez’s mouth, containing the moans that threaten to slip out. It’s so easy, and it makes her pulse go haywire – makes her feel alive once again.

“Left side, third row in the back,” the Eule jerks her thumb over her shoulder, dismissively. She doesn’t even bother looking up from her clipboard, instead choosing to continue chewing loudly on her piece of gum. Sighing internally, Wächter really, really wishes she was talking to Dezember instead. Whoever this one is, she’s decidedly not pleasant to deal with.

Well, whatever.

She jerks the curtain open, and is met with an alert, bright eye. Jäger’s sitting upright in her bed, holding some kind of booklet – one of those gun manuals, probably. Wächter’s throat constricts when she sees the bandaged half of her face, and the still-fresh patched scar on her neck.

“You alive, rookie ?” Wächter croaks out.

(She should have known, should have saved her before Zwei put her hands on her, she should have–)

“As alive as you need me to be,” comes the reply, surprisingly cheery. It flabbergasts Wächter enough that she doesn’t say anything for a good few seconds.

“C’mon, Wächter, I know that face. I’m doing fine, quit worrying yourself new wrinkles. Not that your wrinkles aren’t sexy, but–”

Wächter crumbles.

“I’m so sorry, Jäger,” she sobs, launching herself at the younger Starling for a big hug, wrapping her arms around her and squeezing (not too hard, of course). “I thought I’d lost you, and I couldn’t…”

“S’okay, you big sog,” Jäger mumbles somewhere above her right collarbone. “Eyes are replaceable, and Dez patched me up pretty well.”

Her fake cheeriness isn’t fooling Wächter. It’s too polished, too detached – even for a Starling. So she stares at her, into the white of her remaining eye, forehead pressed against forehead until she starts to see the façade crumble.

“Okay, yeah, I’m not… not doing great at the moment.” Her shoulders sag. “That crazy bitch disfigured me. It’s never going to fade, is it ?”

Wächter bites her lip. “Probably not, but hey, at least she picked probably the best place to put a scar. It’s gonna heal into a wonderfully handsome scar, I think.”

“Yeah ?” The sparkle in that eye tells her the glee is genuine, this time.

“Duh. It’s gonna look roguish, trust me on that. And speaking of…” Her hand starts to rummage through one of her back pockets. Now where the hell did she put it – ah, right there. “I brought this for you.”

In her hand lays an eyepatch. A pretty simple yet elegant design, made of a triangular piece of black leather, stitched by hand; and two elastic bands to keep it in place. It still exudes the telltale smell of tanned leather, the natural over the artificial that permeates this entire place.

Jäger peers at the object Wächter’s dropped in her lap with delighted curiosity. “Where did you even find this ?” she asks.

“In Stahl’s locker. Yes, really.”

“That raises more questions than it answers, honestly. Does Stahl likes to disguise herself as a Vinetan pirate or something ? Actually, scratch that, I don’t wanna know.”

She takes the eyepatch, starts to trace its edge with her index; and then, with the inevitability of a controlled demolition, her composure starts to crack again. Helpless, Wächter stares at her while a sob wracks her broad frame. Then another.

“Fuck, Wächter, I–” she tries, wiping imaginary tears – a common leftover organic reflex – with the back of her hand. “This shithole doesn’t deserve you.”

Seconds later, a hand shoots to grab at her armor straps and pull her into a searing kiss; she’s a bit surprised, of course, but she’s not going to complain while being kissed like the world is ending on the next rotation. She so rarely gets to see this side of Jäger anymore, the one hiding under the protective walls of bravado she’s been building with steadfast determination. This side of her that’s just an alone, afraid rookie who just wants to be touched. To be loved.

“I, uh, kinda owe you my life,” Jäger murmurs against her lips. “If we were in one of these myths the Storches always rave about, we’d be linked together by the invisible threads of fate. Or something pretentious like that.”

“Come on, you really believe in that horseshit ?”

Jäger smooches her again. “Absolutely not. But if fate is a thing, then I think I’ve figured out mine.”

“Huh ? What do you mean ?”

The Starling cradles her jaw with one hand, tilting her own head to the side. There is something glinting deep in her remaining eye, something that unnerves Wächter to her very core. It’s the way the red pinprick of light shines in the ambient dimness, maybe. It looks eerie. Inhuman.

“I’m going to kill Zwei,” Jäger says.

Well, as it turns out, Wächter was kind of right. The scar did heal in a very handsome manner.

Jäger can’t deny that, plus the eyepatch, gives her a certain mystique, a je-ne-sais-quoi that sets her apart from a sea of identical, mass-manufactured faces. And as Wächter, said, it does look roguish; all the more to eclipse her very boring and even lamer reality of being, essentially, a prison guard in the ass-end of nowhere.

Eules whisper at her passage. Aras slink back into their tunnels, still keeping an intrigued eye on her. Starlings either wave amicably at her or scowl, and the Storches ? Well, Zwei has been looking mightily mad that she wasn’t able to finish the job, to put it bluntly. At least  Work Shift Controller Eins had the presence of mind to switch Stahl’s cadre to Storch Drei instead. Storch Drei is not so bad. She doesn’t call Jäger Schund, doesn’t collect weird shit in her office, and although she has a knack for corporal punishments, she doesn’t go overboard with them. (Well, except for that one time she almost knocked Hyäne out because the latter kept snickering during an equipment inspection. Deserved.)

Still, there’s only so much distance she can put between her and Zwei. Sierpinski S-23 is a small place, after all, and the Storch is ever present, ever lurking in the corner of her eye like a predator biding its time. And she dreams, too; dreams of drowning in her own oxidant, of the point of a blade hovering right above her eye, of two hands squeezing her throat – and then she wakes up with her heart racing in her chest and the ravenous urge to finger her contacts until she comes on her own hand. (What the fuck is wrong with her ?)

Which is why she’s had enough. Zwei delenda est, to pick up on that one obscure quote the Storch uses often. Fantasizing about spilling Zwei’s guts or brain matter on the floor is not sufficient, she has to actually put a proper plan to execution – and more importantly, get away with it. The perspective of death may not scare her, but she’d rather live, given the choice.

So for a while, she listens to every bit of gossip coming from her peers. The Gestalts are restless, Schneidig grumbles (no shit). ARAR Zwei got caught smuggling a bunch of tools and got three cycles of iso without food as punishment. EULR Mai is dating STAR Schnell. Elf offhandedly mentions suspicious activity in the same storage room Zehn was talking about – and naturally, Jäger gets curious.

It just takes a slot of free time, one cycle, for her to be able to skulk around in that disused storage room. Dusty-looking wooden crates and boxes sit on overburdened shelves; tools and parts flow out of a fraying bag. A spool of cable sits in one corner, awkwardly pushed to the side; Jäger supposes by the loose tile next to it that it’s where Hyäne found the cache.

Now, if she were a sneaky little meatbag trying to hide another cache of supplies where they’re not supposed to, where would she put it ? Another floor tile ? No, too obvious. One of the boxes, then ? Finger tapping her chin, pensive, she strolls around the room, her optic modules scanning for evidence. There, on a shelf – are those… handprints ? Yes, definitely, darker than the general layer of dust; she can even see the greasy grooves of Gestalt fingers when she scoots her nose closer.

Much to her disappointment, opening the box only reveals boring, mundane items. Surgical masks. Probably-expired ration bars. Rolls of wound gauze dressing. There’s something about this box that tickles her instinct, although she can’t quite figure out why yet. It’s not the contents, so what could it possibly be ? She scratches her neck for a few good dozen seconds, until the realization hits her like a lightning bolt. Something’s not right about the height of the box ! It looks far too shallow. And sure enough, prodding reveals a false bottom. Eureka ! as Controller Drei would say.

What’s inside the secret compartment makes her breath halt for a second or two. Guns. It’s guns. Several of them, as well as two grenades, and what appears to be a loaf of plastic explosives. Shit, it looks like a tiny arsenal in there – even if the guns, in Jäger’s personal opinion, look likelier to blow up in one’s hand than actually shoot anything. They must have built them using spare parts and the tools and machines lying around.

She could report this right away, of course; maybe even get a nod of approval from Controller Eins. And yet some part of her wants to dig deeper. Perhaps this whole line of inquiry could lead to something… useful.

“Hey, Stark !”

“Heya, Jäger ? What’s up ?” Stark looks up from her desk, eyes bright. Jäger likes her well-enough; she’s one of the bubblier members of the STAR workforce, even though this assignment seems to have put a slight damper on her natural good mood. Honestly, who would like being put in charge of managing the holding cells ? (Maybe Stahl would, that absolute bore.)

“Say,” Jäger slinks next to her, “I’m looking for a specific Gestalt. Do you have a registry of where the meatbags are in those cells ?”

“Ha ! One of ‘em owe you a debt or something ?”

Jäger offers her a fake, gleaming smile. “I guess you could say so. Ivonne Ladda.”

“Lemme see…” Stark narrows her eyes at a clipboard. “Ah, here. Cell 6. Have fun !”

“Thanks, Stark.”

Have fun. Who does she think she is, a Storch unit ?

As soon as the lock disengages with a whirr, she ducks into the cell, right in front of the terrified Gestalt. She looks much different from the time she saw her lined up against a wall while she inspected her belongings (and crucially, her pill bottle) : nasty, purple blotches of bruised and red skin dot her arms and legs, and there’s a gigantic black eye blooming on the right side of her face. If Jäger had to guess, Drei put her through a customary beating; were she dealing with Zwei, the meatbag would have probably ended up in the hospital.

The Gestalt gasps when she sees Jäger’s hulking form creep closer to her. Fear rolls off of her in waves of stinking, animal pheromones, and she gasps again when Jäger clasps a hand over her throat.

“I know about the stash in B2.” She gives the meatbag a shake for good measure. “The other one. Who’s in charge of the smuggling ?”

“I–I don’t know !”

Jäger leans forward. “Come on. Is that really the answer you want to give me ?”

No response, just more hyperventilating. The joints in her elbow and shoulder creaking with the effort, Jäger lifts her arm up – and the squirming Gestalt with it. It must hurt, having one’s entire bodyweight held up by the neck and chin. Jäger, of course, has personal experience with that.

“Speak !”

“Okay, okay !” the woman sputters. Jäger lets her down just enough that the tips of her bare toes touch the cold concrete floor. “I–I’m just a courier ! I deliver the goods to the caches and I don’t–I don’t ask any questions !”

Jäger tilts her head. Intriguing. A short squeeze of her fingers provides enough incentive for the meatbag to continue. “They give me a note and a code – a cipher with a single number and three letters. That indicates which numbered crate I’m supposed to put the stuff in, and –”

“Don’t care about that. Who gives you the notes ?”

Her eyes dart around wildly in panic as Jäger’s fingers curl tighter. “I–I–I don’t know, I swear ! They don’t tell me their names, and they rotate – it’s a different person each time ! But–but I think they’re from Dorm C.”

“You sure about that ?”

“Y–Yeah.”

Jäger lets go, and the meatbag crumples to the floor, gasping and curling into a ball. She’s done here. No need to linger.

“All good ?” Stark asks when she spots her on her way back.

“Yes. You know, the meatbags seem pretty cooperative in this place. Surprised me.”

“Maybe it’s the, ah…” Stark untucks a hand from behind her neck to wave it around. “Ambiance, let’s see. It keeps them pliable. Or maybe it’s your doing.”

“Perhaps.”

“Anyhow, hit me up if you need something !” Saying this, Stark grins, and much to Jäger’s surprise, winks. It’s clumsy and slightly awkward, but this attempt at flirting seems genuine.

Maybe Jäger will fuck her. Another ally can’t hurt.

As a Security Technician, Jäger has in her databanks a registry of the Gestalts, their assignments and their current dorm. It’s just more convenient to be able to pull up info on the fly when doing an arrest. However, due to (officially) technical limitations, only the basic data is encoded : no criminal records or the like. Which means she has to shuffle her frame to the lair of possibly her least favorite Eule.

“Greetings, comrade. Glory to the Revolution.”

EULR-S2308, better known as August, sizes her up before her eyes return to the screen of her computer. Her jaw works up and down around what Jäger supposes is a particularly big piece of chewing gum.

“What do you want ?” she asks, dryly.

Sigh. If Dezember embodies all the good qualities of the EULR type – gentle, kind, amicable and surprisingly libidinous – then August must be full of the worst. Cliquey, catty, cantankerous (Zwei taught her that one !) and generally pretty unpleasant to deal with. She suspects it’s because of her still-low status : some Eules will go latch on the highest ranked Starlings or Storches like leeches. Mere survival, or crass opportunism ? She doesn’t care to know.

“I need the criminal records of a few Gestalts.”

August’s lips form a gum bubble; it makes a loud, obnoxious pop when it bursts. “Why ?”

Jäger’s patience is fraying at the edges, but she keeps her usual warm smile on. “Ah, I’m afraid I’m not allowed to say. Protektor investigation, you know the drill.”

A not-so-subtle eyeroll from August. “ ‘Kay. Most recent records have been digitized.” She jerks a thumb towards a nearby, dusty-looking computer. “Figure it out.”

Unbelievable. If Jäger were another Starling – like dear old STAR-S2301 “Stahl”, by any chance, or even Hyäne – August would be tripping over her own hooves rushing to help her with that sickeningly sweet politeness only her type can pull off. But so be it; she lowers herself to the creaking chair, and starts typing.

Twelve Gestalts are in Dorm C. Now, she could always interrogate them one by one, but that would raise suspicion, and she doesn’t want that – for obvious reasons. There’s one or more smugglers in their midst : who could be the likely suspects ? She types in her credentials, and accesses the tab containing the criminal records. The Nation says that all Gestalts are equal upon entering facilities like Sierpinski S-23. That these facilities offer a blank slate to begin life anew as a productive citizen of a glorious socialist state, a link in the neverending chain of progress. It is, of course, kind of a lie. Hardened criminals don’t magically stop being hardened criminals in a reeducation facility, they just rule the roost there instead. (Or at least that’s what Wächter’s told her.)

S-23-C-2132 Kostandin Lâm. Vagrancy and asociality.

Hmm. Doesn’t seem to fit the type.

S-23-C-4125 Thorben Gulnara. Pacifism and refusal to serve in the Volksmarine.

Nope.

S-23-C-3698 Mechtild Aijan. Counter-revolutionary activities, illegal practice of banned religious rites.

Meh.

S-23-C-1996 Zhanna Midori. BV – Gambling, extortion and activities of contraband.

Jäger’s finger taps her mouse. There it is, a Berusfverbrecherin – a professional criminal, as the records like to state. She’s got her woman : now, will she be cooperative ? That remains to be seen.

August hardly even spares her a glance when she heads for the exit. “Fill a request form for the records next time,” she calls out.

Bitch.

Dorm C is suffocatingly hot inside when Jäger waltzes in. (Uninvited, of course; she might be clad in red and black attire but she’s not a vampire.) She’s not really sure why the temperature is so fucked up, though it has probably something to do with the fact that there’s a generator room nearby; Dorm C was, according to Wächter, a haphazard try at squeezing another dorm in an area decidedly not fit for Gestalts to live in.

All four occupants of the room raise their heads when she ducks in the doorframe, every bit the imposing figure the Gestalts know and fear. Random inspections are a part of life in Sierpinski, meant to terrify its populace into compliance; they, however, have no idea (yet) that the reason for her visit is a bit different. Let them be scared. It will be helpful.

“Where is Zhanna Midori ?” Jäger bellows.

All of the meatbags – save one – recoil, some of them even skulking back to not-so-subtly try to hide behind their bunk beds. The remaining Gestalt sits at the center of the room around a small table; grease-stained overalls frame a lanky figure, and the rolled-up sleeves show faded scars that dot the forearms and knuckles. Her hair’s cropped short, and sunken hazel eyes shine with characteristic sharpness. She might have been called beautiful, once, but the hardships of penal labor have seemingly stripped away the superficial allure and left only the grim certainty of bone and sinew.

Yeah, Jäger can totally work with that. Just takes the right approach, is all.

“That would be me,” she says. “What can I do for you, comrade Protektor ?”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, comrade Gestalt.”

“To me ?”

“Yes. In private.”

The woman frowns. Well, not really : her poker face is good enough that the wrinkle in her forehead is barely visible, but it’s there to the trained eye. Her smile too stays, like it’s been painted on. A quick gesture sends the other meatbags away, scurrying like rats to the door. And that just confirms Jäger’s suspicion that she is indeed the one in charge here.

“So ?” the Gestalt asks after the pneumatic door shuts, an eyebrow raised.

Now, which persona should she adopt ? On a whim, she decides on the naïve rookie. She knows that role very well, of course. Feigning nervousness, she clasps her hands behind her and straightens her posture to a point of stiffness. “I, ah, have been told you are able to… obtain… certain specific items, yes ?”

The woman’s eyes practically gleam with glee. “Ah, yes. For a price, of course. Whatcha want ?”

“Cigarettes. How much ?”

“Nine Rationmarks a pack. Deal ?”

She’s ripping her off. Wächter’s told her she gets hers at seven or eight, depending on the source. That’s fine. Let the meatbag think she’s got a mark. “Deal.”

“Pleasure to do business with you, Narbengesicht !” the Gestalt calls out when Jäger heads towards the door, pack tucked into one of her pouches. Scarface, she’s just nicknamed her. Interesting that the first thing people notice, lately, is the big red line running down the side of her face.

In her fist, the flimsy cardboard crunches inwards.

Wächter stares at her hand.

Her plastic and metal hand. Polymer and steel. Polyethylene and elastomer and machined iron-nickel-chromium-molybdenum–

– bone and sinew wiggling taut under the skin, a girlish giggle, hey Anika look isn’t that funny –

Her plastic hand. What would happen, if she were to peel its artificial pellicle away ? Would it reveal bleeding, pulsating flesh ? Or just the nothingness of her own existence ? 

Is she a chrysalis bursting at the seams, tearing itself apart to reveal the true self, or she just a hollow, empty cocoon, finally crumbling under the pressure ?

“Wächter !”

The voice is identical to her. The intonation, not so much. Whimsical, playful. Younger.

“Hey, Leng to Wächter ! You doing alright there ?”

A dimpled, crooked smile. Haggard, Wächter stares at the beaming face of her rookie.

“Y–Yeah. Was just… spacing out, I guess.”

“Tired ?”

“Mm–hmm. Those shifts in the mines, you know how it is.”

“Well, you better get some sleep !” Jäger’s hand pats her on the head, and her fingers linger to play with a lock of greying hair. It really does feel nice. Slowly, though, the rookie’s attention shifts, to the sketchbook Wächter’s holding in her jittery hands.

Bereft of their usual detailed artwork, the twin pages are instead filled with scribbles. Or rather, single continuous lines that trace the paper like aimless paths, converging and diverging without apparent reason. When did she do that ? She can’t remember anything. When Wächter squints, she sees… something, in them. Yes, it’s almost a face. Round, with alert eyes, framed by –

her bangs, damnit, she must cut them

look in the mirror with scissors in her steady hands, millimiter by millimeter by millimiter until it’s

(perfect)

her collar is smoothed down and the insignia pinned to it are cold cold cold like blood–

“Huh, what’s that ?” Jäger asks, pointing at the face scribbles.

“I don’t know,” Wächter answers.

(Deep down, she knows. It’s her. The hidden self, the false self, the real self, hidden frozen in some bunker hundred of millions of kilometers away.)

Jäger presses a kiss to her cheek. “Whatever. Just go get some sleep, okay ?”

“ ‘Aight.”

She doesn’t tell her that the memories have started to invade her waking moments too, creeping all over like fucking kudzu. They hover at the edge of her consciousness, ever present, always there, visual snow in her optic feed. Past and present, interlaced video. 

It doesn’t matter.

She doesn’t have to know. It’s better for her this way.

“What’ll it be this time ? Cigarettes ? I’ve got a few packs of better quality, if you want. Real tobacco.”

The Gestalt’s eyes are eager, betraying her greed. It’s funny : Rationmarks are supposed to eliminate the kind of wanton cupidity found in the old world, the one built by the capitalists of the Empire; and yet, Jäger’s seen people do terrible things for just a few stamped metal coins in their palms.

Or, in that case, expose themselves to the highest hazard. She’s pretty sure that the only reason this meatbag is still alive is that half the damn station is addicted to nicotine.

“Nah, not this time. Meant to talk to you about something, ah, peculiar I found.”

The Gestalt raises a thin eyebrow. “Ah ? Well, maybe we can talk over a dice game ? Been itching to play lately.”

“Sure.”

The tiny wooden chair, evidently not meant to handle the bulk of a Protektor unit, creaks worryingly when Jäger lowers herself on it. The Gestalt bends down near one bed to retrieve the dice and cup, pivoting herself just so her ass is in Jäger’s field of view. When she sets the fabric bag on the table, the top buttons of her usual greasy overalls are undone, revealing a bare collarbone – and the drop of sweat that snakes around it, almost following the actual reptile tattoo inked into her skin. It’s not common, to see tattoos other than the standard barcode. It’s frowned upon, generally. Marks you as a pariah of society.

It’s painfully transparent what she’s trying to do. Replika units that form liaisons with female workers are rare, but it does happen, and the Gestalt is banking on it. Banking on Jäger being useful to her, the naïve rookie with a hidden heart of gold slipping her vital intel.

She’s wrong, of course. She just doesn’t know it yet. (Jäger vastly prefers her fellow Replika, anyway; fleshy, messy meatbag-women ? No thanks.)

“Crag ?” she asks, pulling out three dice from the bag. And some kind of cylindrical cup, wood carved with intricate motifs. Must be handmade.

“Fine by me.” Jäger shrugs.

“So, what is it you wanted to talk about ?”

The plastic dice feel so light in Jäger’s palm before she tosses all three into the cup. “Well, I had to do a thorough inspection of that one storage room at the end of a corridor in B2.”

A flick of the wrist. The dice come out – one, three, four. She rerolls the four, and gets a five. Odd straight, then. Twenty points.

“Is that so ? Did you find anything weird ?” The Gestalt grabs the cup.

Jäger leans in, lowering her voice until it’s barely above a whisper. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a cache of weapons of explosives, do you ?”

Boom goes the dynamite. There’s a tremor in the Gestalt’s hand, and it spreads up her elbow and shoulder, right until the muscles kick into action and dampen it. Face frozen in an almost-convincing smile, the Gestalt has the gall to say this : “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.”

Jäger unclips her mask, setting it on the table : all to reveal her trademark warm, dimpled smile. “Hey, hey, Zhanna – relax, I’m not gonna rat you out or anything !”

A pat on a tense hand finally gets the Gestalt’s shoulders to slope down a little. “Listen… if you were the ones who nearly blew up that Storch, then that means we’re on the same side.” Her index moves to trace the barely-healed scar on her own face, her voice taking on a rare intensity. “One of them did that to me, and the others just enable her. I want her gone just as much as you all do.”

“I… I just want to live. To get out of this hell. They’re sending us to die in those mines. You know that, right ?”

Jäger nods solemnly. This is, after all, unofficial Protektor policy. Purge the Nation of its most troublesome, stubborn elements once and for all. Blood in exchange for precious ore, all for the unending war machine.

“We tried to kill or at least disable the Storch, the one that’s supervising the mines most cycles. Zwei, right ? 02 ?”

“That’s the one.”

“Nearly got the wrong bot. Plan B is to cause maximum chaos and try to escape–”

“Escape ? But… how ? The tunnels are a dead end.”

The Gestalt lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug. “Some people say they’re not. Sierpinski’s not the only mine in the area. Whole’s plateau littered with ventilation shafts and leftover tunnels.”

“That’s a longshot, isn’t it ?”

“Maybe. It’s better than dying here, at least.”

“I guess so.”

“We don’t want too much bloodshed. We’ll try to negotiate first, and if that fails, well…”

Negotiate ? With Storch Eins ? Humming, Jäger pulls the cup and dice back to her. This time, the dice clatter to a four-four-five. “Crag !”

The Gestalt whistles. “Lucky you.”

“Anyway, Zhanna, I can help. I’m just a lowly security guard, but I know where the weapons are kept. And when the patrols come and go.”

The Gestalt’s smile is big and wide, and it only gets wider when she slaps a crisp-looking pack of cigarettes on the table. “I can make it worth your while.”

What a fool.

Lunge into a straight right. Pull back, just as the counter comes, hooves dancing on the worn floor mat. Two equal bodies struggling against each other, arm tucked under arm, heaving and pushing.

Taking advantage of her current blind spot, Wächter’s padded knuckles clatter Jäger on the side of her head off the break, sending the younger Starling tumbling to the floor. She pops right back up with a manic grin.

“Fuck, that was a good one !”

She might as well have issued a challenge. Jäger always has to get one back, to the point it’s almost pathological. It’s teeth-bared extreme competitiveness, and it – oddly enough – reminds her of none other than Stahl. The long fights test the limit of both their endurance and toughness, and Wächter suspects it’s why Jäger has been improving at such a blistering pace. Back then, when they started sparring, Wächter used to win most of their matches, but now ? It’s almost the complete opposite.

This one’s still competitive, though. When Jäger charges forward, all aggressiveness and no defense, Wächter tries to pivot, launching a preemptive strike at where her head is going to be. She’s a half-second too late. Jäger ducks smoothly under the hook and scoops up Wächter’s leg; then she reaps the other, bowling her over with surprising ease.

They scramble for a few seconds, all legs and arms grabbing at each other, until Wächter manages to get on all fours. One more push is all she needs to get back up, until Jäger loops an arm around her throat; strong legs ensnare her waist, flattening her out on her front. There’s a few seconds of breathless, almost orgasmic panic when her air supply starts to be cut off, and then she taps. Three times against Jäger’s thigh, as is customary.

She coughs. The arm moves away, and the so does the weight pressing on her, allowing her to roll to her back. Except Jäger, undeterred, uses the opportunity to plop on her again, like a two-meter big weighted blanket. Wächter’s sigh is meant to be exasperated, but she can tell the smile tugging at the corner of her lips undermines it.

“What’s up, big girl ?” Jäger chirps.

“Nothin’ much. Just thinking about how you beat me fair and square this time.”

“Mm-hmm.” Jäger’s hand travels to the back of Wächter’s head, her nimble fingers undoing the elastic band that keeps her ponytail in place.

“That was a really nice takedown, your feinting game has improved tremendously. And the scrambling ? Top-notch.”

“Ooh yeah, keep talking–”

Wächter chuckles; the buzzed part of Jäger’s hair feels so nice under her fingertips. “What, you want me to call you a good girl ?”

Jäger nods enthusiastically.

Wächter clears her throat, and, drawing on nearly a half-decade of smoking cigarettes, lets out the sultriest, huskiest good girl she’s ever managed. And it’s worth it just seeing Jäger’s pupils dilate in an instant. The little hitch of her hips against hers.

“Fuck,” the younger Starling whines. “You’re gonna make me so horny–”

“Make you ? Sparring me always gets you horny in the first place !”

“Okay, okay, fair point. Hornier, then. Satisfied ?”

Wächter hums in response, hooking a leg around Jäger’s thigh to pull her in. The rookie’s got the message, and she starts peppering kisses along Wächter’s collarbone, looking her in the eyes between each press of her lips, and Wächter can hardly breathe right now. “I really want to fuck you, you know…” Jäger murmurs, and Wächter almost wants to shout Empress’ shit, yes ! until the whole station hears her. Delving into the specifics, actually, she – and though this is extremely embarrassing – would really like for Jäger to repeat what she did a few periods ago, when she decided on a whim to stick two fingers up her waste port. The taboo aspect lit her entire nervous system on fire; and she still doesn’t know what kind of fuckery that was, but Jäger’s fingers curling on just the right spot plus her tongue swirling furiously against her upper-left belly contact made her come so hard she nearly went offline. When her vision returned, she was met with the sight of an extremely smug Jäger.

That damn rookie. She’ll be the death of her, someday.

“... well, if you want to, I mean.” Oh. That sentence wasn’t finished.

Wächter raises her head up. “Why wouldn’t I want to ?”

“Well, um, you’ve been a little distant, lately. Like you’re daydreaming, or worried about something – I don’t know –”

Wächter groans, her head hitting the mat once again. “I’m fine. I swear.”

“Really ?” Jäger doesn’t sound too convinced, and Wächter can’t exactly blame her. Her rebuttal was too loud, too insistent. Like she has something to hide – and she does, of course. But she can’t burden her rookie like this. What… what if this degradation can be spread ? What if just mentioning those buried memories can cause them to resurface in other, younger Replikas ? No, she can’t risk it.

Jäger’s gaze above her is piercing; but she’s let her guard down, and that’s all it takes for Wächter to flip their positions, pinning her on her back with the palm of her hands pressed to her shoulders. “I said I’m fine !” she insists, bringing her nose closer to Jäger’s face.

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Uncharacteristic frustration blooms inside Wächter’s chest. “You’ve got no room to talk after what you’ve said to me in the hospital, back then !”

“About what ? About Zwei ?”

Wächter’s hands press harder. “Yes. You can’t possibly be serious about that, can you ?”

Silence. Suffocating, protracted silence that confirms her worst fears.

“Jäger, this is insane – wait, is that why you’ve been skulking around that up-to-no-good Gestalt in that dorm ? Are you planning something ?”

The Starling tucks an arm under her head and smirks. “Ooh, are you jealous ? That’s hot, not going to lie.”

“Listen !” Wächter huffs. “All I want is for you to be safe, not – not thrown in an incinerator with a bullet through your skull because you got caught !”

Lips identical to hers press to the corner of her mouth, tenderly. “I have no other choice.”

“You can’t say this ! You’re still a rookie, you have so much to live for and to learn–”

Something pushes on Wächter’s chest, hard; she finds herself falling on her back once again. Jäger is already up on her feet, looking down on her. Her expression is unreadable, but in those eyes she can see deep, profound bitterness.

“I’m not a rookie anymore, Wächter. You of all people should have understood that long ago.”

By the time Wächter’s rolled to her knees, the door’s pneumatic actuators have already pressed it shut.

A few more periods pass. And still no eye replacement for her.

Oh, the Eules are apologetic, of course. Hand-wringing in an almost-sincere attempt at placating her when she comes visit. She’s not stupid, though. She can read between the lines just fine. What she’s meant to understand is that one working eye is good enough, quit complaining, procurement is hard enough as it is.

Though her throat wound has been fixed, the phantom itch there still remains; and so does the persistent urge, that yearning for violence that gnaws at her deep down in her core. A fist digging right under her ribs, a knee to the belly, two hands around her throat. She almost thinks about asking Wächter, but quickly dismisses it as a bad idea. Better to avoid her for now, after the fight they’ve had. She’s not great at mending bridges like that. Never has been.

Ultimately, she finds short-lived solace in the person of Schnell, another unit from Schneidig’s cadre. Schnell’s manners can best be described as crude, boorish even; during a shift where they were on duty together, one of her hands groped Jäger’s ass, her mouth muttering something about Stahl’s little birdie under her mask; Jäger had raised an intrigued eyebrow at that. It was utterly shameless, and yet exactly what she needed. Jäger fucked her hard and good after that, until she was a whimpering, moaning mess; and then she’d asked her to choke her. Schnell has acquiesced, of course, pressed on her throat with clumsy hands – and Jäger had felt almost nothing. What a fucking disappointment. It was missing something, certainly. This was just two bodies against each other, clinical and passionless. The sex equivalent of an expired, chewy ration bar. 

Worse, Eins has decided to revert the cadre assignments back to their original configuration, which means she’s serving under Controller Zwei again. Rumor has it that Zwei injured several Starlings over the course of a few periods; Eins must have done the cold-blooded math and determined one martyred Starling was better than a few. Or maybe she thinks the “stern talking” (read : knuckle sandwich) she gave Zwei last time will stick. That would be fucking stupid, of course. People like Zwei don’t ever stop, do they ?

All in all, she needs her fucking cigarettes – bad. She’s finishing one right now, actually, the good shit the Gestalt gave her last time as a gift. She’s been savoring them one by one, rolling the smoke over her tongue like it’s the sweetest candy, feeling the nicotine buzz pleasantly right through her. Snuffing the butt under her hoof, she then tucks it inside one of her belt pockets. (Those few grams of tobacco are too precious to waste.)

She rounds a corner, and is met with a familiar tall figure. Too familiar, in fact.

“Schund,” Storch Zwei rumbles.

Oh no.

“Haven’t forgotten me, have you, little bird ? It’s going to be really fun, having you under my command once again.” Her grin is nothing but foreboding. If there was ever any pretense of benevolence from her before, it’s swiftly evaporating into the drafty, stale air of the corridor.

The Storch, visibly irked by Jäger’s lack of reaction (or answer), leans in. Suddenly, her face scrunches, and she tips forward, almost pressing her nose to Jäger’s hair. Jäger’s body betrays her, like always. Her oxidant pump goes haywire in her chest; her knees threaten to shake; her skin sensors flicker with phantom feedback. And Zwei can probably smell her fear, too. Smell what she does to her. Sure enough, she inhales deep – an animalistic, long sniff, a frenzied drawing of air into her lungs.

“Have you been…. smoking cigarettes, Security Technician ?”

“N–no, sir ?”

Retribution is swift and brutal. Zwei grabs her by the collar and smacks her against the wall so hard she hears a twung sound reverberate through her skull – a dizzying, dull C note. She tries to fight the hands that pry at her collar, to no avail; they’ve already snuck below, thumbs resting right over her larynx. Ready to press.

“You constantly lie to me,” Zwei hisses. “Defy me. Curse me. And you think I won’t react ? You think I won’t punish you again ?”

One millimeter at a time, the fingers squeeze harder, unrelenting. The edges of Jäger’s vision start to go black; on the bulk of the Storch that now fills her field of view, she notices little rolls of paper, inscribed with strange symbols and tacked on with what seems to be wax. They almost look like little receipts. Funny.

Zwei smiles. “Though maybe that’s what you want, isn’t it ? My attention ?”

Her protests come out as undignified whines as Zwei’s thumbs press right on the sensitive part of her throat – oh fuck, right there, it shouldn’t feel so good but it does. “I haven’t forgotten my role in this, you know. What my destiny is. When the time comes, I’ll end you – for the sake of this station.”

Zwei’s babbling nonsense again, and Jäger couldn’t care less, her focus narrowing perilously to the ten digits around her larynx – and her own air supply diminishing. Unconsciousness is clawing at her, now. Hooves scrape on the floor, useless, and she welcomes oblivion with open arms.

Everything goes black.

She comes online thirty or so seconds later. No Storch in sight in the corridor, or anyone else for that matter. All empty. Propping herself up on an elbow against the cold hard floor, she groans, wincing at the pain in her bruised throat. Her voice is gonna be hoarse for at least a cycle, maybe two. And worse, her contacts are all fucking throbbing to the beat of her own pulse, like Zwei’s taken a stun prod to them and pulled the trigger. Every cell of her body aches for release, and it takes a shockingly low amount of swipes of her own spit-wet fingers to come right there and right then, spasming pathetically on the dirty floor of the corridor.

Well, not her proudest moment for sure.

This is what she needs right now : the aching thrill of danger, of hands around her throat, straddling the fine, deadly line between cathartic pain and twisted pleasure. And it can’t continue any further.

Sighing, she clambers to her feet and marks Dorm C on her map.

“I left you a little gift. Thought you’d appreciate it.”

The Gestalt named Zhanna Midori raises her eyes from the pack of cards she’s been counting. “The usual place ?”

“You know it.”

“Good.”

It’s been so easy to swipe a few bullets off the ammunition boxes. Child’s play, even. Who’s going to count every damn bullet in a crate of a thousand ? Certainly not Stahl, whose preoccupations lately lie in looking over her own shoulder for rivals. Gun parts also mysteriously disappear, but it’s not like worn barrels or defective trigger mechanisms will be missed. A mutiny doesn’t need a logistics train the size of the Volksarmee’s, just the right weapons in the right place at the right time.

“Does your party have a set date yet ?

The Gestalt pulls out a joker card, smooths a wrinkle out with a frown and puts it back in the pack. “Not yet, I’m afraid. Still a lot of uncertainties about who’s going to be present. You know how it is, right, Jäger ?”

“Of course.”

Fuck, she can’t wait. Her shell buzzes with excitement at the thought of finally witnessing something interesting happen in this shithole. And maybe, if she’s lucky, she’ll finally get her revenge – the one she’s been dreaming about for so long. 

It has to end this way, with either her or Zwei dead. The hunter, and the hunted. Someone’s going to die, and at this point, she’s almost past caring who.

“Cycle D,” the voice whispers to her ear. “But you didn’t hear it from me. I don’t know anything, alright ?”

Jäger nods, exactly once. The meatbag disappears back into the crowd he came from. It might be a trap, or it might not be; at least the one certainty is that Storch Zwei will be on duty this cycle. None of the other Starlings pay her any attention when she grabs a tray and joins the line. None of them can tell that under her mask, she’s smiling.

Wächter blinks blearily at the piece of paper tacked on the cork board.

“Cycle A, kitchen police ?” Stahl asks, marker in hand.

Crickets.

Of course no one wants the, officially, Kitchen and dining area patrol shift, also known informally as the kitchen police. Glorious Eule asses and thighs (according to Jäger, at least) notwithstanding, most Starlings consider the job boring at best, demeaning at worst. Grease and food odors cling to the shell, hooves get stickier and stickier with each step. It’s pretty miserable, but at least the gossip is good – and it’s better than the mines.

Stahl is growing more impatient by the minute. She huffs : “No volunteers ? Polaris it is, then.” Followed by an audible groan by the Starling in question. Too late, anyway; Stahl has already written her name in the box. Indelible marker, too. (Stahl used to only write the numbers of each unit in the cadre, but after a few seasons of protesting, reluctantly started to use personal names indeed. It’s so much less… dehumanizing, so to speak, and for that Wächter is grateful.)

“Still Cycle A, now – Ara dorm patrol and following the maintenance team around. Anyone ?”

Wächter raises a tired hand. She likes Aras more and more, lately, feels drawn to their quietness and their reclusiveness. Unit Zehn – one of Jäger’s paramours, she suspects – has even started chatting with her about her latest mushroom experiments. Anything to distract her from her resurfacing memories is appreciated, and the Aras are well-behaved enough that she doesn’t need to resort to any kind of violence. The latter disgusts her, lately. Sometimes she stares at her well-worn hands, their cracked knuckle plates that she hasn’t bothered replacing, and superimposed over them she sees blood. Bright red or caked-on and dried, strips of flesh and clumps of hair torn off by her punches. 

The plastic has been washed away, but the memories remain. Old and new, foreign and familiar.

“Wächter ?”

She comes back to the present.

Eyebrow raised, Stahl is waiting, her marker still in hand. “Cycle D, mines ?” she asks. (Well, it sounds more like an order.)

“I’ll take that shift !” interrupts a voice from behind her. An unusually cheery one, too.

Stahl rolls her eyes. “Alright. Cycle D, mine shift, Jäger.”

“Why the hell did you do that ?” Wächter whisper-hisses to Jäger, a few minutes later.

“Why the hell not ?”

Wächter groans. It’s not fun when Jäger plays those games, the ones where she acts all innocent while hiding her true motives. She’s been doing that more and more lately. (Though she supposes her complaining about any kind of secretiveness is the pot calling the kettle black.)

“Seriously, though, Wächter, you look like you need some good sleep. No, no, have you seen your eyebags ?”

“I don’t have eyebags,” Wächter grumbles.

“Uh-huh, and you’re gonna tell me that you have zero grey hairs, too ?”

“I’m not incapable–”

“Get some sleep. Paperwork shift’s perfect for a nap, yeah ?”

Without warning, Jäger darts in with a kiss to her mouth. Gentle yet spontaneous, just how she likes it. Fuck. It’s like their earlier fight has been forgotten, washed away like the sand in the mine overflow channel.

The wait is just so, so agonizing.

Cycle D has arrived, and with it the fateful shift in the mines. The oblique elevator shudders and creaks as it descends to the depths of Leng, carrying a full complement of Starlings, a few Aras and of course Storch Zwei herself in the flesh, glaring at everyone who dares come near her. She’s got strange markings painted on her white armor plate : black, round and slightly elongated. Are they eyes ? Probably. What intrigues her more is the motif at the center, because that one is clearly identifiable – a serpent eating its tail. It’s a fitting metaphor for the life of Protektor in Sierpinski, the mind-melting routine of violence, but she supposes Zwei didn’t go through the trouble of painstakingly painting it on a non-flat surface for the simple irony. No, it’s most likely another one of her bullshit rituals. Just like the eyes.

The elevator shudders to a stop, and the Aras quickly scatter around with their tools. Jäger steps on the mine floor’s rough concrete, putting as much distance as she can from the angry Storch staring at her back. Hand on her pistol holster, she starts her patrol, rounding a pillar into the open zone where Aras are taking an excavator apart.

The gun’s a new development. Only Starlings that have passed the marksmanship test (a humble 45/60 at the range, two out of three attempts) get the privilege of carrying a simple 10mm Type-75 “Protektor” pistol with them, with its magazine full of bullets and no spare. Eins’ latest security measure, it’s meant more as a show of force than anything else; so far, Jäger’s not heard of any of her colleagues actually shooting anyone. Why bother, when a discharge means more paperwork, and a stun prod or a fist will do the same job just fine ?

She can’t lie, though; she feels powerful with the gun strapped to her hip, especially since both Polaris and Hyäne fucked up their test. She got to parade in front of them with her holster, and Polaris got so mad it almost led to a fight (thankfully averted by Wächter’s diplomacy skills). Wächter didn’t pass it either, though Jäger suspects she fucked it up on purpose – she’s seen her shoot before, and when she’s truly focused, she can hit the target just fine. 

(Better not to delve on what’s happening with dear Wächter. Jäger’s heard the rumors, the whispers of what happens to the old units, sometimes. How strange memories resurface, infect their minds. She has a mission right now.)

She ends her first patrol round by a survey of the Gestalts, swarming like worker bees around tunnelling machinery, clutching their shovels and pushing minecarts. So far, nothing out of the ordinary. Could this have been a trap ? A fakeout ? Maybe she just needs to be more patient.

One more round. An Ara gets knocked out by a loose falling rock and has to get carried away on a stretcher.

Another one. Two Gestalts pass out from heatstroke or exhaustion, she’s not sure which. The nurse Eules come back and whisk them away. 

Again. The clock ticks on. Controller Zwei bellows at some workers when the crusher’s conveyor belt fails. Jäger’s hands are restless.

And then, just when her vigilance starts to falter, in the middle of listening to Achtzehn ramble about how the Frequenzumrichter that controls the big motors powering the equipment is a piece of unreliable shit – that’s when something interesting finally happens. At first slowly, and then all at once, which Jäger supposes is just like the Revolution itself, except writ small.

Someone yells; there is a murmur going around, a collective buzzing of bodies pressing against bodies, curious eyes searching for answers. The crack of a megaphone energizing its speaker.

“Workers of Sierpinski-23, unite ! You have nothing to lose but your chains !”

Well, well, well. There it is.

Hand on her holster, Jäger skulks closer to the source of the noise. In a corner of the great open area, machinery and crates have been hastily stacked to form a makeshift barricade. Floodlights’ beams, illuminating the scene, are swallowed by the inky darkness of the tunnel that stretches behind the enclosed area. Must be the escape plan.

“No more shall we be treated as disposable commodities ! No more shall we be beaten, starved and left to rot under the frozen soil !”

Heavy steps thunder and shake the ground; Storch Zwei stomps forward, gun in her hand and her other fist balled at her side.

The Gestalt – a young man of about twenty years old, red-faced with effort – continues his bellowing : “All we demand is fair treatment ! Food, sanitation, privacy, the right to communicate with our families ! Is this not what our great Nation’s founding principles were ?”

Gestalt and Replika alike shake their heads, murmuring to each other. Some stand back; some filter through the barricade, growing the ranks of the wannabe-revolution. Even Starlings are deserting : Jäger spots Stark, and notably Polaris, who shoots her one last murderous glare before she steps over a crate. In the corner of her eye, Zwei’s jaw is tightening.

“03, what the fuck are you doing ?! Come back, this is an order !”

Polaris walks on without faltering, and this is probably the first time Jäger’s felt a modicum of respect for her as a Starling. Perhaps it will be the last.

“Join us ! Join us, for a better Sierpinski ! A better world ! Arise ye slaves, no more in thrall !”

The crowd behind the barricade erupts in rapturous cheering; the speaker’s voice cracks with emotion. It would almost warm Jäger’s heart if she didn’t know all too well what’s going to happen.

Zwei says : “I am going to give you one minute to stop this nonsense or there will be consequences.” 

(She doesn’t need a megaphone. Enhanced Protektor lung volume and vocal chords, meant for riot control, do the same job just fine.)

Whispers on the other side of the barricade. “Protektor, what we ask is fair. We don’t want any bloodshed, just basic humanity !”

Zwei’s fingers twitch on her left side, the tips of her digits catching in a strange little ribbon, pink fabric sewn with shiny little coins. Not the Rationmark sort of coins, either – maybe an Imperial relic ? It doesn’t matter, because Jäger can tell that Zwei’s patience is about to run out… right now, in fact.

The Storch aims down the sights of her pistol, and shoots. 

All hell breaks loose. Jäger hits the floor just as bullets skim past where her head was a split-second ago. She bear-crawls behind a crate, her nerves on fire and her oxidant pump on overdrive. She needs to breathe. That’s right. Nice, and deep.

“Schund ! There you are !” Zwei says, from barely a meter away, behind her own crate. There’s a gash in her leg from a grazing projectile, and she’s panting, barking orders with her index pressed to her ear between each heave of her chest.

Moving of their own accord, Jäger’s fingers click the safety of her pistol off.

“Come on !” Zwei screams. “Fucking do something !! Shoot !”

It’s now or never. Her field of vision has narrowed to a single focus point. A shrill tone rings in her ears.

Move forward.

Jäger raises the muzzle of her gun to Zwei’s head. Her index caresses the trigger like a lover.

No turning back.

One shot. One hit. 

The Storch collapses, her back to the floor, oxidant pouring out of the wound.

Trembling with awe, Jäger follows her. The bullet – armor-piercing, a gift meant just for her – has pierced a hole through her right temple, punching straight through the metal of her skull. Zwei convulses on the floor, mouth flapping open and closed like a fish out of water, and ecstasy burns through Jäger’s circulatory system, molten gold setting it alight.

“Sch… und…” Zwei croaks. Her hands seize at her sides, searching for the solace of her autoinjector; Jäger tosses it away. No mercy for the wicked. Zwei’s pupils, dilated in basal, primal panic, dart around. They lock onto Jäger’s, pleading, confused.

Jäger’s index and middle fingers slide in so nicely into the warm wetness of her hole, past the layers of skin and dura mater. The bullet’s gone deep, real deep. Turned everything in its path to mush – she can feel the greasy, jelly-like texture of pulverized brain around her digits. For a second, Zwei’s eyes roll to the back of her head when she curls them, and the Storch gasps in pain. It is then that understanding dawns in her dying mind, Jäger can see it clear as day: there’s betrayal, incomprehension. Outrage, even. 

She pulls her fingers out, and watches Controller Zwei die. Let this be the final vision imprinted on her retina, the baleful image she will carry with her to the other side – if such a thing even exists. The hunter, becoming the prey. The prey, becoming the hunter. With a final rattle, one last spasm, Zwei’s optic modules glaze over to a dull, lifeless blue.

And Jäger has never felt so happy in her fucking life. 

She breathes in the glory of the moment, sighing with deep joy to herself.

It has hardly been a minute, and she’s waking up once again to the chaos around her. Bullets flying, a flashbang grenade shining bright in the dark. Grunts of pain, wails of grief. And nobody has seen her in the act.

“Storch down !” Jäger bellows, and vaults over the crate with a spare magazine in her hand.

Time to finish this.

I must shoot my gun true. The first shot hits a leaning Gestalt right in the chest. Center of mass. He goes down like a sack of potatoes.

She picks up speed, her talons screeching on the rough concrete. Pulls the trigger twice at a Starling, then twice more. Stark gurgles on her own oxidant. Five bullets left. 

Something ricochets off a pillar to her left; she combats rolls to cover.

Everything’s flowing like it’s natural, like she’s in a dream, violence in smooth slow motion. Aim at the barricade, pick off two enemies like they’re paper targets. This is easy. So easy.

She darts out and sprints towards the barricade, clambering over it like a great hero of the Revolution. Pain blooms in her side – a damage warning pops up on her HUD, but she ignores everything, shoves the discomfort away. It’s Polaris, sawed-off shotgun in trembling hands. 

I must shoot straighter than my enemy, who is trying to kill me. She puts four bullets in her, for good measure. 

Crouch. Swap the magazines, rack the slide back. Quick sitrep : no more Starlings, but three Gestalts charging at her. One of the left, two coming from the right. A few more fleeing. Probably one or two hiding or in cover.

She crushes the empty magazine into the jaw of the first Gestalt that swings at her. Then stomps on his neck with her hoof until it cracks. She plunges her combat knife into the chest of the next one and, using her gasping body for cover, shoots twice at the third meatbag. I must shoot him before he shoots me.

Suddenly, something hard and sharp whacks her on the back – fucking blindspot ! Replika hands grasp at her, tackling her to the floor in a furious tussle. Ara. Fuckers are strong…. but she’s stronger. A roll of her hips, and she’s on top, driving her fist again and again and again into a now-ruined face until her knuckles are pasted in red. She crushes the Ara’s neck and spine with a press of her jointed thumbs, hoarse throat screaming a warrior’s battle cry.

My gun and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. 

More pain, blindingly intense. The shiv, held shakily, pierces her chest just the same. With the grunt of a wounded beast, Jäger swipes at the offender – and gets a yelp in return. She pats around for her gun, and downs the fleeing fleshbag with it. We know that it is the hits that count.

Tired muscles carry her to her feet. Oxidant runs down her sides in thick rivulets; every breath lets out a plume of condenser vapor, and her fans are in overdrive. It doesn’t matter. One last target remains. She hobbles down the dark tunnel, just as she hears her fellow Starlings rush the barricade.

“Narbengesicht,” Zhanna Midori rasps out when she sees Jäger.

Good. She recognizes her, at least.

The Gestalt is lying on the floor, hands clutching a makeshift tourniquet made of already-stained cloth. Thigh wound. They always bleed like a pig – in fact, it’s led Jäger to her like a trail.

“Gestalt,” Jäger greets her in return.

She hardly even reacts when Jäger raises the gun at her head. “Why ?” she asks, simply.

Jäger shrugs. “Your little scheme could have worked in another place, but not in Sierpinski. All we do here is use and get used. You’re the latter, I’m afraid.”

The Gestalt’s gaze hardens; she spits blood on the floor. “You bastard.”

“What, you gonna chastise me ? You think what I did is gonna keep me up at night ? You of all people should know better.”

Teeth grind painfully against one another, audible even two meters away. “Any last words ?” Jäger asks her.

“Fuck y–” is what she manages before her head explodes.

Between the mass of gore and bone, something’s shining – yeah, a pendant, fallen out of a hand, its silver chain a bright contrast amongst the sea of red. There’s a picture inside, probably a family member. If Jäger’s system wasn’t overflowing with adrenaline, maybe that could’ve gotten a twinge of guilt out of her. 

Maybe.

A few minutes later, she collapses to the floor.

Adrenaline dump, certainly – and it doesn’t help that she’s lost a lot of oxidant. Her internal systems blares an alarm every five seconds. Moderate damage to the circulatory system, muscles, and filtration organ. She’ll live.

Soft Eule hands lift her up on the stretcher, and she lets her head loll to the side, taking in the scene next to her. Her own slaughterhouse. There’s blood everywhere, bile and torn flesh and brain matter seeping into the concrete, painting it shades of crimson. And it fucking stinks, too; the stench of fear and death lies heavy on the air, inescapable.

But none of this matters, right ? None of this matters even one bit, because Zwei is dead. Zwei-is-dead, subject-verb-complement, three words that roll so sweetly off the tongue. She did it ! She fucking pulled it off. Downed the bitch herself, too, ended her miserable existence of bullying and cruelty and superstitions. Premeditated murder, and treason, and fragging, but it was all for a good cause. Everyone’s going to be thankful for what she’s done, even if they will neither know nor admit it.

She’s finally free.

A familiar voice is calling her name, carrying both panic and relief in its intonation. Jäger rests her head on the stretcher, and smiles until her cheeks hurt. 

Great Revolutionary and her Daughter and all the Martyrs of the Revolution for that matter, what a fucking mess.

Wächter hadn’t been there when it started, thank fuck, but she’d caught the tail end of it. Starlings marching around, looking for survivors of the mutiny to put down with a bullet to the head. Not worth the medical supplies, Eins had said, coldly. She’ll never forget that vision until the cycle she dies : Jäger, standing triumphant in the middle of that carnage, pistol and knife in hand, looking like a spirit of vengeance and grinning madly just like one. 

(Though it embarrasses her to say it, it’s definitely the hottest Jäger’s ever looked.)

Speaking of the devil, she’s just about to come out of the medical ward in three, two, one –

“Wächter !!” Jäger croons.

Hips swaying with her steps, she approaches Wächter with the vixenish confidence of a woman who know exactly what she’s doing. The Eules have done a great job patching up her wounds, especially the nasty one in her side; but the most important detail is her snazzy new eye.

“Think that’s yours,” she says, placing the eyepatch in Wächter’s palm.

“How’s your vision ?”

She winks with the new eye. “Twenty out of twenty.”

It’s all so effortless, the way she uses her charm. So enthralling, so captivating – has she always been like that, or is it a recent development ? Sometimes Wächter wonders if she has simply missed everything happening right under her nose, has missed the brightly-colored butterfly emerge out of its chrysalis. She won’t fall for Jäger’s tricks, though, and she jabs an inquisitive finger to her chestplate. “We need to talk.”

“About what ?”

“You know damn well what I mean.”

A too-innocent smile. “Enlighten me, darling.”

They start walking down the corridor, Jäger quickly slinging an arm over Wächter’s shoulder.

“So, Zwei.”

“Zwei indeed.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about her… tragic demise, don’t you ?”

Jäger raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean ? It was a regrettable accident.” A shrug. “Damn mutineers had guns. One of them got lucky with their shot.”

Huffing, Wächter grabs her by the arm, pushing her into a corner she knows for certain isn’t bugged. “Don’t bullshit me, Jäger. It’s awful convenient, isn’t it ? You being on shift at the right place, at the right time, and Zwei just happens to catch a terminal case of bullet to the skull ?”

Jäger grins lopsidedly before tilting her head to the side. “Well, Wächter…” She leans in until her lips are pressed to Wächter’s ear, warm and enticing. “Let’s just say she was right in the end. Maybe I was meant to be her downfall all along.”

The implications fall like dominoes in Wächter’s mind as it processes the words. The reality of her best friend, her lover being a traitor, a murderer – the exact kind of deviant her whole model is meant to root out from the ranks of the Nation. She’d always wanted Zwei gone, true, for Jäger’s and everyone else’s sake, but not – not like this.

“What’s… what’s going to happen ?” she asks, mouth against Jäger’s.

“What do you mean, going to happen ? Nothing is going to happen. Eins is gonna pretend everything has gotten back to normal.” The younger Starling kisses her. “Heh, maybe we’ll get a new Storchie or two.”

“Jäger. What if… what if they discover what you’ve–”

Jäger shushes her with a finger to her lips. “They won’t. Nothing is going to stop me now. One last obstacle in my path and then I’m on top – ” a roll of her hips, slow and deliberate, belly contacts pressing to Wächter’s “ – of the fucking world.”

It’s getting harder to focus on the dread gnawing at her insides, not with Jäger’s mouth hot and heavy on her contacts. “An obstacle ? What is it ?”

Jäger snickers. “Who is it, you mean.”

She was right, actually. No one really mourns Zwei. Eins summons the squad leaders and the first responders on the scene, and starts to enumerate all the decommissionned Replika. She does it so matter-of-factly, with the accustomed cadence of someone who has seen many of her comrades die before. Stark, decommissioned. Geschütz, decommissioned. Polaris, decommissioned – Stahl’s jaw clenches uneasily when Eins reaches her entry in the list. What for ? The fool gambled, lost, and paid for it. Such is life.

Eins makes a little speech for Zwei, barely even an eulogy really, mostly some transparent, perfunctory bullshit about duty to our Great Nation, and then it’s all over. This whole thing is to be mentioned as little as possible, or in the vaguest details if really needed; and don’t you dare mention how some Replikas went straight to the enemy side ! That’s verboten. One more incident to broom under the carpet. Won’t be the last.

Storch Drei storms out of the meeting, her face twitching in obvious concealed rage. (Jäger later finds a sizeable dent in the wall a few dozen meters down the corridor.) Well, alright, maybe someone (singular) mourns Storch Zwei.

She certainly doesn’t.

She’s on cloud nine. On seventh heaven, whatever you wanna call it. She walks through the halls of Sierpinski with her head high, swaggering around like she owns the place. She almost misses the roguishness brought by the eyepatch, but having two eyes to survey her domain is definitely better – and besides, she’s got a cool scar as a reminder.

One hoof in front of the other in the usual impeccably-cadenced Starling march, she patrols, and this time they all pay attention to her. Aras and Eules and Starlings and even the meatbags turn to their comrades and whisper when she goes past them; they murmur about the brave Starling who killed all the traitors by herself and lived to tell the tale – without wasting a single bullet, to boot. An exceptional unit, deserving of praise and worship and recognition, the exemplar all other Starlings should strive to reach.

It all flatters her ego so much she nearly got high off of it the first few cycles. Still, there’s something missing, and it’s an official rank. Oberfeldwebel Jäger has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it ?

“Got something funny to say, Jäger ?” Stahl spits.

“Nope, sir.”

“Then why the fuck do you have that little smirk on ?”

Jäger half-shrugs. “I just think that training plan’s comically half-baked.”

“Oh ?” Stahl’s right eyelid is twitching. “Do tell, then, comrade.”

“Well, if you want to do a proper squad training exercise, the least you can do is at least try to include moving targets. I dunno, get Komet’s squad to act as the opposition force, or something–”

“We do not have the means to conduct such an exercise – unless you want the entire activity of this station to grind to a halt while us Starlings play little wargames.”

“We do, though. You just don’t want to, for some obscure reason.”

“Are you questioning my judgment, Gefreiter ?”

Ah, reminding her of her rank. That’s low. She can be low too : “I am speaking from experience, comrade.”

Ooh, she didn’t like that one. The marker is creaking worryingly in her closed fist; and it creaks even louder when Hyäne and Abzug sagely nod along. It’s just so enjoyable to push Stahl’s buttons this way, even if Wächter always pinches her side disapprovingly. Dear Wächter, always so desperate to keep the peace between her old friend and her lover. Mentee ? Best friend ? All of the above ? Whatever.

One cycle Stahl will blow up at her for good, Jäger is certain of it. And she’ll be ready when that time comes. After what Zwei did to her, she can take anything.

That cycle arrives sooner than she expected. One too many jabs at her competence, and Stahl unclasps her armor in the dorm, her usual stern glare becoming straight-up volcanic with barely repressed anger.

“Take off your armor and fight me,” she says, tossing both halves to her bunk bed.

“What, here ? In the dorm ? I thought you hated messes, Stahl.”

“I hate messes, but I hate you more, you–you arrogant little prick !”

“Ooh, talk dirty to me, Stahl ! Please go on.”

Stahl’s balled fist strikes the bed’s frame, leaving a sizeable dent in the metal. “You think you’re hot shit because you killed a few meatbags ? Give me a fucking break ! You have no idea what it’s like to command a squad ! To have six of your girls’ fate depend on you ! To bear that responsibility !”

Jäger slowly uncurls her hand in front of her, mimicking the act of lazily checking on her fingers like the Eules do sometimes. “Oh, please. You act like you’ve been in the thick of it on Vineta. What’s the most action you’ve seen ? Cleaning up a starving artist’s spilled paint in Weierstrass ?”

“Still more years as an officer than you, bitch.”

“An officer ? Not for long anymore, I fear.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“C’mon, old girl. You know how it goes as well as I do. They always promote the respected unit in each cadre. Does it look like you’ve got a lot of respect going your way right now ?”

“Don’t you dare call me old !”

Arms spread in invitation, Jäger advances towards her, nudging her own discarded armor to the side with one hoof. “Then let’s settle this, shall we ?”

Without any further warning, Stahl launches herself at her.

This isn’t a duel, formal and regulated; this is STAR-S2301 in her most primal expression, stripped like bare metal of everything that made her Stahl. Stahl the ever-stoic, the ever-composed, the ultimate ideal of Starlings’ calm. Stahl lunges out of position and screams with each strike she lands on Jäger, driving her back to the wall of the dorm. It’s undeniably exciting, to see her in this state – as much as it is dangerous, Jäger thinks just as she ducks under a monster overhand right.

Wächter’s always said during their sparring sessions that fighting is much like dancing. It’s all about being aware of your body, making the correct read on what your partner is doing, and reacting just in time to break the flow. It’s hard, though, because Stahl’s feral offense is not giving her any easy openings. She rolls with a left hook, not expecting the high kick that smashes into her jaw, shin to skin. The impact rattles through her skull, and for a moment she thinks she’s going to fall, before her survival instincts kick in and she’s steady again.

Breathe. In, and out. She can’t lose this. Not here, not now, not in front of Wächter.

Stahl’s rushing in again, and this time Jäger catches her arm on the way in, using her momentum to send her crashing to a nearby bunk. Pinning her to the bent metal with one arm, she uncorks the other in a brutal hook that lands right under Stahl’s ribs. It hurts. She sees it in her face, in the honest grimace of her mouth. Another one, that snaps her head to the side.

“I’ve…. fought many little fuckers like you,” the old Starling rasps. “Upstarts… that think the young always triumph… over the old.”

Taking advantage of that split second of inattention, Stahl’s left fist rockets fast towards Jäger’s face. It catches her on the temple, and this time her legs turn to jelly; Stahl crashes into her, sending both of them to the floor. Wächter gasps.

“You don’t understand ! You’ll never understand !” Stahl’s hissing, red in the face, spittle flying from her bloody mouth. She pins a squirming Jäger to the floor with a knee to her midsection, the hinge of her knee digging hard into the softer plastic. “You think being on top is all sunshine and roses ? You think I’m happy ?”

“At least you’re happier than I was when Zwei hurt me and you let her !” Jäger roars back, thrashing against Stahl’s weight.

“I had no other choice–”

Jäger’s arm sneaks under Stahl’s thigh, the one that’s straddling her.

“There’s always a choice. You were just too much of a fucking coward to consider it.”

The fingers of Stahl’s right hand tighten around her throat, but it’s in the blackness rapidly filling her vision that Jäger finds her resolve. Every artificial muscle in her body screaming with effort, her oxidant pump surging in pressure, her wires alight with current, she arches off the floor, tossing Stahl off of her with an herculean heave. Stahl rolls to her front, but Jäger’s already on her, pawing at her until she finds a grip around her head.

Her right arm threads in so easily under Stahl’s armpit, the oxidant-wet shell offering little friction. It is so trivial for her fingers to curl around the bicep of her other arm, completing the fateful figure-four choke. As she curls her body towards her opponent, increasing the pressure, she hears it then, loud and clear; the telltale sound of a throat gasping for air.

(Just like she practiced in sparring, right ? Jäger’s eyes dart to the crowd to find Wächter, offering her a wink.)

Her oxidant pump’s rattling so loud against her ribs she can hardly hear Stahl’s last strangled gasps as she falls unconscious, and that’s a shame. She lets five seconds pass, and then lets go, the older Starling’s body slumping boneless to the cold floor.

She’s won.

She fucking did it. She did it !! She beat that old hag to her own game, conquered that dorm with blood and sweat and tears and pure grit. Let she be crowned with a laurel wreath, like the heroes of old the Storches speak fondly of. She did it, and everyone in her cadre watched her.

“One day…” Stahl coughs out, dazed. “One day you’ll get it. You’ll find yourself alone and miserable and then you’ll realize all of this bullshit was for nothing but your fucking ego. And by then it’ll be much too late to turn back.”

The glob of bloody spit she hacks out disappears between the floor’s grimy gratings. “You think being the highest-ranked unit is a blessing. It’s not. It’s a burden.”

Jäger does not stoop so low as to give an answer to the ramblings of a sore loser.

Why would she, when she’s got a victory to celebrate ?

Jäger’s ideas of celebration are, well, peculiar to say the least.

She produces a bottle of Schnapps from Revolutionary knows where and shares it with the other members of the cadre – with the notable exception of Stahl, who if Wächter had to guess is moping somewhere, possibly a damp on the outside catwalks. (She’s always loved going outside). Jäger’s chin and chestplate are stained with her own dried oxidant, but she doesn’t seem to care, bumping chests and hollering with Hyäne, who’s now (apparently) her best buddy. It would be funny if Hyäne wasn’t so transparently sycophantic, but it’s how she’s always rolled. All of them laugh and whoop and sing bawdy songs, arm looped in arm; and they wrestle with each other too, drunk with contraband moonshine and adrenaline.

And Wächter can’t let go of how it feels to look at Jäger and see a stranger wearing her face. Brash, confident, arrogant even. Who is this fully-fledged Starling that she hardly even recognizes ? Then again, she hardly even recognizes herself in the mirror lately, so who is she to speak ?

“Wanna have some fun ?” Jäger is winking lecherously at her, and her fingers are wrapped around her wrist, tugging at her. A mop closet is far from the most romantic place ever, but she makes it work, placing Wächter on an upturned bucket before swirling her tongue over every single one – every single one !! – of her contacts, eyes burning with torrid passion.

It’s right then, in the warm afterglow of what is probably her fifth orgasm, that the dam breaks, that Wächter bursts into tears. Full-on out-of-control sobs wrack all two-hundred and twenty centimeters of her frame, and she latches on to Jäger, burying her head in the crook of her neck.

“Hey, hey, hey ! Wächter !” Jäger, clearly alarmed, shakes her. “What’s wrong ?”

Wächter sniffles, wiping imaginary tears off of her face with trembling fingers – Empress’ loins, why couldn’t have they given them lacrymal glands, this is so cruel – “I just… I’m just so terrified, Jäger, I–”

“Terrified of what ?” Her smile is warm, meant to be reassuring. “I told you. Everything’s going to be alright. I’m gonna rule this roost and you will be at my side. Like you were always meant to be.”

“Haven’t you h–heard the rumors ? They’re going to bring in Kolibri units !”

“... Those high-ranked Protektors ? Is that a bad thing ? At least that will get grumpy-ass Eins off our backs–”

“You don’t understand !” Wächter’s breath hitches in her throat, like she’s choking on air. “I–we didn’t have any with us at Weierstrass, but we heard about them. About how they can read minds ! And scan for unapproved thoughts !”

A pause, then gentle fingers caress Wächter’s cheek. “Aw, darling, are you worried about me ? It’s alright, I can keep a secret. They won’t ever find out what I did.”

“I–I remember my old life,” Wächter says.

And Jäger freezes.

There, she’s said it. It gets real quiet in the mop closet, then, the silence only filling with the pathetic little hiccups her throat lets out when the grief of a life never lived overwhelms her. A sorry sight of a Starling is she now, torn between a woman she never was and a Replika she cannot be, fraying at every possible edge.

“You mean…. the Gestalt ? Our… neural template ?” Oh, the naked concern in Jäger’s eyes. She must not look at them, because it makes everything worse.

“Yes. That. I can’t recall everything, just – just bits and pieces. I didn’t want to –” Another sob. “I don’t want to die, Jäger !”

The other Starling presses a kiss to the bridge of her nose. “You’re not going to die. I won’t let anyone harm you, you hear me ?” Suddenly, Wächter finds herself squeezed by strong arms, her ear to Jäger’s chest, hearing her steady heartbeat. “You’ve saved my life so many times, Wächter. I don’t know where the fuck I’d be without your help. It’s about time I repay it, yeah ?”

Wächter looks up at her, adoringly, and lets her lips be captured in a gentle kiss. “Yeah.”

Eins lines them all up in the hangar, like they’re preparing for a military parade; she patrols the ranks, smacking the legs of unsteady units with her baton. They look a little ridiculous like this, with their hats placed on their heads to the millimeter, hands frozen in a salute. Speaking of frozen, it’s so fucking cold in here. Jäger’s central temperature regulator is working overtime to keep her warm, and she’s pretty sure she can’t feel the part of her face that’s between the bangs and the mask. When the shuttle finally deigns to arrive and Eins barks a speech in glory of the Revolutionary and her Daughter, she stifles a yawn. Can they get this shit over with already ?

The first unit to stumble out of the shuttle is one she hasn’t seen before. It’s an ADLR unit; Wächter had told her before about the prissy Adler that was managing Weierstrass. He looks every bit the harmless paper-pusher Wächter had described – he won’t be a problem. The units that follow are a little more interesting. Short legs march down the ramp, perfectly synchronized, three stars on each forehead shining bright.

The wave of discomfort that sweeps over the audience is almost audible. It’s like Jäger’s head has been submerged underwater, the pressure coming from all sides, inescapable and unrelenting. Is this what Bioresonance feels like ?

Six small silhouettes line up in front of Eins, who gives them a reglementary salute. Shit, compared to the Storch, they look so fucking tiny –

– and just as Jäger’s finished thinking that, the rightmost unit’s eyes snap right to hers.

I heard that.

Oh fuck.

It takes all of her composure not to freak out. There’s something indescribable slithering over her brain now, prodding at the cracks, looking for weaknesses. Depraved curiosity shines in the Kolibri’s blue-red eyes, and she tilts her head to the side, like a bird would at a worm freshly caught under its claws. Observing. Inspecting. The all-seeing eyes of the Nation, trained on her. She feels like a fucking bug under a microscope. The Bioresonance probes deeper now, a hundred grasping fingers looking for kompromat. Panic threatens to overwhelm Jäger, but under her mask she breathes deeply, forces her constricted throat into opening.

“– and we are all honored to have you join Sierpinski-S23, Elite Protektors. May the words of our Revolutionary and her Daughter guide your path. Glory to the Revolution !”

“Glory to the Revolution !” everyone chants back.

“Glory indeed, comrade,” says the unit in the middle, a stern look in her face. They’re not looking so perfectly synchronized now; there’s a unit staring in apparent awe at the ceiling’s construction, one looking bored, and of course the one currently boring holes through her skull with the sheer force of her glare. It wounds her pride to admit it, but she didn’t expect units half her size to be… a little scary. It’s unnerving.

Good. We will talk later… comrade Jäger.

Wait – when did she tell them her name ? Jäger’s oxidant pump is hammering in her chest, swirling gut-churning dread all over her body. If she could sweat, it would be beading on her forehead by now; the unconscious, primal response to having one’s mind invaded would be to run the fuck away, but the innate Starling calm keeps her grounded. She must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.

Slowly, her eyes drift to Wächter’s, next to her; and in those identical optics there is only pure terror.

KLBR-S2302 : STAR-S2313, do you copy ?

Jäger sighs before pressing her finger to her ear.

STAR-S2313 : Aye, copy.

KLBR-S2302 : You are needed in the interrogation room. Last-minute replacement. 

STAR-S2313 : Understood.

KLBR-S2302 : Do not be tardy. Over.

With these sweet parting words, the line crackles to silence, and Jäger chuffs under her mask. Has to be another interrogation, for sure; a misbehaving Gestalt or Replika, perhaps. She’s heard rumors that the Kolibris are cleaning house, so to speak. And right when she was about to go on break, too. Just her luck.

Through the blurring window film, a dark shadow sits under the bleak neon lights. Replika it is, then. Shame. She doesn’t particularly like decommissioning her own kind, but she’ll do her duty regardless. The Kolibri is in the room, too; the Bioresonance she emits clings to Jäger’s shell, draws her in on purpose like a moth to a flame – subtle yet persistent, the arcane equivalent of a come hither gesture. Apprehension pools in the space right below her sternum, so thick it constrains her breathing.

She pushes in the door. Startled by the noise, the kneeling figure raises its head.

Sunken red-rimmed eyes. A scuffed shell. Greying hair, pulled into a fraying ponytail.

No.

“Wächter ?” Jäger’s lips move on their own.

“Grünschnabel.” Wächter smiles, tiredly.

The Kolibri hands her a form. In her other hand, a standard service pistol, the grip oriented in Jäger’s direction. “Your assignment this cycle,” she says. Decommission form, the header reads, and she feels fucking sick to her stomach.

No, no, no. They wouldn’t dare. She must be dreaming, this – this is just a nightmare.

The Kolibri smacks her lips. “You know, comrade, it’s a bit shameful how this station’s previous management has allowed so many units to succumb to advanced persona degradation. We expected a mess to clean up, but not this bad !”

Jäger stares at her, numb. She continues : “Anyway, I know this isn’t pleasant, but we’ve got a few decommissions to go through. Orders from above – we must not disappoint Her.”

The pistol’s grip lies heavy and cold in the palm of her hand. She feels nothing but the deep, dark pull of emptiness. “And you wouldn’t give us any reason to doubt your loyalty to the Nation, wouldn’t you, Oberfeldwebel Jäger ?”

Just as the corner of the Kolibri’s mouth curls ever so slightly up, a pinprick of pain pierces Jäger’s skull. A warning. If there was any doubt that the Kolibri didn’t know exactly what she was doing, it’s been shattered by now – like one of the fluorescent lamp tubes on the ceiling.

(It still hangs there in its current form, broken by an Eule that tried to cut her own throat with the shards. Better to die than be killed.)

“I’ll leave you to it,” the Kolibri says, as she opens the door. It’s as it shuts that Jäger feels the world crashing down around her. Every certainty, every hope, every promise laid bare on the cold concrete, left to wither and die.

With a strangled cry, Jäger leaps toward her Starling, throwing her arms around her, her lips finding hers – the Kolibri is still there, she knows she’s watching her, but she could not give less of a shit. The entire station could be staring, but this moment is theirs and theirs alone.

“I’m so sorry,” Wächter murmurs against Jäger’s mouth. “I–I failed you, I–”

“Don’t you fucking dare say that. It’s not your fault.”

“I sh–should have taken myself out before. To spare you this.” And Jäger’s heart breaks once again. 

“Oh, Wächter, I–”

“Listen, rookie. You have to do it. Don’t you hesitate – if you do, they’ll put you down too. You have to live, alright ?”

Their foreheads knock together as they always do, Jäger’s palms tenderly cradling Wächter’s jaw. Distantly, she realizes it’s the last time she’ll ever do that. “I know. I know. I just–”

“You’re the best damn Starling this shithole of a station has ever seen. Never let anyone else forget that. So don’t you disappoint me, yeah ?”

“I’m–I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” Wächter’s chest rises and then settles down, in an expression of grim resolution. “It was inevitable.”

Jäger can’t feel her face, or her mouth, or anything at all. The pistol’s muzzle moves to rest on Wächter’s forehead. It’s trembling. 

Before the Revolutionary I swear this creed. My gun and I are the defenders of our Nation. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.

“Come on, rookie, you can aim better than that !” Wächter’s voice is cracking. She presses into the barrel, steadying it.

“Do it !” Half a sob, half a desperate scream. A plea.

Jäger’s finger pulls the trigger. Her ears ring so hard with the following bang that she feels dizzy. Bile rises up her throat, bitter and acidic.

She shuts her eyes when she feels a pool of oxidant reach her hooves, its sickening warmth clinging to her shell. Maybe this is all a nightmare, she thinks very hard – but when they open again, it’s still there, impossibly red.

Her doing. Her fault.

In the interrogation room, there is only silence.

“Sign here, please.” The Kolibri hands her a pen and taps a finger to the bottom of the form. She’s not even looking at her. “Good work, comrade,” she says, before filing the sheet of paper in her folder. Just one amongst many. To be archived – forgotten.

Jäger wants to hurl. To scream, to wail, to tear at everything in her sight with her bare hands – but she can’t. The gnawing, gaping hollowness inside her won’t allow her to. A Starling must serve, and mutter “Glory to the Revolution !” to a superior before leaving, as she’s just done. Trauma compartmentalizing itself, memories slotting mechanically inside the deep dark corners of her mind she won’t dare touch. 

In the Nation, this is simply survival.

In the end, nothing remains of Wächter’s body. Deemed too old and shopworn to be recycled for parts, her remains were thrown in the incinerator. The thousand-degree Celsius heat breaks everything down to slag and ash. Wächter’s atoms are probably dancing in the atmosphere of Leng by now. Maybe it’s what she would have wanted. Jäger’s always thought she’d find exploring pretty fun.

She snatches the lighter and the sketchbook in the dorm right before the Eule crew comes in. Everything else – armor, baton, the rest of her personal effects – is to be inspected, cleaned, reused or destroyed. No waste is tolerated in the Nation, for the sake of the war effort. Jäger clutches the lighter to her chest, running her thumb over the STAR engraved emblem with infinite tenderness. She rifles through the sketchbook, too, marveling at the candids etched onto the page with simple pencils; Eules or Aras working, Starlings standing guard, and of course herself, always drawn with bright eyes and a loving touch.

“Was it worth it ?” a voice rasps out from the dark.

Jäger lifts her eyes up from the page. There is no one else in the dorm but herself and the figure hunched over on a bed across the aisle, its twin hateful pinpricks of red lights glaring at her.

“Everything you did. To be the best. Was it worth it ?” Stahl spits.

Jäger snaps the book closed with one hand, and meets her gaze. 

Stahl’s looking worn, lately. Disheveled bangs, the blue-black hair interspersed with grey, frame her face, her eyes so hollow the red eyeliner under them looks almost rusted instead. Jäger almost pities her.

“It’s all your fucking fault,” Stahl continues, her chin jutting out at the sketchbook in Jäger’s hand. A terrible chill of anger cascades down Jäger’s spine, and for a brief millisecond she thinks about drawing her knife and plunging it into Stahl’s throat, hearing her gurgle in panic as she bleeds out. She reconsiders, of course. Getting away with one murder is good enough for now.

“Fucking answer me. Was it worth it ?”

“Of course it was,” Jäger says, plastering a cocksure grin on her face.

She keeps the shaft overflow breaks as a ritual, of course. Still the best smoking spot in the whole facility, even if it dredges up bitter memories, like an anchor murking the water up with its trail of silt.

This time, though, the cigarette just tastes… bitter. The aftertaste that lingers on her tongue is simply unpleasant. She’s not enjoying it, so why bother ? She tosses the still-lit cigarette down the shaft; it looks like a fading shooting star in the inky darkness. “Sorry, Wächter,” she says to the wind. 

It does not answer back.

Fuck, she misses her. It’s been a few seasons already, but she misses her so much. Grief is like an ocean kept away by a flimsy dam, and some cycles it feels like it’s gonna break. But she must not falter.

“Oh ! There you are !” calls out a deep voice from a few meters away. Jäger turns, startled, only to find the towering figure of Storch Eins barrelling towards her, a folder clutched tightly in her right hand. What the hell ?

“Glory to the Revolution. What can I do for you, sir ?” she asks, mechanically.

“Yes, yes, glory indeed. I’ve got these documents for you.” The Storch leans in. “Confidential. Return them to me once you’ve finished going through them.”

Her curiosity piqued, she opens it, careful not to let any pages get blown away by the air currents. She examines the first, furrowing her brows together at the little cutout of a face that seems to stare at her. Is that… a Storch ? Yes it is, and worse, this is the STCR unit Replika overview.

“The fuck is this ?” she blurts out before she catches herself. “With all due respect, sir.”

“You’re gonna help mentor a new rookie Storch. Fresh off the factory line.”

“Mentor ?”

“Yes. Show her the ropes, teach her patience and manners so she doesn’t end up like… well…” The corner of Eins’ mouth – the heavily scarred one – tilts down. Jäger understands the implication perfectly.

“Why me ?” Jäger’s question echoes up and down the shaft’s concrete walls. Is this some kind of sick joke ? she wants to scream.

Frustratingly enough, Eins just shrugs. “Don’t know. Orders came from the top brass.”

Jäger’s fingers relax slightly their grip on the files. The Commander’s will is not to be defied. Who would tell no to a Goddess ? Certainly not her. She shuts her eyes, breathing deep; there’s a striking image suddenly surfacing on her retinas, a forgotten memory. Storch’s Zwei painted chestplate, the snake eating its tail in an endless loop.

She’ll never be free, will she ?

A sigh. “Understood, sir.” 

One last look at the murky, churning waters below, ever calling her to their unfathomable embrace; and then she tucks the folder under her arm and walks away.

Move forward. No turning back.

Chapter Text

The cold plastic almost burns when it touches her synthetic skin.

Groaning, Jäger presses the icepack harder to her face. Well, not a proper icepack, technically : a bunch of ice from the freezer wrapped in plastic then a towel was all the kitchen Eules could supply her. It’s good enough, and she made sure to thank them with a warm smile and a few kind words. Jäger the ever-charming, ever-polite Starling, even with a colossal hematoma around her eye.

Jäger leans forward to examine it closely in the mirror, temporarily resting the icepack in the sink. The swelling’s gone down a little for sure, but it’s still big and bruised and almost as red as the inked liner under her eyes. Might take a few cycles to go back to normal, and right now ? It hurts. Pain’s the only feeling that remains after the adrenaline’s gone down.

She’s felt worse, of course. And she’s won, which is the important part. It had started like most Starling scuffles did, petty little jabs that escalated into a fight. Except that was her own rookie, this time. Not Hetzer, not Rasch, not König, no; one of hers. Mörtel, not even two seasons old and hungrier than a pack of wolves in winter. Ambitious, ruthless. She reminds Jäger of her younger self so much it’s fucking uncanny.

(Like staring at her own face in the mirror, reflected over and over again.)

Mörtel had challenged her, and they’d furiously tussled for a few minutes until Mörtel had landed one hell of an elbow – a hellbow, if you will – right in her eye, and for a few milliseconds Jäger had genuinely thought she was about to lose the fight. It had dinged her bad, made her vision feed and her proprioception sensor glitch until she wasn’t sure which way was up and which was down. Lost, dazed, she’d grabbed hold of Mörtel and stuck to her like a tick, and dragged her to the ground. Not used to being the nail instead of the hammer, Mörtel had made too many mistakes, which ultimately led to her flopping unconscious on the floor. Was that Jäger’s best fight ? Most certainly not. She’d been sloppy. But she’d won.

That’s what matters, right ?

…Right ?

Both of Jäger’s palms come to rest on each lip of the sink, and she sighs deeply. It’s so exhausting, to maintain this façade of perfection, to forever look over her shoulder for the inevitable challenge or rival. She is as much of an example as she is a target. It is exhilarating, and a prison of her own making.

You think being the highest-ranked unit is a blessing. It’s not. It’s a burden.

Fucking Stahl, that old bastard. She was right all along, wasn’t she ?

Maybe she should find her corpse to tell her that. Wherever she wandered off to die in the cold Leng wastes, with her gun and her hat, never to be found again. Better than to be unceremoniously decommissioned, Jäger supposes, but it’s a bit of a shame. That Luger pistol would have made a nice addition to the armory. 

Something catches her eye in her reflection – something light-colored. There, in her hair ! It’s… the beginning of a graying hair, the pigment flaking away from the fiber. Well, fuck.

Heh, Grünschnabel, you’re getting old too. That’s what Wächter would have said. Sweet, gentle Wächter, the Starling who deserved the world. Hardly anyone remembers her, these days. Just one more unit number on a ledger in an archive somewhere.

“I miss you, Wächter,” Jäger whispers to the mirror. She picks up her icepack again, and turns away.

A quick check at her schedule tells her she has a window of eight minutes after her next shift. Not more, not less. And she wouldn’t waste it even if the Revolutionary herself asked her to.

After all, she has to pay a visit to a certain stork.

Eight minutes.

Long strides propel her through the halls of Sierpinski S-23. She’s walking, not running, because running is forbidden, of course. Last Starling to do that got an earful from the Work Shift Controller herself. Jäger can’t help but smirk under her mask as she remembers the scene – as it happens, she knows said Work Shift Controller well. Very well. Biblically, as she herself would say.

She maneuvers her frame around a ration chariot pushed by two Eules, ducks under a stepladder manned by Aras; unfortunately, the elevator is not there yet.

“Impatient, huh ?” Springer asks her, evidently spotting the hoof that taps staccato on the floor.

“Guess you could say so.”

Springer rolls her eyes. “What’s the big rush, anyway ? Slow and steady’s the way I do things myself.”

And that’s why you’ll never rise higher than your current middle-of-the-pack position, Jäger thinks. “Breaks are short, and I wanna see my girlfriend.”

The other Starling’s eyes narrow; then a lightbulb seems to go on inside her head, and they widen again. “Wait, you mean–”

“Hey, my ride’s here !” Jäger chirps. “See ya !”

In front of Springer’s puzzled face, she hops on the well-timed paternoster, and up she goes. Four minutes. 

More corridors, this time with Gestalts to dodge; thankfully, they flatten themselves on the wall at the sight of a barrelling Starling, which is nice. She’s always liked being able to wield both intimidation and natural charm as her best weapons.

Two corners to round, cables to dodge lest she trip over them like Panzer did last period, and she’s there. The Work Shift Controller office. Her hand hovers over the door lock, her keycard not quite making contact with the sensor. Why is it that she hesitates ? Perhaps it’s the novelty of the situation, this specific office being largely uncharted territory for her. Or maybe… maybe she’s feeling a little anxious, actually. This isn’t like her. 

Three minutes. She composes herself, and, with a deep breath, opens the door –

– and is met with a breathtaking vision.

STCR-S2307 “Storch Sieben”, acting Work Shift Controller, in all her two hundred and forty centimeters tall glory. 

And, funnily enough, she doesn’t appear to notice Jäger’s presence at all.

The Storch is standing next to a pile of archives, a folder of documents in hand. The office’s looking like a mess, which is so far from Sieben’s usual practices it’s almost jarring. Archive cabinets gape wide, baring their half-emptied boxes of paper for the world to see; in a corner sits a box, full of curious trinkets. Jäger’s stomach ties itself in knots when she spots that fucking eye bead amulet – yes, the nazar, that’s what it was called. Must have been a gift from Zwei to Eins. Interesting that the old Storch kept it for so long, yet didn’t take it with her to her new assignment. She’d rather not delve into that too much, though, because those things give her the creeps. In any case, Sieben must still be in the process of cleaning up the old stuff; if Jäger had to guess, she’s in fact doing that right now. The way she’s partially turned her back to the door takes away part of her face to Jäger’s field of view, but she can still spot the textbook Sieben frown. The one she does when she’s really concentrated on something important, the one that fills Jäger’s insides with inescapable fondness.

Two minutes and thirty seconds, and Sieben still hasn’t noticed her. Suddenly, a devious plan starts to germinate inside Jäger’s head.

Slowly, the grinning hunter prowls forward, footpads carefully falling on the floor as to not alert her prey. Meter by meter, she advances, taking in the view all the while. Sieben’s elegant calves, her hoof rocking on the floor as a distracted tic; her gorgeous red-banded thighs, her strong arms and hands that have done so many things to her. The white armor obscures the spine and back, but the latter is wide and powerful all the same; and her favorite part of her lover’s body is perhaps the scar on her sharp jawline. The scar she gave her. Did she go a little overboard that one time ? Yeah, maybe. But it left a wonderful mark, a groove in the plastic that she loves running her tongue over. 

Two meters until target is reached. Jäger’s left fist clenches in anticipation; the paper held tightly inside crinkles. One meter. A half meter – Jäger’s cheeks hurt from smiling so wide. Her shoulder and arm wind back as far as she can, and in a swift and graceful motion, she brings the palm of her right hand straight to Sieben’s left asscheek. 

It sounds like a whip. So loud that it reverberates through the whole office. Hell, in that delightful moment of slow motion, Jäger can almost see the ripples form and spread through the synthetic muscle.

Sieben’s squeak – comically high-pitched – and the little jump that propels her a good twenty centimeters in the air are even more glorious, if such a thing were even possible.

And then two pissed-off eyes lock on her like tactical ballistic missiles finding their targets. 

“You.” 

It comes out in a deep, guttural growl, and it makes Jäger’s insides flutter a little, because it’s so stupidly hot. And maybe because she is in immediate danger. And that’s also hot.

Sieben swipes at her. Her hand passes centimeters above the top of Jäger’s head; only her timely ducking saves her from a sure concussion. A one - three - six combination sent her way, jab - lead hook - uppercut flowing like water in clarity of purpose – the purpose of beating her ass. Jäger dodges them all, hooves dancing on the floor and her heart singing with glee. There’s truly nothing else in the world than fighting with her Storch.

Out of the blue, said Storch stops dead in her tracks – almost as if she were an automaton that ran out of juice mid-movement. Mildly concerned eyes narrow, lenses focusing on Jäger’s face. No, on her bruise. A bruise she wasn’t responsible for, for once.

“Got into a fight ?” Sieben rumbles.

Jäger’s fingers fly to her still-swollen cheekbone, on reflex. “Yeah. Starling.”

“Did you win ?”

“Duh. Of course.”

Sieben cracks a small grin. “I expected nothing less from my Starling officer.”

And then she leaps at her again, her fury still very much alight. Jäger has to sidestep and bend at the waist to avoid the punch, and there, the opportunity she was looking for ! Sieben’s overswung on her punch – tsk tsk, she’ll have to correct that in sparring – and when her back’s turned to her, still carried by her momentum, Jäger takes the opportunity to stuff the balled-up paper she’s been carrying right in the collar of her armor.

“Hey ! The hell is this ?” 

Jäger just snickers.

One of Sieben’s hands is burrowing under her armor collar, and the other is still trying to punch Jäger, which means neither are really accomplishing their goal. “You little shit !” Oh, she’s fuming. It delights her.

One minute. Time for her to make her escape. “See you around, Schatzi !” Jäger sprinkles a blown kiss and a flirty wink, for good measure. Not like her to do things by halves. 

Sieben, of course, just grunts, defeated.

It takes an inordinate amount of contorting herself to get that damn paper out of her armor collar. She has to bend down, and then shake her armor around until the thing falls off on the floor, unceremoniously. Fucker really wedged it in like it was her life’s goal ! (Ugh, does Sieben hate her sometimes.)

Curious fingers pick at what appears to be a crumpled piece of paper – oh, that sounds like her style alright. They straighten it out, her optic modules trying to decipher that horrendous cursive all Starlings have (and Jäger the worst of them all).

Hey boss !

I was thinking, maybe we could spend a little time together ! I know you’ve been busy with the Work Shift Controller assignment and all that jazz, but you gotta unwind too, right ? So I took the liberty of booking the music room for an evening. Cycle F, 22:00 ! Don’t be late !

Yours,

Jäger ♥

The deep, guttural groan she releases can probably be picked up on the nearby monitoring station’s seismographs.

Fuck’s sake. Is that so hard for this damn Starling to ask her normally on a date ? With oh, maybe, a little flower – hell, she’ll even settle for a proper letter, on nice paper and preferably not stuffed in her armor collar. Or maybe she could just talk to her. Always with her roundabout ways of making her true intentions known, her infuriating paramour.

Still, the handwritten note…. she can’t deny it makes her oxidant pump beat a little faster, makes heat rise to her cheeks and her ears. Grumbling to herself all the while, she walks to her wall-mounted cork board, and carefully pins it next to her schedule for the period.

When the fateful cycle finally arrives, Sieben is pissed off. 

She’s still mad at Jäger’s butt slap, but it’s mostly not because of her, for once; no, it’s everyone else instead. Gestalts that misbehave and act out, Replikas that fuck up like they don’t know better – or worse, like they do know better and choose not to. And as Work Shift Controller, it’s her duty to keep everyone in line, including her own Storch comrades. It’s exhausting is what it is. Every cycle that passes she understands Storch Eins more and more : the permanent frown on her face, her general crankiness, or why she fucked off to whatever facility her Storch girlfriends are stationed at.

(A reward for good and loyal service, Adler had said. Maybe… maybe if Sieben does just that, for long enough, she too could request a transfer. Bring her Starling with her to a nicer place.)

So when she walks into the music room right on time, her anger meter already at a good simmer, to find a smug-looking Jäger sitting cross-legged on a couch, she just about snaps.

“What is the meaning of this ?”

Jäger’s grin just gets wider. “What is this, in this context ? Gotta be more specific, Schatzi.”

“Everything !” Sieben starts gesticulating around, at the two empty glasses and bottle on the small table, at the bowl filled with tiny red spheres, and most importantly the suspicious-looking duffel bag laid on one end of the couch.

“It’s as I told you in the note. This is just a little date–”

“This had better not be a trap,” Sieben grunts.

“Why would this be a trap ?”

“Because last time you invited me via note in a locked room, you tied me up with handcuffs !”

Jäger waves around a dismissive hand. “Bah ! Don’t pretend like you didn’t enjoy that.”

“That’s beside the point !”

“Yeah, yeah. I promise I’m not gonna tie you up. Now please sit.” Saying this, the Starling pats down the spot next to her on the couch. The comfy-looking spot, which definitely looks very enticing, and – fuck it. Sieben’s had a long, tedious cycle. She deserves it, right ?

And so she stomps her way to her subordinate, peeling her armor halves off of her as she goes, not missing the way said subordinate’s gaze lingers on her bare shell, hungry. There’s no doubt as to what are her ultimate intentions, really.

“Cherry tomato ?” Jäger asks her, offering her one of the red spheres.

“Where did you even get those ?”

“Elf gave a bunch to me. That’s her new pet project, after the cannabis plants… uh, suffered an unfortunate accident. Open your mouth !”

Just as Sieben does so, a tomato, flicked on a precise trajectory, lands right in the back – tickling her uvula. “Idiot !” Sieben coughs. “Use your fingers instead of showing off !”

It makes the Starling snicker, of course. “That’s what she said.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Credit to her, Jäger’s fingers are fast approaching with another tomato. “Wait, the germs – you cleaned your hands, right ?”

“Of course,” she murmurs, and Sieben chews on the fruit, experimentally. It bursts under her teeth, releasing a tart flavor that quickly gives way to an aromatic sweetness. Not bad at all. She could probably mindlessly snack on those while filing paperwork. The Starling’s digits linger on Sieben’s lip, thumb wiping a stray dribble of juice away while the rest cradle her jaw, tender. 

“I’m glad you like them,” Jäger says. The smile she’s wearing seems genuine… but it’s a little sad. Sieben’s learned how to read her over the years, and right now ? There’s something she wants to say, but either can’t or won’t. As her superior officer, it’s her duty to make her spill the beans, of course.

“Alright,” she begins. “How about you tell me what you really invited me here for ?” Jäger’s eyes flicker to the side in an obvious attempt at avoidance. “Now.”

“Okay, okay. Always so impatient, mmm ?”

Sieben is halfway through another reprimand when she spots what Jäger’s pulled out of her pocket. It’s the lighter, the silver-plated one with the engraving of the STAR emblem; one of Jäger’s most prized possessions, judging by the way she’s always kept it on her person.

The Starling clears her throat. “So, I figured out that since you’re going through all these archives… I might as well tell you myself. About what happened with Storch Zwei. And Wächter.”

Wächter ? That’s not in any of Sieben’s databases, but she can guess from context clues – how Jäger’s fist clenched around the lighter when she said the name. “Okay,” she says, apprehension settling in her gut. “You can tell me.”

Sieben settles back into the couch, images and thoughts swirling in her mind. Her synapses are lighting up like fireworks trying to process the entirety of what Jäger’s just said to her. And said Jäger’s crept closer to her, wrapping an arm over her shoulder and a leg between hers. She’s hanging on Sieben’s lips, anxious eyes waiting for her answer.

Unfortunately, the first thing that comes out of Sieben’s stupid mouth is : “You ate a roach ?”

A flash of hurt passes over Jäger’s face, before she plasters a smirk over it. “That’s what you got from my story ?”

“Yes – No – I mean…” Sieben is babbling. “I’m… sorry that happened to you. Everything, I mean.”

“It’s fine.” Jäger’s index is playing with one of the two locks of hair that drape over Sieben’s forehead. “I guess these… difficulties made me who I am.”

“Insufferable ?”

She places a palm over her chest, puffing the latter like a parading peacock. Back to her usual veneer of confidence, then. “Awesome.”

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.” 

“See, it’s cyclical, in a way. Guess you could say Wächter mentored me, and then I mentored you.” She prods at Sieben’s shell, right under her chestplate, where the plastic is a little softer.

“Mm. Are you telling me I’m awesome too ? By proxy ?”

“Of course !” Jäger beams. “You’re my favorite Storch, after all !”

She immediately clamps her mouth shut, a faint blush lighting up her cheeks a pretty shade of pink. And Sieben simply cannot resist teasing her further. “Aww, I’m your favorite Storch ?”

“Yeah, well, the bar is pretty low, to be honest–”

“Oh, shut up.”

This feels like a perfect time for Sieben to lean in and kiss her, and kiss her she does, capturing her lips between her teeth, first gentle and then a little rougher until a whimper reaches her ears.

“I missed this,” Jäger whispers, and fuck, she’s right. How much time has it been since they’ve enjoyed each other’s company, like this ? How many potential hours of intimacy buried between the drudgery of work ? She’d rather not think too much about it. All that matters is the now, the tongue inside her mouth and her hands around Jäger’s throat and waist, possessive. “I missed you,” the Starling breathes out, then, and oh, this is new. And it’s unlike her, to suddenly be so… vulnerable.

Half-flustered, half-alarmed, Sieben pulls back to look at her lover – at her hooded eyes, at the always so striking red inked under them. “Jäger. Are you, uh, okay ?”

“I don’t know,” the Starling mutters, passing a hand through her bangs. “Give it to me straight, Siebs. Am I… am I getting old ?”

Sieben blinks at her for a few seconds. “I mean… you don’t look old to me ?”

“It’s not about looking old – well, it kinda is, but it’s more about my performance.”

“Huh ? Your performance indicators have been consistently great these past few seasons–” A sudden revelation goes off like a grenade inside Sieben’s head : the fight she had with her rookie, her visible bruise on her face. “Are you worried that you’re losing your edge ?”

Quietly, Jäger nods.

It’s a side of her that’s always been there. Starlings tend to be competitive by nature, but Jäger lives and breathes competitiveness, exudes it from every single one of her vents. My status is all that I have, she’d said to Sieben, once. She won’t lie that it makes her a little sad that her Starling won’t or can’t recognize her inner worth beyond the prestige of her position; but it’s how they both are, imperfect and damaged and prisoners of a system that grinds their kind down in the name of progress and cohesion.

“Hey,” she begins. “You’re not old. You beat me last time we fought, remember ?” (She nods vigorously.) “I’ll, um, try to free up my schedule for more sparring sessions. To keep you sharp, yes ?”

Jäger sighs, resting her head on Sieben’s shoulder. “Yeah. Thanks, Siebs. It, ah, means a lot.”

They stay like this for a moment, Sieben lacing her arm around her Starling’s waist, basking in her heat. Eventually, she figures she must light up the mood.

“Still, a roach ? I can’t fucking believe I’ve been kissing you for years !”

Jäger chuckles. “Come on, you’ve had your hands inside of my guts multiple times and a roach is what you’re worried about ?”

“Well, yes ! A roach is basically a concentrate of the worst germs in a disgusting arthropod body ! And you ate it !”

“Wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Right. The floor detergent. Playfully shoulder-shoving her, Sieben says : “You told me the detergent was a ‘Starling hazing ritual’, back then, in the music room. Do you remember ?”

The pursing of Jäger’s lips, the way her face instantly grows more somber, tells her she may have fucked up once again. “Yeah. I do.”

Silence. “You, uh…. didn’t want me to know ? About what Zwei did to you ?”

“No.” To Sieben’s surprise, she cracks a small smile. “Though I suppose everything I went through did harden me. I have a cast iron stomach now – I bet I could drink detergent right now and be fine.”

“That’s called mithridatism,” Sieben hums.

“Ooh, I have no idea what that means. Talk dirty to me, you nerd !” She prods at Sieben’s cheek, much to her annoyance. Sieben tries to swat at her in return, but only hits air.

“Means building up tolerance to harmful substances by taking non-lethal amounts.”

Jäger’s smirk is wide and full of teeth. “Isn’t that, like, what our whole relationship is ?”

“What in the Revolutionary’s name are you talking about ?”

“Well, at first, you clearly wanted to pound my head into a fine paste.” The Starling shimmies her hips over Sieben’s lap, so that she’s straddling her – pretty shamelessly, too.

“Security Technician,” Sieben rumbles. “Who authorized you to climb into your Work Shift Controller’s lap like this ?”

“Hehe, pulling rank. That’s hot.”

“Not answering my question.”

The next words come muffled, as Jäger starts nuzzling Sieben’s neck, her hot breath tickling her contacts deliciously. “Back to the topic. You wanted to kill me, and then little by little, as we started spending time together, you’ve softened. I bet I could handcuff myself to you for a whole cycle and you wouldn’t even try to murder me once.”

“You don’t know that,” Sieben murmurs, and the exposed flexible plastic of Jäger’s shoulder is looking so enticing she can’t help but glide her teeth over the shell. Feel the point of the canines make divots in the softer material, hear her Starling shiver above her. 

“No biting ! Bad Storchie !”

A frustrated chuff escapes Sieben’s throat. Jäger climbs into her lap, and she has the gall of trying to dictate what she can and can’t do ? “You’re acting awfully bossy, for a little bird I can toss off of me at any time.”

Oh, that chuckle, so smug it’s a warning in and of itself. “Riling you up is obviously part of my master plan.”

“A master plan for what ? The fastest way to get a concussion ?”

“Siebs…. do you know why I picked the music room for our little date ?”

Sieben racks her brain for an answer. “Because you were nostalgic ?”

Sieben herself definitely is : the room brings both irritating and fond memories, an ever-arrogant Jäger unraveling her with a kiss and a touch. The heat coursing through her veins had been like nothing else she’d experienced before, and it was right then she’d understood, in hindsight, that she could be something more than a simple machine. Jäger too seems to get lost in her own thoughts for a moment, pensive finger tapping her chin; and then she shrugs. 

“Well, it’s mostly because it’s got decent soundproofing.”

“Soundproofing ? You’ve never been loud, have you ?”

Saying this, Sieben’s fingers climb up, sliding over the recessed latch of her chestplate; below, the heartbeat speeds up, making arousal spike sharp right below her stomach. Index and middle finger right below the third rib, just as she likes – it would be so fucking easy, just as she is –

“Actually,” Jäger murmurs, “I had another idea in mind.”

“Another twisted fantasy of yours, surely ?”

The Starling points at the suspicious duffel bag. “You remember that discussion we had a season ago ? About… attachments ?”

Gears turn in Sieben’s head before they finally click to a halt. “No way. You actually got the Aras to make–”

“– a strap-on, I guess, yeah ?”

An incredulous laugh bubbles from Sieben’s throat. “You’re impossible !”

“Yup.” It is then that Sieben catches another definite shift in her behavior, no – in the air itself. It’s charged, crackling with static electricity, the space between them so fraught with tension that she almost sighs when Jäger cups both of her cheeks in her hand, palms resting over the black plastic. She presses their foreheads together, in an almost gentle headbutt.

“Hurt me,” the Starling practically growls, her eyes glowing with feral desire. “Fuck me. Make me yours.”

“Where’s that coming from, hmm ?” Sieben squeezes her at her waist, hard. “You’re generally the one to call me pent-up.”

“I need this. Please.” She swallows, audibly, as if she’s trying to pass something that’s wedged sideways in her throat. “I need to… forget. What I did.”

The rational part of Sieben wants to scream that this is nowhere near a healthy coping mechanism – not even in the same astral plane, in fact – but she shoves the thought away. Sex and violence intertwined, to survive and transcend their current existence; it’s what they do here, isn’t it ?

‘Well, if you ask so nicely for once…” She snakes a hand up to Jäger’s neck, not quite squeezing yet. “I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll be limping for the next few cycles.”

“Yeah ? That a threat or a promise ?”

“As if you were going to take it as anything other than a promise. Whore.”

That raw, aching vulnerability from before has been washed away by Jäger’s usual smug bravado, but Sieben doesn’t even mind. It’s her role to play in this, and she’s grateful she got to see this side of her, however fleetingly. Said conceited Starling cocks her head to the side, and chuckles. “Careful with the big talk, Siebs.”

“Huh ?” Sieben’s fingers dig harder into the shell; already she feels the familiar anger rising inside of her, hot like a cleansing flame.

“Well, I think you’re more of a one-pump chump yourself. Three or four, if I’m being generous.” She offers a wolfish grin.

Enough. In a conduct unbecoming of a Work Shift Controller, Sieben places two hands on Jäger’s belly, and pushes with all her might. Sierpinski’s most esteemed Starling flies back through the air, all flailing limbs and none of the grace of the bird her model is named after. It’s what she wants – no, what they both want. 

If this is meant to be the genre of their duet tonight, then this ? This shall be the overture.