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Chapter Text

00 0000 2014. 07:52. USS Missouri.

                It was peaceful. The clouds lulled through the vast sky like enormous tides of the sea; frozen in time as they drifted slowly across the ocean. The sunlight lit up the wall of clouds that met on the oncoming horizon, basking them in a heavenly glow. Heaven. It seemed to be the only word that could travel to the surface of his mind. Soon it drifted away in harmony to the sway of the deep water below. Time had seemed to come to a near halt as he watched the world move above him; everything seeming to sink into the glow of the morning sun. An urgency drummed in the back of his mind, but was soon suffocated by the hypnosis of the sea and sky. Sea gulls floated like wisps of clouds, detaching from the atmosphere and gliding down towards the sea, only to lazily return to their place high up in the air.

                As he began to succumb to a heaviness that tried to pull his eyes shut, something managed to capture his attention. One thing. One misplaced element that captured his focus and began to lift him back from his sinking consciousness. Everything was silent. There was no crash as the ocean waves slammed and splashed up against the ship, no whistle as the breeze past through his hair, no shrill caws from the seagulls that strayed above. Suddenly the acknowledgement resurfaced the urgency that had sprawled in the back of his mind. A low buzz emerged from the silence that started as a muffled drone, and quickly grew into a high pitch, unending shriek deep in his ears. Other sounds awoke as dampened thumping. A cacophony of screams and relentless machine gun fire roared, muffled through his ears as a low thump sent a ferocious vibration through the ship.

                The muffled explosion shook him, causing the urgency to blare angrily throughout his head. He struggled back into reality, only managing to barely sit himself up; supported only by his elbows. A man was quickly standing above him, yelling something at him. By the way his mouth moved, it looked like he was repeating an order…or maybe his name. All he could hear was muffled barks, covered by the ringing in his ears. My name? His head was foggy and his vision flared into a blur repeatedly as his mind threatened to sink again.

                Suddenly, the man grabbed him by the harness and hoisted up with absurd quickness. His eyes widened as his blood flowed from his head, the rush reawakening his senses. Reality returned immediately and the blissful slowing of time was halted. The man before him was tall, and heavily equipped, with black hair and a short, grizzled beard. The man’s cold, gray eyes pierced into his as he grasped the back of his neck and shoulder, shaking him before repeating what he had been barking at him moments earlier.

                “What’s your name, kid?” The man asked with a certain altruistic tone. His eyes followed his as they darted around his surroundings. There was so much blood. Splinters of wood and metal scattered the deck, darkened by what looked like the burn of an explosion. Bodies were laid where they had been thrown from the blast, some weren’t recognizable anymore. Some couldn’t be considered bodies anymore. A panic shuttered through him as he patted himself, looking for wounds of his own. The man shook him again, but this time it was accompanied with a slap to the face. He snapped his focus back to him, blinking uncontrollably as he struggled to find his footing again.

                “Your name, kid! What’s your name?” He couldn’t tell if it was frustration or blatant annoyance that glared through his icy eyes. The rest of his expression was unreadable. Before he could decide, another swift smack came to the opposite side of his face.

                “Private Pierce Roderick, Sir!” He managed to blurt out with eyes shut, fearing another slap.

                The man followed up with another question casually, “Good, and where are we?” He turned and knelt down to pick up a rifle, not caring if it belonged to Pierce or not. He shoved it into Pierce’s chest rather than hand it to him. Pierce struggled to grasp it and nearly dropped it. His thoughts had returned to him as clarity flowed through his mind again.

                “Sir, we’re on the USS-” but before he could answer, the man shoved him around the corner into the well of a hatch as heavy machine gun fire lit up along the deck. He lost his breath as he was slammed in the metal door. Pierce coughed and breathed in dramatically as the strange man checked around the corner.

                “You just won the lottery twice in the span of ten minutes, Roderick.” He turned back to face Pierce with the subtle hint of a smile that quickly disappeared, “You’re a lucky bastard.” He looked back around the corner along the deck. As he regained control of his breathing, Pierce noticed the man’s eyes had fallen on the soldiers who had been torn to pieces by the barrage of bullets, “But sometimes it’s better to be off dead than lucky,” there was a solemn sadness in his voice.

                Pierce looked over the man’s gear while he plucked the dog tags off a few of the bodies that were close enough to remain in cover. His attire was entirely different from the rest of the marines on board. He wore a light tan tactical scarf on top of his vest and bags, all complimented with desert colors and camouflages. Instead of an XM8 assault rifle, he carried an FN SCAR MK. 17 with a whole array of non-standard attachments. He had no insignias or patches to show his rank or country, all except for two. One was in the shape of a diamond, with what looked like a black dog in the middle. It was torn badly and the color had almost completely faded from it. The other was in slightly better condition, showing a gray dog on a circular patch with the letters “S.O.S” printed under it.

                A certain uneasiness came over him. Who is this guy? And why is he helping me? Suspicion rose within him, manifesting as a scowl on his face.

                “What’s your name?” he stumbled out in a sloppy attempt of seriousness, forgetting his courtesies.

                The man looked over his shoulder, his stoic face never changing, “Don’t worry, Private. I’m on your side.”

                “But who do you work for? Where are you from?” Pierce babbled on, thumbing the safety on and off on his rifle.

                “Look, kid—err—Roderick, we can go over formalities another time,” he stood up and placed the dog tags into an empty pouch on Pierce’s vest, “right now we need to get to the front of this ship and lend a hand to your buddies who are dying as we speak—” Another burst of machine gun fire rattled along the railings and bulkheads, but this time it was accompanied by several explosions. The vibrations seemed to add to the sway of the ship and Pierce almost lost his balance before the strange man quickly pressed a firm hand against his chest to keep him steady.

                His hands…he studied the hand that kept him in place and then glanced down at his other arm. They’re both prosthetics! He had seen limbs replaced with new bionic tech before, but these were different. They looked strong and functioned flawlessly like human arms.

                “Eyes up here, Private,” the man jabbed, another hint of a smile placed briefly on his face, “and call me Hound.” He had a strong voice with the hint of an English accent. Pierce couldn’t place his finger on it, adding it to the list of the mystery. Regardless, the muddy hint of an accent was intriguing. He’d have to ask him where he was from when this was all over. That is, if I survive this, he thought to himself.

                “Let’s move,” Hound said, giving a quick pat to Pierce’s shoulder; making him flinch as his subconscious half expected another slap. Hound raised his rifle to his shoulder as he rounded the corner, leaving Pierce frozen where he stood.

00 October 1962. 07:52. Offsite Office 2B. OKB-754. East of Tselinoyarsk.

                Viktor paced nervously throughout his office, flipping through stacks of papers he had looked over a hundred times in the past hour. This had to go off without a hitch. If he missed one thing, forgot about one piece of evidence, it could jeopardize everything. Reassuring himself for the thousandth time after finding he had missed nothing throughout the room, he worked his way back to the beginning of the cycle. He rummaged through a large box, containing materials and equipment he couldn’t destroy himself, checking again if anything was out of place before he began searching the office once more for any papers or test results he might have missed.

                He checked his watch, shaking from the anticipation. 07:53. It had been two minutes since he had last checked, yet it felt like an hour had gone by. He’ll get here when he gets here, he thought to himself. Officer Yuri had planned to rendezvous with him at 08:00, so there was no reason to worry whether he would show up or not. Not yet, anyway. Who knows, he questioned himself yet again, he could have told anyone about this. He attempted to calm himself, but that had only been met with more worry. If he had gone to the KGB, or gone straight up the line to the GRU, I could walk outside only to be met with a firing squad, he began pacing around the room, examining under tables to see if he had dropped or misplaced anything. If he had gone to Major Artur, he paused, crouched under a table. The very thought of the possibilities of what the Major would do to him if he had preemptively learned of his defection mortified him.

                The facility had been chaotic for the past few months after Dr. Nikolai Sokolov had defected, and then been returned by the KGB. Extra security had been in place as the facility had been prepped for Sokolov’s return. Viktor feared what would happen to his colleague and leader, but feared more for what they had been creating. The Shagohod. He and Viktor shared the same worries: that their creations would lead to the destruction and deaths of innocent lives and civilizations. That’s why he had to destroy his work. That’s why he had to leave.

                He felt shame in it, but the height in security around Sokolov and the facility created the perfect opportunity to slip out the back door of the Soviet Union and flee the country. All measures meant to keep Dr. Sokolov within the facility had been focused mostly around OKB-754 and Sokolov’s courters specifically, leaving Viktor, a rather quiet and overlooked man, nearly unnoticed. There were, of course, more rounds made by the guards, with more men to accompany them. However, his saving grace was the GRU that had moved in to assist with the reinforcing of the facility, along with the man that would become his friend and escort from OKB-754. Officer Yuri, a Captain of a Spetsnaz squad that had been willing to help him escape from Russia.

                Viktor was still in disbelief that the officer, as well as his men, would be willing to sacrifice so much to help him. Yuri was the only person he could trust, but the thought of all of this failing before it even began felt all too realistic.

                His research had been on a separate project, but was permitted as long as the work on the Shagohod would continue normally. Not just anyone could obtain such freedom. The real reason it had been allowed was the technology Dr. Viktor had been creating interested the Soviet Union. Redemption-74, or R-74, it was called. A nanotechnology that was on the verge of being implemented into any human body. One that had the possibility of revolutionizing human abilities and aging. The idea was to create nanotechnology that could lengthen the lifespan of the user as well as maintain their physical and mental strengths.

                It had been successfully tested on human and animal tissue samples, but had failed in human testing for numerous reasons: some tests failed because the subject’s bodies rejected the technology, some simply had no effect, some failed to function by any means, and some resulted in death. All except for one, Subject 74, the only surviving patient to have successfully been implemented with R-74 and live with full functionality to the host body and the technology itself. Viktor had coined the name Redemption-74, but in truth, the project was still in its early stages with no official name held to it. That was mostly due to the poor organization the project had because of the focus on the Shagohod.

                After Sokolov and Viktor came to the realization of what the Shagohod could be used for, he began to fear the same for his own project. It was too late to dust the project under the carpet and act like it never existed. The Soviet Union had already caught interest when he had shown representatives working experiments in tissue sample. They had been the ones who had funded the continuation of R-74. What a fool I was to show them, he thought angrily to himself as he stood up from under one of the tables. He was in too deep now, and he had to place his trust and life into the hands of his last friend, Officer Yuri.

                A knock came at the door at 07:59. A mixture of anxiety and boredom had been stirring through Viktor’s body as he waited earnestly. The sudden sound resonated harshly through the silent room, startling Viktor before he quickly made his way for the door. The sun tore its way into the room, and he had to cover his eyes as they readjusted to the outside light. As he attempted to make out the figure in front of him, he couldn’t help but feel fear slither through his spine until a familiar voice spoke.

                “Dr. Nikolaev,” Yuri’s voice addressed him in a calm tone, “is everything ready?” He stood tall and straight, in a formal uniform. Seven men in full Spetsnaz gear, carrying AKM assault rifles, stood in an orderly manner behind Officer Yuri. Four of the seven men had laid duffle bags at their feet with explosive warning labels printed on the sides.

                Viktor looked uneasily at the neatly placed bags. This is really happening, he thought as a poorly hidden frown cringed across his face. He looked around at the men behind Yuri, tracing his thoughts for any missed variables. Yuri waited patiently for his answer, his men mimicking his stoic stature. He ran a hand through his graying hair, watching the focused eyes of the soldiers that would be sacrificing themselves for his escape. His pause continued as he watched the solemn stare of the Officer’s men. Something felt off. They seemed incredibly relaxed and formal for the operation that was about to commence. Then again, these were some of the best men in the Spetsnaz GRU; according to Yuri. They knew what they were doing.

                “Ah…yes, sorry,” Viktor finally spoke up, his voice catching in the back of his dry throat, “there is one more thing…” His voice trailed off as his gaze hovered from the men to the ground. He began to turn back to the front door of the office, when Yuri took a step forward to follow.

                “A moment, please,” Viktor said, barely loud enough for the two of them to hear. Yuri stepped back with a smile and raised his hand towards the door as dismissal followed by a slight nod. Viktor nodded in return and quickly made his way up the few steps to the door.

                He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, letting out a long breath. There was one thing he had to take care of. One thing he had been dreading. After several deep breathes, he slowly made his way up a small flight of stairs to his personal lab. He took a moment to look around the once lively room. Nearly every bit of equipment had been packaged in boxes for Yuri’s demolition team. All the counterspace that had once been occupied by research papers and tools had been cleared away. There was just one room that had been untouched by his cleaning at the end of the makeshift lab.

                He took another breath and made his way across the room, opening the door with a clumsily written sign that said ‘Subject Stasis Unit’. An assortment of machinery was at work, with blinking lights and buzzing sounds all adrift throughout the room. Against the back wall was a metallic crib that held Subject 74. He was the last piece of evidence; the last thing that needed to be erased of Project Redemption-74.

                Viktor let out a sigh as he peered over the railings that protected Subject 74. He was no older than a year, still sleeping after the results of the previous night’s tests, and healthier than ever. The future had held such promise, for him and Viktor. The things they could have accomplished would have changed the world. The child, he would have changed the world. Viktor had been sure of it, but now, the creations of man were only sought after to be used to murder and burn one another. War was on the horizon, and Dr. Nikolaev wanted no part in it if it was to lead to the slaughtering of innocence.

                The irony of the situation made him to laugh at himself in a cruel way. He had to eliminate the poor child to prevent the loss of thousands, maybe millions, of lives. After presenting the success in his tests to the representatives from the Soviet Union, Yuri had told him there had been talks following the presentation that the technology could be used to enhance soldiers, spread disease in biological warfare, and worse. Viktor had only the vision of helping mankind, but in turn, he would only be assisting in ending it.

                Viktor sauntered over to his desk that once upheld the hopes of a man that wished to change the world. He opened a drawer, revealing a handgun given to him by his father some years ago. It felt much heavier as he picked it up, the task before him adding to its weight. He traced his finger around the grooves and corners of the gun, stopping at the engraving his father had made for him. It was his initials. He scoffed at it, is this was you pass down to me? A means of ending everything I started?

                By no means was he ready to do this. The very thought of it had sickened him the first time the realization of the inevitability crossed his mind. However, if anyone was going to end this, it had to be him. He wasn’t as much of a coward as to let one of Yuri’s men take care of the problem for him.

                Viktor mustered what courage he still had in him and quickly crossed back towards the crib with the gun outstretched in his arm. If he was going to end it, he would end it quickly. He could feel his face curl into a hard grimace as he stood over the crib, aiming down at the last of his success, at the child who would have changed the future. He grit his teeth as he tried to steady his shaking arm. Tears bit their way through the corners of his eyes as they shut, turning his head away from the atrocity he was about to make. He did what he could to relax, but nothing calmed the shaking in his arm. All he had to do was pull the trigger. Just pull the God damn trigger!

00 0000 2014. 08:01. USS Missouri.

                It only took a moment for Pierce to snap away from his thoughts and bound around the corner after Hound. A certain panic hung over his shoulders as he struggled to catch up to him. His boots slid and crunched over slick blood and broken bits of wood and bone. He did his best to keep his eyes up, but he couldn’t help but look at the grotesque scene beneath his striding feet. There were faces he recognized of soldiers who, just hours before, had been joking with one another as they prepped for the mission. Now their bodies lay scattered throughout the deck. Pierce’s stomach churned and he steadied himself on the railing as he moved towards the grizzly man.

                “Hey,” Pierce forced the words out, still catching his breath, “wait up, I—”

                Hound stuck his hand out behind him, stopping Pierce in his tracks. He watched as Haven Troops hopped down from Outer Haven and swarmed against the Marine offensive. The Marines were being thrown back to the starboard of the deck under a wave of machine gun fire, and Pierce became restless wanting to help. Hound seemed to feel it by the way he shifted his footing behind him.

                “On my mark, we move to flank the enemy and return the offensive,” Hound spoke in a calm and quiet manner, never moving his attention from the enemy troops. “At that moment, I need you to throw a flashbang portside, along the railing after I make the call and throw mine. Understood?” His stern voice resonated through Pierce’s ears as he frantically patted through his gear for a stun grenade.

                Hound let out a sigh and directed him without changing his gaze, “right side, on your hip, Private.” He must have heard his anxious shuffling while he searched, but nonetheless, it took him by surprise.

                “Uh, yeah, understood,” Pierce replied, embarrassed. He held the grenade in his left hand, waiting for Hound to give the order.

                “Safeties off. Three. Two. One,” the man turned the corner, raising his rifle to a hip fire position before yelling out, “FLASHBANG OUT!” His roar carried across the deck, catching the attention of the nearest Haven Troops and Marines. Most of the Marines that heard understood what was happening and ducked behind cover as Hound and Pierce lobbed their grenades.

                Hound’s grenade landed somewhere in the middle of the crowd of FROGS, while Pierce’s flailed against the railing and bounced across the deck. Fortunately, the awkward throw snagged the attention of a few more enemy soldiers before they were blinded by the blast. The burst of light nearly caught Pierce in the eyes before Hound shoved him back behind him when he turned around to take cover.

                After the initial blast, Hound pivoted on his foot and leveled his rifle to his shoulder, firing precise shots into the crowd of FROGS. Pierce stumbled up behind him, firing in short bursts at those that had fallen and even at a few who stood to fight them. The two of them paced strategically to portside before circling back around to join up with the other Marines. Their strike brought the fight back into their hands as the remaining Haven Troops were shot down by the Marines positioned behind cover.

                Several cheers and hoorahs came from the remaining Marines, followed by Pierce as he raised his rifle into the air with his comrades. Almost immediately as the small celebration began, piercing shots rained down from the Outer Haven’s deck, slicing their way through multiple exposed soldiers.

                Hound let out a guttural yell as he charged to tackle Pierce behind cover as he watched two bullets catch him in the leg and shoulder. The sudden change of events took everyone off guard. Pierce watched soldiers drop dead as he was thrown to the ground. One Marine had his throat slit open by the oncoming fire and slowly dropped to his knees, spraying Pierce with fresh blood. His eyes widened as he stared into the eyes of the murdered soldier, while Hound crouched around him and began to drag Pierce around the corner.

                A rage bellowed within him as he was dragged. He lifted his rifle and fired wildly up at the Haven Troops that dropped down to the Missouri’s deck. A few of them were caught by the spray and tumbled down into the ocean, screaming. The others began to reinforce those that made it onto the deck and returned fire.

                “Enough!” shouted Hound, batting the Private’s rifle down as he hoisted and threw him behind the wall for cover. Pierce landed with a thud and a groan, quickly struggling to his feet.

                “What the hell was that?” Pierce retorted, his face was red with anger, “We need to—”

                “You’re going to get yourself killed with the way you parade around the battlefield,” growled Hound, cursing under his breath. “That could have been you out there!” he said pointing back to the carnage that had just unfolded. He checked behind him to see the surviving Marines begin to regroup and move towards their position. They were going to retreat.

                “Why the fuck do you care?” Pierce yelled back. The way this guy was talking to him just made him more furious. Who does this guy think he is? “Why are you watching over me like I’m some kid?” he glared into his eyes, “back off!”

                As he tried to shove passed him to regroup with his comrades, Hound put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Hound’s anger had dissolved into a stoic expression. Pierce tried to knock his hand off, but he just gripped harder.

                “I made a promise to someone to watch over you,” there was a lost sorrow drifting in his eyes when he spoke, “to keep you safe,” he admitted. He let out a breath of air before meeting Pierce’s eyes, full of scrutiny.

                “Yeah? Well I don’t give a shit,” Pierce ripped Hound’s hand from his shoulder, letting out a frustrated grunt before shoving past him. I’m not a kid, and I’m sure as hell not going to be babysat by some asshole, he thought to himself bitterly. He rounded the corner, lending suppressive fire against the invading Haven Troops. One by one, the remaining Marines ducked and ran to Pierce, heading down the deck to the opposite end or staying to assist in the retreat. The few soldiers that stayed with him began to return fire.

                It seemed endless. For every Haven soldier they killed, two more took their place. The surviving Marines attempted to take shifts in reloading, but the approaching FROGS began to overwhelm them. Just as it felt like they could beat them back slightly, another Marine would be cut down and the gap would have to be filled by whoever was left. It was hopeless.

                A sharp click came from Pierce’s rifle, and his heart sank. Empty. There were only four of them left against several dozen and counting. He looked down to the Marine next to him that had just finished reloading his rifle and gave him a nod. The soldier returned the gesture and moved to give him covering fire while he searched his vest for ammo. He could feel his heart race as he patted his vest, unable to find another full magazine. Panic began to overtake him. He looked to his allies in desperation, only to see them struggling under suppressive fire. He waved to a Marine who had taken cover, but was only received with a shake of the head before the soldier stood to fire again. As soon as the small squad rose to return fire, a volley of bullets pierced through them. One of the soldiers died where he stood, crashing face down into a pool of his own blood. Another had his lungs punctured multiple times and stumbled backwards before lobbing over the railing into the sea. All that had endured the onslaught were Pierce and the soldier that had given him cover. The man laid on his back, having taken various gunshot wounds to his shoulder and legs.

                Pierce ducked over to him and dragged him back behind the wall. The man winced as Pierce leaned him against the bulkhead. He searched through the soldier’s vest for a magazine, anything, that could help him now. There was one, one left, but it seemed like a gift from God. He grinned and slapped it into his rifle, standing up against the wall.

                This was it. If he was going to die, he was going to die fighting. I’m my own man, I can die my own death, he thought solemnly. He peered around the corner to see less than ten Haven Troops sifting through the dead and executing any wounded Marines. The others must have gone around the other side of the deck to flank the rest of the Marines. He drew back behind cover, taking a final breath.

                A fiery yell bellowed from his throat as he charged around the corner, peppering the unsuspecting enemies with gunfire. The closest FROGS were cut down in an instant through the storm of automatic fire, but the others quickly rose and fired controlled bursts at him. He felt sharp pain riddle him as his arms caught multiple bullets. His left arm dropped as another shot pierced into his shoulder. He let out an angry scream, dropping to his knees. He lifted his rifle with his right arm and fired what ammo he had left at the soldier that drew in closest to him. She screamed as the sudden burst of gunfire caught her in the chest, sending her falling onto her back.

                Pierce pulled the trigger repeatedly as he aimed at the others, resulting in a redundant series of clicks. He was empty. He let himself fall back on his hip, watching as the Haven Troops moved to surround him. He struggled to recover his breath, wincing as every breath drew a burning pain in his chest. His face contorted into a grimace, his only thoughts were of how badly he wanted to kill them; how badly he wanted to see them all die for what they did. He was going to kill them all himself.

                As if in perfect sequence with his thoughts, the first soldier instantly dropped as a bullet whizzed through her head. The others looked up frantically, firing in all directions the shot may have come from. One by one, the soldiers dropped as bullets punctured their skulls until none remained.

                Pierce was in disbelief, he looked around him confused. There was no one there but him. He began to shove his way backwards towards cover once again, when he was grabbed by his vest and pulled from behind. As he was dragged, several Marines rushed out around them to secure the deck. He smiled, and let out a short laugh. He really was lucky. The man that been dragging him leaned him up against the wall around the corner next to the other survivor Pierce had saved just minutes before. The wounded Marine was already being treated for his wounds by a medic. He too, managed a wincing smile before another wave of pain came over him.

                Pierce looked up to see Hound standing over him, talking to another Marine. Disgust burned within him, but a part of him was happy to see he didn’t abandon him. It wasn’t enough to quench his anger though.

                “Why?” he coughed out, scowling up at Hound. He ignored him and finished his conversation with the Marine before the soldier saluted and made his way to help the others reinforce the bow of the ship. Hound took a moment to light a cigarette, then turned and knelt in front of Pierce. Pierce repeated his question until he got an answer.

                “I told you, kid,” he took a long drag before continuing, “I’m here to protect you.” His face was serious and stern, staring into Pierce’s eyes, but he could tell. He could tell just how much of an idiot he thought he was for his failed assault. Pierce let out an irritated grunt while he tried to move away from Hound’s patronizing stare. He was stopped by the medic attending to the soldier next to him, leaning him back against where he had been.

                “Look, Roderick, I—” Hound began, stopping suddenly when the whole ship lurched to its side. Hound slammed a hand against the wall to steady himself, and the medic fell forward into the wounded soldier and Pierce. As the ship steadied, Hound stood up and flicked his cigarette over the railing. He looked with curiosity to the front of the ship, before another immense smash hit the ship from below, knocking over multiple Marines. Hound steadied his footing and balanced himself against the wall again. When the movement subsided, Hound drew his rifle and moved towards the bow of the ship. Pierce called out for him to wait, but was met by silence.

                Pierce managed to get to his feet, walking slowly after Hound. The medic tried to pull him back, but he shoved him off, sending a flare of pain through his wounded shoulder. He turned the corner to find Hound standing behind a group of Marines who were looking over the edge of the ship. Pierce let out a winced growl and trudged his way over to the group.

                He met Hound’s gaze for a moment, seeing something that hinted at concern through his stone-like face, then moved between a few of the soldiers that were looking over the railing. The water was still, and everything had fallen silent. Apart from the distant fighting that was heard from the back of the battleship, only the caws of seagulls and splashes of waves lapping against the two vessels could be heard. There was no apparent damage dealt to the ship, no water pumping into any holes, if there were any. It was too quiet. Pierce turned back to face Hound, but his attention was focused elsewhere. He was staring up at Outer Haven.

                Pierce pushed through the Marines to Hound’s side. He followed his icy stare, up to the enemy ship. There was some sort of electrical current charging up a tall metal tower. Pierce watched it, puzzled.

                “Outer Haven is preparing to fire,” Hound spoke quietly, “Snake…”

                A demented metallic shriek exploded from the water below, sending shivers down Pierce’s spine. The scream was so loud, most of the soldiers ducked and covered their ears. All except Hound, who readied his rifle and watched the ocean for any sign of movement.

                The water around the front of the ship erupted upwards as a massive metallic beast launched itself into the air. Its arms spread wide, floating gracefully in midflight before landing down onto the Missouri with a crash. The shock sent the battleship rocking forward, sending the Marines who had been looking over the railing off into the deep waters below. Hound and Pierce were sent flying, smashing into the railing with hard thuds. Other soldiers rolled and slid along the deck as the ship balanced itself. The giant bipedal beast let out another ear-piercing shriek towards the Captain’s bridge.

                Ocean spray washed over Hound and Pierce as they struggled to their feet. Pierce looked to Hound in a flurry of panic for something, anything. Hound’s face remained stern, but focused. Something caught his eye a second later, and for the first time, he saw real worry wash over his face.

                “Hound—” Pierce began.

                “Metal Gear. We need to move,” Hound started to pace to the side, putting a hand on Pierce’s arm, “we need to move NOW!” He grabbed Pierce’s sleeve and tugged him after him as they ran for shelter. The ship rocked as the sprinted and they began to slip from the ocean spray that had slickened the deck. Pierce fell, unable to catch himself because of his wounded arms and Hound had to hoist his arm over his shoulder before they kept moving.

                Now Pierce saw why they had to move. The top, sixteen-inch turret on the Missouri had begun to move to aim directly at the Ray that had landed on the deck. They’re going to fire at that thing at point blank range? Adrenaline kicked within him and he scrambled forward, which just caused him to slip more. Hound gave another hoist upwards to balance Pierce, but as they stopped to readjust, the turret fired its shell immediately into the hulking metallic monster.

                The two of them collapsed from the sudden shock wave from the blast. Everything appeared to slow down again. Pierce looked up to see the colossal beast falling onto them. They were going to be crushed. He moved to see Hound through a rain of metal shards and embers shouting something inaudible, and picking Pierce up by the collar and belt. As soon as it begun, Hound lifted Pierce into a throw, sending him as far as he could across the deck. His arms were outstretched as he flew from Hound. He tried to scream for him not to. He wanted to see him still running. He didn’t want it to end like this. In the final moments he was awake, he saw the man he knew so little of, disappear behind the immense metal body that crashed onto the deck. Something heavy flung down and whipped Pierce in the head, and everything went black.

00 October 1962. 08:05. Offsite Office 2B. OKB-754. East of Tselinoyarsk.

                The room was abandoned by sound, and instead, was replaced by the shadow of Viktor’s thoughts enveloping him. A subtle shaking caused by his anxious hand wrapped around the handgun echoed through the vacuum of the room that once held a lively energy. Now, it felt like his own dark cell in damnation. A hell where he had to end his life without his heart ever stopping. A clouded mixture of fear and self-hate bloated within his mind and began to suffocate him. He could feel sweat bead along his brow, clenching his empty fist, he whipped his forehead.

                Such a simple task could be handled by anyone at the facility, anyone at all. So why can’t I? He thought with frustration. Spikes of anger protruded from his fear periodically, standing there for what felt like hours. He managed to break his gaze to glance at the clock on the wall. It had only been a few minutes since he had entered the room. A sudden anger overtook him and he cursed, smacking his handgun against the wall.

                Viktor looked down to see Subject 74 stir in his deep sleep, turning about slightly at the burst of noise. He noticed his own breathing had escalated, and he stepped back, undoing the top button of his shirt in a light attempt to cool off. He steadied himself, looking down at his hands and the weapon that he held.

                No, the word struck through his mind like a blade, I’m not like them. He placed his handgun into one of the pockets of his lab coat and strode towards the crib, letting his impulses carry him. He reached down and wrapped the blanket Subject 74 laid on around him. Carefully, he lifted him and held him to his chest. An overwhelming surge of emotion washed over him, sending him to his knees. His eyes felt hot as tears welled up behind his closed eyelids. He wasn’t like them. That wasn’t him.

                He shuddered, letting the feelings of sorrow and relief pass over him before he stood. He adjusted his thoughts to the present, knowing what he had to do now. He gathered what supplies he could into a bag and slung it over his shoulder. He knew he would regret the impulse later, but now he focused on handling the new situation. Himself.

                Viktor padded down the stairs awkwardly, paying more attention to the baby than himself. He glanced at the box of things he would be taking with him; he would have one of the soldiers carry them for him instead. He cautiously shuffled the weight of the baby in his arms to free a hand to open the door. He turned the door knob and slowly put his back against the door, backing his way out of the office while he readjusted the cradle of his arms.

                He twisted around to face the curious stares of the Spetsnaz that waited for him. Officer Yuri intercepted Viktor as he made his way down the steps to the group, placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him. There was a concerned look in his eyes, but he let go soon after, giving him an understanding nod. Maybe he could see it in his face, there was no turning back from this decision. The others shifted with an uneasiness that brought an apprehensive slowness to Viktor’s stride. He made his way to the escort team, all wearing balaclavas to cover their faces. All except for their eyes, which darted to Yuri with a mixture of worry and quizzicality. Yuri raised a hand to them with a collected smile, relieving them of their shuffling.

                It was obvious that they were nervous, but were they worried about the same matter as Viktor? He felt a tingle of panic that made the hair on the back of his neck stand. Am I making the right decision? The words buzzed through his head, but he quickly shook them out of mind; instead, he turned to Yuri for further instruction.

                He waited as the man scanned over his men, his poised smile never dwindling. After a moment, he finally spoke with a dignified loudness.

                “First team, designated Yelena, will escort Dr. Nikolaev to the airstrip where our pilot will be waiting for take-off,” Yuri’s smile faded, but he kept himself composed as he stepped back and forth in front of the group, “during that time, I will lead the second team, designated Dar’ya, and handle all demolition preparation. Once my team has detonated the explosives, the escort team will have five minutes to flee the area entirely before the facility goes into lockdown and anti-air shoots them down.”

                He Looked directly into the eyes of every man on the escort team, including Viktor.

                “Dr. Nikolaev must be secured on the plane and well into the air before detonation,” the friendly composure he held before shifted into the distinguished stance of a stern leader, “our team will guarantee fifteen full minutes for Yelena to finish their objective. After that point, guards will return from their rounds to discover the missing plane and ourselves here. We will do what we can to secure any extra time after that, but we cannot guarantee anything. If Yelena is able to exfiltrate the facilities reaches at any point during the first fifteen minutes, we will receive radio confirmation and proceed to move to our own mode of transportation to flee the area before setting off the explosives. Otherwise, Yelena will be the first to receive any radio transmissions during the operation.”

                Yuri stopped between the two teams, standing tall, “I want radio silence until those key points in the operation. Yelena, you are not to be seen transporting Dr. Nikolaev at any point. Be certain to keep him well hidden as you move to the airfield,” he gave one last scan over his men before dismissing them.

                In perfect sync with Yuri’s dismissal, the soldiers moved to their positions. Yuri’s team lifted their duffle bags and marched into the office after Yuri. Viktor watched as each one disappeared behind the front, nearly forgetting the box of tools and materials he had left for pickup. One of Yelena’s soldiers placed a hand on his shoulder and raised another to point towards an armored truck the remaining two soldiers had already piled into. His words stammered on his tongue as he was lead towards the vehicle. He stopped in his tracks, causing the soldier to pivot and give him a glare. Viktor excused himself and asked the man to help grab his things.

                With a curt nod, the soldier jogged back to the office through the front door, returning an instant later with his belongings. Viktor let out a sigh of relief and moved to the back of the truck where the soldier helped him up and in. He sat down across from the man that helped him in, watching him momentarily before letting his eyes fall to the floor.

                They were hidden by a canvas covering that looped over the truck’s bed. The only opening was at the back entrance they had hopped through. Viktor tried to lean around for a better view of the outside, but received a rigid push back to his seat by the soldier. He gave a short glare, but leaned back all the same. He could still peer out slightly through the back, but he glanced at the Spetsnaz to search for any disapproval from his dark eyes that shown dimly behind the balaclava. There was only a cold, emotionless stare, so he allowed himself to peer out from where he was, little the view may be.

                He was puzzled, there were no other soldiers or personnel working or making rounds throughout the facility. He knew the security would be highly focused around Sokolov, but this felt odd. There was no one in their way during the entire drive to the airfield. They stopped once to wait for a soldier wave them into the airfield. Another wave of worry surged through his body. They could still kill him. This could all be one big joke. He imagined himself hopping out of the truck only to find himself being executed by the authorities, or maybe he was the being carted off to prison. A race of thoughts sprung in his head. He thought of hopping out of the truck and making a run for it, yet looking over at the armed soldier, he knew he’d be killed swiftly. It would be a coward’s death at that too. All he could do was breathe and wait, either for the end or escape.

                A few minutes later he could here to roar of a plane’s engines. The truck came to a halt nearby and Viktor could hear the soldiers get out of the front of the truck. Two knocks sounded from the truck’s rear and the Spetsnaz across from him stood and waved him in front of him. Viktor cautiously exited the vehicle, holding the bay tight against him. The two soldiers helped him down and the other soon followed with Viktor’s belongings. He was quickly ushered towards a small plane awaiting them. The three soldiers helped Viktor into the plane as well as his things and stepped back away from the plane.

                Within the plane were two more armed personnel in black BDU’s along with the pilot who sat attentively at the controls. They greeted him with comforting smiles while Viktor found his seat. He finally let himself relax after buckling in. If this was a joke, it sure was an elaborate one, he humored himself, realizing how foolish it was to imagine he would meet his demise at this point. One of the men patted his leg reassuringly before Viktor laid his head back.

                The plane casually took off, gracefully flying up into the air and away from OKB-754. Viktor watched the buildings pass from view under the clouds. He let out one last sigh of relief and let sleep overtake him. He made it, but this wasn’t the hardest part. Not by a longshot.

00 October 1962. 08:12. Offsite Office 2B. OKB-754. East of Tselinoyarsk.

                Yuri watched the truck gradually make its way down the road and disappear behind the trees and buildings. The hum of its engine grew fainter and fainter, and soon all he could hear was the light breeze drifting through the trees. Once the sound of the transport truck faded into the wind, he turned back and stepped through the front door of Viktor’s office. His men had been waiting for him to give the orders, their duffle bags placed at their feet, unzipped and empty. Yuri glanced over the office, giving a quick survey of the area.

                “Alright men, you know what to do,” he spoke directly to the group of four soldiers, focusing his gaze onto each of their eyes, “I want this place stripped of all information and equipment that might be considered useful. Look over every document and through any compartment that might hide something. We don’t leave until everything is found or destroyed. I will not allow the KGB to get their hands on any of this research.”

                Thankfully, the good Dr. Nikolaev had packaged up nearly every bit of equipment for them as he was asked. It would be fairly simple to find what they needed. Dr. Nikolaev was an easy man to read, and Yuri had effortlessly gained his trust. He could be certain nothing would be hidden in the building, but ordered his men to strip everything regardless. He couldn’t take any chances.

                He watched his men scramble around the room, flipping through stacks of documents and sifting through boxes of tools and materials. Any useful papers they found, they placed into their bags, while any equipment that possibly yielded valuable information they placed into boxes they emptied out from the office. Yuri thanked Dr. Nikolaev for making this so painless. He had followed every order in preparation for his escape. He smiled, looking at the barren shelves and tables. The meal had been set, and all they had to do was partake.

                Yuri made his way up the stairs while his men continued working on the first floor. He examined the room as he entered. It had also been emptied apart from a few papers and some basic lab equipment. He walked behind Dr. Nikolaev’s desk, opening each of the drawers to reveal their contents. There were a few pictures of people, perhaps family or past friends. He tossed the pictures onto the desk and continued peering through the rest of the drawers. Coins, blank papers, pencils, useless scribbles, and office supplies; nothing of use. He sighed and shut each of the drawers. It was almost too easy, and boredom soon set in.

                He sauntered through the room letting his hand trail along the tables, knocking over a few beakers and stacks of blank paper. His pace began to feel like a trance, but he snapped out of it once he made it to the end of the room. There was one other door, with a sign that read ‘Subject Stasis Unit’. His curiosity returned, swinging the door open, he entered the foreign room and scanned over its contents. It was much more complex than the others. Heavy machinery and tools were placed around in tight quarters. He had to shift to the side at times to observe some of the equipment.

                His excitement dwindled when he found nothing of interest. The room had just been filled with pretty machines, nothing special. As he turned to leave, he noticed the wall he had entered from had more papers taped all around it, including the door. His eyes narrowed, and he delicately analyzed each document and picture. There were more pictures of Viktor posing with others as well as scribbled drawings and notes. He snatched the notes and drawings down from the wall, flipping through them for anything useful. A hard look of disappointment creased his face. There were only little stories and poems on the notes, and the drawings were only of past test subjects, mostly Subject 74.

                He tossed them carelessly at the wall, sending them scattering through the air. One of the pictures was knocked down, turning in the air and landing face down on the floor. Yuri looked to kick the papers out of his way, but something caught his eye. There was writing on the back of the picture that had fallen. He bent down to pick it up and read the scribbled handwriting. There were a few names listed with dates, and written in big letters was ‘Afghanistan’ along the top. He twisted his hand to look at the other side. The picture showed Viktor with his arms around several other men smiling. They were standing in what looked like some sort of market. There was more writing along the bottom of the picture. Yuri held it closer to his face to see the word ‘Kabul’ scrawled on the picture. A list of contacts as well as their locations, Yuri smiled. He ripped down every other picture he could find with writing, feeling his smile grow larger as he read more names and locations.

                A knock came at the door, and Yuri called for them to enter. One of his men pulled the door open and stood up straight.

                “Sir, we just heard word from Yelena,” he stared back at Yuri, who focused on him with unblinking eyes, “Dr. Nikolaev has safely exfiltrated the facility with the air team.”

                “Excellent,” Yuri granted him a slim smile, “What’s the progress on the search?”

                “Nearly completed, sir,” said the soldier briskly, “we just need to clear out this room and—”

                “Already done,” Yuri waved the stack of pictures at the soldier, “pack everything into the truck and torch the building. We’re done here.”

                The soldier saluted, then quickly turned and made his way to inform the rest of the men. Yuri took one last look over the pictures he had and the ones he left on the wall. He stopped himself from studying everything again, comforting his thoughts. Anything they missed would be destroyed in the fire.

                As he stepped out of the office, he saw his men load the last of the boxes into the transport truck. He walked around to the passenger seat and hopped in. Yuri glanced through the side-view mirror to see three of his soldiers run back into the building to finish demolition preparation. He let out a content sigh and shuffled through the pictures he brought with him. Most of them were with the same people standing with Viktor, but there were a few others that depicted buildings, landscapes, cars, and a few other random objects.

                His ears perked up when he noticed the driver had been watching him. He met his gaze to see a worried look in his eyes.

                “What is it, soldier?” Yuri directed to him. A ping of annoyance itched him having the man’s eyes on him like this, with that look too.

                “Apologies, sir,” the soldier began, his eyes darted away from Yuri’s, “but what about the child?”

                Yuri looked back at the side-view mirror as the soldiers came running out of the building, now pouring smoke out of the door. They hopped one by one into the back of the truck, and the last to arrive pounded the side of the truck twice before getting in. The driver focused his attention on the road now, and pulled away from the burning office onto the road. Yuri leaned back and relaxed against his seat as he watched the flames cover the building. There would be plenty of time before anyone could respond and put out the fire.

                “Don’t worry,” Yuri said, baring his teeth in a half smile, and lightly slapping the papers against his hand, “if we need to, we have what we need to find them.”

Chapter Text

16 August 1972. 10:47. Rural Village, Amniat. Northern Kabul, Afghanistan .

                A slow flurry of dust sparkled in the sunlight coming through the window. Their reflections danced as they drifted through the sun beams around Viktor’s desk. In a way, it brought a faint beauty to the dull, mud brick house. His eyes were in a sleepy trance, ogling the dust and imagining them as stars in the broad daylight.

                The mornings were relaxing, before the sun’s heat would begin to ignite the earth in an uncomfortable warmth. He let his eyes focus through the floating dust and the window. It should be getting fairly hot now. Viktor let out a deep, tranquil sigh, leaning back against his chair and wiping his tired eyes. The nights were harder. He earned his keep by working long into the evenings on tasks given by the villagers once they returned from their work and duties.

                When he had arrived in Afghanistan, he met with an old friend who lead him through a series of checkpoints to ensure they weren’t followed; even by Yuri’s men. Viktor had dismissed them upon arrival, but the Russian soldiers had been adamant about escorting him themselves. Yama, Viktor’s friend, ‘persuaded’ the Spetsnaz guards to leave, having arrived with his own escort team that tripled the amount of men that brought Viktor. The Russians left reluctantly, but it was obvious they didn’t want any more trouble than they already had for helping Viktor flee.

                After moving throughout the country in a sporadic manner to clear their tracks, they helped him settle in a small, overlooked village north of Kabul. Yama had a friend he claimed he ‘would trust his own life to’ that would help Viktor remain hidden in the village. This friend, Arman, welcomed him graciously and assisted him with his things while he settled into an empty dwelling.

                The rest of the village had been nervous upon his arrival, but Yama laughed and asked him who wouldn’t be. They arrived with a horde of men carrying assault rifles to bring a white man in a lab coat cradling a baby to the humble village. They had reason to be skeptical. Viktor did what he could, working with Arman to earn the trust of the villagers. He helped introduce and improve new technologies and electricity to the people’s homes, he worked in the fields and rebuilt broken machines and furniture, but he had truly earned their trust one night when one of the family’s children had been viciously attacked by a wild dog. He had rushed to the scene, where the mother was crying over her daughter who was drenched in blood from a horrible wound torn in her leg. Viktor brought the girl back to his home where he stayed awake through the night operating on her leg.

                He was thankful to have brought some of the crucial components of his research equipment with him, which contained medical supplies and modern medicines used to treat past subjects. He watched over her, treating her with medicine and tending to her during the healing process. The girl was frail for a few days later, but made a quick recovery. Had he not been there, Viktor was sure she would have died within a week.

                He could still remember the tears and endless smiles from the girl’s mother and the rest of her family. After that day, he found a new happiness in helping the residents. It was no longer about hoping he could make them like him, to make them trust him, so that he could be safe. He had cursed at himself for those selfish thoughts. Now, it was about making the lives of others better, regardless of personal gain or fame. He tried to implement the epiphany into his work raising the child he brought with him.

                After accepting that he could no longer continue his research, and instead, help the lives of these people, he took it upon himself to raise Subject 74. If he couldn’t change the world with his research, maybe he could raise the child to do so. There was a satisfaction in letting go of everything. Letting go of the want to play a significant role in the world, and rather, to teach those more capable to do so themselves. He wanted to give the child a real chance at life, an honorable one. One that taught him to care for others and to help his fellow man rather than see the glory of his own selfish goals become reality at the sacrifice of others.

                At least, that’s what he attempted to do. He never thought to have a family of his own, and now he was taking on the responsibility of a father to this poor child. He had no idea what to do, but luckily, he received more than enough guidance from the families of the village. He felt as though he was part of the community now, part of the families. The child, who he had named John, was accepted along with him, and although the children of the village were even more skeptical than their parents, they began to accept him as one of their own.

                As much as he tried to give him a normal life, John was still an outcast like himself. John spoke three languages, Russian, Pashto, and English, he was stronger, faster and smarter due to the nanotechnology inside him, and above all else, he looked entirely different from them. It was such a primitive quality to shun someone for, but it was a common judgment that humans carried with them. Viktor had gone through it on his first trips to Afghanistan, and now John would be experiencing it.

                It was much harder for John. He towered over the other kids, beating them at any game they played. The others would often get mad or frustrated with him after constantly losing. John hated it, he hated how different he was, and for a time, he distanced himself from his friends. John tried to let them win, but the games became hollow. It hurt to see him hate himself, it was his fault his life was like this, and he did all he could to help him.

                They eventually found a new-found passion in imagination based games after Viktor began reading some of his stories, that he wrote, to John at night. Following that, John had less of a problem playing and fitting in. He’d often see John carrying one of the children on his back pretending to be a monster as the others chased him around, hitting him with invisible swords. It was moments like that where Viktor found happiness and hope in what he was doing.

                However, it was always followed by sorrow. He had spun a web of lies and half-truths to the people of the village and John especially. No one knew his true past or where he came from. Even Yama didn’t know the full story of his defection. He had told John that he was found as an orphan abandoned in a field near one of the other distant villages with his name written on a note. Viktor tried to conjure up an entire alibi for John, so that in the event they were ever found by those that hunted him, maybe he would have a chance to go unnoticed.

                He gave him an English name, and tediously taught him English as well as the accents of Americans and the British. John’s mind adapted amazingly well, retaining new information quickly and firmly, but he still had a long way to go. He was having a hard time trying to eliminate the Russian curls off the words he spoke. Regardless of what language he spoke, an expert would be able to tell his native tongue was Russian.

                Viktor dreaded having the boy come this far just to be snatched away for the evil purposes of his former government. It kept him awake at night, watching the product of his entire life’s work sleep peacefully in a world that wanted to gut him for what he had. The Soviets were branching out further into other countries with their influence, Afghanistan included, and the fear of being found grew each day. He couldn’t let it bother him. He had to focus and ensure John had a fair chance against his opposition.

                A series of abrupt pounds came at his door, ripping him from his thoughts with a startle. He jumped to his feet at the sudden sound, grabbing his glasses off the table before rushing to the door. Arman was calling his name repeatedly from outside, followed by more frantic knocks. Or rather, his fake name he had given them. Viktor swung the door open to meet Arman’s worried stare.

                “Kochai,” Arman was out of breath, his hastened speech filled Viktor with worry, “it’s your son, John. We need you.” His words were chopped and mixed with his staggered breathing. Viktor looked over the man’s shoulder. He must have run across the whole village.

                Without speaking, Viktor nodded and jogged after Arman, who lead a slow pace. Even at this speed, Viktor’s age was catching up to him, and he felt aches through his joints. Nonetheless, he did his best to keep up.

                They rounded the corner of one of the homes at the edge of the village to see a group of both children and adults huddled in a circle. The two of them had stopped to rest for a moment, but fear sprung Viktor into a fast pace towards the cluster people. As he approached, a man was kicked out from the center of the circle, landing hard on his back. He rolled around in pain in the dust, and as Viktor approached the circle he bent down to help the man up.

                Viktor shoved his way through the circle to see what was happening. In a whirl of sand and dust, John was landing fist after fist into a lean, bearded man’s face. The man no longer put up a fight, his arms went limp trying to push the boy off him and his eyes rolled as he was knocked out from the frantic flail of fists.

                “Rycroft!” Viktor bellowed the words over the jabbering talk and hoots from the crowd, “That’s enough!”

                The boy’s fist froze as it was drawn back for another punch. His eyes were focused on the unconscious man’s face, and he was breathing heavily. Sweat dripped from his black hair into his ice, gray eyes, but he kept his enraged stare. The crowd had gone silent, and a few of the children shuffled away quietly, only to be stopped by their parents to be scolded later.

                “John,” Viktor’s voice was stern and direct. He watched the boy begin to tense up, his cocked fist holding a fierce energy that he could tell he wanted to release. A moment past and John relaxed his grip on the man’s shirt, standing up away from him slowly, but never removing his cold stare from his victim’s face. He shook his clenched fist, knocking away the imaginary hatred that was pent up inside. John stepped back from the man towards Viktor, eventually looking away to meet Viktor’s disappointment filled eyes.

                “Home. Now,” Viktor ordered, unblinking. John lowered his head, remaining quiet. He trudged off from the crowd and off towards their dwelling. Viktor placed his hands on his hips, cocking his head to the side to see that the boy made it back. Once he saw him disappear in the direction of home, he quickly knelt to help the unconscious man. Arman moved simultaneously to aid him, gently shaking him until his eyes opened. Arman helped him to his feet, placing one of the man’s arms around his shoulder to give some balance. Viktor inspected his face and blotched away blood with a handkerchief from his pocket as they walked. 

                Arman asked the man where he lived and began to lead him back to his home. Viktor followed for a time, stopping to tell Arman he would return with some medical supplies to help clean him up. He turned around, looking back where the crowd had been. Most of the people had dispersed, but a few children remained with worried looks painted on their faces. What happened here? A ping of unease furrowed his brow. He snapped away from the scene that had unfolded just moments ago and walked off towards his home.

                Viktor paused outside of the house, letting out a sigh before gently pushing through the door. He tried to move through the room without a care to notice John in some sloppy attempt at showing his frustration with him, but something caught his eye. His came to a halt in front of John, and looked down to see his face. There was a look of sincere pain and fret in his eyes, and tears were welling up in their corners. Viktor’s brow narrowed with concern. John rarely showed emotion, and he was always well behaved. There were times where he let his rage get the best of him, but never like this. And now, seeing the poor child on the verge of crying, Viktor felt a new nervous suspicion.

                “We’ll talk later,” said Viktor in a hushed tone. He didn’t want to let down his anger with the boy for his horrible outburst, but he couldn’t help but feel a sadness when he looked into his eyes. He waited for a response, but John continued to stare at the floor with an obvious ball of emotion building up inside him. Viktor let out a deep breath and headed for his room to gather some gauze and disinfectant. He returned shortly after gathering his things, giving John one last look before leaving. There he sat, like a stone statue portraying a heartbreaking sadness. Viktor wanted to give in to help him, but he knew it wouldn’t help his behavioral problems if he did. Instead, he left quickly through the front door and made his way to the man’s house.

                An hour passed before Viktor came home. He had stayed until he knew the man would be fine. Arman and Viktor helped him get into a position to relax so Viktor could tend to his cuts and bruises. The man had suffered a minor concussion, but he would recover nicely. Viktor wanted to make sure that there would be no further issues from the man. He was worried that John could be in danger from this day on, but the man had seemed fairly quiet about the ordeal. There were even moments where Viktor caught bits of fear in his eyes. He promised the man that there would be no further trouble from him or the boy, and that if he ever needed anything for his pain or wounds, that he shouldn’t hesitate to ask. The man had given him a curt nod, refusing to look away from one of the windows at the end of the bedroom.

                Viktor had cleaned his hands and gathered his things to leave when Arman stopped him. He told him the entire time they had walked back to the man’s house, after Viktor left to get his supplies, the man was uttering under his breath. Viktor dismissed it as a result of the concussion, but was cut off when Arman told him what he had been muttering. Monster. Demon. He said those words were repeated endlessly until he laid him down in his bed.

                Hearing those words sent a shiver down his back. What did John do to him? It had looked like any other fight between two brawlers, but he must have missed something. It gave him all the more reason to hurry home.

                Viktor subtly pushed the door open, entering the cool interior of the home, hidden from the blistering sun. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and lazily strolled to his room where he placed the remains of his supplies back into a small, red container. With each day, he could feel his age tiring him more and more. He laughed to himself, soon John would have to carry him around. What a sight that would be, he smiled at the thought. They were already the black sheep in the herd, so why not add to their strange appearances?

                A sharp pain struck through his back, cutting off the amusing thought. He groaned and straightened up away from the container, placing a hand on his back to help him adjust. A long exhale came from his mouth as he slowly stood upright. A satisfying crack sounded from his spine and he sighed in relief having relieved himself of the pain for at least a little while longer. Viktor glanced to his side at a tall mirror propped against the wall. He frowned at his poor posture, taking several moments to stand in a straight pose until he was satisfied with what he saw.

                It didn’t help much. He wasn’t as spry as he used to be, and the way he worked himself to exhaustion each day, bent over some project to help improve the decrepit technology of the village, weighed on his shoulders. As much as he tried to deny it, his old age was being sped up by his determination to work. It worried him more that he didn’t know how much time he had left. At the very least, he wanted to ensure that John was ready for the world. Alone. Although at this rate, if John’s outbursts continued like this, he didn’t know if he would be able to put him on the right path before then.

                Viktor took a minute to stretch his back, then headed out of his bedroom to find John. He found him lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling with his regular stoic expression. Viktor stepped around to the corner of his bed and calmly sat down. His back popped several times as he did so, and he placed his hands on the edge of the bed to steady himself as he sat. John remained motionless, even in his expression, seemingly pretending to ignore him. Viktor looked from him to his surroundings, contemplating his words before he spoke.

                “John—” Viktor began.

                “I didn’t want to do it,” the boy cut him off. Viktor narrowed his brow, surprised by his sudden words. He looked from the wall he had been staring at to meet John’s distracted gaze. That look of emotion was beginning to resurface in his expression again. “I didn’t want to hurt him, but—”

                “John, you can’t solve your problems like this,” Viktor jutted in. It was more important to him that John learned to handle his problems with words and by thinking carefully before striking out at those that would offend him, rather than know why John did it. “These people, they’re our family. They took us in when we had nowhere to go,” he placed a hand on the boy’s arm in an attempt to show he was coming from a place of care with his words. “I understand how you feel. No matter how hard you try to fit in, it will always cycle back to you that you’re different from the rest of the people here. I understand that sometimes the ignorance of others and their words become overbearing, and it feels like your words mean nothing to them when you try to defend yourself, but you can’t resort to violence when—”

                “That’s not what happened,” said John with a hint of a scowl on his face. His eyes focused on Viktor’s with an obvious frustration. There was more to it, Viktor knew for a certainty now.

                “Alright,” John said, pausing his train of thought. He scooted back on top of the bed to lean against the wall it was placed next to. He could feel a subtle burning pain threaten him within his back, and he used the wall to support him as he sat up.

                “That man, that I attacked, he said you were going to get everyone killed,” John continued, becoming visibly sad again. Viktor felt a mixture of worry and puzzlement and listened intently to each word the boy said. “That soldiers and evil men would come to kill them for you and I. He said we were horrible people that took from the village and used them as protection, that we didn’t care if they died or not.” Viktor noticed the tears well up in the corners of the boy’s eyes. “He said you were a bad man. He yelled at me and my friends, calling us terrible names and insulting everyone that helped you. He said—he said…”

                “John,” Viktor placed hand on his shoulder, watching the tears stream down the boy’s face. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed to John, who gratefully took it to wipe his eyes.

                “I just wanted to be like the knight’s in your stories,” John said, choking on his words, “I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to protect my friends. He grabbed Sangin and hit him. He kept hitting him and hitting him—I thought he was going to kill him,” he choked on his words again as he spoke, covering his face with the cloth.

                Viktor felt grief for the anger he felt towards John earlier.  He pulled his gaze from John and around the room, deep in thought overtaken by remorse. That poor boy, Sangin, was the son of a man Viktor had been working close with to improve electricity in the village. They were often seen together connecting wires and generators around the town. Sangin would follow them from time to time to help them however he could. He was a good child; he didn’t deserve to have something like this done to him.

                “Sometimes,” Viktor began, his voice dry on his tongue, “sometimes, we are left without any options but to fight.” His stare shifted throughout the room as his mind frantically fought a moral battle within him. “Sometimes, we are forced to do things that we should never do, to protect those we love. You will find moments like this in your life where you must stand to protect the people you care for. I do not condone you actions today, but if not for you, Sangin might not have survived.” He looked back to John, seeing a new wave of tears begin to pour from his eyes. He felt the warmth of tears in his own eyes and he moved to embrace the boy.

                John sat up and suddenly hugged Viktor, letting his emotions loose. He sobbed into his shirt, and Viktor held him tight as he continued to speak.

                “As much as you will try to do the right thing, to hold onto your virtues, there will be times where you will be thrown from your path,” said Viktor, blinking away the tears in the corner of his eyes, “you will have to make hard decisions, and that’s ok, John.” He looked down at the boy, who still held tightly to him, his hot tears dampening the side of his shirt. Viktor let out a soft, staggered breath, shutting his eyes while he let his thoughts flow freely.

                “I’ve lied to,” Viktor began slowly, “and perhaps the greatest lies I’ve ever told you were from my stories.” His own emotions started to flow, cluttering his mind. “There are no pure knights in the world. There are no people who are truly virtuous in everything they do. That’s because we’re human. We do what we believe is right, but we will always end up hurting someone else by pursing our own path’s.” Viktor said.

                “I say there are no knights in shining armor, because those that choose to fight to protect those they care for, to do what’s right, do so at the risk of themselves. True knights wear broken armor, their metal tested as much as their spirits. But they choose this, because if they don’t, the lives of others may fall to darkness. You do not have to use violence, to fight, to be a knight, but you will have to do things unimaginable,” Viktor paused for a moment, watching over John. He had begun to calm down.

                “John, you will go on to do great things. You will face times of hardship, and have to do terrible things in this world for the good of others. But that’s ok, because through your beaten, filth covered armor, I know you’ll be the good person you are. You care about people who can’t fight for themselves. You showed that to me today,” Viktor looked to see John meet his gaze. “Promise me you’ll do the right thing. Promise me, through any path you choose to take, that you’ll use your abilities and your good heart to love and protect the people who can’t stand to defend themselves. You are a knight, John. Not one of glistening crystal, but one born of the ash of your past and those who will fight with you for what is right.”

                John smiled through his tear-filled eyes, holding onto Viktor for another tight embrace. Viktor wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. “You are a wonderful, kind hearted person, John. Never forget that.” For a while, they sat in the silence of the cool room. Viktor felt his eyes grow weary, and he felt that me might drift into sleep.

                He must have fallen asleep, because he was given a sudden shake that pulled him from the foggy, dreamless blackness of his mind. He lazily turned to see John standing in front of him. Viktor peered around him to one of the windows on the far wall. A faint light danced through the glass onto the wall near Viktor; the sun was beginning to set.

                A sudden urgency woke his tired eyes and he struggled to stand. John helped him balance as he got up from the bed.

                “Arman is here, father,” John spoke softly. The boy seemed to have had a weight lifted off his shoulders, as a content expression was shown on his soft face.

                Viktor turned to see Arman in the door way with a smile. Before Viktor could greet him, Arman let his words spring from his mouth.

                “You won’t have to worry about Pason, the man John attacked,” his smile grew to show is white teeth, “after the village found out what he did to Sangin and what he said about you two, they ran him out of town.” He let out a short laugh before continuing. “The fool, he tried to come to us after weaving a story about how he had been returning from the fields to be attacked by the group of kids. Too bad we had already heard the true story from all the children. And the state Sangin was in didn’t help him either.”

                Viktor looked to John, who couldn’t help but return the smile. Relief flooded Viktor’s mind, but quickly dispersed at the thought of Sangin.

                “How is Sangin?” Viktor asked, his brow narrowed with his serious tone. “I should go to their home. I should help with—”

                “Relax, Kochai,” Arman said in a calm manner, “he’s already being taken care of by plenty, smother him anymore and he’ll end up like Pason after John worked him over.” He laughed again, and John added to it with an awkward half chuckle.

                “The point is, the problem has been resolved,” Arman continued, “and you should get some rest, we won’t need anything from you tonight.” Arman gave another warm smile, waved goodbye, and headed out the door. Viktor had returned the gesture before seeing him out. He stood there for a minute or two, pondering the events of that day. He felt like he should relax, but the feeling of worry still burned deep in the back of his mind.

Chapter Text

16 August 1972. 21:58. Rural Village, Amniat. Northern Kabul, Afghanistan .

                A shroud of darkness clouded his head. As his mind reformed the objects around him, his eyes began to recognize his surroundings. Viktor recalled laying down to rest for the night, but he distinctly remembered lying in his own bed. However, the room he recognized around him was that of the front quarters of the house, and the bed he awoke on was John’s.

                The realization quickly submerged into the ocean of his sluggish mind. The contents of his thoughts seemed to portray into the atmosphere throughout the room. The air in the home waved in shadows like a dark mist that filled its interior. The darkness bellowed weightlessly, creating a fog that blocked his vision no more than a few feet from his eyes; leaving only the silhouettes of the furniture against the walls.

                Above him, the ceiling glittered with the stars of the night sky. They twinkled beautifully in a distracting manner. It was as if the ceiling was made of glass, portraying the heavens shining dimly into the blackness of the room. When he tried to focus on the tiny lights, they dwindled and faded to show the dull mud roof that covered the room; only to return once he let his gaze float to another patch of stars in the ceiling.

                Viktor sat up slowly, and puzzlement fixed his attention. The smog of shadows seemed to slow and weigh him down when he tried to rise from the bed. The comfort of the little lights snagged his eyes once more, and his worried curiosity sunk into the thick, looming clouds below. He started to stand, pushing through the force that weighed him down. He noticed his hair float as if he were beneath a watery abyss.

                Alarm shot through him and he drew in a breath to find relief that the air was still there. Another wave of serenity flowed through him, and he let the twinkling above him captivate his attention. He lifted a hand to touch the ceiling, watching the stars as they grew dimmer from his approach. He traced his fingers along the mud surface above him in wonder, ignoring the surrounding fog that bloated free of gravity.

                The giggle of a child echoed throughout the room, tearing away Viktor’s lethargic stare at the stars. A ripple of darkness shot across the lights above him in response to the sudden sound. Viktor wanted to turn all about him to find its source, but something kept him from moving quickly. Every move he made was slowed by time, leaving his thoughts to what haunted him without the full control of his body. His eyes widened as he searched the black smog. Nothing.

                Another child’s laugh penetrated the tormented tranquility of the room. Viktor’s heart began to race. He tried to move at a quicker pace to no avail, hopping down from the bed in a slow drift to the floor. His feet made contact with the ground, letting out a low, muffled noise that vibrated around the shadows like the sound of an explosion smothered by the depths of the sea. The vibration reached the ceiling, shaking loose dust in the small cracks that began to form. The darkness separated from where he stood, retreating slightly with each sedated step he took. With every step came another low vibration that shook the house, letting more dust and sand spill from the cracks above.

                A series of giggles and unintelligible voices sounded from all around him, and the shadows of figures danced along the walls. Faint glowing eyes traced their faces as they sprinted by, taking no notice of Viktor. Fear crept within him, and goose bumps prickled their way up his back and neck.

                There was a faint, white glow coming from the center of the room. The light pulsed leisurely through the black fog, and the stars above rippled corresponding darkness above the source. Viktor moved towards it in a hurried manner. The unknown force held fast, and his approach became sickeningly slower with every step. As he grew closer, the orb of light pulsed faster and the stars sent more ripples of darkness along the ceiling.

                Occasionally, he would notice a pair of glowing white eyes beyond the fog that would immediately blink away once he focused on them. Terror burned inside him with every step he took. The playful giggles stopped, replaced by a light, child-like hum coming from the glowing orb. He stopped in front of the light blurred beneath the waving air and smoke. The fog dispersed from him to the corners of the room, and the light manifested itself into an intricate orb held by the hands of a child. The child’s arms slowly materialized from the elbow up into a full body.

                Viktor wanted to run, but the weight of the surrounding darkness pulled him to his knees before the sitting child that hummed a cold, lonely tune. The boy was hidden in black clothes that faded into the shadows that crawled along the floor; all except for a white shirt that looked to be glowing in contrast to the blackness of the room. He had black, uncombed hair that hung weightlessly in front of his eyes. Something about him was oddly familiar, but the boy’s features were blurred by his eyes. He couldn’t be older than seven, but the only other feature he could see was his pale skin that reflected against the pursuing darkness. No matter how hard he tried to focus on his face, the distortion of the air blocked his trying eyes.

                Viktor tried to speak, but no words could escape his throat. The child continued to hum, and the pulsing of the light he held turned to a solid, faint glow. Viktor let his eyes fall to the object the boy held, inspecting its detailed folds that it now formed. It slowly transformed into a delicate lotus in the child’s hands. A few petals broke away, drifting up through non-existent water; slowed by time. They were beautiful to watch, spinning and flipping gradually to the ceiling that continued to pulse ripples through the stars.

                A quizzical expression crossed Viktor’s face, noticing he clutched something in his own hand. It felt metallic and stiff, peaking his curiosity while he brought the object steadily up to his view. His hand uncurled like an ancient skeleton to reveal the hilt of a sword. A single trim of silver ran along the small pommel up to the cross-guard. A glow deep within the metal struggled to shine out against the abyssal blackness around them. He raised a brow, looking up to see the boy staring at what he held.

                His stare sent chills down his spine. The boy’s white eyes held an entranced stare on the hilt. Viktor froze for a moment, the thoughts striding through his mind were being grasped by the dark weight around them, threatening him with a sleepiness he couldn’t control. Without thinking, he held out the hilt in the palm of his hand. His hand began to shake and wilt like an old rose. He watched, mortified as his hand aged before his eyes. He let the hilt roll off from his open palm, landing into the hands of the child.

                When he caught it, the lotus silently popped, sending the petals drifting in all directions between them. The glowing petals floated for a moment, then gravitated back to the child’s hands, wrapping themselves around various parts of the hilt and hands. A few petals remained orbiting lightly around the boy and the hilt, glowing brighter simultaneously with the silver embroidery on the metal grip and cross-guard.

                Viktor watched the boy’s eyes widen with wonder, clutching the piece of metal in his hands as he stood. The glowing eyes of the shadows faded into the darkness, hiding from the brightness of the Lotus’s petals.

                The boy met Viktor’s stare with hollow eyes, then stepped towards the front door of the building. He stopped just before it, staring down at the glowing, silvery hilt. He looked back to Viktor, who began to steadily stand and beckoned him forward.

                 He looked at the child with a queer look on his face. The weight that had been holding him appeared to be relinquishing him from its grasp, but something still pulled him back. Something within him gave warning and to return to the bed. Words flooded his mind to form want of the warm bed he had risen from. He shook his head, ripping away from invisible hands that tried to pull him back. The feeling of being underwater began to pass, and gravity gradually returned to its normal state.

                His steps became more frequent as he made his way to the boy, but with every step, another low boom shook through the home. Cracks shot through the ceiling and down the walls, sending pebble sized debris showering from the gaps. The house looked like it would crumble down at any moment. The thoughts that desired for the security of his bed attempted to coax him again, but Viktor’s determination shut them out. There was some unknown understanding that swelled inside him; some destiny that he knew he had to enact.

                He stood next to the boy, who stared sorrowfully at the door. Viktor looked down, the door was missing its knob, and instead had a key-like, flat piece of metal protruding from where the knob should be. The boy held the hilt up in one hand to Viktor, beckoning him again. Viktor’s brow narrowed with puzzlement, but placed his hand around the grip with the boy. Together they placed it onto the thin metal slab that protruded from the door, and grasping the cross guards, they used it to turn and unlock the heavy door.

                They had to use all their force to turn the hilt, but it gradually twisted and the door opened with a deep click. A horrific shudder ruptured through the walls, and the cracks spread wider. Several large pieces of brick tumbled from the ceiling, and Viktor pulled the child to the side as a sizeable piece of rock crashed where he had been standing. Once the shaking stopped, Viktor placed his hand on the side of the door and pulled it open. A wash of warm light exploded through the house, chasing away the remaining black mist that lingered in the recesses of the house. Viktor covered his eyes as they adjusted to the outside world.

                He let his weary hand fall from his face to reveal what was before him. Fire. Everything was burning. An inferno engulfed what had been the village and swirled around his home. A path began to form, separating the fire before them. The boy let go of Viktor’s side, stepping out onto the scorched path in the earth. Viktor raised his hand to stop him, but something forced him from leaving the building. It felt like a hand shoved against his chest, causing him to grasp at the doorpost for balance.

                As he steadied himself against the door, he watched the boy walk through the path that was created for him. Fire returned to the beginning of the path, cutting Viktor and his view off from the child. He waited to see if he had made it safely to the other side, but there was no sign of him. Another wave of power surged from the outside, shoving him back into the house. He nearly fell backwards before he grabbed onto the hilt connected to the door. The door had been swinging wildly from the force that pushed them, and he struggled for balance against it.

                The hilt snapped off, sending Viktor stumbling back against the wall. The door came crashing inward as more crevices erupted along the walls. Parts of the house fell away from the wall, exposing the whirlwind of hellfire outside that threatened to ignite the building. Embers sprayed angrily from the outside terror, whirling around the fallen door and over to Viktor before fading into ash.

                Viktor struggled to his feet. He stood bent over, clutching his back. His age seemed to increase exponentially with every passing minute, making it harder to stand. A new wave of emotion clutched around him. The feeling of relief and accomplishment shadowed his mind, its warmth luring him back to the safety of the bed. Non-existent hands clenched at his clothes, pleading for him to relax. He began to pivot in the direction of the unharmed bed.

                No. This isn’t over yet. The words felt like his own, but they spoke in his mind like the council of others. Viktor stamped his foot to stop himself from answering the plea of the mysterious ghosts. He turned back to the demolished doorway, stepping over rubble to find the silver-lined hilt. There’s one last thing you must do, the chorus of voices within him sounded like his own repeated over and over each other in a metallic, distant whisper. He clenched his jaw as he bent down through the pain of his back to pick up the metal rod. Brushing away the sand and dust that covered the hilt, Viktor fumbled to pluck it from its disheveled rest. His joints ached, begging for relief, but he managed to stand through it.

                He stood slouched in the empty doorway, waiting for what came next. His denial of the covet the spirits yearned of him sent and angry wave through the ground beneath him, toppling several walls of the home. The ceiling fell around him, encircling him in bricks and dust, but he remained unscathed. He flinched and closed his eyes as the rest of his home, his safety, came crumbling to dust.

                When he opened his eyes, he saw what was left of his home. Nothing remained but a few broken walls and the buildings foundation. That, and a woman, bathed in fire and molten metal. Viktor’s eyes widened in horror as the woman walked with ease over the burning path the boy had escaped on. She made her way over the rubble blocking the doorway as if it were simple steps. Viktor could hear distant screams accompanying her approach. He thought he recognized a few, but their tormented wails were too guttural and bloody to tell.

                He froze where he stood, his body trembling. Through it all, he held tightly to the faintly glowing hilt. He mustn’t lose it.

                Scorching embers flailed around her, igniting anything that was left to burn in the home. Several bits of burning ash whipped at Viktor, sending pings of burning pain wherever they landed on his exposed skin. He flinched at the pain, but stood his ground. Not yet, not yet.

                She stopped just within arms-reach and stared with molten eyes and an apathetic expression. There was a beauty to the fire that reflected off her metallic structure. She had a hauntingly alluring presence that paralyzed Viktor. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, and he was unable to speak. All he could do was stare into her cinder eyes that stared back blankly.

                A sudden sharp pain pierced through his abdomen that made him choke. He stumbled on his footing and grasped at his stomach. His hands clutched around something metal, and he looked down in shock to see a long, intricate blade protruding from him. It quickly materialized from within him, ending at a slender grip. Each piece came together from the ashes blowing around the woman to create the scorching blade that punctured his torso.

                Small breathes escaped his lungs as he stepped backwards. The woman approached and delicately wrapped her fingers around the grip of the blade, causing Viktor to stop where he was due to the horrendous pain. Like a hot knife cutting through butter, the woman on fire slowly and easily pulled the dagger from his abdomen. A gush of fresh blood flooded from the gash. Viktor clutched desperately at the bloody, charred slice in his gut as he stumbled back against the wall, sinking to his knees.

                He gasped for air, but his lungs tightened from the pain. Tears fell from his eyes and he winced from the unbearable agony. The woman held her emotionless gaze, walking step by step towards him, knife in hand. She stopped before him again, letting the whirl of embers stab at Viktor’s flesh as they orbited her. She took her time, gently raising the dagger for another plunge into Viktor’s body, when a cold roar echoed from the outside.

                She froze for a moment, waiting for the unfamiliar sound to pass. Her head tilted back slightly, then turned back to Viktor and lunged forward. Abruptly, a large figure burst through the decrepit walls and smashed into the blazing woman. The two of them went flying into a pile of rubble, the sound of it staunched out by the violent, metallic roar from the second individual. Dust kicked up to create a blinding cloud. Viktor’s vision struggled as he tried to stay awake through the torture, but all he could see were the silhouettes of the two figures aggressively fighting in the dust.

                The cloud of sand and dust began to settle, revealing a large man, clad in iron, striking fist after fist into the living fire beneath him. The man let out bear-like grunts with every thrust of his knuckles. The harsh sound of metal on metal pounding resonated sharply in Viktor’s ears. He grit his teeth while he slouched up against the wall.

                A burst of light emitted from the brawl as the woman rammed the flaming dagger through the man’s chest and out his back. Steam bled from the hollow armor as the woman wrenched her blade free of him. The man stumbled back and fell on his knees, and Viktor stared in wonder as ice forced its way from within the iron carapace to heal his wounds.

                The woman on fire swiftly got to her feet, raising her dagger for another strike. She delivered blow after blow, sinking the near-molten blade into the man’s cold armor. He let out anguished yells with every stab. Viktor watched as the steam flowing from his wounds was clogged again by thick ice. Immediately after the next strike, the man clasped his hands around the woman’s thrusting arm, stopping the blade mere inches away from the center of his chest.

                They struggled together, letting out angry grunts as they fought to end the other’s life. The frozen touch of the man let off billows of steam from the woman’s arm, blinding the two of them in their fight. It felt endless, all the while Viktor winced in tremendous pain, watching the blood flow into the dirt beneath him. Something kept him alive.

                His jaw clenched so tight that he felt like his teeth would shatter. The torment added with the endless struggling at the end of the broken room made him feel a churning sickness inside him. All he wanted was for it to stop. For all of this to end.

                Viktor peered out the doorway into the swirling inferno that consumed the village. Everything is gone. What was the point of all this? He squinted his eyes. There was something dark, hidden in the light of the fire, that came trotting down the scorched path to the house. It came silently, and determined. Suddenly it was upon him.

                Standing in the doorway was a magnificently large wolf, a metal serpent wrapped around its neck. It stood, uncaring of the hell unraveling around them, with a calm gaze towards Viktor. In his mouth, he carried a long blade. The beast was almost as tall as Viktor. The dark wolf padded its way forward and laid the blade in his lap. Viktor managed to make a confused face through the pain, hoping for answers, but the wolf only bowed his head.

                Within seconds, the wolf barred its teeth, turned, and jumped through the air. Its jaws found the throat of the woman, sending her collapsing back into the broken bricks. The sound of vicious snarls and growls tore through the silence that came just a moment before the wolf attacked. The woman fought to grab at the dagger and stab the wolf, but the beast’s size kept her from moving.

                The iron clad man rose from his knees, turning to Viktor. He took heavy steps that sent small clouds of dust into the air as he made his way to where Viktor laid. He knelt beside him, placing a hand over Viktor’s wound. The freezing cold touch made him flinch, but helped ease the pain. Viktor looked up, trying to see through the slim bars of the helmet the man wore. But all he saw was blackness.

                He could hear deep, echoing breathing coming from somewhere deep inside the hollow armor, but he saw no hint of the man that stood inside it. Without thinking, Viktor raised the hilt in his hand weakly, presenting it to the man of iron. The man clutched it in his hand, and the silver lining responded with a brilliant glow. He took the long blade from Viktor’s lap and slid it into the guard of the hilt. A satisfying click came from the two pieces.

                The sword awoke. The silver light strung through the blade, basking it in a gorgeous light. The lotus petals that had clung to the handle lifted weightlessly and with life again. They spiraled gracefully around the knight that knelt before him. Their reflections danced along the armor like the stars had along the ceiling. Back before all this destruction.

                Behind the man, a cacophony of high pitch winces and growls broke the serenity Viktor had been focused on. The wolf came crashing towards them, knocking through bricks and sand. He lay still in a cloud of dust for a moment, before glancing over his shoulder to the armored man and Viktor. The knight stood, grasping the sword in his hands. He turned to face the menace that threatened those that remained. She stood from the torn earth, knife in hand, with an expression of pure hatred. It was the first time she had shown any interest or emotion that Viktor had seen, and it was truly frightening.

                Within the time Viktor drew a breath, the molten woman sprung for the armored man with an arm drawn back for a brutal lunge. Simultaneously, the knight took several pounding steps, pivoted and turned on his feet and spun in a quick circle, swinging the sword outstretched in one arm. The two of them let out savage yells as the clashed. The sound of them colliding rung out deafeningly, shaking rubble loose and kicking up more puffs of sand.

                The woman on fire flung back limply, landing hard on the ground. The armored man remained standing, sword in hand, but limped back a step. With his empty hand, he reached up to his chest and painfully gripped the dagger that plunged deep into his armor. Its molten metal seared the iron breastplate, and the wound began to glow with an angry orange. Steam leaked from the wound. He began to pull it from him in a stuttered manner, letting out a slow, escalating yell of pain and rage. Once the blade had been ripped from his chest, steam shot out and ice froze over the gaping hole. The shock of pain made the man stumble on his feet, but he kept himself from falling.

                A groan came from the woman as she began to push herself up the wall, using it for balance. Before she could react, the man hurled the dagger at her, catching her in the hand and pinning her to the wall. She let out an agonizing scream. Her other hand scrambled to tear the knife from her palm, but the knight beat her to it. He cruelly tore it from her hand and landed it again in her shoulder, ripping it away once more before tossing it carelessly far to the side. She let out a wail, clutching her shredded shoulder. The woman swung her unharmed hand in a pathetic attempt to attack the man, missing by a few inches.

                The man stood up straight, took the sword in both hands and thrust it forward with all his strength. The woman tried to seize the blade as it came, but it didn’t stop it from sinking forcefully deep through her sternum. The amount of strength he forced through the plunge sent the blade out through her back, clanging loudly with the wall on the other end. The woman clutched with slippery, bleeding hands frantically at the blade to no avail.

                Viktor could hear small, struggled grunts from the two. Short, exasperated breathes escaped from the woman as she fought limply against the armored man. The knight held the sword tightly, forcing it deeper through her while her remaining life dwindled. After what felt like hours, the woman’s arm slid down the slick blade, clutching it at the base of the wound. Her gaze drifted with an emptiness to the exposed sky and she let out one last breath.

                The fire that engulfed her faded, and the molten metal began to dry and break away. Only cinder and ash blew around them now, landing in their final resting places among the broken stones and dried mud. Even after her body fell limp, the man still held the sword stiffly into her. His breaths became more staggered.

                With one swift movement, he wrenched the sword free with a gruesome swing. The woman’s body lifted momentarily with the pull of the sword, but fell free to the earth once it was pulled. Her body landed listlessly to the floor with a sickening thud.

                The knight looked down at what he had done. The force of his breathing increased dramatically and he fell to his knees. Looking up at the open sky, he let out a bellowing, anguished yell deep from within him.

                Viktor turned his head away from him. His eyes widened and he choked out a gasp at the surprise of the wolf that now stood inches away from him. Its eyes stared deep into his with the reflection of ash and embers glittering over them. The roar from the man seemed to fade into the background as a high pitch ringing overtook his ears.  All he could see was the cold, hard stare of the beast within arm’s reach, the glow of fire and embers reflecting off its eyes. The wolf’s glare imprinted into his mind with a haunting terror before everything went black.

                “Kochai,” a familiar voice broke through the darkness, “Dad, wake up.” He stirred in his sleep, suddenly opening his eyes at the return of the urgency from the dream. He gasped for air and sat up, surprising the boy standing beside him.

                He shot quick glances around the room, the fear from the dream still held on to his groggy mind. He drew a few long breaths, taking a moment to compose himself. He noticed he was drenched in sweat. Viktor threw the blanket that sloppily covered him to the side, letting the cool, night air flood over him. He wiped his face and steadied himself on the edge of his bed. My bed, the realization puzzled him. The dream had felt so real.

                John had wandered off to a window towards the front of the home, near the front door. He was peering through the shabby curtains. Viktor could barely see him through the dark, but an odd amount of light poured through the window that illuminated John. The irregular motions of artificial light captured the look on the boy’s face. There was a look of concern in his expression.

                The boy looked back over to Viktor, seeing that he had stood from his bed, and quickly moved to him. The look of worry showed more prominently as he grew closer.

                “Dad,” John said hurriedly, “come look.” He grabbed him by the arm to pull him, but let go to hurry back to the window.

                Viktor paused, still trying to shake the dream from his head, grabbed a robe and trudged to where John stood. Viktor pulled back the curtains, letting the full amount of strobing light shine through. Viktor covered his eyes as the brightness struck into the room. He blinked rapidly, letting his eyes adjust and took notice of the source of the light. It was hard to tell in the darkness of the night, but the light came from a vehicle of some sort. The light cut into the night in a blinding contrast. People were running back and forth in front of the vehicle’s beams, causing a strobe in the flow of the white glare.

                One of the figures, whose features were indiscernible in the dark, trudged hurriedly toward their house. Viktor could tell by the way the figure walked with an awkward sway that it had to be Arman. Sure enough, a knock came to the door moments later and Viktor opened it to find Arman standing staggered and drenched in sweat.

                “Kochai, I’m sorry to disturb you but,” Arman began, out of breath, “we need you.” He glanced down to John, then looked back to meet Viktor’s gaze. There was desperation in that face. “There’s been an accident,” he looked back to the small swarm of people moving about the vehicle, “a terrible accident.”

                “May I have a moment to make myself more presentable?” asked Viktor, his voice hoarse.

                “I’m sorry, Kochai,” Arman said, his voice lowered, “but I’m afraid their might not be enough time.”

                Viktor nodded, looking in the direction of the vehicle. His gaze fell to John, who had a mixed look of fear and worry.

                “Alright, give me a moment to gather my things,” Viktor said solemnly. Arman gave a curt nod and jogged back to the group of bustling villagers.

                Once Viktor closed the door, he swiftly made for his room. He grabbed the red container of medical supplies and a old, rusty toolbox containing an assortment of tools that might be useful. He placed them by the front door and anxiously fidgeted with the ties of his robe until he was as covered as possible. He didn’t want the others to see him in a feeble state, and he could tell his age portrayed itself honestly with the way he looked in his nightwear. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to deny it any longer.

                He began to open the door when he felt a presence behind him. He turned to find John peering out the door around him. Viktor let out a sigh and turned to kneel in front of the boy.

                “John, I need you stay here, understood?” his voice direct, yet caring. John took one more look outside, then dropped his head in an obedient nod. Viktor stood and ruffled the boy’s hair. He then bent down and steadily lifted the two boxes before heading out the door.

                The cool night air brought a fleeting comfort as it blew gently through his gray, untidy hair. The sand beneath his bare feet, cooled after a hot day, added to his brief moment of relief. He tried to enjoy the peaceful atmosphere of the night before he entered the unknown chaos that awaited him just a few hundred feet away. Every step he took made him wish he was still in bed, asleep, but the similarity of the feeling to that which he felt in his dream made him shiver. So he kept marching forward, and within a minute he was upon the scene.

                Two men were carrying a body from the passenger’s seat, laying it down on several layers of blankets placed on the ground. Everyone moved about frantically, bringing what they could to help or struggling to hide their children who continuously came to see what was happening. Once he grew closer, he noticed a sporadic array of holes running along the front and side of the truck. The front windshield was shattered with a few dagger-like pieces of glass sticking out from the frame. Viktor picked up his pace, but halted with a sudden fright as Arman appeared next to him in the darkness. He made a startled sound, followed by a deep breath to steady himself. Arman coughed lightly, making the best apologetic face he could. Beads of sweat lingered on the man's brow.

                “What happened here?” asked Viktor quietly gathering himelf.

                “Bandits, radicals, who knows,” said Arman, the situation was visibly wearing on him, “Ghalji found them on the side of the road on his way back from Kabul. He towed their truck here...or, well, the wreckage. I think he thought he could repair—” Arman began to stammer off.

                "They?"

                "There was also a child...involved"

                "Jesus—" Viktor spat under his breath.

                "Pardon?"

                "Nothing."

                Arman looked at him strangely, but cleared his throat and led Viktor around the vehicle to the crowd of people.

                "I hope we're not too late," Arman said in almost a whisper.

                Viktor glanced at him and pushed through the crowd. The amount of blood took him by surprise, making him grimace. A woman laid on top of the blankets, now soaked through with dark blood. Her skin was pale, reflecting with a sickly whiteness in the artificial light. She was dressed in drab clothing and covered by a hooded, lightly colored cloak. She looked like she was dressed in military BDU’s, but the darkness clasped in the heavy light from the headlights made it hard to discern. Everything about her appearance puzzled Viktor. 

                She looked like an outsider. No wonder, Viktor thought to himself, anyone who looked different in any way could be targeted by radicals.

                He set the containers next to her, flipping their latches with satisfying clicks to reveal their contents. He beckoned to Arman for assistance who came stumbling through the crowd. The blood must have surprised him more than it did himself, Viktor noticed, as the man wiped away another layer of sweat from his forehead. Together they undid the woman’s blood-soaked cloak and delicately pulled it off her.

                They had to lift her to remove the dirtied garb from her body, but doing so stirred her from her unconscious state. Her eyes suddenly flickered open and she let out a scream. Moving her must have caused her increased pain, but as soon as she awoke she seemed to slip back unconscious, letting her head fall back onto the blankets with a soft thump. Her body was riddled with gunshot wounds and cuts. The cloak had been acting as a bandage, and once it was removed, many of the punctured holes began to pour fresh blood.

                Viktor briskly plucked bandages and stiches from the red container as well as a knife and a pair of scissors from the other box. He grabbed two of three bottles of alcohol and passed one to Arman along with some cleaning materials and a roll of gauze, instructing him to begin cleaning and wrapping the cuts and gashes in her arms. He watched the poor man swallow nervously, his hands shaking as they grasped the tools. Viktor smiled, patting him on the back. He handed him the scissors and helped him cut along the woman’s sleeve to fully expose her wounds.

                Viktor left him to the easy work as he began to inspect the more serious wounds. She had several gunshots in the side of her abdomen, another in her shoulder, and several more in her legs. He was amazed she had held on this long. Clutching his knife in a firm hand, he ripped her shirt vertically to her chest and tore it away. The cloth stuck to the wounds, having been sucked in by the bullets when they penetrated her. A slight grunt of disgust escaped his lips as he carefully pulled the torn cloth from the punctures.

                Thankfully, a few of the bullets were clean shots, having passed straight through muscle and out the other end of her body. One, however, had punched its way through her upper abdomen, possibly shattering her lower rib and lodging itself somewhere between the mess. With some force, he applied pressure to the other wounds before cleaning and bandaging them with thick pads and gauze. Blood would soak through those soon, but he had to buy himself some time.

                Reaching back to the red container, Viktor fumbled for a pair of latex gloves. He moved his hand from where it had been applying pressure to the gruesome wound, rinsing his hands with water and then again with sterilizing alcohol. He dired his hands with a fresh towel and pulled the gloves on. Slowly, he breathed, in and out, steadying his hands. With a pair of tweezers in one hand and the other to guide them, he carefully separated the punctured skin of the bullet wound. Fresh, hot blood flowed forth, swiftly blotted away by some towels from another pair of hands that appeared at once.

                Viktor looked up to see Arman anxiously reaching over to help. He had stopped the bleeding from the most threatening gashes in her upper body and now turned to help Viktor. Viktor’s brow raised, surprised by Arman’s sudden willingness. He was met by a sheepish smile from the man, which faded at once as more blood began to pour forth. Viktor took another deep breath, then gently dug into the hole.

                The woman sprung awake again, and began thrash and cry with pain. Arman motioned to the group around them and two men crouched down to hold her still. Her strength faded quickly and as she began to subside, she mumbled something under her breath. The mumbling continued for several minutes. It worried Viktor. She lost a large amount of blood and it was almost certain she was dehydrated. He feared she might not have long—he had to be quick.

                “Arman, quickly, wet a cloth and hold it to her forehead,” instructed Viktor, keeping his focus on the deft maneuvering of his hands.

                Arman coughed lightly in response, but complied. He didn't look good.

                “Keep yourself from fainting, Arman, I need you awake.”

                “O-of course.”

                Viktor began to push and pull upwards in the direction of the bullet, delving farther in as graciously as possible. For a second, he saw the glint of the foreign metal, shattered into her bone and muscle, but the woman’s rapid breath cut off his view. She continued to have random spasms of pain, making her muscle and flesh move and cover the shrapnel.

                “Try to keep her still!” Viktor barked. The two men positioned themselves over her, locking her down. Another villager moved from the crowd, clutching her hand and attempting to say soothing words. Viktor sighed in annoyance, but at least it was something.

                Perhaps it was the words of the villager or the overwhelming pain of her wounds, but the woman fell silent again. She periodically stirred in response to Viktor’s prying, but remained almost still. Her wound opened clearly to him once more, exposing the shards of the bullet. One by one, he pulled them from her body. Blood emerged with every piece he plucked. Arman continued to block the blood from sliding to the bandages on her body, only stopping to cover a cough caused by his innocent gag reflex. Viktor couldn’t help but smile at the man’s queasiness.

                There was one piece left. The large tip of the bullet was shoved deep in her rib. The shrapnel had broken it before shattering within her. If the woman spasmed any more, she could puncture an organ with her splintered rib. He needed to fix this before things got worse.

                With the tweezers, he fiddled around the bullet, trying to find the best grip on the foreign metal. The piece of shrapnel was lodged in the bone. He gave a slight tug, and right on cue, the woman shuttered in agony.

                “Hold her down!” ordered Viktor. The men struggled to pin her firmly, and the woman began to mumble to herself again.

                “Mama?” a soft voice came from somewhere in the crowd. A girl, no older than John peered through the group, eyes wide as stars. Her wild, fire-red hair partially covered her face in a sloppy assortment. A woman came to a halt behind her, panting.

                “I-I’m sorry—she,” the woman placed her hands on her knees as she gathered herself.

                “Mom?” the girl stared with gaping, horrified eyes. 

                Viktor stared with wide eyes. She shouldn't be here, he thought. The distraction was enough for Viktor to slip his grip on the bullet and stab at the torn muscle. The woman flailed suddenly, taking the men off guard. The girl screamed at the sight of her dying mother twitching in a pool of her own blood.

                “Dammit!” Viktor yelled, retracting the tool and placing pressure on the blood-pumping wound. Arman, turned, threatening to hurl. Viktor dropped the tweezers to blot the blood with the towel Arman dropped, cursing ferociously. A figure quickly tiptoed through the mess, blocking the girl’s vision of the blood.

                “Hey, hey—it’s ok,” John’s quiet voice broke through the commotion, “what’s your name? No, don’t look, it’s going to be ok. Hey, they’re taking care of her—it’s going to be ok.”

                “M-mom—Mom!” the girl shuttered as she attempted to push by.

                “Hey—it’s ok,” John placed his hands on her shoulders, captivating her focus, “she’s hurt, but my father’s a doctor—don’t look, she’ll be fine—he heals people. Don’t worry—”

                “John!” Viktor choked on his anger. The boy looked back over his shoulder with a pained look. Viktor stifled his infuriated words through clenched teeth, his breath exasperated. Now wasn’t the time. He exhaled, attempting to focus. “Take her—keep her calm, keep her safe and away while we work.”

                “Yes, sir—” John began.

                “We’ll talk about this later,” Viktor could feel his face had turned red. John bit his lip and turned back to the girl.

                “Right, come with me,” John spoke sweetly to the girl, “do you like stars? I know a great place where we can see the prettiest stars!” The questioned confused the girl, distracting her from the situation. John grab her hand and gently tugged for her to follow. “Come on! I’m John, by the way, what’s yours?” She looked at him, entirely puzzled, but gradually turned to follow him on heavy footsteps.

                “N-Nuria,” she said with a stutter.

                “Nuria. That’s a pretty name,” John casually pulled her away from the crowd, “come on Nuria, the stars are prettiest at this time of night!”

                Viktor craned his neck, watching them disappear over a nearby hill. He shook his head and sighed. Steadying himself once more, he motioned to the others to be ready. They nodded and held the woman down tighter than before. Arman, who finally finished reeling off to the side, turned back and took his towel back from Viktor, giving him a shaken gesture of the head. He coughed into his hand again, then positioned himself next to Viktor.

                Cautiously, Viktor prodded the tweezers through the hole again and clasped the pincers around the bullet. He gave one last look to his assistants. With an abrupt twist and pull, Viktor wrenched the bullet from the broken rib. The woman sent a spastic kick into his stomach, making him double over. She let out a tormented scream, then fell unconscious.

                Viktor coughed, gathering himself from the sudden blow to his gut. Retching, he looked up to see Arman struggling not to laugh at his misfortune. He cursed under his breath, and grabbed a stitching kit. He couldn’t help but feel thankful that the woman had fallen unconscious. It made threading the stiches through her wounds immensely easier. Almost on beat, he cleaned, stitched, and wrapped each of the other wounds. Finally, he wrapped thick, tight bandages around her rib cage. With rest and little to no movement, the woman might make it.

                Might, he thought. She lost a lot of blood, and he didn’t know how long it had been since she was first shot. Viktor was surprised she was alive this long. But he worried more for the girl. To lose a parent and be lost amidst strangers with no one…he hated the thought of it.

                Viktor motioned for the two men to stand aside as he moved to inspect her other wounds. The glass from the car must have sliced all over her upper body. He looked back to the truck, analyzing its shattered windows. Turning back to the woman, he noticed blood running down her face from under a cap she was wearing. He slowly peeled it from her scalp as to not make any unknown injury worse.

                As he removed the hat, revealing a similar fiery head of hair. He exhaled sorrowfully. A large shard of glass protruded from the side of her head. Blood pumped lightly with her pulse, running down her neck. Other bits of glass stuck outward from her forehead and around her ear, all reflecting in a deep, wine red from the blood within.

                “We need to get her to a hospital,” Viktor said in a grave tone, “now.”

                “K-Kochai, the roads aren’t safe,” Arman responded quietly, “it’s too late to travel to Kabul. We’ll have to wait for morning.” Just when it felt like they’d pull through, everything crumbled in an instant. Viktor stood, still staring at the horrid blade protruding from the woman’s skull.

                “I’ll go,” Viktor finally spoke.

                “No, it’s too dangerous—”

                “She needs me, she needs us!”

                “We need you! John needs you. That girl…needs you—”

                “She could very easily die! Tonight! I’m not going to stand by and—”

                “What if something happened to you? What would we do? What would John do? I can’t let two people die,” Arman placed a caring hand on Viktor’s shoulder, “you did the best you could. Knowing your work, she’ll make it. We’ll watch over her and take her into town at sunrise.”

                “I’m going with you,” said Viktor, his voice was heavy and stern, “and I’m watching over her tonight. I’ll be damned if I let anyone die while I sit comfortably to the side.”

                “Alright, alright, Kochai,” said Arman, nodding with a hint of an empathetic smile, “come, we’ll take her to Pason’s old house. His things are still there—we’ll use his bed for her to rest in—”

                “And the girl?”

                “I’ll take her in, we’ll keep her away and distracted as long as we have to. She can stay in one of the rooms at my inn. We’ll take good care of her—and Kochai, let John help her too. He seems to know what to do.” He finished with a friendly chuckle to lighten the mood. It didn’t change anything for Viktor, he still knew what they risked by waiting.

                Viktor knelt beside the woman’s head, and tended to her injuries as best he could. Once he was satisfied with the job he had done, he and the others carefully pick her up and moved her to Pason’s house. They removed what bloody clothing they could and wrapped her in a robe before laying her all the way down on the bed. Viktor brought a chair from the other room and set it next to the bed.

                Arman waved him good luck and left to find John and the girl. Two villagers stayed to help Viktor with anything he might need, but they soon fell asleep in the house. Viktor fought to stay awake, taking everything on as his own responsibility. His fear of failure kept him awake through the night, until the sun finally rose.

Chapter Text

17 August 1972. 4:13. Rural Village, Amniat. Northern Kabul, Afghanistan .

                The subtle breeze carried through the valley, gently comforting John in the warmth of the night. He hadn’t slept at all after the events just hours ago, but then again, he rarely slept. His father would blame it on his mind no doubt, having witnessed things no child should see. John knew better, he wasn’t traumatized, it was just another freakish mutation that set him apart from the other kids. He always thought of himself as some kind of monster, and although he found comfort playing as one with his friends, the inherent separation haunted him every day.

                He casually brushed the thought aside and focused on the steps of his bare feet on the cool earth. He had been walking in circles around the village for nearly an hour in search of Nuria. During the night, in an anxious fit, she bolted from Arman’s motel and off into the wilderness. Several villagers reported hearing her call out for her mother, door to door, before trudging desperately off and away from the village.

                Arman quickly gathered a small searching party, sending several pairs of people off in likely directions Nuria may have headed. John, however, had already left before Arman could frantically gather willing participants from their comfortable sleep. Not only did he want to help, but it gave him a moment to himself, to enjoy the silent world around him, cooled by the night air. Nearly every day, John helped Kochai with whatever job or duty he had been given that day, while the rest of his time would be spent studying or possibly playing with friends. He was rarely ever alone.

                He felt free, for the moment, and took a deep breath of the fresh air. Periodically, he would find traces of tracks, unswept by the wind. The little prints couldn’t be anyone but the girl’s. He would follow them for as long as he could, hit a long patch of freshly blown sand, and continue in free thought until he picked up the tracks again. They seemed to trail in odd circles around the town, as if she would find her mother wandering through the village.

                John felt sad for her. She didn’t say much after he pulled her away from the stomach-churning scene last night. All he got was her name and some sleepy, worried grumbles and mumbles before Arman helped her into one of the rooms of his inn. Regardless if he knew much about her, he felt her scared, sorrowful feelings as if they were his own. She had seen so much, and probably endured even more earlier to arriving here.

                To pass the time, John hummed a nameless tune as he scanned the ground for anything that might lead him to the girl. A few impressions in the sand lead up to a short, rocky hill. The tracks were badly damaged by the wind, but their size gave him hope they were Nuria’s. He awkwardly stepped up the hill, grabbing onto rocks to pull himself along, even though the hill was hardly vertical. He got in the habit of pretending to be some beast, wandering the land, letting his imagination get the best of him. His father would criticize him for it, telling him it wasn’t proper to pretend to be a monster in social settings. ‘There’s a time and a place,’ he would always say. The words made him gag on annoyance and embarrassment. But out here, he was free. He could explore, growl, and pillage as any monster should, with no one to tell him what he did was wrong.

                Once he finished dramatically climbing the hill, he stood up tall on its surface, letting the unhindered breeze blow through his dark hair. He lifted his arms, the wind pulling at his clothes caused their folds to flap in symphony with the air. Caught in the moment, the boy let out his best impression of a wolf’s howl into the night sky. He thought he heard a response from the wild animals hidden far off in the wilderness, but it was probably just the wind. He shrugged joyfully and howled again, pretending he was roaring with a pack of wolves.

                Little flashes of light caught his attention from down below, and he turned to see a few of the search parties waddle around through the sand. They were still far off, but he could see the lights of the flashlights spin and twist around the individual groups like wild streams of golden fire. John hunkered down, imagining them as Viking warriors in search of the vicious wolves that had been terrorizing their homes. He could hear their yells in search of the girl, faintly drifting over the landscape. An unconvincing growl escaped his grit teeth and he bounded away in the opposite direction, running and laughing all the while.

                He kicked up loose sand and rocks as he ran, as if to blind invisible chasers. Eventually he came to stop to catch his breath. John sat down in the sand has he steadied his breathing, then fell on his back, arms and legs outstretched. While he breathed, his eyes locked onto the magnificent sky above him. A beautiful array of stars lit up the night sky, shining down and illuminating the night. He finally caught his breath and smiled. How he wished to be free, to run through the night and be lifted by its warm winds. He had nearly forgotten about the chase for the girl.

                He sat up with a sudden jolt, remembering why he had first left the village. He circled back to the top of the hill he climbed in search of more tracks. If there were any, they were either swept away by the wind and stomped on by himself. He frowned at his mistake. With a sigh, he turned back to where he had laid moments ago and continued off, blindly searching.

                Between the random brushes of wind that blew through his ears, there was a sound the drifted just as musically. John padded through the sand after the sound that grew louder and louder at his approach. A small stream cut through the earth, twisting and turning through the hills and deep into the mountains far beyond. Here, however, the water was exposed to the open air, surrounded only by a few little, rocky walls on either side. It was a serene sight, making him want to lay down and sleep by its side. He took in the beauty for a moment longer, gazing around the valley and the stars.

                His eyes landed several feet in front of him, where small imprints lead along the stream. A small gasp escaped his lips at the discovery and he quickly hopped into a run. His feet landed carefully beside the trail as he ran parallel with them. His focus must have been too hard set on the tracks, as he was suddenly sent through the air after tripping over a protruding rock. John tumbled gracelessly over the sand and rolled to a stop on his back.

                John winced harshly through his teeth, grasping for his naked foot. A brutish gash ran along the front of his big toe. He tried to breathe steadily as he clutched the open wound. Within seconds, the tear began to harden, stopping the blood from pouring out any farther. The tough, stone-like skin squeezed the wound shut, covering it with a tough layer of tissue. He pursed his lips and blew out sharply.

                Within the hour, the wound will have completely disappeared; like it never happened. Just another quality that made him a freak. He remembered the first time he came home with a harsh cut on his knee, looking for help from his father. Before he could prod him for help, the wound had already sealed. He thought nothing of it until he saw other kids run home to their parents after being hurt and to see them be treated and cared for over the next few days while their cuts and bruises healed. As always, his father told him he was special and nothing more, no matter how many inquiries he annoyed him with. The only other insight received on the matter was to hide his ‘gift’ from the others as to avoid any more teasing or bullying from his differences. Kochai tried to help however he could, but there were some things so unavoidable that John felt isolated all the same.

                With an irritated sigh, he got to his feet and scanned down the way he had been running. The steps lead softly to a group of boulders, separated by a large, dead tree in the middle. The way it arched over the stream made it look like the crooked hand of a skeleton. There was something eerie about it, but the tree was no different from the others outside the village. Plenty of trees died in solitude, making this one no exception. He had no reason for his hesitation. Still…

                John took several gradual steps softly towards the cluster of rocks. He stopped just a few feet away, a sound snagging his attention. It was faint, and could easily have been a whistle of the wind through the cracks of the boulders, but there was a pattern to it that didn’t quite fit. Nearly on the tips of his toes, John stalked slowly over the nearest boulder. He peered over and into the center of the cluster with wide, curious eyes. Down below, wrapped in an olive colored coat, too big for a child, was Nuria, fast asleep. Her mop of red hair spread all around behind her, with several strands carelessly caressing her face. Her fire-like hair and porcelain skin seemed to glow in the starlit sky, captivating John’s eyes for a moment longer.

                Not knowing what to do, John slid back down from the rock and padded his way to the stream. He crouched down and picked up a few choice pebbles, round and smooth from years of weathering. A quizzical expression crossed his face, topped with a frown of uncertainty. John made his way around to the rock he had scaled moments before and returned to his perch. He looked down to the girl sleeping below. She hadn’t stirred a bit from the sound of his movements; a peaceful look of deep sleep was still on her face.

                He took a moment to reflect on his choice, shrugged, and began to lightly toss the pebbles from his hand at the sleeping girl. A few pinged off the large rocks and the dead tree, but the majority hit his target with soft smacks. A gentle groan emerged from her lips as another pebble struck her exposed cheek. She twitched in her sleep and her eyes slowly fluttered open.

                Nuria grasped one of the wet pebbles between her fingers with a look of confusion. Her eyes were still half shut and she had the look of someone who thought they were still dreaming. She pushed herself up, sitting against the crooked tree. Her fingers traced through the sand, combing up the other pebbles that had mysteriously landed around her. After plucking a small handful of the rocks from the ground, she scrutinized them harshly a few inches from her face. The stones rolled and turned between her fingers before she laid them down beside her. She looked to the stream with a queer look, then began to lower herself back to her comfortable resting place.

                “Hey,” John’s quiet voice broke the silence. Nuria turned about suddenly, looking for the source of the sound. Her big blue eyes landed on John who sat casually up high on the rock, followed by a startled look of fear.

                “Get away from me!” she screamed, kicking up sand as she struggled to her feet.

                “Wait! It’s ok, I’m not going to hurt you,” John replied. He slid down the rock and ran around to its opposite side to meet Nuria.

                “Leave me alone!” yelled Nuria, now scrambling to run.

                “Hold on,” John called after her. He watched as she stumbled over the rocks at the opening of the cluster and ran downstream, farther away from the village. He mentally hit himself for acting so stupid, then followed her.

                She scurried a short distance, but her footing was caught by the oversized coat she carried, sending her rolling into the stones at the edge of the creek. She let out a cry, clutching her leg as she dramatically kicked herself away from the rocks. John slowed to a jog and stopped before he reached her, seeing tears begin to well up in her eyes. He tried to move closer to her, when a rock came sailing through the air towards him. It missed his shoulder as he pounced to the side. He looked back in her direction to see her grabbing for another rock.

                “Hey,” John called out again, “I’m not going to hurt you! I just want to help.” He pointed at her badly scraped knee, blood now beginning to rise through the skin.

                “I don’t want your help,” cried Nuria through thick tears, “I can take care of myself. I just want my mom.” Another rock flung in his direction, but landed just beyond his feet.

                “Hey, stop!” John yelled, stepping to the side by instinct regardless of the bad throw. “My father is taking care of her. She’ll be alright.”

                “You don’t know that,” said Nuria. She had found another rock, but let it fall from her hands with a dull thud. Her gaze fell to the earth beneath her and she fell silent. “I saw her, I saw the way she looked,”

                “It’ll be ok, my—”

                “You weren’t there when we were attacked,” she cut him off, accompanied with a burning glare, “I thought she was dead for a long time—long before that man came to save us.”

                John chose to remain silent, keeping his distance as she spoke.

                “You didn’t see the way she struggled to breathe. I was so scared…” her voice trailed off, and she wiped her tears from her cheeks. After a long while, her voice broke through her silent sobs. “I thought she was dead. She was dead. So how can you tell me she’ll alright?” her voice cracked. Her eyes stared angrily at John, who did nothing but clench his jaw worriedly in response. “You don’t know—you don’t—” her voice broke off again and she looked away.

                John bit his lip, glancing off in the direction of the village, now hidden from sight by the hills. He pondered a moment, then took several steps towards her, slowly inching closer.

                “Stop,” she managed to say through her sobs, “stay away—”

                “Can I help?” John said, pointing at her scraped knee. She looked at her cut, then back to him with a look of caution and disgust. “I scrape mine all the time, so I’m kinda used to dealing with these,” it was a half lie, but he approached her nonetheless. He watched her eyes squint with uncertainty, looking away only to wipe the tears from her eyes. John knelt a few feet from her, but he was close enough to inspect the cut.

                “I said I don’t want your help—”

                “Here,” John ignored her. He clutched the edge of his shirt at the waist, and began to tear a strip of cloth from it.

                “What are you doing?” her heard her ask, but kept his focus.

                John ripped two strips from his shirt and folded one into a palm size square. He looked up to meet Nuria’s glare and held his hands out towards her as a gesture of goodwill. She flicked her head to the side with an annoyed sigh, but reluctantly stretched her leg to John. He smiled warmly at her at delicately blotted and wiped the fresh blood away from her injury. She winced slightly at the initial pressure he placed, but remained distant.

                “So why are you out here, in Afghanistan?” John asked, cringing on his words for how blatantly casual they were. “There aren’t that many people—like us,” he struggled to find the right words, “especially this far out from the big cities.”

                “I’m not like you,” Nuria stabbed in response, “and why do you care?”

                “My dad always talks to his patients while he helps them,” he said, feeling his face start to blush, “when their injuries weren’t bad, of course. He says it helps distract them from the pain.”

                “It’s just a scrape.”

                John fell silent, not knowing what to say. He unfolded the bloody cloth and folded it again with the clean parts wrapped on the outside. After stuffing it away in his pocket, he gently wrapped the second strip of cloth around the deepest part of the cut and tied it off, tight, but not too tight. Satisfied with his work, he sat back down. He kept is eyes on her injury, nervous to raise them.

                “Your Pashto is really good,” John broke the silence with a shaky voice. He swallowed, wishing he had the collect confidence of his father right now. Something about her made him anxious.

                “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” she said, still staring off onto the horizon. She retracted her stretched out leg, pulling them both up to her chest with her arms wrapped around them. “We aren’t them same.” She paused for a while. Maybe she was thinking about something, or maybe she was just trying to distance herself form him until he went away.

                A long time passed before either of them spoke. Nuria seemed to let down her guard a little, seeing that John wasn’t giving any sign of giving up. She let her tense shoulders drop and tucked a few stray strands of hair behind her ear. Every movement was so entirely captivating to him. The worst part was he didn’t know why.

                “I grew up here,” Nuria spoke softly with a sigh, “not in this area—but in Afghanistan. I’ve been travelling with my mother for as long as I can remember.”

                “I grew up here too—” John began.

                “I’m not like you,” her burning glare returned, but quickly fell to her feet, “you’re just a farm boy, you’ve had a home your whole life.”

                John’s brow narrowed. Everything she was saying confused him. He had just been happy to see another human that shared similar looks to him. For a moment, he had felt like he wasn’t so alone, but this girl now pushed herself further and further away from him. He couldn’t understand it. There was hope that maybe there were others like him, but the realization was beginning to settle in and the way she captivated his attention dimmed. Perhaps he was thinking too quickly.

                Her voice became quiet again and between thoughts she trailed off, staring deeply at the earth beneath her feet. “I’ve never had a home,” Nuria continued, “me and my mom were always moving from place to place…always—always running…from something. It just finally caught us.” John could see another wave of tears begin to emerge from her crystal, blue eyes.

                “I never knew my parents, well, not my real one’s anyway,” he said, trying to pull her attention from her sad thoughts, “my father found me abandoned as a baby and took me in. Even though I’ve always lived here, and I’ve always had the same place to sleep, I’ve never really felt like I belonged; like this was my home.” John watched her eyes as they darted away from him. She sniveled and wiped her eyes on the oversized coat wrapped around her. A deep sigh escaped his lips and he dropped his gaze to the earth he moved between his toes.

                “Is that your mother’s coat?” the words barely left his mouth before she answered.

                “My father’s,” she replied coldly. Her eyes scanned over the horizon until she had to turn her head farther away from him. A minute passed and she slowly turned back to face him, but her eyes fell on the stream beside them. The two of them sat, listening to the tranquil sound of the water flowing through the stones of the riverbed. “That’s what my mother told me at least—I never knew him,” she finished with the hint of a sadness John thought he recognized. It was something he swore he had felt himself, and although ashamed of it, he found some happiness in having a similar feeling as hers. There must be something they had in common. He just had to find it through the sad things they shared.

                “It looks comfortable,” John blurted out stupidly. He immediately regretted it, and her reaction confirmed that. A disgusted frown creased her face and she stared at him with that same cautious look she gave him with everything assumption he had made before. At least this time she wasn’t angry with him, she just looked back to the hypnotizing stream, and so did he.

                “I’m sorry,” John choked on his words, “I’ve always been the different one. All the kids here were born and raised here, just like their parents were. This place is their home. I’m an outcast, a freak.” This time it John who looked away, contemplating his feelings, while Nuria watched him. He hated opening himself up like this, but maybe she would understand. No one ever did, except for his father. “When I saw you…I just thought I wasn’t so alone—that maybe, there were other people like me in the world. I’ve never left the village before, left the country, or even gone to the other cities. I’ve always been here…I wish I could have travelled like you—”

                “You don’t want my life,” Nuria said softly, watching his gaze with those big crystal eyes.

                “You don’t want mine,” He said in turn. He didn’t entirely believe in his words, but he felt the need to say them regardless. His life wasn’t exactly ideal, but it was better than most. Kochai would have scolded him for complaining about his life.

                His words caught her off guard, and she stared with eyes, that for the first time, hinted at a caring emotion. The inkling soon vanished as she lost her gaze with his eyes. They sat in silence, occasionally looking to the dark horizon that slowly grew brighter. The sun would rise in a few hours, and the night sky began to show it; dim as it was.

                John sighed, and slowly stood to his feet. “I should get going,” he said, “I didn’t mean to bother you.” He looked off in the direction of the village. He could faintly hear the yells of the search parties over the hills. They sounded as if they made no progress whatsoever in their direction. “They’re looking for you, the villagers. Your mom is safe there with my father and Arman, so there’s nothing to be scared of.” He noticed his assumption was taken poorly again by the girl, but he thought it might make leaving easier; knowing she despised him. John turned and started to walked back along the trail he had followed before.

                “Wait,” he heard her call. He wanted to ignore her, like she did to him. “Hey, wait!” she called again. Moments later, he felt a tug as she ran up from behind, pulling his shirt. He turned around to face her, and her eyes quickly darted to the ground. “Walk back with me?” her voice was quiet. John gave her a kind smile, and the two of them walked side by side along the trail. They were both quiet for a long while as they reached the curve of the stream that marked the ridge of the hills just beyond the village.

                The horizon was basked in a warm glow that stretched over the distant mountains, igniting the clouds in a dim bulbous light in the still dark sky. John hadn’t realized how long they had been out, the sun’s glow beginning to caress the edge of the world. His world. The only one he had ever known. In the past few days, everything had begun to seem so complicated. It was as if the arrival of Nuria had nudged open the door to the real world, and with it came a bittersweet taste that made him long for what resided beyond it. There was hope within him that this may be a turn for something good. For freedom.

                Regardless if she hated him, John was glad Nuria was here. His thoughts circled around the ideas of the future and the story of the girl beside him while they walked. He nearly let himself walk right off the rocky ridge at the end of the hills when he felt her pull his arm and wrench him from his thoughts. A nervous laugh sprung from him, having just embarrassed himself yet again. He could feel his face redden as he spun around to face Nuria.

                “You think a lot, don’t you?” she said, her brow furrowed, but there was a hint of a worried smile pushing against her cheek. John could only give a slight nod in his embarrassment, turning his head back to the edge of the hills.

                “Are you scared?” he finally said in an attempt to stray away from his clumsiness.

                “Of losing my mom?” Nuria responded, “I thought she was dead when your father got to her. I was more scared of what I saw there, how much pain she was in—so I don’t know.” She grew quiet again, looking at her hands barely protruding from the enormous sleeves of the coat. She anxiously toyed with her fingers between each hand as she stood there, a shroud of vulnerability hanging over her.

                John thought to stop asking such questions, but what was he supposed to do? He wanted to help however he could, but it seemed like nothing he did was right. It was as if all he had been doing so far was prod at open wounds. With a poorly convincing smile, he led her to the ridge, and began to scale down its rocky side. He slid down first, stopping about halfway to turn and assist Nuria down. Her baggy jacket helped her slide down to John almost effortlessly at the price of being covered in sand and dirt. Once they reached the bottom, Nuria removed her coat and the two of them kicked it free of the debris. Puffs of sandy dust exploded from it, making them cough and John laugh at how ridiculous they must look, especially with his torn shirt. Even Nuria managed a smile through her innocent coughs.

                Her smile made John light up, and he caught himself staring at her again. He cleared his throat and handed his side of the jacket back to her. The sun was beginning to illuminate the sky more with every passing minute, bringing life to the sleeping village. Looking towards the village, there was no sign of the search parties. They must have all given up to catch a few more hours of sleep before searching again. Or at least, that’s what John had hoped.

                At the entrance to the town there stood two, very angry looking men. One unmistakably being his father, and the other no doubt being Arman, who stood with his best attempt at a solemn pose. John froze hesitantly, lowered his head and continued walking forward, preparing himself for the scolding he would receive. He noticed Nuria’s face crease with worry, a different kind that made John further on edge as they made their way closer.

                Arman moved to meet them halfway, but John paid him no attention; not as much as he did his father. The closer they came, the more detail he saw in Kochai’s expression. There was something there that made his blatant frustration more complex. John raised his ears at the strong feeling of uncertainty that floated above them, growing tenser with each step they took. Arman intercepted them about a hundred feet from his father, shooting anxious glances between the two children. His mouth twitched as he searched for the right words, making his serious stance he had taken up dissolve almost immediately. His arms moved to fold, but dropped to his side as he fidgeted.

                “John, you should go to your father,” Arman managed to say. A frown bent his face into a sorrowful look, and he shot a glance back at John’s father, who waited impatiently. John looked to Nuria, who’s face held a similar look of confusion, then timidly trudged towards Kochai.

                Kochai had his arms folded, staring John down with intense eyes. He looked like a white statue lost in the ruins of the sand, one that’s face was unreadable under a mask of common anger. John’s steps fell shorter within the few feet that separated them. His head remained lowered, awaiting whatever punishment or scolding he might receive for being so late to return. None came. He furrowed his brow and slowly raised his head to meet his father’s cold stare. There was a different emotion displaying on his aging face now, one he couldn’t describe. But it worried him all the same.

                “Dad, I’m sorry I—”

                “We’ll talk of that later,” acknowledged Kochai heavily.

                “But—”

                “No ‘but’s’, John, just listen,” his voice carried through him like a cold wind, “I need you to pay attention, alright?” He knelt in front of John, placing a hand on his shoulder. Kochai looked over his shoulder to Arman who paced back and forth, visibly choking on his words. “The girl’s mother, she didn’t make it through the night—”

                “What?” John felt something snap inside him.

                “John, I need you to focus—”

                “Dad, I—” he struggled to speak. His tongue felt thick, and a sickening warmth rushed through his head, and welled in his eyes.

                “You need to be strong, for yourself,” he caught him before he could stammer any longer, “and for her.” There was a twinge of heartache that followed his words, now seeing John’s reaction begin to boil over. “I—we did everything we could. She arrived here far too late—far too late, John.” He steadied John with both hands as tears tore their way from his eyes. He felt sick, like he would collapse from the horrible feeling in his gut, but he kept his focus on his father.

                “We were surprised she made it along this far,” Kochai continued, “she lost a lot of blood, and we couldn’t get her the care she needed in time.” As the tears streamed down John’s face, simultaneously, the news reached Nuria.

                A woeful scream resonated through the air and John turned to see Nuria collapse to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Arman attempted to crouch beside her and ease her however he could, but she only pushed further away. She huddled in her coat as if it would protect her from the truth. John chocked on his stifled sobs and finally broke. It’s my fault, the thoughts berated him, this is all my fault. Warm tears ran down his face and he felt his legs shake beneath him. He felt the support of his father’s arms as he gave way to the weariness in his knees. Kochai turned his face to focus on him as he eased him to a sitting position.

                “I did this,” John forced the words, “I took too long, I—”

                “No, John, this wasn’t you—”

                “It’s all my fault!” he yelled. His eyes burned.

                “John, listen to me,” Kochai pulled him close, embracing him, “you did nothing wrong. She was already gone long before you found her daughter. I need you to stay strong.” He focused on him with those same cold eyes. John hated him for it. How could he not see what he did? There must have been something he could have done to help, but instead he had been playing in the sand. He wanted to curl up in the sand and be left there. To him, he felt like he killed Nuria’s mother himself. John could hear her cries of sorrowful pain and Arman’s stumbling words of comfort. They ate at him and mocked him for what he did.

                “She has no one else,” his father kept talking, even though John had closed his eyes, avoiding the pain, “she’s going to live here now and we need to help her however we can. I need you for that, John.” His eyes opened to see his father’s kind face, and he embraced him again, taking away some of the hurt that tore at his heart. John cried into his shoulder, muffling his sadness. Kochai held him close, swaying slightly has he gradually calmed him.

                “Kochai!” Amran’s voice called over, “I need you!”

                Kochai calmly loosened away from John, looking over to Arman, on the verge of his own break down. He nodded to him and turned back to John.

                “We have a lot of work ahead of us, son,” said Kochai, “I’ll need your strength.” He stood, clutching his back, and walked towards Arman and Nuria. John remained where he sat, watching his father march off to the teary-eyed girl, her brilliant blue eyes shining through the tears. He locked eyes with her momentarily, then tore away his gaze as another wave of mournful pain surged through him. He tucked his face into his elbow and cried, hating himself for what he didn’t do. He felt selfish for feeling happy she was here. He despised himself for not realizing the situation Nuria was in, and instead thinking about his own life. In some way, it had to be his fault. He could have helped; he knew it.

Chapter Text

23 July 1980. 17:06. Aabe Shifap Ruins. Northern Kabul, Afghanistan.

                There was a melodic beat that came from each of his steps as they crunched over the various rocks and pebbles of the makeshift trail. They had kept straight on an imaginary path, south of Amniat, occasionally drifting to flattened patches of dirt or curving far around distant compounds and villages. John had lost track of how long they had been walking, but he was glad to be away from the village for once. Excited, even. It wasn’t the first time he had snuck out under the nose of his father, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It had been nearly two years since he last traveled this far from home; the only thing convincing him were Nuria and the tales of the destination from her stories. She had plenty of opportunities to explore the surrounding area of Kabul ever since she joined up to help bring supplies from the city to their quaint, secluded town.

                Ever since the Soviets occupied the main city, the majority of the supply lines for the village were cut off, as well as many jobs for those that travelled to Kabul for work. Kochai had originally convinced the villagers to trust in the people of Kabul and not the Soviets, and after placing their luck in the rebellion, they had lost nearly everything apart from the location of their secret home. They were cut off from society, and paying for his father’s paranoiac caution. Now, since the beginning of the year, a group of people from the village, led by Arman, Bahkt, and Darab, all close friends with Kochai, began to run their own secret, supply operations through Kabul to bring back medical supplies, food, clothing, and other necessities in exchange for their assistance in the fight against the Soviets. His father took a chance, and now they had their lot thrown into the losing side.

                Most of John’s friends had already left the village to help in the war efforts. It was rare that any of them came back. Those that did only returned to look for more boys old enough and strong enough to fight. There were a few young boys left, but John was the last person of his age that remained. He stayed on the excuse to take care of his aging father. Kochai rarely left the house now, and his paranoia grew with every passing day. The people of the village began to resent him for his council that brought them to their knees, just out of reach from the Soviets. John was all the old man had left now.

                He fanned his shirt, squinting at the distant hills that waved in the warping heat. He placed his hands on his sides and scanned over the horizon, lost in thought. It wouldn’t surprise him if the surviving foliage suddenly burst into flames at this point. He chuckled to himself at the idea.

                “How much farther do you think?” he asked, still facing the hills ahead.

                “How can you possibly ask that?” came Nuria’s panting voice some distance behind him, “You’re ahead of me. God dammit, how are you not exhausted?” She stopped beside him, catching her breath. “If anyone should be asking that, it should be me.”

                John laughed, smiling down at her. He caught her rolling her eyes at his relaxed posture, and smiled and laughed, wider and harder. Nuria took a drab canteen of water from her backpack and gulped its contents down, pausing before offering it to him. He gave a light shrug and took it from her hand. The water tasted like warm metal, and he quickly handed back to her after taking a few sips. It left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

                “You’re like a damn machine,” she said in a frustrated tone. She shook her head and looked on to the hills.

                “I could carry you,” said John with a teasing smile.

                “Piss off, John,” Nuria replied, attempting to stifle a smile.

                “And leave you here? The way you’re moving, you’d never make it back alone,” he joked.

                “Wouldn’t want that, would we? Then you’d be the perfect pair—the murderer and the nutcase,” Nuria shot back.

                “Hey, he’s not a nutcase,” John’s smile faded, but he responded calmly, “he’s just getting old. Sometimes his judgment is off, but his intentions are always good.”

                “Yeah, sure, tell that to the families who lost their kids within a month.”

                There was a long pause as they stood there. John continued to watch over the horizon, ignoring the scorching heat that made his brow sweat. A light breeze began to pick up over the crossing behind them that cleansed some of the uncomfortable tension between the two of them. Nuria kept her silence, maintaining a wall of indifference, while John exhaled sharply from his nose.

                “How much farther?” he said in a stone-like tone.

                “Just over those hills,” Nuria answered, mimicking his tone.

                John took the first step forward, hoping to leave the tension behind them, and walked with determination. He could hear Nuria keep up with his pace, but she kept herself a few steps behind him. He shrugged it off that it was intentional. It didn’t help deter the cloud of awkward enmity that now followed them. Again, he let himself be entranced by the beat of his footsteps, and tried to lose himself in his mind during the final stretch of land before their destination. That trance was broken almost immediately.

                “I keep telling you,” Nuria interrupted his meditative walk, “you should come with us one of these days. We could really use someone to kill the fun.” She landed a friendly punch to his shoulder as she passed him up. John shook his head with half a grin.

                “If only I could,” John began, “but my father needs me. He can’t move around like he used to, and I need to be there for him for anything he needs.”

                “Oh come on, you’ve been saying that for years—”

                “And I’m going to keep saying it. My father used to care for the village, with whatever they needed. And now he’s slowing down, and I need to pick up the things he can’t do.”

                “Your dad’s not that old, John. It’s not like you have to carry him everywhere or wipe his ass,” Nuria bickered with a smirk.

                “Yeah,” John replied slowly, grimacing at the thought that was now implanted in his head, “but I’m also one of the only people left around to help maintain the work my dad did for them.”

                “One time,” said Nuria, pivoting around to face him while they walked, “You need to see what’s out there. If you’re this excited to see a bunch of rocks and toppled buildings, I’d love to see how you’d react to Kabul. One time, you need to come with us—” she finished with a smile, then turned back to walk in the direction they were headed.

                John didn’t reply, instead watching Nuria as she readjusted her hair she had pulled back into a sloppy bun. It glistened like brilliant fire in the bright sun, adding a beautiful contrast to the gray shirt and drab, olive pants she wore over her thin frame. He couldn’t help but smile when he saw her. Everything about her radiated the freedom that John craved. She looked back, catching him off guard, and replied to his stare with a look of suspicion.

                “Eyes on your feet, John,” she said as she turned her head back forward, “wouldn’t want you to trip down into the ravine.” John shot his eyes back down, laughing to alleviate his embarrassment. “With your head so high up in the clouds, it’d be a long fall.” She laughed to herself, and stomped up the remaining slabs of rock atop the last hill.

                “Right,” acknowledged John.

                They stopped at its highest point, overlooking the valley below. It was breath taking. Old, rocky columns lead along a cobblestone path down below. Remnants of small flights of stairs connect the path at either end at the exits of the courtyard. Crumbling towers sat in disarray, reminding John of the ancient castles in his father’s stories. He felt like a child again, if only for a moment. A part of him deep down wanted to sprint through the ruins and explore every hidden secret that the architectural skeleton might hold. That part of him took hold as he began to take several quick steps down the hill.

                “Hey, hold on,” Nuria called, grabbing his arm and pulling him back, “the Russians still control Kabul and all of this surrounding area—”

                “Then I’ll speak Russian,” John boasted, the excitement still controlling him. He smiled back at her, but was met with a condescending expression. She raised one eyebrow it further her feelings about his words.

                “Yeah right,” she said, “no one is supposed to be here, not even white boys with weird childhood issues. If we get caught, we’re dead.”

                John simply nodded, turning back to the slope beneath them. He shook away his childish excitement. She was right, they had to be careful. It was bad enough that he took the risk of leaving under his father’s nose. He had ignored the anxious thoughts in the back of his head that warned him of the consequences. They struggled to the surface of his mind once more, but he shook them away.

                He felt a pat on his back, and turned to his Nuria smiling at him. Her other hand extended forward to the ruins below. John returned the smile and steadied himself as he took steps down the hill. A few rocks gave way under his feet, but he managed to plant his feet into the dirt beside the sliding gravel. Nuria followed in his steps and occasionally placed a hand on his back each time the terrain slid beneath her feet. There was a warmth that grew inside him every time she used him for support. Even though it was a simple action, it made him happy to be able to lend a hand to her. Especially to someone who rarely ever needed help, or at least, never expressed it.

                The ground grew sturdier under their stomping feet as they came closer to the bottom of the hill. Small patches of vegetation greeted them with their decent. The grass came as a comfortable gift once they reached the bottom, followed by a few small streams of gravel that chased them from their ungainly decent. Nuria made a quick landing from the hill, taking several short steps to slow herself down. She grabbed onto John’s arm as she gained control of her speed. John turned to face her, but she swiftly let go of him and took point.

                He watched her walk passed him, the way she moved conveyed a certain strong, yet elegant, aura. She stopped at the top of a light slope leading up to the ruins, placed her hands on her hips, and looked to either side of the courtyard’s exits. She nodded to herself and turned back to John.

                “It looks like we’re clear,” she smiled, “come on, I want to show you something.”

                They walked up to the cobblestone path that rode through the ruins. John nearly tripped over his own footing, gazing awestruck up at the large columns that stood defiantly against their weathering at either side of the path. A warm breeze carried through the ruins, and with it came the songs of distant birds. Every sound echoed delightfully throughout the courtyard, encasing it in its own world. An isolated place, frozen in time. It took his breath away.

                John spun slowly, studying the fallen architecture around him. His gaze fell on Nuria as he completed his curious circle. She had one eyebrow raised and a smirk to follow. John couldn’t contain his grin, and, seeing that, Nuria rolled her eyes and smiled, turning back to the path they had set off on. He followed close behind now, savoring the wonders around him. Ahead of them was an impressive arch that towered over the path at the far exit. His eyes widened.

                “Over this way,” Nuria laughed, obviously relishing his excitement.

                “What is this place anyway?” John asked. His eyes traced over the surrounding edge of the enclosure.

                “Hell if I know,” Nuria responded, “we use this area to sneak into the valley from time to time. Me, I use to as the perfect place for a nap.”

                John laughed lightly at her response. It would be wonderful to be able to escape away to a place like this. Whenever he wanted to. They continued towards the immense arch, but stopped beside the remains of a large, stone-brick building. John cocked his head in puzzlement, wondering what the building may have been and what it was used for. He caught himself before he let his imagination run ahead of him.

                “Here,” said Nuria, “this is the place.”

                She stepped into the hollow building first, stepping casually over the weathered stones, a satisfying echo resonating quietly with every step. John followed gradually behind, taking in every detail from the cracks in the floor, to the rough textures of the stone walls that still stood. Nuria checked around several large stone blocks until she found what she had been looking for. To john’s surprise, she pulled out a gray tarp that had been folded and hidden between the fallen blocks. She gestured to him for help and the two of them unfolded it and laid it flat of the ground, near one of the walls. The old wall gave a generous shadow over its interior, covering the tarped area nicely. Nuria bent down and gathered a few choice bricks to place on each corner of the tarp. Once she was satisfied, she motioned for him to sit. John gladly accepted and rested his back against the brick wall.

                It was a perfectly relaxing location. Every passing second felt like a minute of peace to John, and he cherished every bit of it. He looked over to Nuria, who had been bending over the blocks again in search of something else. A puzzled look crossed his face and he furrowed his brow, but quickly dismissed his curiosity. He let his head rest against the wall, closing his eyes and listening to the light wind whistle through the ruins. The melody of the enclosure brought on a sudden sleepiness, and he realized why she chose this place to unwind.

                As sleep began to take hold, a hard tap nudged his shoulder. He opened his eyes, looking up at Nuria who held a large, clear bottle in her hands. He squinted his eyes to read the label.

                “Vodka?” he inquired.

                “Yeah,” Nuria began with a smile.

                “Where did you get this?”

                “I swiped it from some Soviets on one of our last runs—”

                “Nuria—”

                “They were drunk enough as it was, they weren’t going to miss it,” she chuckled with a sly smile, “well? Do you want some or not?”

                John looked over the bottle with scrutinizing eyes, then glanced up at Nuria’s crystal eyes. After a moment passed, he raised a hand to decline her offer. She shrugged and plopped down onto the tarp beside him, opening the bottle.

                “Fine,” she cooed, “more for me.”

                They sat in silence. John let his eyes drift over what ruins he could see through the empty windows of the shattered building before letting his head gently fall back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut once more. He could hear the sound of air bubbles smacking against the bottom of the bottle as Nuria tipped it up against her mouth. She hissed after she took a deep swallow from the bottle, followed by the unmistakable clang of it being placed on the ground.

                “I don’t understand why you can’t just live a little,” Nuria argued.

                “My father says alcohol dulls the senses—”

                “Your father this, your father that. You aren’t going to be attacked by some wild animal or whatever. You can do things for yourself you know.”

                John opened one eye and cocked it in her direction in a disdainful manner before closing it again. He shrugged against the wall, lowering himself slightly for a more comfortable posture.

                “I’m out here aren’t I?” John spoke softly.

                “Yeah, you are, but this is normal for me.”

                “So what’s ‘living’ then? Can’t you just enjoy the wonder of this area—”

                “Doing things you’re not supposed to—and I guess you’ve done that—sort of, but I’m used to sneaking off,” she said; John could feel her words jab at him, “so—you have to prove to me you’re actually out here because you want to be!”

                John opened his eyes to see a bottle being wagged in his face. He let out an annoyed sigh.

                “What, why?” he asked in an irked tone.

                “God, John, really? Do you always have to be so stuck up? Come on, I saw it in your face when we got here. There’s something alive in you that wants to get out, but you just play the emotionless servant to those people in Amniat. Nobility means nothing when you’re dead.” She held the bottle to him, but kept her stare somewhere else ahead of them. He could see her attitude prominent in her glaring eyes.

                He exhaled, grabbing the bottle from her. Immediately, she turned to face him, the hint of a smirk etched on one side of her cheek. John rolled his eyes and brought the bottle to his lips. He had a moment of hesitation before tipping the contents of the bottle into his mouth. A small sip of the stuff contorted his face into a grimace, and his immediate instinct was to spit it out, but he fought against the urge. He managed to suffer through it and swallow the vile liquid, coughing after it passed down his throat. Nuria watched him all the while, with a bright face and sadistic smile. She laughed hard at his reaction to the vodka, and snatched the bottle back from him.

                “I’m not listening to you anymore,” John attempted to joke, although it was mostly true. Nuria laughed harder.

                “Oh come on, it’s not that bad—”

                “Mhmm, yeah, it is,” John chuckled and took the bottle back from her after she finished another swallow. He took another small swig, hoping that the second taste would be more bearable. He was wrong. Another disgusted frown creased his face and he set the bottle down between them, turning away while the venomous, burning taste passed. Nuria laughed at his misfortune again and slid down the wall like he did, finding a comfortable, slouching position against the hard surface of the wall.

                “See?” she giggled, “living isn’t so bad!”

                “If that’s what living is, you should kill me right now,” he joked, resting back against the wall.

                “There’s more to it than just drinking.”

                “Oh yeah, like what?” he asked, smiling, expecting another horrendous activity.

                “Lot’s of stuff.”

                “If it’s anything like that terrible—”

                His words were cut off as something pressed against his lips. He opened his eyes, surprised, and saw Nuria’s closed eyes, an inch away from him. Her lips pressed against his for a second longer before she plucked away. He stared at her with wide eyes and a furrowed brow. As she knelt back away from him she began to laugh hard.

                “Oh my god, the look on your face,” she laughed, covering her mouth as she tried to stifle her enjoyment. John’s mouth opened into a half smile and his brow narrowed deeper.

                His stomach fluttered and he felt his hands begin to sweat. He cleared his throat and sat up, putting his knees against his chest and resting his arms on them. Thoughts raced through his head and his heart pounded. Catching him off guard again, Nuria placed a hand on his cheek, tilting his face towards hers.

                “See? Living isn’t so bad,” she finished with that same sly smile, only this time it made something flutter inside him. He could only respond with a stupid grin, one that made her laugh again. She set herself back down next to him, picking up the bottle to take another gulp.

                John leaned back and looked in the opposite direction of her, out a window, trying to distract his racing mind. Silence fell between them again, to which John was almost thankful. Nuria was starting to look tired, and slipped farther down the wall, nearly leaning against John. Now, he took the chance to take in his surroundings with greater detail. His eyes bounced from object to object, analyzing every crevice and crack in the ruins structures.

                Several minutes past, all spent scrutinizing random details in random pieces of old rock. He felt a soft thud at his side and turned to see Nuria had fallen asleep, resting her head against his side. A warm smile crossed his face, and he took a moment to readjust the way he sat, letting her head rest on his lap. He closed his eyes, wanting to mimic her level of relaxation. He listened to the birds and the wind play a tune for a time, but as always, the sleep that felt just inches away never came.

                He sighed deeply, and looked around him again. Something caught his attention. Across the path, there was something that didn’t quite fit. A detail that didn’t match the rest of the crumbled rocks around them. It suddenly stood out to him. His heart pounded in his throat, but he kept himself quiet. Gently, he tried to shake Nuria awake. After a few stirs, she looked up at him, annoyed.

                “Nuria,” he said in a whisper, directing out through an opening in the broken building, “look.” She squinted her eyes, then they suddenly widened.

                “Shit!” She blurted out in a panicked whisper. She clutched John by the front of his shirt and pulled him to the ground with her. They laid there, hearts pounding, eyes widened, watching the figure that sat against the column just over a hundred feet away. The figure stared back, with hollow, unblinking eyes. Neither the two of them, or the figure, moved.

                A minute passed, and John slowly sat up. Nuria tugged at him at first, but eventually let go. Gradually, John got to his feet, leaning against the wall to try to remain as hidden as possible. He felt Nuria stand right behind him, peering over his shoulder as they moved to the edge of the building. Another minute passed and the figure still hadn’t moved. There wasn’t the slightest hint of a reaction to their movements either.

                John took the first step outside of the building, checked to both of his sides, and slowly paced in the direction of the figure. The figure appeared to be a man, slouched up against the column and covered in dust from the wind. How had they not heard him—or seen him? He stepped closer as the wind carried passed the man, bringing a foul scent to his nose.

                “Is he—” he heard Nuria’s voice begin to speak quietly from behind.

                The realization hit him too, and his stomach churned. A twinge of fear crept up his spine. John scowled as he approached the corpse. Flies spiraled around sporadically, whipping around with the horrid scent of the bloated body. The sand had torn at the body’s clothes and skin, reducing the left side of its exposed skin to a dehydrated layer of scraps. Several holes were punctured in the sand pelted clothes, and a dark substance had dried from the openings. John stepped around the corpse, taking in every detail, no matter how gut wrenching it was. One detail caught his attention above all else: on the right side of his head, a mutilated hole punctured through the corpses skull. The bloating had made it look like an awkward, spongy break in the skin. Dried blood patched over its skin and shoulder, flaking away in areas from the breeze.

                John wanted to look away, to clear his head before his stomach emptied itself, but he couldn’t break his gaze. Neither could Nuria. She crouched down in front of the body, tilting her head and examining his face. She leaned over to inspect the mutilated bullet hole in the side of his head. John watched her eyes trace down the side of the corpses head, along his limp arm, to what laid half buried in the sand. Delicately, she plucked the object from where it rested. The sand fell away, revealing the triangular shape of a handgun. John looked at it curiously, furrowing his brow. Nuria gently removed the magazine from the grip, and tilted it to check its contents. John stepped behind her, peering over her shoulder to examine it himself. Nothing. It was empty.

                “Do you think he—” John started.

                “Looks like it,” she answered. “Someone left this poor bastard to die here, with nothing but this—” she slid the magazine back into the handgun with a click, “—and one bullet.” Carefully, she placed the handgun back where she found it, attempting to replicate how it had laid. After she brushed some sand over the gun, she looked back over to the stinking corpse, prying eyes studying his attire.

                John folded his arms, stepping back and taking a breath of air away from the rotting body. He looked over the arch that stood by the nearest exit, pretending to be watching for any other activity. In reality it was a way to distract himself from the thoughts that riddled his mind. Being exposed to something like this so suddenly—it made him feel queasy. The images of the corpse still burned in his mind. Looking away didn’t help. He had seen plenty of blood growing up helping his father during surgeries or tending to wounded people from the village, but he had never seen a corpse before. Nothing compared to this.

                “Shit,” Nuria muttered, backing away from the corpse, “he’s a Soviet soldier—see these patches?”

                “So?” John asked absent mindedly, trying to think about other things.

                “So?” Nuria repeated, “that means they’ll be looking for him, and we don’t want to be anywhere near here when they do.” She spun on her heel and strode off to the crumbling building. She returned a moment later with the bottle of vodka and the tarp. She folded it sloppily and shoved it into her backpack, along with the bottle. “We need to go—now.”

                The urgency of the situation finally broke into John’s mind. He nodded and followed her back to the slope they had trudged down earlier. He looked back briefly, expecting something to change, something to happen. All he saw was the slumped body of the abandoned Russian, left in the blistering heat. They stopped at the top of the hill to gather their breath, Nuria more so than John, and to scan the valley below for any sign of movement. John broke the silence.

                “We need to tell the others—I need to tell my father,” he said in a solemn voice.

                “W-what?” Nuria breathed, still recuperating from the fast ascension they had made, “John—” she looked to the side, pondering something, “—wait, we shouldn’t—”

                “What?” John asked, surprised.

                “We—” she paused, staring out in the direction of the body, down below, “—don’t tell your father, John. We don’t need him overreacting again. I’ll talk to Arman and the others, ok?”

                John gave her a look of uncertainty.

                “Come on, John, trust me,” she pleaded, “I’ll handle it, ok? Just—just keep this a secret for now, alright?”

                John’s expression remained, unwavering.

                “You need to trust me—it’s for the best,” she approached him slowly, placing a hand on his chest. She looked up into his eyes. There was something hidden in those frosty, blue eyes; something John couldn’t quite catch. He slowly exhaled, and nodded, looking away from her pleading gaze.

                “Alright—but if anything happens—if anything wrong comes of this, he needs to know,” John stared back at her with an expression of stone, “I won’t keep him in the dark.”

                “Fine, but John?” She focused on his eyes, “for the time being, please don’t say anything, ok? Not even that we were here—just say we were out on a walk around the village.”

                John nodded. He didn’t like this, but Nuria knew more about these things than he did. He didn’t want to have any unnecessary harm come from his babbling.

                “Thank you, John,” she smiled, standing on the tips of her toes and kissing him lightly on the cheek. The flutter inside him returned briefly, and he smiled back at her. She spun back around and took the lead back to the village. John followed, his head swimming in a variety of emotions and thoughts. He could tell they were going to keep him awake tonight, not that he would be gifted with sleep anyway.

Chapter Text

23 July 1980. 19:41. Rural Village, Amniat. Northern Kabul, Afghanistan .

                The sun began its slow decent behind the far mountains, basking the sky in a glow of molten orange. Shadows from the summits blanketed the valleys, creeping farther along the countryside as the sun fell. Beams of light from the sun struck through the partings in the mountains, blinding John repeatedly as he passed by the buildings of the village. Everything seemed to glow, even the mudbrick homes. He cherished each moment that he walked in the shadow of one of the buildings, covering the right side of his face each time he entered a gap between them where the sun’s final glare penetrated the village.

                Too much time had slipped by. John cursed to himself, picking up his pace on the final stretch of road before his home. He had taken his sweet time talking to Nuria on their way back from the ruins, occasionally stopping as Nuria pointed to certain landmarks in the distance, telling brief stories of the placing she had gone and the supply missions she had run. Everything she said excited him, even though sometimes he had only been half listening to her, but he never lost his focus on her. He had either been entranced by her or the words she was saying the entire time they walked together. John had just been happy to be with her, and to have someone to walk back to the village with to help distract his thoughts from the body in the ruins.

                Now that he was alone, his mind flooded with every detail. Every image. It disturbed him more that his mind wasn’t so disgusted as it was obsessed with what he had seen. No matter what he did, no matter whatever else he thought of, the image of the rotting corpse seemed to crawl its way to the front of his thoughts. When he closed his eyes, he swore he could see it move in his mind. He knew the nightmarish ideas were fake, created by his groggy head, but he reacted to them as if they were sickeningly real. He tried to picture Nuria, and how she kissed him, but that only increased the churning in his stomach, adding an anxious, fluttered flare to his insides.

                He didn’t know what to think. He attempted to convince himself that it was only the overwhelming feelings of such contrasting events that made him feel this way, but it didn’t lessen his anxiety. There was a deeper thought nagging at him, one that outweighed the rest. It was comprised of all of the events that transpired that day, but focused on his worry to face his father. He never lied to him, apart from the occasional fib—but something like this, with this weight—he couldn’t help but feel scared to hold back his worry.

                He wanted to trust Nuria, more than anything, but the fear of some unknown consequence itched the back of his mind. John calmed himself with the promise he made. If anything hinted at going wrong, he would tell Kochai. He’d tell him everything.

                Before they parted ways at Arman’s inn, John wanted bring up his worries again. Each time before that, Nuria had quickly changed the subject, or flat out cut the conversation, repeating to him again that she would take care of everything. He could only hope that she would. When he left her at the motel, he his worries were momentarily torn away by her. He lost himself in her eyes, looking up at him with a hue of blue that seemed to glow. His words had stammered in his mouth, and stayed there when she hugged him and said goodbye.

                Now he was left alone, with the unsatisfied hunger that corrupted his thoughts. His anxieties fed on them, causing him to feel more lost without Nuria’s casual dismissals to his concerns. The walk back to his home was usually a short one, but now it felt like every passing minute was an hour spent toiling in images of rot and distress. It began to agitate him, leaving a sour taste in his mouth, as he made his way around the final turn in the dirt road. He paused, staring at the mudbrick house he called home. It carried an inviting welcome, sitting in the warm light of the sunset. He knew that beckoning warmth was a lie. It’s what was inside that made his hesitate.

                If he was quiet enough, maybe he could sneak in without a word. He frowned at the thought. The home was too small to try moving about unnoticed. With several hesitant steps, he drew himself closer to the sun basked house. He slowed down once more once he reached the door, taking in a deep breath before silently grasping the handle. He pried the wood open as quietly as he could. The remaining sunlight flooded its way into the home, illuminating the interior within reach of the opening. John cursed to himself and quickly spun around the door into the room, shutting the door behind him. No lights were on, apart from a dim light coming from under the closed door to his father’s room.

                John exhaled in relief, the sudden blast of light should have gone unnoticed. He peered at the door to his father’s room, checking to see if it was entirely closed. Thankfully, it was. He stepped passed Kochai’s room, making his way to the cupboards on the wall. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was; the last time he had eaten was this morning, and now that he was home, that realization struck him almost instantaneously. For the moment, he forgot about the corpse in the ruins.

                He delicately pried open the cupboards, scavenging for anything he could eat that wouldn’t require any noisy preparation. To his disappointment, all he could find was a box of crackers. With a frown, he lifted the box from the cupboard and shut the panel. It slipped from his fingers as he backed away, slapping against the wood with a soft thud. His heart leaped to his throat, freezing where he stood. No sound came from his father’s bedroom. A moment passed, and John finally relaxed, still feeling his slowing heartbeat in his ears.

                A sharp breath escaped his pursed lips as he backed away from the cupboard. John pivoted on his heel and started towards his bed. The sudden sound of shuffling papers and the creaking of a chair made him stop in his tracks. His ears perked up, listening for any detail from his father’s room. Again, it turned out to be of no concern. With the coast clear, he sat himself down on the edge of the bed and began to silently open the box.

                “John?” Kochai’s voice resonated softly from behind the closed door of his father’s bedroom. John jumped to his feet with surprise, knocking the box from his lap onto the floor. He cursed under his breath, steadying himself before answering. “Come here a moment,” his father’s voice sounded void of emotion.

                John stepped slowly towards his father’s room, attempting to slow his heartbeat before he faced him. Any detail could betray him. His hand froze just before the handle of the door, taking one last moment to collect himself. He stepped into the room, lit up only by a single, dull lamp on his father’s desk. It was there his father sat, back faced to John, still prying over old pictures and scribbled documents. The indifference his father held in his expression only escalated the burning worry in his mind, making him shift his balance from each foot anxiously.

                “Bahkt missed you today in the western fields,” his father continued, still flipping through a stack of papers, “you’ll have to meet him there first thing tomorrow to make up for the work you missed.” John couldn’t muster a response before Kochai spoke again. “Where were you, John?” He set the papers down over another mess of documents, turning in his chair to face him. A shaking hand pushed up a pair of circular glasses that had begun to slide down the bridge of Kochai’s nose.

                “I—” John began, his eyes darting to the far side of the room.

                “You can’t keep doing his,” Kochai interrupted, keeping his solemn gaze on John, “we need you here.”

                “I know, I just—”

                “If you knew that, you would have gone to Bahkt instead of prancing off with Nuria. I understand you’re getting older and you’re starting to take interest in women, but—”

                “She’s just a friend,” John cut in coldly, hearing his father talk about things like that only ever made him embarrassed, and his father knew that. He couldn’t help but let his eyes dart away from him. Something glinted in his father’s eyes when he let his gaze return to him. He knew.

                “Nevertheless,” his father said immediately, “this behavior cannot continue. What if something happened? What if something went wrong and we needed you?”

                “What are you expecting to have happen?” John blurted, his annoyance getting the best of him. He wanted to latch onto any feeling other than the worry that ate at him. Anything. “Everyone is gone—there’s nothing here!”

                “Precisely why we need you here,” his father’s voice never dwindled from its stone-like tone, “there are only a few able-bodied people remaining to do this work. The rest are women and children who must care for one another while we pick up where their husbands and fathers left—to fight this war—”

                “One they could have avoided,” John glared back. There was a bittersweet feeling to letting his thoughts flow freely from his mouth. It distracted him.

                “John,” his father lowered his head, looking up at him with dark eyes, “this war has affected everyone—it would have come for us all. We had a chance to prepare—”

                “And what did that get us? A lot of fatherless families run by a group of paranoid, old men who need a nineteen-year-old boy to do their work—”

                “Enough!”

                “Why do you keep me here? There’s something more to it! If you really wanted me to help, you would send me where I would be most useful—running supply runs and helping Arman and Nuria—”

                “That girl, filling your head with fantasies of what lies beyond here—do you know what’s out there, John?” his father’s voice grew cold. He continued without waiting for a response, “Death. Nuria tells you about the adventures outside of the village, no doubt, but does she tell you about all of the people we lost on those supply runs? Next time, ask her about how they died—”

                “—to bring back medicine to help a sick child live a week longer. There are people here that wouldn’t be without them—”

                “And there are people here that would have died without my work—our work. You’ve lived every day with the power and irrigation that my work perfected and that you’ve upheld, and you take it for granted as if it’s a right. Everything you do here is to maintain that work, to keep the lives that remain as comfortable as they can be when surrounded by a world that wants to hunt them. Do not bat this aside as if what you do is meaningless. We need you here.”

                John fumed, clenching his fists. So many emotions rushed through his head, all of which were being bloated to the reaches of his mind by the festering worry of the corpse in the ruins; its corruption fueled his sudden frustration. He tried to relax. His father was right. As he lowered his tense shoulders and sighed, staring off to the side once more, his father cocked his head, taking notice of something deeper within him.

                “John, what’s wrong?” he asked, concerned, “this isn’t like you. I’d like to believe this is the cause of Nuria, but there must be something else you’re not telling me.” His father’s expression calmed with the tone of his words.

                “Why do you keep me here?” John felt a crack in his voice. He tried to keep a stern focus on his father.

                “To keep you safe,” he replied.

                “From what? What’s out there that you’re so afraid of?”

                Kochai sighed, removing his glasses. He set them on the pile of papers now behind him and massaged the bridge of his nose where the spectacles once sat. John watched his eyes trail over a few of the old, gray photos as he turned back to face John, still grasping his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes for some time before speaking again, all the while John huffed with anxious frustration.

                “There are people—” his father paused, momentarily, “—people who don’t want us here.” John watched each delicately chosen word fall from his mouth, each more vexing than the last in his ears.

                “What are you talking about?” John blindly retorted, “all my life I’ve known that. All my life I’ve lived knowing how different I was from the others, and how they hated me for it—”

                “John—”

                “—I know I’m an outsider—a freak!”

                “Stop this,” his father rose from where he sat, raising a hand at John as if the soft gesture alone would calm him. His approach only made him want to push farther away. He wanted to barricade himself from him. “Don’t ever say things like that,” he said slowly, “you are special—”

                “Fuck that!” John spat. His father froze where he stood, retracting his hand almost immediately from where it had been reaching out to calm him. A look of shock held to his face, and his mouth opened, but no words came forth. Something deep inside John relished his reaction, something that twisted his stomach and boiled his anger. “You don’t understand. Every day I’ve wanted to leave—to run away. I know I’m not wanted here, I can still see it in everyone’s eyes. Even though they pretend to hide it, because of you! This is all because of you!”

                “I gave everything—” his father suddenly roared back in response, “—everything I had so that you might have a chance—a chance at a normal life! Everything—everything here, was for you!”

                “Well you did a great job! Every day, I work—work for people that hate me—”

                “They do not hate you, John,” His father’s voice held strong, but lowered its forceful tone, “they hate what you might become.”

                “What? As if I could become more of a monster—a pariah to them—”

                “They hate and fear that you will become like me, John” he took a step forward, his cold eyes piercing into his, “they fear that you will take on the ideas of an old, fearful man, running from his past. They fear that you will somehow damn them further than I already have. Do not be so selfish as to think your very existence is what frightens them. You are strong, John, and more capable than anyone hear, even me. They all—,” he slowed his words, letting each syllable punch into John’s spirit, “—know it. You are not a freak, and you never were.”

                John bared his teeth in a frown. He could feel his eyes begin to sting from the emotions he held back. The bellowing anger still pulsed in his mind, struggling to get out—struggling for resolution.

                “Then why,” John managed to force the words out, “why do you keep me here? If it would be so much easier for everyone to have me gone, why do you make me stay here?”

                “Because I cannot stand to lose you,” Kochai responded, an odd vulnerability clung to his voice, “the world out there is an unforgiving place, I won’t have everything taken from me again.”

                “I’m not yours to keep.”

                “I—” his father chocked on the words, “—I know, John.” His eyes fell to the side, and he took a moment to swallow and clear his throat. Silence fell between them. John tried to collect himself, letting some of the rage seep out of his thoughts like steam as he breathed. His eyes darted away from his father, who was now obviously deep in thought. He folded his arms and back against the wall behind him.

                “I’m sorry,” his father broke the silence, “I’m sorry for all of this. I try to do what I feel is best—for you and for us, but like I’ve always done, I let my own fears and desires get in the way of what was right. I’ve failed to take account for your own dreams, and pursued mine instead. None of this was supposed to happen like this—”

                “What?” the lingering frustration pricked up in John’s mind, “what are you saying?”

                “I—you—” Kochai was taken off guard by the bite of John’s tone, “you were never meant to be here.”

                John raised his head and furrowed his brow, staring with wide eyes. A disgusted grimace crossed his face. That was all he needed to hear. Everything—every suspicion about himself was true then. ‘He was never meant to be here’, by his father’s own words. Then why am I here? Why didn’t you let me die alone in the field you found me in? he thought spitefully. His father immediately noticed how his words resonated to John, and scrambled to correct himself. Before he could respond, John made his way to the door.

                “John, wait,” John felt him grab him from behind. He gave one quick look back, the corners of his mouth twitching into a frown. “You don’t understand—”

                “Oh, I understand perfectly,” John bit back, “I was always just another one of your mistakes—”

                “No,” said Kochai, it was the only thing he could manage to say.

                John looked him in the eye and made a sound of disgust as he tried to break away. He turned to face the door, stopping only for a moment before ripping it open.

                “John, stop,” his father called, “that isn’t what I meant—”

                “What you meant? You made everything perfectly clear,” John twisted back to face him, “All I’ve been is a burden, an accident that slowed you down. Apparently, all I’ve ever been is something to hinder whatever it was you wanted to do in life—as I changed how things ‘were meant to be’. I am, and always will be a fucking accident—”

                “That is not what you are—” his father began, struggling to raise his voice to John’s level. He gripped his back as he tried to keep up with him. Another wave of pain must be clutching him again. John didn’t care.

                “Then what am I?” John hissed through grit teeth. He leaned forward, letting every word stab at Kochai. They hit their mark as a pained expression appeared on his father’s face. No doubt it was mostly from the pain of his back. It disgusted him more to see his reaction. Kochai continued walking forward, stopping only a few feet away from him. He steadied his breathing and looked John directly in the eye.

                “You,” he answered as strong as he could, “are my son.” He exhaled sharply through his nose and straightened his back. His eyes never left John’s. John almost pitied him, how he stood there attempting to stand tall. He could see the expectation in his eyes, waiting for his words to sink in. It wasn’t enough.

                “No, I’m not.”

                John turned away, and marched towards the front door. He could hear Kochai stumble after him as he stomped off. John barged through the front door before he could reach him and sped up his pace, storming away from the house.

                “John, wait!” he could hear his father call.

                Everything—everything about him was wrong. Every day he took was an inconvenience to his father and the rest of the villagers. Every family, every child could have lived a different life without him. Because of him, the lives of everyone here had been changed for the worse. He didn’t know what to do—where to go. He just kept walking, hoping all of this would just go away. None of it helped, arguing with his father only made the toxic thoughts in his mind flourish, now combining the worry with the frustration of his own existence. The sickening feeling of being trapped started to close around him, causing his breathing to increase. He kept moving forward, with the hope that maybe his feelings would snag on the way out of the village.

                That night he slept under an old, decrepit tree, dried by the sun. Several large rocks surrounded the tree, creating a makeshift shelter. Evidence of a small streambed carved along the earth, now partially exposed through the sand. He laid there by the tree, struggling to push any thought from his mind. The only thing that managed to bring him peace was the memory of the creeks sound, a song that died long ago.

Chapter Text

30 March 1984. 17:32. Rural Village, Amniat. Northern Kabul, Afghanistan .

                “Are you certain?” Kochai’s voice, although hushed, carried throughout the room with a tenacious rhythm. “Right. Yes, I understand—no, the last we heard from them was nearly four days ago,” John’s father stood, hunched over a dull colored telephone with one hand clutching the handset to his ear and the other firmly placed against the wall for balance. “Yes—I’ll… I’ll tell the others,” Kochai finished slowly. John could hear the caller disconnect from the call, but his father still held the handset in his clenched hand, staring blankly at the wall with tired eyes. A few strands of gray hair hung in his face, capturing his constant look of exhaustion in the sunlight.

                A window, only a few feet away, allowed the sun to ignite the room in daylight, making John squint while he watched his father. John sat at the table, leaning back in his chair while he had listened to the conversation. His eyes had drifted between focus on his father and the dust that twinkled as it fell through the sunbeams entering through the window. Daylight stars, his father used to call them when John was little. He held onto the childish idea, and often drifted into daydreams when watching them fall. It was almost meditative. Any moment between duties and orders, John took what time he could to relax, usually finding himself staring vacantly and losing himself in his mind. Now that the call had ended, he awaited another set of tasks.

                “Two bodies were found near the Yakho Oboo River,” his father still faced the wall by the telephone, his hand slowly lowered its handset until it set on the hook with a light click, “Darab thinks it’s the missing supply couriers he sent out a week ago,” Kochai turned around, laying his sober stare on John. He brushed his disheveled hair back and folded his arms, thinking deeply. “Among more important things, we’ll be without firewood tonight. And with Darab’s men stretched this thin, we won’t have anyone to fix the stove any time soon. The shipment they were carrying contained the parts we needed to fix it. We can’t send anyone else to retrieve them now,” he paused, a slight hint of a smile creased his wrinkled face, “which means we’ll have to stomach a few more days of cooking over the fire pit.”

                John simply nodded, standing silently from his chair. He began to head for the door when he felt something grab him from behind. He stopped in his tracks, stifling a sigh, and turned to face his father, who had a troubled look in his eyes.

                “John, don’t go near the Yakho Oboo River or Ravine,” he grasped his shoulder with a firm hand, speaking softly, “and don’t go to the usual area north of there. Head southeast to the northern area above Lake Lapis. There have been more Russians out on patrol from their outposts, and we can’t risk sending anyone through the ruins anymore. It’s too dangerous—this whole valley is too dangerous now.”

                John just stared back, listening, but not intently. His focus laid more on the creases of his father’s old face, studying his expression. He looked down momentarily, then met his gaze again.

                “Right,” John said. It was all he cared to say. His father only managed a smile and pat him on the shoulder before John turned back towards the front door. He grabbed a duffle bag that sat crumpled beside it and slung it over his shoulder. He stepped quickly, swinging the door open, but heard Kochai’s voice call again. John froze, his hand gripped tight around the door’s handle.

                “And John,” his father called, “please—be careful.” Through the corner of his eye, John looked over his shoulder and gave a slight nod before stepping outside, letting the door shut behind him. He rounded the corner of the dusty building, looking over a variety of tools that either laid beside or leaned against the home. What a mess, he thought. It would be a miracle if he could find anything in the chaotic organization. At a second glance, he found what he was looking for. His hands shifted several parts of rusted machinery to the side to reveal the long handle of an ax. He lifted the hefty woodcutter’s ax in his hands, turning it to examine its blade. Still sharp.

                Peering over the jumbled collection of tools, he sighed in relief, and plucked a long, black sheath from the rubbish. He secured the ax in the sheath with several buckles and slung it over his back with a lengthy strap that connected at both ends. He shifted it uncomfortably until he was satisfied with how it laid with the contour of his back. He took one last glance over the pile, checking to ensure he had everything, then turned and started down the road. After walking a few hundred feet, he looked back on the house. Something about it seemed different—unfamiliar even, like it changed. He pushed the thought from his head and continued down the road.

                Things were different now. The village was a skeleton of its former self, held up by a brittle spine consisting of the few people strong enough to stand for the rest of the villagers. Mothers and children joined the supply runs, and even went on patrols. They outnumbered the men that still remained, but even those numbers were starting to dwindle. More and more supply couriers went missing or were found dead with each passing week.

                Several months ago, Arman took a group of six boys, barely old enough to be soldiers, and went to meet with a local outpost of Mujahideen just outside of Kabul. They were meant to return with food and clothes in exchange for their support, but none of them returned. A few days later, one of their searching parties found several dead rebels, but no evidence of Arman or the boys. Only a week passed before Bahkt went missing on a patrol that lead through the Aabe Shifap Ruins. There was hardly anyone left. Darab and Nuria took charge of the supply runs, and started recruiting able people, regardless of age or gender; something the villagers wouldn’t have stood for just months ago. The village was stretched to its limits, and any day now it would break apart into dust.

                Only the sick and the old never left the village—them, as well as John and his father. John held resentment for his father for not allowing him to help, but he tried to find satisfaction in the idea that he was here to protect those that couldn’t fight. It was a hollow truth, but it kept his mind off what lied far beyond the village—far beyond Kabul. He found it helped to keep his distance from the others, from Nuria especially. It made things easier. Talking to her, to the supply couriers, only ever made him feel a sense of forlorn longing, and he decided it was best to isolate himself from those dreams.

                As his father grew older, he became more unable to keep up with the technology and improvements he had originally constructed for the town when he first arrived nearly twenty-three years ago. John attempted to pick up the slack, but emergencies around every corner constantly snatched his attention, and he was rarely able to make repairs. The village was beginning to fall apart, physically and mentally. The dilapidation wore down on everyone, causing tempers to be short and hopes to sink lower. If not for the weakness of the village and its few remaining lives, John feared they would be thrown out at a moment’s notice. It was only a matter of time before everything—their lives, their homes, their hope—came crumbling down.

                The stress only seemed to make his father age faster, making tasks that would normally have been trivial, into frustrating ordeals. That stress bled into John and the other villagers, putting further pressure onto their already disheartened lives. John did what he could to alleviate that pressure, but it was hardly ever easy.

                John mulled the same old thoughts and anxieties over in his head for the thousandth time as he walked. The sound of his steps crunching over the gravel road resounded peacefully in his ears, and he tried to focus on that instead of the same tiresome issues that bit away at him day by day. He found a pattern in his steps while he strolled forward and hummed quietly in his head to its beat. He nearly walked past the small convenience store on the far corner of the village when he shook himself free of the trance. The thought occurred to him on his way there that he’d need to bring water with him if he was to head that much farther out just to gather wood.

                He stopped awkwardly, and spun to face the shop, hoping no one saw the embarrassing movement. Helai, the store owner’s daughter, saw him from inside the old, dusty building, with an expression that said it all—she saw him fumble. John felt his face begin to redden as he strode towards the entrance of the small store. A cool blast of air hit him when he entered and he was greeted by Helai’s kind smile, one he attempted to return. The cool air was relaxing, but he kept on his path towards the aisle of clunky refrigerators, each holding a variety of drinks.

                “Hello John,” she said cheerfully, “heading out again?” She had soft, sun-tanned skin with a capturing, warm hue. Her deep, brown eyes followed his movements as he looked around the store.

                “Aye,” John’s response was simple, but he wanted to keep conversation short. He stopped in front of one of the glass doors that incased several bottles of water. Inside, the temperature was roughly the same as the rest of the store. Either they didn’t have enough energy to keep the refrigerators running as well as keep the store cool, or they’re broken, he realized. “It’s going to be a while until we can get our stove working again, so I’m heading off to gather more firewood,” he answered, a little more fully. After scanning over his options, he grabbed a large bottle and headed for the counter where Helai had already been waiting for him. Her bright smile and kind eyes never leaving him.

                “Apparently, the trees just south of here aren’t decent anymore, so I’ll be out for a while—Lapis Lake seems to have the choice selection,” John continued, setting the bottle on the counter with a solid thump. He couldn’t help but respond. Her smile was always so inviting, and she was one of the few people John felt comfortable speaking freely around.

                “’Sure you won’t need anything to eat then?” Helai asked, moving towards a jar full of an assortment of snacks and packaged, dried foods, “if you want, I can throw in some—”

                “That won’t be necessary,” John said, holding up a hand to decline, “but thank you.”

                Helai stopped short with her hand just placed on the jar, but returned with a smile, taking the bottle and placing it in a bag. John opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he simply smiled back.

                “Alright, that comes to eighteen Afghani,” she said, placing her hands on the counter and swaying from side to side.

                John reached into his pocket, narrowing his brow when he found nothing. He checked his other pockets, front and back, and began to feel his heart sink and his embarrassment rise. He looked up to meet Helai’s soft gaze, clearing his throat as to relieve some of the awkward tension that was building between them.

                “I…” John began.

                “Hey, don’t worry about it,” she smiled with a laugh, shifting the bottle back to him, “you do so much for us—everything you do out there, is for us. It’s the least I could do.”

                John paused, tilting his head slightly. His mouth hinted at an honest smile as he searched for a response. Instead, he gave a quick nod and placed the bottle into his duffle bag. The old bag struggled to zip shut, adding to the embarrassment in the back of his head. Once it finally closed, John looked back up to see Helai still watching him. Her smile grew even wider, a giggle just on the tip of her tongue. He thanked her and started for the door, but hesitated just a few feet from it. Something still nagged at his thoughts.

                “If your father doesn’t mind,” he said, turning back around, “I can bring Kochai to come look into your refrigerator issue—I noticed it wasn’t on, so…”

                “Yeah, it’s been on the fritz for a few days now,” she admitted, “father thinks there’s something wrong with the wiring—but I know he’d appreciate the help. Not everyone has a bad opinion of you and your father.” She twisted a strand of dark hair between her fingers, swaying slowly where she stood. “But—to be safe—maybe you should just come. I know your dad is incredibly busy—I wouldn’t want to distract him from his work, after all…” she trailed off, her eyes darting away from him for the first time since he entered the store.

                “I’ll be sure to,” John answered with a smile. He waved as he left, picking up his pace to a brisk walk. He enjoyed Helai’s company, but he needed to remain focused on his task. The last thing he wanted was to trek back home in the dark, and the sun would be setting within the next hour or so. Just as he found that focus again, a voice called from behind him, catching him off guard and making him catch on his footing.

                “She likes you, you know,” Nuria stepped out from the shade of the small roof that covered the store. She had been leaning against the wall around the building’s corner, out of John’s sight. He turned to face her, furrowing his brow. He chose not to respond. “You’d have to be an idiot not to see it,” she said as she walked up to him, letting her arms fall to her side and sway with her hips.

                John kept quiet, scrutinizing her as she approached. He hated not knowing what she was up to, and she always had an unreadable set of expressions to pair. Glancing over her shoulder, he could still see Helai through the window, who looked up from her work to grin at him. His gaze quickly tore back to Nuria, who planted herself between him and Helai. She looked him up and own, then tilted her head to stare at the baggage he carried.

                “Where’re you headed this late?” she asked with a sly smile, “If you were needing to keep warm, you could’ve just come to me—” she took another step closer to him, but he took a step back, a frown bending his lips. Nuria just laughed and took another step forward. “You know, Lapis Lake is a far way off. You’d get their faster with a guide—”

                “How did you know I was going to—”

                “I have my ways,” she smiled, tapping a finger to her temple, “well? How about it?” she tilted her head to the other side and leaned a little too close for John’s liking.

                “I’ll manage,” John replied, taking another step away. He readjusted the strap of the bag with a tug of his wrist and lurch of his shoulder. Nuria placed her hands on her hips, watching him as he turned back onto his path, her crystal eyes glinting with something—something unknown to him. It made his skin crawl. He shook his head and started walking off when he was shoved from behind. The sudden force of the push made him stumble forward, and he cursed under his breath. He came to his knees, catching himself from rolling forward with an outstretched arm. Pain from the shock shot up his forearm, making him grit his teeth.

                “Sure you will,” Nuria called, suddenly in front of him, “if you can cut wood without an ax!”

                John snapped his gaze to his side, the strap of the sheath must have fallen when he was pushed. He looked up to see Nuria running ahead, ax in hand and laughing as she sped off. Dust clouded his vision from his staggered fall, adding to the burning annoyance in his head.

                “Dammit!” John cursed. He broke into a forceful run, sprinting to catch up with her. Anger boiled in his mind, clenching his jaw in a grimace in response. The bag jostled ferociously at his side as he ran, clumsily slapping against him and ruining his pace. He cursed again and tucked the bag under his arm as he bolted after her.

                Regardless of her head start, he caught up to her within a few seconds, swinging his free arm out to snag the ax from her. She swiftly stamped her feet to slow herself and pivoted, sending John stumbling forward on his own momentum. Nuria laughed harder and ran in another direction. Her movements were unbelievably light, which made her steps look like a dance when she sprung into a run again. John put several powerful stomps into the earth to bend his direction and charged back after her, his temper increasing.

                He drew near to her again, and swung his arm out to for another attempt. She quickly slowed herself, but John was ready this time. Instead of swinging for the ax, he tucked into a slide and slung his arm around her leg, flipping her onto her back. Nuria landed with a hard thud, letting the ax clang to the ground beside her. She gasped for breath as it was knocked out of her, and rolled to the side. John stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes. He walked past her, ignoring her struggle to recover from the hard fall. With an annoyed grunt, he picked it up and slung its strap over his shoulder, shaking his head.

                Nuria sat up, her breathing returning to normal. John didn’t stay to see if she was alright, and kept walking on his path. Several more curses escaped his lips as he marched off angrily.

                “You’re going the wrong way,” Nuria said bluntly. John cocked his head back to her, a disgusted frown still plastered on his face. Nuria was getting to her feet, brushing what sand she could see from her shoulder and behind. Her clothes looked as tan as the earth now, and John couldn’t help but smile at his work of revenge. “Lapis Lake is that way,” she pointed, her face contorting at the sight of his slight grin.

                John gave a short exhale through his nose as a response and headed in the direction she pointed to. He readjusted the straps of the bag and sheath while he walked, a subtle annoyance grew inside him when he couldn’t manage to adjust how they laid before he was abruptly shoved.

                “Wrong again,” Nuria called, pointing in another direction. John rolled his eyes and stopped in his tracks, turning back to face her. She walked up to him, a stern look on her face. “You’re like a child—stubborn—” she said, ripping the duffle bag from his shoulder and slinging it over hers, “—and unprepared.” She started off on the right path, taking the lead. John shook his head and sighed, but followed her anyway. As much as he didn’t want her help, he’d make it there and back much faster with a guide. That is, if she kept from distracting him with any more obnoxious teasing.

                They walked in silence. John kept his pace with hers, but lingered a few feet behind her, his mind still vexed with a bitter taste sewn into his thoughts. Such a minor thing as to walk beside her felt revolting, it felt like defeat. He attempted to swallow his pride, sighing heavily as he trailed just behind her. At times, he felt like speaking, to say anything that might make the journey less unbearable, but he could feel a strong wall of apathy reverberating from her. It felt like his own, so he kept his mouth shut.

                On top of the tension floating between them, the walk was dreadfully boring. There was nothing but fields of sand mixed with patches of dry grass and the occasional tree, struggling for life in the beating sun. Luckily, the sun had begun its descent from its high place in the sky, ensuring the walk back would be shaded in twilight. After a while, the burning annoyance subsided in John’s mind, although a wisp of it still remained in caution. He walked beside her now, but neither one of them said a word. He occasionally looked to her, watching the expression on her face, attempting to read anything on her. She looked tired.

                “There’s a bottle in that bag if you’re thirsty,” John said, looking ahead. No response. John clenched his jaw, and readjusted the sling of the ax. The sound of their steps felt as if they were growing louder. The crunch of their boots pressing over rocks and sand grinding more aggressively in his mind with every step. He exhaled, and thought of another approach.

                “Why are you helping me?” he asked, this time turning his head to watch her eyes. She saw him stare and cleared her throat.

                “Why not?” she responded, looking at him with a furrowed brow. “You’re acting like we’re strangers—like we were nothing,” she continued, turning her gaze back on the path.

                “We were nothing,” John said solemnly.

                “And who determined that? Your father? John, you need to think for yourself—you can’t keep being the ox of the cart for the village. Not like this. One of these days you’ll have everyone leaning on you—because they’re used to it, because you’ll do it without question—and the weight will break you. It’ll hurt them just as much as you. Sometimes—” she paused, then look back to him, “—sometimes you need to let go.”

                Let go. This was why he had tried so hard to stay away from her. Being with her ignited the small sparks of what he wanted deep down. His dreams. She made him want to leave, to drop everything and run, to see the world. She was dangerous to him, or at least, that’s what he tried to tell himself. He met Nuria’s gaze, his eyes hinting at his feelings, that she was right. She saw it. He tore his gaze away, frowning. He tried to force the old childish thoughts down, wanting to lock everything away like he had for the past few years. Everything was set in place for him. His life became a routine, one that distracted him from what his father had told him was his selfishness, and now, he felt like he was being torn in two.

                “Mind if I—?” John gestured to the bag. Nuria nodded and slid the strap off her shoulder, tossing the bag to him. He caught it in his arms, and unzipped it to retrieve the bottle. He only wanted it to distract him, if only for a moment. The warm water made him cringe, and he quickly swallowed to be rid of it. John could still feel her eyes on him.

                “Water? You really haven’t changed,” she said with half a smile.

                “Neither have you,” he countered, returning the smile. He placed the bottle back in the back, handing it back to Nuria. She held up a hand to decline, smiling at him with a familiar look that would have made his heart flutter years ago.

                “It’s yours,” she said, “and besides, apparently, I’m nothing, so how can I—?”

                “That’s not what I meant—”

                “I know what you meant,” she finished, her smile fading. She took a few brisk steps ahead of him, taking the lead again. John frowned, but followed in her steps, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

                No one spoke the rest of the way. John watched his feet more than he did Nuria or where they were going. His thoughts swam and morphed in his head as he struggled to find composure over the feelings that fought inside him. It felt like a swarm of bees buzzing inside his head, fighting to get out. The rest of the way, he attempted to drown them—to some avail.

                Nuria had stopped several feet ahead of him, and he nearly ran into her, still lost in thought. He took a moment, blinking rapidly as he took in his surroundings. Several clusters of trees surrounded a small, mudbrick building, and those too were surrounded by several groupings of hills that lead far down a slope, mostly covered in trees and other vegetation. The plants weren’t dry like those found near the village. They must be near the lake. John stepped in a small circle, taking in every detail. The trees were smaller than he expected, with thin trunks and brittle bark. The lake was close, but still a way off.

                “Where’s the lake?” John asked, turning his side as he scanned over the area.

                “Not far,” Nuria replied, “it’s just down that slope, but we’re close enough. There’s a huge outpost that was set up just across the lake not long ago, and it’s crawling with soldiers. It would be best if we didn’t show ourselves.”

                John nodded, looking back to Nuria. He walked back to her side, then studied the small building in the shade.

                “What’s this place then?” he said, taking a step closer to it. He cocked his head to the side, squinting his eyes as he tried to peer through a small, dusty window by the door.

                “I come here from time to time. It’s sort of an outpost we use when travelling into the southern valley. Ever since the ruins began to crawl with Russian patrols, we had to find new meeting points,” she said, looking at the building, “this is one of them.”

                “I didn’t know there was so much you had set up around the valley.”

                “Yeah, well, your father isn’t the one running the missions, so you can’t trust everything he says about what we do out here,” Nuria added and turned to him with a smile, “after all, it’s me who runs the supply runs on this part of the valley, not him.”

                John nodded, removing the bag and sheathed ax from his shoulders. He let the bag fall with a light flop and began to undo the straps of the ax. Nuria grabbed his arm as he undid the last fastenings. He looked at her with a confused look.

                “You can’t cut down any of the trees here,” she instructed, “this place needs to look abandoned. If anyone found this place and thought someone lived here, we could have Russians stalking over the area within days.” She folded her arms, giving him a condescending look. John narrowed his brow and picked up the bag, slinging it back onto his shoulder. He kept the partly unsheathed ax in his hand.

                “Don’t give me that look,” she smiled, “we aren’t stupid. There are supplies inside the shack—firewood included—in case we ever needed to stay here for extended periods of time.”

                John smiled in reply. If there was firewood already cut, he would be happy to take what he could. It also meant he would be able to start heading home earlier, with the possibility of twilight still lighting their path. Nuria gestured to the door. John complied with a nod and stepped towards the front door. It looked to have originally been painted red, but the paint was almost entirely faded or flaked away. As he got closer, he could see the work they did to make this place feel abandoned. Dust still covered the windows, and a coat of sand covered anything that was exposed. There were two thin pieces of sheet metal leaned up against the wall, with other pieces of broken metal and parts that were unusable due to their decrepit state. The building looked like it was lost in time. John wondered what it could have been when it was first built, who could have lived here. He reached the door before he could devise a conclusion.

                There was no knob on the door, but the sturdiness of it suggested there were locks on the other side that would hold it shut when needed. He carefully placed a hand against the wood, and pushed. It was stiff to give in, but with a little more effort the door gradually swung inward. The sound of the small chains of locks rattled as they hung freely against the wall inside. It was dark, the only light entering through the small window near the door. Heavy dust floated, kicked up from the movement of the door. John covered his mouth as he stepped inside. There were boxes piled against the left wall, and on the right was a bed, nicely tucked, but covered in dust. A rickety looking stove sat against the back wall. It looked like it hadn’t been used in years and was by far the most decrepit thing in the home.

                John approached the stove, looking at it curiously. It looked out of place. He set the bag down and set the ax beside the old stove. He heard Nuria step into the room and the door shut quietly.

                “Hey, so where’s the—” he started, turning to face her.

                Nuria abruptly shoved herself onto him, forcing him against the stove. She grabbed his arms at the elbow and pressed him back. Before he could speak, she forced her lips against his and kissed him hard. He froze where he was, off guard, with no thoughts coming to him. He didn’t know whether to fight it or give in, but she kept moving before he could decide. She moved her hand to his chest, grabbing him and sinking her nails into him like claws. He shuddered and opened his mouth from the sudden pain of the deep scratches.

                It was the reaction she wanted, and she kissed his open mouth and making him move his lips with hers. His free hand drifted upwards. He could still stop this. He felt his heart beating rapidly and flutter with a warmth that excited him. All his thoughts, his anxieties and worries, were gone in an instant. The only sense he had left in him still tried to fight back, but the swift beating of his heart drowned out any clear thoughts that endured. She bit his lip, breathed hard, and kissed him again. he was torn back to her as fast as it had started. His free arm clutched at her back, pulling her closer. His fingers grasping at her like she had done to him.

                He heard a light sound escape her lips before she pressed against him again. She let go of his other arm and gripped his hair, tugging him harder against her lips. He pulled her farther onto him with both arms, holding her close. He could feel her pounding heart beat against his chest. It made him shudder with bliss, which made her only clutch at him more. She could feel every movement, every breath he made, and savored every movement.

                Her hand clawed down his side and lifted under his shirt, grabbing any part of his chest and side she could. The sudden feeling of her hand against his skin made him gasp, pressing his waist against her. Another soft sound left her lips, and she kissed him along his cheek and down his neck. John tried to catch his breath, quickly blinking and staring euphorically at the ceiling. He grasped the back of her head, combing his fingers through her hair that flowed freely from the bun it had been kept in. He felt a sudden twinge of pain as Nuria bit his neck in between kisses. He held her hair tightly in his hand and clawed at her back with the other.

                Nuria dropped her hand from his hair and joined it with the other under his shirt, digging her nails into his back and chest. She moved to lift his shirt even higher, but John kept her from lifting it off him. There was still a whisper of sagacity fighting deep down in his mind. Before he could let his senses return to him, Nuria changed her course, kissing along his exposed collarbone and down his chest. She started kneeling before him, letting her hands curve down his body to his waist. That was when he conscience snapped back to him.

                “We shouldn’t be doing this,” John said, taking both of her arms from his sides. She looked up at him with frosty blue eyes, tilting her head and giving him a teasing stare. Nuria tried to wrench her arms free, but he held them tight. She hummed in disapproval, but smiled up at him with a grin that made him shiver. She dropped to her knees completely, ignoring his grip on her and placed her mouth over the front of his pants. His breath stuttered at the unexpected sensation, and he forced himself with all he could to fight back.

                “Nuria, stop,” he demanded, lifting her to her feet by her arms. He held them at her side, as to stop her from trying anything else while he spoke. She frowned, clearly irritated. “This isn’t why we came here, we can’t do this,” he said. He found it hard to focus on her piercing eyes—eyes that stared right through him. He let go of her, shifting his shirt back down, and paced to the other side of the room. He thought he had gotten through to her, but turned back to see her stepping right back under his chin, gazing into his eyes.

                “Come on, John, you need this—” she breathed, letting her gaze follow the shape of his body, “—we both do.”

                “No, I don’t,” he replied, adding a stronger sternness to his voice, “I don’t want this.” He backed away from her farther into the room. He glanced at the boxes towards the room’s opposite side, trying to tear his focus back on the task he came here for. The firewood must be in one of those boxes—

                “Your cock says otherwise,” she moaned, stepping closer to him again. She placed her hand firmly on the front of his pants, squeezing him tenderly. Nuria bit her lip, staring intently at where she massaged him.

                John trembled to her every touch. He wanted to give in so badly, to let himself be used by her. He took another step back, finding himself beside the dusty bed. He grabbed for her hand, but Nuria swung first, holding his hand to the side. She shook her head and smiled, gripping his cock harder. John wavered, watching her tug at him. He could feel his breathing shorten as he tightened up, unable to move.

                “Nuria—” he tried again.

                “Shut up.”

                Nuria pushed him onto the bed, and crawled onto it herself, sitting on his lap. She pinned his arms to the bed, kissing him fiercely. His heart fluttered with excitement, and he let his arms fall limp, letting her pin him where she wanted him. She started grinding her hips against him, making him breathe hard when he broke away from her lips. She pressed them against his again, savoring every part of him. He began to move with her too, pressing upwards with his waist in beat with her movements. She hummed euphorically as their lips interlocked, and suddenly lifted her mouth away.

                She bit her lip again in a devious smile. She took one of his hands, and lifted it to her chest, wrapping his fingers around her breast. She squeezed his hand over her, letting out a moan and closing her eyes. She no longer held him down, placing her hands on his chest while she tongued his lips. John grabbed her breasts, grasping and caressing them as he humped against her harder. She gasped, and moved her hand down to grab his thrusting bulge. She tugged on him for a moment, her mouth open and breathing heavily. John let his arms fall to his sides, watching her eyes devour him. She met his stare, smiled, and lifted her shirt off, flinging it to the side. She was entirely naked underneath. John could feel his face redden and his heart beat quicker at the sight of her. She was beautiful, the tone of her skin reflecting in the fading sunlight. The sun. It was setting.

                Nuria took his hand again, placing it on her naked chest. His breath shivered from his mouth. His hands felt every curve of her breasts, her nipples hardening between his fingers. She stifled a moan between shut lips, letting herself fall onto him. Her lips pushed against his again, harder and faster. John could feel her warmth against his crotch, and it made him ache for her. He wanted her—every part of her. His hands moved from under her. They wrapped around her back, pulling her closer and scratching at her. His hands explored any part of her that he could, but the feeling of her naked back always drew him back.

                John bent his head back to catch his breath. Nuria took a moment to do the same, then began to let her lips travel down his neck. She sat up, pushing his shirt up as far as she could, smiled, and let her fingers run along his naked torso. They lightly danced down his body to the buttons of his pants. His muscles clenched, making little thrusts against her at her approaching touch. Her hands massaged over his pants, over his entire waist. She looked up to him again, raising her eyebrows and biting her lip in a teasing manner. Her hands froze, gripping the rim of his pants.

                He rolled his eyes, still breathing hard. His head laid back while his eyes travelled over the ceiling. He turned his head to the side, gazing out the window. Barely any light shown through. Panic sprung into his head, replacing his excited heartbeat with one of urgency. He sat up, attempted to keep his eyes from Nuria’s naked breasts, and gently moved her from his lap. She tried to take hold of him, but he slithered from her grasp. John quickly walked towards the window. The stars were starting to become more and more visible.

                “Fuck!” he yelled. He tugged up on his pants, readjusting himself, and moved towards the boxes, rummaging through them helplessly. He turned back to see Nuria, sitting angrily with arms folded. Her pouty face only made him more frustrated. “Where’s the firewood—where are the logs?” he asked. His words had an icy bite to them, their tone cutting into Nuria enough to give a straight answer.

                “Under the stove—we keep them hidden there.”

                John stomped over to the stove, forcefully sliding it away to reveal a large, square hole underneath. Among other random supplies, there sat the pile of logs. He cursed to himself—there were barely enough for two days. He feared for what his father might say. He’d be returning with barely anything after being gone for so long. John thought anxiously of the excuses he’d have to prepare on the way home. He felt his face redden with embarrassment and anger. Immediately, he took every log from the hole, tossing them clumsily into the duffle bag. He was too vexed to handle the job carefully now. All he wanted was to bolt out the door, and leave Nuria behind.

                Once the final log fell haphazardly into the bag, John zipped it shut and slung it over his shoulder. He stood to go retrieve the ax, but hesitated where he stood. Nuria was just now placing her shirt on, and John couldn’t help but stare at her naked chest one last time. She caught his eyes with a glare and he quickly broke his gaze. He lifted the strap of the sheathed ax over his shoulder and looked back at Nuria, who stood, arms folded. There was something glinting in those crystal eyes. Something that made him linger.

                “Please don’t go, John,” her voice was soft. She walked up to him, but kept her arms to herself. John studied her face, narrowing his brow.

                “What?” John asked.

                “Don’t go back—there’s nothing back there for you.”

                “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

                “John, listen. I know you care about them… but there’s a whole world out there you need to see. Come with me.”

                John paused with a look of confusion on his face. He couldn’t process all these emotions, all these thoughts. He closed his eyes and shook his head, turning back towards the door. Nuria grabbed his arm, pulling him just out of reach from the door. He let out a sigh and slowly spun back to face her. There was a doleful look in her eyes, one he couldn’t ignore.

                “What would you have me do? Abandon everyone and run off with you? Do you understand how crazy that is?” he chided, leaning closer to her. She lowered her head momentarily, then looked him in the eyes again.

                “They don’t deserve you. They hate you—you and your father. No one appreciates you how they should!”

                “And you do?”

                “Yes,” Nuria answered simply, staring at him with an intense glare.

                He exhaled through his nose sharply, looking away. He looked over the surroundings of the house, thinking deeply. His heart entertained him with ideas of freedom, being able to run away and live the life he always wanted, but his head told him the truth. Nuria let go of his arm, but he remained where he stood. There wasn’t enough time to think about the possibilities.

                “I can’t do this, Nuria,” he muttered, “I need to go.”

                John swung the door open, leaving the house before Nuria could argue. The night air was cool and welcoming. He marched briskly away from the home, not wanting to look back. Deep down, he yearned to run back and take Nuria in his arms. His thoughts drifted between what could happen and what did happen inside the building. It made him flutter on the inside, but he shoved the feelings down before they could take hold of his mind and make him return. He heard Nuria burst through the door, running after him. John clenched his jaw and sped up his pace, wanting to forget her.

                “John, wait,” Nuria called as she attempted to catch up with him. He kept walking forward, trying to focus on the sound of his footsteps and the light breeze in the air rather than her hurried steps. Nuria suddenly stepped ahead of him, spun to face him, and stopped him in his tracks, placing her hand on his chest. “Are you even listening to me?” she asked. Her face fell to a calm look, and she let her hand linger on him for a moment longer before letting it fall to her side.

                “At least let me walk you back,” Nuria said, “you’ll get back sooner.”

                He looked down at her, clenching his jaw repeatedly, but eventually exhaled and nodded. A soft smile appeared on Nuria’s face, and she took the lead, heading down the path she took him on before. John managed to calm his frustration. He was thankful to have him with her, even if she had thrown him from his task like could never imagine. It’d be nice to have someone with him to make the walk back less stressful, keeping him from being alone with his anxious thoughts.

                His eyes closed from time to time while they walked, the warm night air blew comfortably through his messy hair. It was hard to switch from one idea to the next or from one mindset to another. He had started his day like any other, keeping a dignified attitude and a stoic face while he did his duties for the village, but Nuria toppled all of that. She always did, and part of him liked that. Now, he struggled to find the correct way he should feel. His mind dove from thoughts of duty, to dreams, to lust. He caught himself staring at Nuria every few minutes, would then clear his throat, and then center his attention on the path ahead.

                “Hey, do you still have that water?” Nuria asked, glancing back at John as they walked, “my thirst just caught up with me.”

                John blinked, noticing how parched he was too. They must have been too distracted to realize how much of a thirst they had worked up, Nuria especially. He tugged the bag around from his back, unzipped it, and retrieved the water, tossing it to Nuria who pivoted her walked to face him. She caught it effortlessly, and took several deep gulps of the water before throwing it back to him. He gladly emptied the rest of the bottle down his dry throat, and stuffed the empty bottle back into the bag.

                “John,” Nuria started, keeping her attention on the path.

                “Hmm?”

                “Will you consider joining us on our next supply run? I know what you’re thinking—you ‘have your duties’, but we could really use your help—”

                “Nuria—”

                “Just listen,” she said, pausing to turn and face him, “I’m sure you can work something out with your father—do some extra work, or talk to someone about having them take up your duties for a week—trade or something—”

                “My place is in Amniat, you need to understand that,” John spoke calmly, “and besides I…”

                His voice trailed off. Over the hills ahead, the sky was washed in a deep scorching light of oranges and yellows, twirling in the clouds above. Small lines of white light jetted up into the sky like beads of lightning. A low rumbling of sound carried over the valley, catching in John’s ears faintly. The distant surroundings of the mysterious glow were bathed in a deeper, red luster that flickered in a sickening pattern.

                “John, what is it?” Nuria asked, staring at him with worry. “What’s—” she cut off, spinning to see what had caught John’s attention.

                He pushed past her, rushing forward. He stomped his way up the hills that blocked his view, nearly tripping over his own feet for keeping his focus on the lights rather than the slipping rocks beneath him. He reached the top of the cluster of rugged mounds overlooking the valley to the north. His breath caught in his throat. What was blocking out the stars in the darkness wasn’t clouds. It was smoke. The dark fumes bellowed upwards, choking the sky. Down below, roaring fires ignited the plumes of smoke in grasping light, tearing into the shadows of the valley like hands clutching for life.

                The screams reached his ears first. They sounded tortured and inhuman, carrying across the open air. A sporadic series cracks and pops penetrated through all other sound. Yelling and screaming rained heavily from different directions, some in pain, and some in anger. John thought he could see bodies lying strewn far down from the hills. It petrified him. He never noticed Nuria stand beside him, watching the horror unravelling before them. No thoughts came to him. Nothing resonated within him but the pained screams of the people he loved. He watched, unblinking as everything he ever knew was engulfed in flame and blood.

Chapter Text

7 January 1976. 13:04. Eastern Pskov, Russia .

                “I stand before you, accused of undertaking the actions needed to safeguard the assets crucial to our future,” Yuri spoke, his voice was dignified, but it carried a bitter taste that hissed at the men sitting at the far table, “actions that were ordered by the men in this very room. And you ask me to lay my neck down on the line for you? Why am I to carry the blame for this, when it was you who took these risks?”

                “Leonid, listen to him,” said Artur, a thin, aged man sitting at the edge of the heavy, oaken table, “this isn’t right, why should he—”

                “Enough,” Leonid’s thick voice stomped out any disagreements, “I will not argue over one life for the exchange of our own. Enough blood has been spilt.”

                Yuri stood like a statue in the center of the dimly lit room, clenching his jaw as he stared into the eyes of his murderers. The people he had once looked to for leadership, even as family, now had contorted, hideous faces. They were strangers to him now. He had given them his youth, his life, and now they were ready to throw him into the fire to save their own hides. Ten men sat at the table, ten monsters who had decided his fate as a reward for his loyal service. His fists tightened, he wanted nothing more than to strangle the life out of each beast that sat comfortably before him.

                His eyes darted to the side of the room where several sets of armed guards were stationed. He knew them. They were his men. Men he trained and fought with for nearly eight years of his life. Now they stood against those cold walls, ready to kill him should he try to retaliate against this injustice. They know it is cruel—they know this is wrong, he thought, that’s why they have my own men stationed against me—they know I won’t kill them. But they know they’ll kill me…

                “You must understand, Officer Volkov,” Leonid stood, gesturing towards him, “we are at our end. Axis Andromeda has abandoned us.” Yuri narrowed his eyes, a frown curling his lips. “With the sporadic changes in government positions and the constant shifts in this cold war, we have been cornered. They’ve cut their funding to us, and all our assets have been plucked from us. All we have now are our titles and duties we should have kept to in the first place. The KGB is at our doorstep, and I fear we shall all lose our heads unless we can place the blame for losing Viktor Nikolaev. That is why we need you—”

                “I gave you my life,” Yuri belted across the room, what more could you need?” He took a step forward, watched as every soldier in the room tightened their grip on their weapons, and took a step back.

                “And you will give it again!” Leonid yelled back.

                Yuri bit his tongue, stifling his rage. He could feel his fingernails digging into his palms. How could they treat him like some dog? He thought of rushing towards the table. Maybe he could twist the neck of that fat man before his men shot him. His own pride kept himself from pondering such a pathetic death, and he waved the thirsty thought away.

                “Do not forget,” Pavel, a casually held man leaning his chair back into the shadows, began, “that it was you who lost him. Had we kept track of Dr. Nikolaev once he entered Afghanistan, we might have been able to curve this endeavor in your favor.”

                Yuri felt his face redden. He could still remember the way he yelled at his men when they returned from that god forsaken desert, having reported that they were forced to turn over Viktor to those damn fiends that Viktor was so fond of. It was a colossal mistake, and those men paid the price for it. Now, he was going to take that blame tenfold.

                “The failure to ensure the safety of our most treasured assets was a massive failure, and one you will carry the blame of regardless of our decision made today,” Pavel continued, “you will not leave this room without that weight on your shoulders, Yuri Volkov.”

                Several men shot glances at each other from the table, and Yuri noticed a few of the soldiers shuffle their feet uneasily. He glared at deeply at Pavel, feeling his jaw begin to hurt from being so tightly clenched. He knew what words came next before they ever left that snake of a mouth sliced into Pavel’s snide face. He locked his knees in place, fighting the urge to spring forward from where he stood. How dare they. How dare they bring him to nothing before they slaughter him like a common cow.

                “As of today, you are stripped of your rank and affiliation with the Spetsnaz, you are dissolved from Axis Andromeda and removed of its access to resources and all assets,” Pavel spoke with a sly hint of a smile as he leaned forward, “from here, you will be escorted to a private court where you will be tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death. You will be dishonorably discharged and seen as a traitor to your fellow man from now, to your death, and for all time to come. Do I make myself clear? Your name will fade from history—all your accomplishments and work—will be smothered out and washed away. All but a lingering string of words will remain in your stead—that you betrayed your homeland and failed your brothers.”

                Yuri felt sick. His knees nearly buckled and he felt like he would collapse and vomit. He took a step forward to balance himself, and raised a hand to the armed men against the wall who watched him attentively, no doubt worrying he was about to lash out. He steadied himself, trying to remain as dignified as possible. The men at the table sat with solemn faces, their eyes fallen to the floor, all except Pavel, who stared back with venomous eyes. Yuri drew in a breath, and exhaled slowly, attempting to calm himself.

                “Why tell me this?” Yuri questioned, “Why tell me any of this—if all you were going to do was kill me in the end?”

                “We wanted you to face your death with dignity and honor,” Artur said slowly, sorrow lingering in his voice, “we thought it would be fair to you, to know why this end was chosen, and it was chosen by us to tell you so that we could face the weight of this decision. This was not an easy choice, make no mistake.”

                “More importantly,” Pavel added, “it is so that you know the consequences, should you try to defend yourself. Any mention of us, Axis Andromeda, or any other affiliation without outside work from the Spetsnaz will be denied. It is better that you hold your head high when you enter that court room. Besides, it will make it easier for the headsman to slice through your neck—”

                “Pavel, that’s enough,” Leonid cut in, “Officer—pardon—Yuri, we have requested that your end be met by a firing squad. You will not be dishonorably hanged or butchered—”

                “Am I to find some comfort in this?” Yuri bit back, “Are my own men going to cut me down? What death is there that I should enjoy when it is at the hands of those I trusted most? You dogs! Save your words of false repose and kill me yourselves, you cowards—”

                His knee was kicked in from behind and his stumbled forward to the ground, just barely managing to keep himself from falling on his face. He felt the barrel of a rifle press hard against his spine. He didn’t dare move, although he knew he could kill whatever bastard was ramming their rifle into his back. He panted angrily, staring at the red rug inches from his face.

                “Remove him!” Pavel’s voice carried out over the room, “We’ve wasted enough time on this nonsense. The proceedings must be carried out before the end of the day—let’s not keep them waiting.” Yuri could hear the enjoyment in Pavel’s voice as the last word slipped from his tongue.

                Two men came to his sides and yanked him to his feet, locking his arms in place and keeping him from struggling. He could still feel the barrel jabbed against his back. His winced, but kept his burning glare on Pavel, who stood smiling as the remaining soldiers moved to escort Yuri. Those that didn’t help secure him, aimed their weapons at him, ready for anything. He was suddenly tugged backwards as the men began pulling him out of the room.

                “Cowards,” Yuri barked, “you’re all cowards! Burn in hell!” One of the soldiers slammed the butt of his rifle against his cheek, clogging his potent words in his throat. He watched the men at the table. Most of them sat like stone, staring vacantly at the floor. Only Pavel and Artur followed his cursing eyes. Artur was the only one who looked human in that room, but his grieving stare was quickly closed away as the heavy doors of the room slammed shut, separating him from the people he would have given his life for once. Now, they were going to take it to make their lives easier. Yuri had never felt like a pawn until now. He had always felt like a brother, but all of that was gone—torn away in an instant by old men with bitter minds.

                After the doors shut, another blow came from one of the men, he couldn’t tell which one, knocking the breath out of him. He staggered and would have fallen if the two soldiers hadn’t kept him held up by his armpits. Yuri grit his teeth and glared at one of the men stood in front of him. Their faces were all hidden behind balaclavas, but he still knew their eyes. He recognized those brown eyes. Before he could speak, the man cocked his fist back and landed a bludgeoning punch to his jaw. Yuri felt dizzy, spitting blood blindly to the side. Another punch jabbed him in the cheek, then another to his ribs. Yuri flung his leg upwards, catching the man in the groin. The man forced a gurgled choke as he stumbled to his knee, but another swing from Yuri’s foot stabbed at his throat, sending him back against the doors.

                The heavy wood shook at the sudden weight being thrown against it. Yuri smiled, spitting on the ground. Immediately, another man stepped in front of him and landed his fist against Yuri’s nose. The two men holding him placed their legs to lock his in place. Punch after punch, Yuri managed to keep his ground. His vision blurred and a ringing echoed in his ear from a hard smack to the side of his head. He bared his teeth, groaning from the aching pain. It hurt more to think that his men never truly cared for him. He understood they were following orders, but was no one ever on his side?

                Artur. If he could somehow reach Artur, maybe he could change the other’s minds. Yuri opened his mouth to speak, but a strip of thick cloth was slung around his mouth and forcefully tied back, making him gag. He forced his teeth over the cloth, but it was no use. Whoever was tying the gag only pulled back harder, tightening it and keeping him from speaking. Yuri groaned in anger, but only a muffled hum escaped the gag. He felt the barrel of a rifle jab into his back again as they turned away from the doors and headed down the hallway. Yuri was resistant at first, but a forceful stomp to his heel from behind made him step in line.

                Panic began to set in his mind as he realized there was no escaping this. Even if he did manage to break free of the iron grip around his arms, he’d be cut down immediately by any one of the six guards surrounding him. The only person that could help him was in that room, locked away. He’d never see his face again. Yuri could feel his heart begin to race and sweat start to bead on his brow. The walk down the hallway felt like an eternity as each passing second was filled with worry and fear for what would come next. He felt like he was suffocating, not just from the gag, but from the sentence he was delivered. He almost wished they hadn’t told him, and just put a bullet in the back of his head before he could tell what was happening. Now he had to spend whatever amount of time he had left waiting. Waiting to die.

                A guard waiting at the front entrance of the building nodded at their approach and pressed a button against the wall. The glass doors swung open, locking in place as Yuri stumbled out into the harsh sunlight. He squinted and ducked his head from the glaring sun. The barrel of the rifle stabbed at his back, and he grunted as he stepped forward again. Down a flight of stairs waited a black ZIL-114 limousine with blacked out windows. Several other limousines and two VAL-2101 sedans lined up along the curb with similar customized looks.

                Yuri froze at the top of the stairs. It terrified him, looking down at what was symbolically his coffin. If he got in that car, it was over. His eyes widened, and he felt a fear slither through him that he hadn’t felt in years. This was truly it. This was the end. A soldier yelled at him to move and kicked the back of his knee. He almost fell down the stairs if it wasn’t for the two men holding him from running. He matched the pace of the soldiers, but tried to step as slowly as possible, which wasn’t much when he had a rifle digging between his ribs from behind.

                They stopped at the back doors of the limousine. It was already running. One of the guards moved to open the door, but the handle didn’t budge. He looked to the men holding Yuri and tried again. The doors were locked. An annoyed grunt came from the soldier, and he moved to the front of the car. Yuri had just noticed how quiet it was. All he could hear was the subtle wind and the aggravated soldier tapping on the glass of the car. He cocked his head back to look at the building. No one. The only people here were the guards that escorted him—and two of them were missing.

                The soldier tapping on the glass started to yell, and kicked the car out of anger. No doubt he was frustrated with having looked like a fool. Yuri looked back to him, narrowing his brow in annoyance with the man’s loss of temper. He could feel the soldiers holding him shuffle with impatience. They want to be rid of me, he thought, was I truly nothing but a pawn?

                The silence was broken by the sound of the front passenger window being rolled down. The annoyed soldier stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. Once the window slid completely into the door, the man leaned down and proceeded to yell into the car. Two words escaped his mouth when something zipped out of the car and through the man’s head. His body slumped to the ground before the mist of blood could settle. The other soldiers spun to look with horror at the crumpled body by the car. Yuri felt the guards loosen their grip on him, but he froze in shock. If he wanted to run, now was his chance, but his breath caught in his throat as he stared at the body of his former ally, his comrade.

                There was a moment of complete silence, apart from the sound of blood trickling onto the pavement from the hole blasted through the dead man’s head. It felt like each passing second came to a crawling speed. Yuri suddenly felt himself being tugged downwards towards the side of the car. The guards that held him shoved him down, and held him there while they looked to the three remaining armed guards. They motioned to them, and they raised their weapons to fire into the car. Quiet thumps resonated from the nearby buildings as bullets whizzed through each of the armed soldier’s skulls. They dropped like ragdolls almost simultaneously.

                The three of them sat, waiting. Yuri could hear one of the guards breathing heavily as panic began to settle in. It didn’t help him keep a steady breath. He scanned over the buildings with unblinking eyes, but no other shots came. That was the worst part. They could be picked off within a second, but the air was filled with silence again. Whoever took fired on them obviously had the capability to finish the job at any point. So why were they hesitant?

                The click and thump of car doors opening and closing as people stepped out echoed all around them. They could hear footsteps approaching from all sides. Yuri looked to his side to see the man to his left slowly reach for a handgun in his holster. The other was looking side to side frantically, fearing the worst. The panicked man broke first. He quickly stood from where he was, raising his hands above his head as he spun around to meet his attackers. Yuri could see the horror in his eyes. The man started yelling nonsense, pleading for his life. Several muffled shots rang out from around them, catching the man in his throat and face. He fell, gurgling on his own blood with a sickening thud. He twitched sporadically until a final shot punctured his head as if it were a rotten pumpkin. Discolored mush and brain matter sprayed to the side, and he the man went limp.

                Yuri stared at the corpse. This was real, and it was happening now. He noticed his mouth had fallen open and he had been frozen like a sensitive child. He quickly snapped out of his own bewilderment and leaned back against the car, trying to avoid being caught in any crossfire. Calm steps continued towards them, and he attempted to listen for how many personnel there were. Too many. If they wanted him killed, it was going to happen. A smile crept up his lips. If he was going to die, he thought it better to be murdered by his unknown assailants rather than the bastards who wanted his execution. He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

                The guard beside him stood abruptly, yanking Yuri up with him. The man pulled him in front of him, locking his arm around his neck. Yuri felt the cold tip of the barrel of a handgun placed against his temple. The man cocked his head back and forth, trying to remain calm. Yuri was able to sneak a glance to the side to see their pursuers. There were at least ten men to his right alone, all armed to the teeth. They were dressed in black and gray uniforms and had their faces hidden beneath dark balaclavas and helmets. They had enough gear for a small army. All of them held their weapons raised to fire on them, but no one did. Yuri could feel the hope leave the man holding him in place as his breathing increased, hitting him rapidly in the neck.

                He heard another car window being rolled down behind them, but it seemed that Yuri was the only one who noticed. The guard was shuffling his footing, looking to either side. As the unknown soldiers gradually approached, the guard pressed the gun harder against Yuri’s temple, and shouted at them to stop where they were. They kept their eyes on them, but kept their slow pace towards them.

                “That’s far enough,” the man yelled, “any closer and I’ll kill him!” Yuri felt him start to shake as the gun placed at his head vibrated in symphony with the man’s fear. “I don’t know where the hell you got these men, but you’re not leaving here alive, Volkov!” he spat in his ear.

                “Yes,” a low voice came from the car, “he is.”

                The two of them spun around to meet the cold metal tip of a suppressed handgun pointed at them from within the car. The guard gasped right before the gun fired between his eyes. The grip around Yuri’s neck loosened, and he felt the man slump backwards onto the hard ground. He turned slowly, looking down at the soldier. The man’s eyes were opened wide, his face capturing the look of alarm right before he was killed. The pulsing of blood from his forehead already began to slow.

                The car door opened, and another heavily equipped soldier stepped out of the vehicle. He moved behind Yuri and untied the gag around Yuri’s mouth. He drew in a deep breath, but remained quiet, still looking over the bodies of the guards. The soldiers lowered their weapons, and walked towards the bodies. Together, they picked them up and carried them to the vehicles where they placed them inside. A few men moved quickly to clean up any trace of the bodies while the rest returned to their vehicles and started their engines.

                “Come,” the low voice resounded again from the car, “take a seat.”

                The soldier that assisted Yuri, moved to hold the door open for him. Yuri hesitated for a moment, looking around him. It was entirely silent, with no one in sight apart from them. He took one last glance at the building he was carried from, then turned back to the car. He watched the eyes of the man holding the door for him as he ducked into the limousine. They were cold, and seemed to look right through him.

                It was dark on the inside thanks to the heavy tint on the windows, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the contrasted lighting. The soldier shut the door and moved to the front passenger’s door, got in and locked the doors from the front controls. Yuri looked around, although it was still hard to make out any fine details in the dark, he could see how spacious the car was. From what he could tell, every seat was filled, and the majority of the people in the seats were soldiers like the ones he saw outside. Beside him, however, sat a peculiar looking man. He was dressed in all black, with a trench coat to cover his attire. His face was hidden in the shade of a large, black, western hat, and from what he could tell, the man wore a black mask over his eyes. Yuri furrowed his brow, but tried not to focus on him too much. A muffled hum came from behind him, and he turned back to see a man sitting in a pair of seats behind them. The man was dressed in a dark suit, and his head was covered by a dirty, white bag. His arms and legs were restrained as well. Another shuddered hum gurgled its way through the bag that covered his face and a soldier beside him rammed his rifle into his leg to quiet him. Yuri had already felt reluctant to get into the vehicle, but now his uneasiness was crawling over his skin. He kept his eyes forward, not saying a word. The driver pulled away from the curb and started down the road, followed by the rest of the cars.

                “Officer Volkov,” that same low voice sounded in his ears, and he turned to see it had been the peculiar man who had spoken, “or should I say, Yuri Volkov?” He raised his head, looking him in the eye. He was taken aback by the sudden detail of the man’s face. It was covered in horrific scar tissue, spanning entirely over his visible skin. Yuri swallowed, clenching his jaw before responding.

                “I’ve had my eye on you for some time now,” the man continued before Yuri could return the greeting, “and it looks like we got to you right before you reached the chopping block.” A cruel smile stretched up the side of his face. Yuri said nothing—he was just glad to be away from those people. Although, he still wasn’t certain what this man’s intentions were, and worry still crept along his spine. “Are you familiar with the name, Axis Andromeda?” he asked, gesturing to the soldier in the passenger seat. Yuri watched as the soldier flipped through several manila folders, plucked one from the stack and handed it back to Yuri.

                “If you haven’t, I would consider you a fool, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” the mad added. Yuri flipped open the folder, revealing several papers with redacted text and multiple photographs. He lifted the pictures to his face for a closer look. They were photos of him—on missions he carried out on behalf of Axis Andromeda and those… men. A look of surprise crossed his face as he flipped through the photographs. He never knew these were taken or how these people got them. To his knowledge, there was no evidence of these missions. He set the pictures back into the folder and glanced over the documents. Those too were the mission details and debriefs of he and his men. It almost scared him. How long had been watched, and by how many people?

                “Yes,” Yuri said, still scrutinizing the documents, “I was an operative for Axis Andromeda—that is, until now.”

                “No one ever was,” the man said, looking at him with a serious gaze. Yuri looked at him in confusion. “Axis Andromeda never existed. They, like many other organizations, were a mask for something far greater,” he continued, signaling again to the soldier up front. He passed another folder back to Yuri, who exchanged the first folder for the second one. Inside were fully disclosed documents of multiple names and abbreviations as well their connections to something called The Philosophers. He looked over everything, puzzled. None of it made sense to him, but it was all there. Every connection his leaders had to Axis Andromeda and their roles. Even his name was mentioned again.

                “Phantom dreams still echo, but now they are falling silent,” said the man, mostly to himself, “today is for the living.”

                “Why are you showing me these?” Yuri asked, more focused on the documents.

                “I know your pain, Volkov,” the man began, placing a hand on Yuri’s shoulder momentarily, “you have been abandoned, by people you cared for—by people you would die for. Axis Andromeda is dying—although it is already a phantom, and the men who once employed you will soon be rooted out for being the snakes they are. I want to give you an opportunity to take your life back, and more.” He gestured to the soldier, and he reached back to take the folder from Yuri. Yuri set the documents back in place and handed it to the soldier, who set it back into the stack of folder he kept.

                “I want to give you a chance to redeem yourself,” the man added, “I should tell you that Axis Andromeda has been desperate in recovering from your loss of Dr. Nikolaev, and they have reached out to me as well as other organizations to assist in retrieving the doctor and his assets. I was the first to respond. It just so happens that our goals align, Volkov. I want you to help me retrieve these assets.”

                “And why should I help you? Especially if it means helping Axis Andromeda?” Yuri asked, “I’d rather see them burn for this.”

                “Then our paths align more than ever,” the man smiled, “you see, I’ve already been hired by Axis Andromeda, and they’ve sent me the assets and resources necessary to complete this task—” he motioned to the soldier again, who sent another folder back to Yuri, “—weaponry, military grade vehicles and rations, bases of operations, and even operatives stationed within the area already looking for Dr. Nikolaev. I have everything I could want to begin operations in Afghanistan. However, my attention and focus remains in Africa for the time being. I need someone to maintain and run these operations while I take care of my own assets.”

                Yuri opened the folder, and began flipping through another set of documents. Lists of weaponry and vehicles as well as the funding paid for the operation covered a few of them. He was impressed by the size of the list. The last document contained the information on the operatives stationed in Afghanistan and their locations. Most of the areas he knew, but several obscure village names were foreign to him—Baad-Baagh, Dóbey, Aghzay, Gwel, Amniat, Lasstay—he had never heard of them.

                “There is nothing more I could gain from that hollow mask of an organization, nothing, except for the assets they wish for me to retrieve for them. I am no puppet, and neither are you,” the man spoke slowly, “as I’ve said before, Axis Andromeda is dead, and I mean to take what I can in pursuit of my own goals. I need you help for that.”

                “And if I refuse?” Yuri asked. He was still uncertain about this man’s character, and he’d rather have nothing to do with Axis Andromeda. The man smiled.

                “At exactly 13:56 hours, ten minutes from now, you managed to break free of the guards meant to take you to your hearing. Once free, you single handedly killed every last soldier escorting you, apart from the two who had so conveniently gone missing. Those two are with me, and will return to inform them of the news of your escape… and death,” he said with a sly smile. Yuri watched him, trying to swallow his fear. “After you executed the guards, you used a hand grenade to detonate the vehicle you were being carried in, ending your life and freeing yourself from the grasp of Axis Andromeda once and for all. Pay close attention, Volkov. Your decision, which I will have before we reach our destination, will determine which charred corpse is found in the wreckage.” He smiled, gesturing behind himself to the man with the bag over his head.

                “There are others who would gladly take your place for this position, Volkov, make no mistake. I suggest you choose your answer wisely,” he added, “should you choose to accept, you will be placed as the commander of a sub-organization under my own, and will have access to all resources given to me by Axis Andromeda. You will be the leader of your own path, one that coincides with my own, and become the leader of Yeger.

                Huntsman. The name carried a satisfying weight. He would be a fool not to accept, but he hesitated anyway. Worry sat in the back of his head, warning him of the risk of being yet another puppet to another unknown organization. But still… he looked back, watching the terrified man struggle against his bonds. He could only hope that he had no idea what was going on. No doubt he could hear them though. He sat in silence, thinking to himself. He thought about the past, and his memories with the Spetsnaz and with the Axis Andromeda operatives. He remembered what it was like to feel like he belonged, like he had brothers. That all turned out to be a lie. Now, he had the chance to control whether it was a lie or the truth.

                Time must have escaped him, because the car came to a stop in the courtyard of a large, empty warehouse. The windows were all boarded off, and garbage and scrap metal sat in piles around the facility. There was no one here. This is the end of the line, for one of us, he thought.

                “Your answer, Volkov,” the man demanded, tipping his head towards him.

                Yuri turned back to look at the restrained man, who was visibly frightened. He knows we’re here, he thought. It made him sick to think he would be ending another man’s life just to save his own if he accepted the man’s offer. It made him feel worse that he would be making the same decision his previous leaders had. He met the scarred man’s gaze, clenching his jaw as he made his choice.

                “What do I call you?” Yuri questioned. The man smiled, and pondered for a moment before answering.

                “Call me Bilagáana,” he responded.

                “Bilagáana,” the name rolled oddly off Yuri’s tongue, “I accept your offer.”

                The restrained man began panicking, shaking back and forth, struggling to break free. The soldier beside him smacked the butt of his rifle against his face, but it didn’t help. The man kept struggling, and attempted to scream through his gag and covering, but only a muffled cry managed to find its way out through the cloth. The other soldiers in the car opened their doors and moved to the restrained man’s side of the car. The pulled him out and began beating him until he fell silent.

                Yuri sat, listening to the meaty thuds of boots and fists smashing against the man’s body. It made him sick, but he wouldn’t let this chance slip through his fingers. He looked through the back window to see them carry the man off towards and identical car that had pulled up behind him. The soldiers driving that vehicle stepped out and began helping with the preparations. Yuri turned away, shutting his eyes for a moment as the queasy feeling passed from his insides. He opened them again and met Bilagáana’s eyes.

                “Commander Yuri Volkov,” he said, “I look forward to our partnership. Welcome to X.O.F.” He reached out and shook Yuri’s hand. Yuri could still hear the muffled screams of the man fighting for his life, until a gunshot rang out over the courtyard. Then everything fell silent.

Chapter Text

30 March 1984. 19:24. Rural Village, Amniat. Northern Kabul, Afghanistan.

                This can’t be happening .

                Looming clouds of smoke choked the night sky, suffocating the frail, distant lights of the stars. Spits of embers roared ferociously in the rising heat of the fires, carrying them upwards to usurp the star’s light, replacing their comfort with a murderous glow. Beneath the drowning sound of gunfire ending pained screams, the echo of buildings collapsing under their charred supports crashed over the valley as John stumbled down the far hills overlooking the village. Every frantic step felt like another in the wrong direction as another mutilated building fell under its own weight, sending plumes of soot outwards. The closer he came to the village, the more it seemed to bleed.

                This isn’t real .

                It had to be some sick nightmare, one that he couldn’t wake up from. A few hours ago, Amniat had been as peaceful as it had always been; every home sitting like an ancient stone, never moving, never changing. Now it looked like a carcass set ablaze, like the body of a loved one being eaten by fire, and all he could do was watch. His eyes were wide, keeping an unwavering stare on the engulfing terror ahead while he ran as fast as he could down the jagged hills. He could hear Nuria’s voice call out from behind him, but it sounded muffled and distant. His mind swam in a fog of terror and confusion, like a sleepless mind exhausted by constant fears.

                This had to be a dream .

                “John!” Nuria’s voice cut through the sound of wind passing by John’s ears as he ran, ripping him back to reality. He turned, but his footing slid over the sand covered rocks, making his heart lurch to his throat with surprise. He nearly fell as he felt a hand grab him from behind. He continued to slide, but slowed himself by stamping his foot against the ground. Nuria held on tight to his shirt and staggered forward with him, her body hitting against him as he came to a stop. John turned back to see her, strands of hair hanging disheveled in her face from chasing after him. There was a wild look of concern in her eyes, one that matched his own.

                A mutilated cry escaped through the roar of hungered fire. John snapped his focus back to the village—the voice of the cry sounded familiar, but so tortured that it was almost inhuman. Images of faces flipped through his mind as he fearfully pondered who could have died while he stood here. People were dying while he sat safely away from the village. He grunted as he tried to rip free of Nuria’s grasp.

                “John,” she repeated, “wait!”

                “Wait?” John echoed, narrowing his brow, “people are dying, Nuria! Can you not see that?” He was bewildered. He tried to turn away from her again, but she only gripped to him tighter, turning him around with her other arm. He looked at her fiercely, but he met a harsh look of sorrow pooling in her blue eyes.

                She looked into his for a moment, then peered over his shoulder to the bonfire of homes of bodies before meeting his gaze again. She opened and closed her mouth with only a faint sound escaping her lips. She looked down at her feet, saying nothing. John watched her. Nuria lifted her gaze after a short time.

                “John,” she started, “Amniat is gone—”

                John clenched his jaw, taking her hand from his shoulder and shoving it away. He pushed her from him and marched off with a disgusted frown on his face, shaking his head.

                “We’re too late!” he heard Nuria call behind him. The sound of her hurried footsteps crunched frantically behind him. “We have to go—John, please—” she grasped for him, not quite getting a hold on him this time, “—come with me, I have a place we can go to—somewhere we can hide—”

                “These people are dead because of me,” John suddenly spun to face her, his voice visibly cutting into her, “while we were off fucking around, these people—our families—were left to die! I’m not abandoning them.”

                “Stop—just stop, you’re going to get yourself killed!” Nuria stepped up to him, lifting her hand to touch him. John glared at her approached and swayed away from her hand. She froze, recoiling her arm from him.

                “And if I do?” John said back bitterly, attempting to reiterate his intentions. Nuria turned her head away from his glare. “Do you really think I would leave them? My father, my friends, all these people that kept us safe and gave us a home all these years? Do you really think I would let them die without a word? I owe them my life.” He took several steps back from her, watching her glistening eyes and the reflection of twisting fire in them. His heart felt like it would tear in two, every option he chose, someone would be hurt. He grit his teeth, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He opened them again to see Nuria still standing there.

                “Go,” he said with a subtle crack in his voice. He pivoted back to the burning village. Amidst the chaos, there was a gentle silence in the breeze that carried over the valley. It comforted him as he looked towards the fires. If he was to die, it would be protecting those that gave him everything. John took several steps forward before stopping, a small voice resounding behind him.

                “No,” Nuria’s soft voice spoke.

                John halted, furrowing his brow and turning his gaze from the village.

                “What?” he asked.

                “I’m going with you,” Nuria said, stepping around to his side.

                “Nuria—”

                “Don’t forget that I owe my life to them too, and your father—I’m going too.”

                “You don’t have to do this—”

                “Oh stuff it, John!” she bit back at him, “I’ll help you find your father, I owe you that much… if we can’t save him.” Her words trailed off quietly.

                John looked ahead, tightening his fists. He felt her gently grab his hand and felt an instant surge of serenity. She dropped her hand from his and started down towards the village. He hesitated for a moment, watching her. The violent mixture of orange and red lights washed around her beautifully as she moved.

                “We’ve wasted enough time, we need to hurry,” Nuria called back to him.

                John exhaled and tightened the strap of his ax to his back. With his other hand, he lifted the lightly filled duffle bag from his shoulders and dropped it to his side. He took one last glance over the town, still in disbelief. It felt too bitter to be real, it couldn’t be, but there he was, staring over a valley now filled with death and fire.

                John caught up to her in seconds, charging his way down the hill. The two of them ran together over the soft field of sand and desert grass. Their footsteps fell silently as they approached the eastern entrance to the village. The exterior buildings were blackened and abandoned, already appearing as charred skeletons. It was silent here, as the roar of chaos had made its way to the center of the town and began encircling the western half. They slowed down once they made it to the fallen gate of the entrance. Sandy bricks and broken glass were strewn over the road. A large, drab colored truck was parked just within the gate’s entrance. John peered at it from around the first building. The front of the truck was bent awkwardly, giving the impression that it was used to ram through the gate.

                He cursed under his breath and looked around him. There was no sign of movement, the area appeared to be empty. He lowered himself to a crouched position and readied himself to sneak over to the truck. After his first step forward, Nuria tugged him back by the shoulder hard. He fell back against her, making an annoyed grunt that was immediately suppressed by her hand over his mouth. He noticed seconds later why she had pulled him back. Two figures paced calmly up the road from within the village. The shadows of the far buildings cast over the blackened remnants of what rubble remained, making the darkness of the night heavily contrasted from the roaring fires beyond. The figures looked like two shadows in the blackness, like two ghosts made of soot and ash. John felt his heartbeat begin to increase in his ears as they made their haunting approach. Nuria subtly shushed in his ear as they watched them get closer and closer.

                The moonlight cut through the passing clouds and into the village, covering the empty buildings in a pale light. The details of the approaching people suddenly appeared. Both figures were men dressed in matching sandy colored battle dress uniforms with dark boots. They carried rifles decorated with polished wood and clean, black metal; the kind of guns John had seen Arman use to train with the other men and women for supply runs. One of the men had a large bag strapped to his back with protruding antennas and curled wires attached to a green box. A soft red glow emitted from one of the box’s antennas.

                “Russians,” Nuria hissed. John looked back at her, furrowing his brow. How did they find this place?

                Carefully, John pushed himself farther back behind the building, trying to hide himself. He accidently gave way under his strained steadiness and kicked out, hitting the sand with a soft pat. His breath caught in his throat and he could feel Nuria become tense. It was a faint sound, but enough to draw attention. They were still hidden in the dark shadow of the building, but the soldiers must have still taken notice of the sound. He continued to silently struggle backwards behind the house while he still had the cover of the shadows. He stopped abruptly when he heard boots stamp their way up to the corner of the building.

                A splash of bright, white light struck through the interior of the scorched house. One of the soldiers held a flashlight, waving it slowly through a shattered window. The light glowed through the building and out another window just above John and Nuria’s heads, subtly silhouetting over them. They kept still, clutching to where they sat. After a few passes of the room, the light left the building, instead following its way up the road and past the exit. Footsteps echoed quietly before coming to a stop right beside the corner of the building.

                John stared blankly, unable to breathe, at the man just several feet away from him looking out over the valley. He glanced over the surrounding area with his flashlight, paused, and began to look to his side. The light crept gradually up towards where they hid. John began to steadily reach for the handle of his ax, as a last desperation before they were caught.

                Just as the light began to reflect off their pale skin, a clattered sound echoed from the opposite side of the road in another hollowed building. The remains of a wooden pallet fell against a pile of rubble as something slithered in the dark. The soldier tore his attention away from his lazy scanning and struck the light against other building. The second soldier raised his rifle and stepped towards it cautiously.  Quickly, the soldier turned to face the back of the truck, tearing the canvas cover away to reveal its interior. After a quick sweep of the bed of the large truck, he turned back towards the source of the mysterious sound.

                A muffled moan came from a pile rubble and wooden planks as the striking light of the flashlight pierced into the eyes of two soot covered survivors. They raised their hands to block the light, not even attempting to move or resist. The second soldier ran into the room, checking the corners of the apparent empty house. Then they started yelling.

                “Ruki nad golovami!” the second soldier belted repeatedly, jabbing the end of his rifle in the faces of the soot covered survivors, “Teper' ruki nad tvoimi golovami!”

                The soldier with the flashlight joined in the repetitive chorus until the two, debris covered individuals weakly raised their hands. John leaned forward, unable to take his eyes off what was happening. From what he could see, one of the survivors was an older woman, but her face was covered in dirt and black ash. Her clothes were just as filthy, torn and ragged. Beside her was the frail figure of a young boy, staring blankly up at the soldiers barking at them. His eyes shone brightly against the dark ash smothered over his face. They almost blended in with the destruction entirely until they had given themselves away.

                The first soldier tossed his flashlight to the second man who immediately raised it to the survivor’s eyes again. While he continued barking repetitive orders to the scared villagers, the first soldier crouched to the ground and pulled small device wired to the box strapped to his back. He clicked a button and the faint sound of static erupted from a speaker in the device.

                “Shtab-kvartira, eto patrul' tri,” the soldier spoke into the radio speaker, “My tol'ko chto nashli dvukh ostavshikhsya v zhivykh v vostochnoy chasti derevni. Kak my dolzhny deystvovat'?”

                John listened intently, watching them with detailed focus. Nuria crept up to his side, watching. He could feel her anxiousness to move, but he wanted to know what was happening. Why were they doing this?

                “ Ponyal,” the soldier said into the speaker before pressing another button, cutting off the frequency. He connected the device back to the box and stood, raising his rifle to the cowering villagers. “Gde Viktor Nikolaev?” he barked. The woman gave a confused look, while the boy just gaped with empty eyes. He repeated the question, much louder, then marched up the villagers, stomping on the debris in an attempt to be menacing. The woman shuddered and looked away. He yelled the question again, obviously impatient, “Gde Viktor Nikolaev, suka?!”

                “P-please,” the woman replied meekly, “I don’t—I don’t know what—please, my son—”

                The soldier made a quick gesture to the second man, who nodded and stomped his way towards the boy. Lowering his rifle, he wrenched the boy free from the debris by the hair on his head. The boy shrieked in pain as he was ripped upwards. The woman screamed, raising her arms towards him to grab him back, but she was pinned to the ground by the rubble and was only able to wave her arms frantically. The child yelled and cried as he was raised to his feet. He immediately fell to his knees, clutching at a deeply torn gash in his leg that had been hidden in the debris. He sobbed and held tightly to the wound as he looked to his mother for help. The second soldier rammed the butt of his rifle against the child’s face, sending him crashing against the hard floor. The boy choked and a struggled moan escaped his gaping mouth.

                “Skazhite, gde seychas Viktor Nikolaev!” the first man barked, placing his foot over the boy’s wound. The woman only cried for her son, reaching helplessly for him. The soldier pressed his foot down hard until the boy started screaming. His hands scrambled against the boot mashing down on his leg, then started crying and beating his little fists against the soldier. The Russian gave an annoyed sigh and smashed the butt of his rifle on the boy’s forehead with a sickening smack. The child fell against the floor, dazed and coughing.

                “They’re looking for someone. Who is Viktor?” John whispered to Nuria. She didn’t answer, but tugged at him, gesturing towards the road into the village. She kept to a crouched position and moved her way to the truck where she remained hidden. She peered around the corner, watching the men yell and beat the child and his mother mercilessly. John met Nuria’s gaze and watched her give a quick wave to signal him to join her. He shot a glance back at the soldiers, then slipped across the road to Nuria’s side. He got on to his hands and knees, looking from under the truck for a better view. They were here for a reason. Why? Who was Viktor Nikolaev? He had never heard that name before, and no one, to his knowledge, had ever gone by that name here.

                “Skazhi nam, gde Viktor Nikolaev, ili mal'chik umirayet!” the soldier yelled over the two survivor’s pleading screams. He raised his rifle to the boy’s head, staring at the mother, waiting for a response.

                Through streaming tears mixed with dirt and ash, the woman choked a plea, “Please—please, not my son, take me—not my son—please—not my son—not my son—not my son—” she trailed off into sobbed mumblings, repeating her words over and over as she watched her son struggle against the immense pain.

                “We have to do something,” John stared fearfully, “they’re going to kill them—”

                “Shush,” Nuria said, placing a hand over his mouth and pulling him back. He crouched from the ground, giving her a worried look. She only shook her head with a sad, narrowed brow. The soldier’s yelling came to an abrupt halt. Nuria tugged at John’s shoulder to move, but he kept to where he was. He had to do something. He felt several light pats on the back, and turned to see Nuria gesturing down the road where another patrol was making its way towards them. John took another glance under towards the first pair of soldiers then back to Nuria. She pointed to an alley between the first building they had hid behind and the crumbled remains of a home. They checked to their sides, then quickly ducked across the dirt road to the shadows in the alley. John turned back around, looking for a clear view of the survivors. He could still hear them, but the truck blocked most of his view.

                He could see the first soldier take his foot off from the boy’s leg, and pace his way to the opening of the building. He heard the click of the radio and listened to the man speak into it once more.

                “Shtab-kvartira, eto patrul' tri. Oni ne smogli predostavit' kakuyu-libo informatsiyu,” the man said solemnly into the speaker, then shut it off before a response came though. John watched the boots of the man turn around and march back into the building. Several gunshots rang out and the bloodcurdling scream of the mother followed, another series of shots echoed from the building and then the screams stopped.

                John bit his tongue in anger, reaching for his ax. He was about to stand, when Nuria took him by the neck and hauled him back around the far corner just as the second patrol walked passed the alley.

                “What the hell are you doing?” John whispered.

                “Keeping you from killing yourself,” Nuria jabbed, peering over his shoulder to check if they were clear, “you would have been cut down before you could ever lay a hand on them. We still need to find your father. Don’t make me do it alone.”

                John steadied himself and exhaled slowly. He turned away from her and looked around the corner where the first patrol had exited the house and had begun talking to the second. He was disgusted. What monsters could remain so collect after murdering those innocent people?

                “Now’s our chance,” Nuria said, “let’s move.”

                John froze for a moment, then shook his head and followed after her. They darted parallel to the road through the rubble and buildings, stopping only when the lights of passing patrols came by. Everything smelled heavily of smoke and burnt cloth from furniture and clothes. A sickening smell struck into John’s nose as they hopped through a gaping window of what used to be an old used clothing store. It was run by the same family for nearly four generations, or so he was told by the owner, Mr. Farhang. The man kept the story, as well as plenty of other tales, alive with his two daughters who helped around the store when he couldn’t manage to get up from his bed in the mornings. Most every adult left in the village was of a frail age, the town was practically run by children now.

                The bittersweet memories rotted in his mind as the mysterious, vile scent grew stronger. John lifted his shirt over his nose and mouth, wrinkling them in revulsion. Nuria stepped ahead, ignoring the petrifying stench. She walked carefully up to the windows at the front of the store, her steps crunching over charred papers and blackened fabric that lay strewn across the floor. John blinked rapidly, a sudden queasiness overtaking him. He glanced over broken shelves and repurposed bookcases, now dilapidated and black, to Nuria. She placed her hand to the glass, looking from side to side. Everything seemed quiet from the inside of the building, but John’s senses were too distracted by the scorched, murderous scent that seemed to be only affecting him.

                He needed to get out of here. He felt as if the building would suffocate him. A light headed feeling seeped into his mind, and he quickly stumbled in the dark to reach Nuria. Something hooked onto his leg making him stumble to the floor. The stench hit him in full force. Gagging, he pushed himself up and crawled forward. He could feel the heat, as if he was in the fire that tore this place apart not long ago. He could feel the panic and the suffocation of those that were in this store when the fires started and the smoke bellowed inwards. A twinge of panic plucked at the back of his head, and he realized how hard he was breathing.

                “John?” Nuria whispered, “John, are you ok?” She rushed to his side, reaching for his hand and helping him up. John coughed, and wiped his brow, watching the worried look in her eyes. Just as he had regained his stature, he was shoved back to the ground.

                “Shit, hide!” she blurted, pushing John to the ground. Just then, the building was illuminated by a bright light, drowning out the darkness that hung thickly in the jagged remains of the store. There was a low roar as a truck slowly passed by the building, its headlights washing over its interior. It drove lazily down the road, but as it passed the store, he saw it was filled with more soldiers, all heading into the burning chaos just down the street. Nuria breathed out in relief once the vehicle turned the far corner and disappeared behind more mutilated buildings.

                John closed his eyes, trying to take in deep breaths. He still felt suffocated and could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He opened his eyes, looking around in the darkness at all the shapes and silhouettes that sat silently. His brow furrowed, Nuria wasn’t beside him anymore, but he hadn’t heard her move from her spot. He felt around him, blindly looking for her. A sigh of relief left his mouth as he took hold of her shoulder. She didn’t respond to his touch, but thought nothing of it, it would be smart not to move for a moment longer when they would know if they were clear to move on.

                “This should help,” Nuria’s voice said from across the room. John narrowed his brow in confusion, looking towards the source of the voice. A dim, yellowish light ignited to his side from down a hall where Nuria stood, with a flashlight in her hand. Chills scattered down John’s side, looking away from her to where he had placed his hand. His heart jumped to his throat, choking his breath.

                The disfigured, charred remains of the store owner sat right beside him. What flesh remained was tightly dried to his blackened bones. He was covered by crisp, ashen rags and black, cooked blood that had been poured from his body all around him before he was burned to his bones. John’s hand recoiled from the corpse, springing to his feet and stepping swiftly away. He could see them now. All of them. Charred bodies lay crumpled around the store where they had been killed before the fires got to them. He could see them outside, corpses that had appeared as dusty rocks in the faint moonlight. Bodies, everywhere, of children and elders, too weak or innocent to fight back. All of them were slaughtered without warning. The scent was everywhere now. The scent of death and torched bodies—the bodies of friends of people he had known since his first memories—all crudely thrown to the floor and butchered by monsters.

                His heart pounded against his chest, matching his harsh breathing. A light touch fell on his shoulder, and he spun around, terrified, as if he would see the walking corpse of his father, or the grotesque beast that did this. Humans couldn’t have done this. This was inhuman. The look on his face was mimicked on Nuria’s as she jumped back from his surprised movement. His eyes darted to the ground, embarrassed, he let himself catch his breath, lowering his shirt from his mouth. Nuria stepped closer to him, touching his chest. She looked up at him, and he could see the look on her face in the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to meet her gaze.

                She looked to the floor, and to where he had been sitting next to the corpse, lowered her head, and moved towards the door. Either she could stomach this better than he could, or she didn’t care like he did. Both options were equally frightening to him. He took one last, long stare at Farhang’s body, then looked towards the entrance. Without looking back to see if he was following, Nuria pushed open the sturdy doors that managed to stay to their hinges, despite being licked by fire as much as the rest of the building had. They didn’t budge at first, but with a twisted snarl of the wood, they broke from their scorched holdings. One of the doors nearly fell from its hinges before she stopped it, gently swinging it back to a safe position. The heavy wood moaned as it swung back, threatening to fall at any moment, but it held.

                Nuria turned her head to the side, speaking over her shoulder, “I know this is hard, but we need to keep moving—”

                Something rushed around the corner, tackling her back into the store. They fell onto a shaky shelf, smashing it to pieces. Nuria gasped as the wind was knocked out of her. The man on top of her struck her with his fist, dazing her as he clutched her neck and pinned her down. She shook off the hit and began bucking her knees upwards to knock him off. The man growled, pressing his shins over her legs to keep them from moving. While he was distracted, she sent her knuckles against his eye with a vicious backhanded swing. He cried out and smashed his hand down onto her throat. She coughed a gurgled cry and tried for another swing, but her hand was caught by the disheveled soldier, who pinned it to the ground by her head.

                “YA znayu tebya, devochka!” the Russian belted in her face, “Gde Viktor? Gde doktor?”

                Not another word left his bearded mouth as the butt of John’s ax smashed against his teeth. John roared with his swing, the force of it sending the man barreling backwards off Nuria with a hideous crunch. The man howled in pain, flailing on his back and clutching his mouth. John hadn’t had enough time to remove the ax from his sheath, but it still proved useful to beat their assailant. John stomped his way to the man who was still struggling to his feet. Blood poured from his mouth and he could see several shattered teeth in his palm. The Russian looked up at him with a ferocious, gaping, toothless mouth.

                The soldier took several steps back, then reached for a handgun strapped to his side. He drew it before John could reach him, and John froze where he stood, ax gripped tightly in both hands. The Russian laughed, still tightly grasping at his mangled mouth. John glared at him, fuming. He took a step forward, then stopped again as the man tsked and clicked off the safety of the handgun, glinting in the moonlight. The leather of the sheath creaked as John squeezed the ax in his hands.

                “Tupoy ublyudok!” the man painfully laughed, “Ty umresh' tak zhe, kak i vsya eta gryaz'.”

                “Posle tebya, sobaka,” John hissed. Then man looked at him surprised, distracted long enough for Nuria to charge from around John’s back. She sprung in front of him with swift footing, catching the man’s gun in her hand. She struck him in the nose with her elbow, ripping the gun from his fist as his grip loosened from the sudden pain. John stormed forward, cocking his arms back and ramming the handle of the ax against the stunned Russian’s cheek. A harsh cough spat from his mouth as the man slammed to the ground. He coughed up blood onto the dusty road, struggling to get to his knees. He fell on his blood-soaked face, moaning weakly.

                John slung the ax back over his shoulder, turned to Nuria and reached for the handgun. She flung her arm back, keeping it out of his grasp. He grit his teeth, angered and annoyed.

                “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

                “I’m going to kill this fucker, for what he did to these people—”

                “And have everyone rushing to us after you put a bullet in him?” she gave a disgusted look at him, making him clench his jaw. She flicked the safety on and tucked the gun into the back of her pants, hiding it under her shirt. She looked down at the weakly fidgeting soldier, then sent her boot crashing against his head, knocking him unconscious and flipping him onto his back. She crouched down, scanning over his uniform. Her hands explored through his bags, pulling out tools and items and setting them to the side. “We still need to keep our cover,” she added.

                “So, what, we leave him here? Alive?” John replied, irritated.

                “No,” she said curtly, plucking a knife sheathed on the man’s side. The knife reflected coldly as she pulled it from its sheath. She turned it over in her hand, examining the steel. Briskly, she placed its point between the man’s collarbone and shoved down hard. The man spasmed and gasped as blood erupted from the hole in his neck. Nuria stood up, spitting onto the soldier’s body. She lifted her foot and stomped down onto the handle of the knife, sending the tip through the other side of his neck, killing him. One last choke struggled through the blood filling his throat, then the man’s head fell back against the dirt. His eyes staring at the sky with a look of perpetual horror. His only movements were that of his throbbing throat, still meekly pumping blood from his neck until his heart stopped.

                John grimaced, watching the blood pour from the dead Russian’s neck and his gaping mouth, drenching his uniform. The ruby liquid began to pool around his head, soaking into the dry ground. The earth beneath him looked as if it was being corrupted by the blood, turning dark and vile as more blood flowed into it. Nuria hadn’t given it a second glance. She was busy undoing one of the bags from the man’s loadout, strapping it to her side and placing the choice tools she had scavenged from him inside.  He looked away, tightening the strap of the ax. He felt like was going to be sick. His rage had abruptly subsided after seeing exactly what he had meant to do himself. He swallowed, placing his hand over his throat. He heard Nuria grunt and looked back to see her lifting the man’s arms.

                “Well,” she said, “are you going to help me or what? We can’t just leave him out here.”

                John stared down at her, blood staining her hands and arms as she lifted the body. It was unnerving. He blinked, realizing he had been holding his breath. He cleared his throat and nodded, bending down to grab the man’s legs. Together, they hoisted him up. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the man’s blank stare, watching the stars above. Thin trails of blood ran down from the corners of his mouth, dripping onto the cool sand below. He had never watched a man die before.

                “John?”

                He looked up with a hollow gaze. Nuria’s face was strained as she heaved the body up for a better grip. They hadn’t moved. His legs had been locked in place. His stomach churned, having replaced the livid bitterness with sickening discomfort. He took another deep breath in, again catching himself holding it. The body seemed to feel heavier as the man’s clothes became soaked with blood.

                “We need to move ok?” Nuria attempted to ground him with her voice, but it came off with a haggard tone as she struggled to hold up her end of the body. “Just follow my lead.”

                She began to shuffle to the side, John making similar steps as she guided them. They turned slowly until Nuria’s back faced the store, then they proceeded to back up towards it. Nuria checked down the roads frequently, but John’s eyes remained locked on the body’s frozen expression of fear and pain. Nuria gently bumped against the door, looked down behind her and carefully stepped into the building backwards. John followed her, his head beginning to feel hazy. This all had to be a dream.

                They dropped the body near the other burnt corpses. Nuria straightened her back, wincing, and instructed John to cover the body. He gathered an assortment of materials, layering them over the corpse. Everything felt so distant now. The store, the merchandise, the people—they all felt fake. Every movement he made felt fake, like he was witnessing his own actions from inside another man’s body. All he did was watch—the woman and her son, killed—the bodies of acquaintances and neighbors, burned—the man that tried to kill them, that he hated, murdered—all he did was watch. All he wanted was to wake up—for this to be over. He could see one of the man’s eyes exposed under the clutter, staring upwards at nothing. Its deep brown iris capturing what light was left in the room, and in himself. He took a step back, his breath shuddering from his open mouth.

                “I can’t do this,” he said under his breath.

                “What?” Nuria asked, massaging the dimples in her back.

                “I can’t—” his voice broke off.

                “Hey,” Nuria stepped towards him, “we’re going to find your father. You can do this. We’ll find him and then we’ll help the rest out of this place—”

                “You don’t understand,” John’s voice shook as he looked up from the haunting gaze of the man’s eye, “I can’t do this—me—I can’t.”

                Nuria looked at him, confused, “John—” she began.

                “All I’ve done is sit by and do nothing—I didn’t help that mother, I was too late to help these people, and I froze when this bastard nearly killed you… Nuria, I can’t do this, I’m not good enough—”

                “John, stop it,” Nuria cut in, impatient, “yes, you are—you need to be. You have to be, because these people weren’t—not without you.”

                John’s head felt like it was spinning. What remained of the dark walls of the store hazed and melted, moving back and forth. The ground twisted, blurring. All he could see was that eye, that single eye, staring from beneath the clutter. It suddenly felt hot, sweat beaded along his brow and the back of his neck. He placed his hand on a blackened shelf to steady himself, but that too felt like it was swimming in the whirlpool the room had become. Nuria’s hand touched softly to his cheek. It felt cool against the burning heat of his face, but he closed his eyes, not wanting to see the blood that coated her forearm. It only made him feel fainter. He felt her place her other hand to his chest. He could hear her breathing, soft and steady.

                “You are strong,” Nuria whispered, “I’ve always seen it in you, but you need to not take all of this in a single stride. You need to take this one step at a time—” her hand gently slid lower down his chest “—and to breathe.”

                A chill of relief came from her touch, and he drew in a deep breath. She kept close to him, standing there as he slowly breathed in and out. He opened his eyes. The room wasn’t spinning anymore, everything was still and silent like it had always been. The only sound came from their breathing. He felt disconnected, but he was breathing. He met those crystal blue eyes calmly watching his, and relaxed his tense shoulders. A faint smile showed on her pale face, and she dropped her hands from him, taking a step back.

                “I need you John,” she said, “I need to know I can count on you.”

                John didn’t respond, but continued to stare at her eyes. She didn’t wait for a response, quietly turned and headed out the door. He waited for a moment, listening to his own breath. His fist tightened and he forced himself to look down. There it was, the eye, still full of emptiness, watching the darkness of the night through the broken roof. He crouched down, the sound of his breath echoing louder in his ear. He carefully lifted a thin piece of cloth resting beside his boots, placing it over the exposed eye. He stood, still staring at where the eye was hidden, then abruptly marched out of the building. It was just an eye.

                Nuria was leaning up against a wall down where the road curved into the next half of the village, peering around the corner. John hopped into a jog, his feet falling silently over the sand. He slowed himself a few feet away from her, cautiously placing himself against the wall as he made his way to her side. He noticed her shoulders relax once he reached her, followed by a deep exhale. She leaned a little farther around the corner, then swiftly turned back to John. She didn’t waste any time.

                “There are two groups of soldiers between us,” Nuria explained, pausing occasionally “and the chaos. There’s a patrol of two soldiers about fifty feet away from us around the corner, but they’re talking to each other. We should be able to sneak by if we keep our heads low.” John nodded, clenching his jaw. Nuria looked down, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She breathed out, then continued, “after that, there’s a group of soldiers—at least four—that seem to be investigating a home by the next turn in the road.” John’s eyes widened, he knew the house. Helai , he thought anxiously. He shifted his footing, anxiously worrying if he was too late to save her and her father. Nuria caught the look in his eyes, furrowed her brow and lowered her eyes again.

                “I think we should be able to slip passed them,” she cleared her throat, “but I don’t know if there are more of them. There’s a truck blocking the rest of my view right before the next turn—so just in case—”

                She cut herself off, reaching behind her and retrieving the handgun from the back of her pants. She turned it over in her hand, and then with several brisk movements she released the magazine, checked the chamber, then slid the magazine back with a click and cocked the slide back, pushing a bullet into the chamber. She looked up, her eyes filled with a very serious focus. She flicked her head back, gesturing to the corner. Nuria turned back around, stepping subtly towards the edge of the wall. She placed her hand on its corner, then stopped, cocking her head to the side.

                “Just follow my lead,” she said curtly, “and don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”

                John said nothing. He watched her with an attentive focus, reading her movements. Nervously, he readjusted the strap of his ax so it fit tight against him so it would not sway when he moved. He could feel his legs twitch with anxiousness, waiting to move. He lowered himself to her height, mimicking her stance behind her. Each second passed slower than the last, and with each step he could hear his heartbeat strike louder.

                Without a word, Nuria slipped around the corner with one prompt pivot, ducking lower than she had before. John was nearly caught off guard. He abruptly spun around the corner after her, placing his hand against the wall for balance as he mirrored her crouched run. It was much brighter on this side of the wall, as if they had entered an entirely different room to one large building. The moonlight reflected off the soldiers and the truck, dully illuminating the scene. The fires just beyond the next group of walls and buildings struck over the road like a red sunset. The burning light was captured by the billowing smoke above, leaving the haunting glow hovering over the village like a low, dying sun.

                Perhaps it was because his eyes were so adjusted to the darkness they had been hidden in, but John felt as though he was completely exposed in the light. He could clearly see Nuria hobbling along the ground not even twenty feet away from the chatty patrol. He could only assume he was twice as noticeable due to his size compared to Nuria. She was like a small, ghostly fox, while he followed like a blundering, lost dog. Luckily, the two soldiers had their backs facing them, and they were on the opposite side of the road. They were idly looking over the rubble of a torched building, still crackling from burnt wood settling over hot brick and metal. The smell was awful.

                Nuria stopped suddenly, practically lowering herself to her stomach. She lifted a hand back at John. He understood the signal and stopped, attempting to lower himself as she did. Before he did, he saw what blocked their path. A pile of bodies had been stacked against the wall. Some were blackened and burned like the others he had seen, and others looked as they did right before their deaths. They were crudely thrown and piled on top of one another, a bushel of bodies and frantically displayed limbs, sticking out every which way. Upon seeing it, the same smell from the store hit him in full force. His abdomen tightened and he felt his knees lock up. He stifled a cough by holding his breath and collapsed down to Nuria’s prone position clumsily. She heard his ungainly shuffle and shot him a look over her shoulder.

                He pursed his lips and let out his breath steadily. He turned his head to the side, closing his eyes and grasping for focus. Just follow my lead, Nuria’s words drifted softly through his head. He opened his eyes, looking to Nuria. Just focus on her, he thought, she’s all you need to look at, just follow her and you’ll make it through this. She didn’t budge. He tried to stay calm, but every second they wasted lying here was another second they lost trying to save his father. He had to trust her, it was all he could do. He turned his head to the other side, studying the pair of soldiers talking. They talked in hushed voices, but he could pick up most of what they were saying.

                “…YA ne znayu, kak ya k etomu otnoshus'…” the soldier on the left continued speaking, “…YA znayu, chto my dolzhny byli priyekhat' syuda do Yeger', no eto neryashlivo…” John had to strain his ears to listen. The left soldier shifted his footing, obviously uncomfortable. The other seemed less concerned, casually laughing off the worries of the other.

                “…ne volnuytes', komanduyushchiy obvinit ikh v perestrelke mezhdu modzhakhedami...” the soldier on the right said with a sly smile, taking a long drag from a lit cigarette “…my skazhem, chto oni strelyali pervym…”

                John wrinkled his nose, he could feel anger burning in his stomach again. He gripped tight to the ground, trying to catch anymore words. The soldier’s conversation dipped into small talk and faint whispers. He looked back to Nuria who still remined frozen like a statue.

                “…oni ishchut drugogo, rebenka... ili, skoreye, muzhchinu…” said the soldier on the left, catching John’s attention. They’re looking for someone else too? “…on dolzhen byt' vzroslym seychas…” he continued, but John could only hear those few words before they conversation grew too quiet again.

                “Veroyatno, on davno ushel. Nevazhno, my zdes' dlya doktora,” the soldier on the right said, much louder. The soldier on the left shrugged, and started walking down the road.

                “Kirill, dolzhno byt',” said the left soldier, “uzhe vernulsya, poydem proverit' yego.”

                The soldier that had been on the right groaned in response, letting his cigarette fall from his mouth, followed by a quick stomp to smother it in the dirt. He reached for his rifle slung to his side, readying it before turning and following the other soldier. They were headed in the direction they had come from. “Bez raznitsy,” groaned the soldier, “V lyubom sluchaye, eto pakhnet.”

                They both shuffled off, taking their time as they rounded the corner. Anxious adrenaline surged in John’s legs, and he turned to face Nuria, wanting to move.

                “They’re leaving to check on someone,” John whispered, “now’s our chance to move—”

                “I know,” Nuria cut in, not looking back at him. She raised her hand, gesturing for him to be quiet.

                “You know?” John narrowed his brow.

                “I have eyes, don’t I?” she retorted. “Just stay down until I say when.”

                John blinked, annoyed, but lowered himself completely to the ground, exaggerating her order. It bothered him that they weren’t moving. Now was the perfect chance. After a moment though, he raised his head from the sand, looking over Nuria’s shoulder. The Russian’s at the home had begun to cluster at the front steps. There was some muffled yelling from within the building and a bright light was darting back and forth inside. John gave a puzzled look, then held his breath as his heart sank in his chest.

                With his hands above his head and his face tilted towards the ground, Helai’s father came stumbling out from the door. He was covered in dirt, and his clothes were tattered. There was a dried stream of blood that ran down the side of his head from under a slovenly bound turban. Other than his scuffled appearance and minor head wound, he appeared unharmed. He must have found a place to hide during the attack , John thought. Behind the man came a disgruntled soldier, pointing a rifle at his back with a flashlight attachment guiding him out of the building. Helai’s father was immediately blinded by the soldiers waiting out front who held flashlights of their own. He stopped just outside of his home, struggling to turn his head in a direction where his eyes would not face such a harsh light. The soldier behind him shouted, kicking him in the back of the leg and sending him tumbling to the feet of the group.

                The soldier turned off his light, casually stepping down from the house and pacing in a short semicircle around the wincing, old man. Helai’s father grasped at his black boots, scrambling for balance to get to his feet. The Russian’s face contorted into a grimace, and sent his boot forcefully against the man’s nose. The old man wailed, grasping his face and rolling onto his back. As he writhed in pain, the Russian spoke calmly.

                “On utverzhdayet, chto znayet, gde rebenok,” the soldier began, “tema testa Sem'desyat chetyre.” He looked down at the man, smiled, then gave him a hard kick to the ribs. He yelled out, grabbing his side and turning on to the other. “Vidimo, on vse yeshche zdes', s Doktorom.” The others looked to one another. John raised himself, listening intently. He noticed Nuria become restless suddenly. She got up from her hands and knees, but kept herself crouched low. John was puzzled. How were these soldiers so convinced that these people lived in this village? And now, Helai’s father was confirming it. Maybe he was going along with what they wanted out of desperation. Or maybe— his train of thought was cut off as he watched one of the soldiers curtly rip the old man to his feet. Another soldier pulled a dark colored handgun from his holster, aiming it between the elder’s eyes.

                Not again, not this time , John thought. He got to his feet, not caring if Nuria had taken notice, and ducked across the road. Nuria hissed at him to wait as he crossed diagonally down the road. He felt her grab at him, but kept to his crouched charge, wrenching away from her hand. The soldiers were too focused on their interrogation to notice him slip behind the truck parked a few yards away from them. He placed his hand against its bumper, using it to balance himself has he leaned out around its corner. He glanced over them, saw they hadn’t been aware of his movements, then leaned back to where he hid himself. He looked at Nuria, who was still lowered to the ground, staring at him with a piercing glare. He ignored it and lifted the sheathed ax from his shoulders with a focused steadiness. Carefully, he lowered it to the floor, and undid the straps holding it. He peeled the sheath back, exposing the ax. With both hands, he gently positioned the ax parallel under the shadow of the truck’s axel. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back, relaxing them from the phantom weight of the ax.

                “What’s your name?” John heard one of the men ask in Pashto, and immediately raised his ears at the sound of the dialect. He froze where he was, those words striking through him like shards of ice. It was the language he grew up with and spoke every day. It was always so warm and reminded him of home, but hearing this man speak it felt foreign to him, like it was stolen. It felt as if it was taken and tortured and then used against them. It felt like a mental invasion that accompanied the destruction they brought to his home. He did nothing but crouch where he was, paralyzed, with sweat beading on his brow.

                “Your name,” the same man spoke again, but much harsher. John heard a hard smack, followed by a stifled cry from the old man. A few moments passed before the elder spoke.

                “P-Pohand,” the old man stuttered, “m-my name… is Pohand.” Another muffled punch sounded from around the corner, another cry escaped Pohand’s teeth, and then the scuffled sound of him falling to his knees travelled under the truck to John’s attentive ears.

                “Where is the Doctor?” the same Russian spoke, cold and curt, “Where is Doctor Viktor Nikolaev?”

                “I-I…” Pohand started, “I don’t—” He was cut off by another beating. A gurgled cough came from his lips rather than whatever words he was about to say. John began to lower himself to the ground, still staring wide eyed. His legs ached from gradually straining himself downwards and his foot nearly slipped from where it was placed, just barely perched on his toes. He craned his neck under the bumper of the truck, struggling to get a glimpse of anything. He saw Pohand weakly raise himself from the ground, sand had plastered over the sticky blood on his face from where he had been beaten. The boots of the soldiers all clustered around him like a cage.

                John began to exhale slowly, but caught his breath as something touched him from behind. He spun his head back to see Nuria’s stern face, scrutinizing him. She raised a finger to her mouth, then moved to his side, peering around the opposite side of the truck before steadily retreating back to the bumper. John continued his exhale, shaking his head as he felt his heartbeat fall from the sudden panic. He pushed himself up from under the truck, and leaned ever so slightly around its side to look at the group.

                “What do you think you’re doing?” Nuria whispered to him. He didn’t answer. He heard her make an annoyed noise. “We can sneak along the other side of the truck, but it’ll be a tight squeeze—” she continued, but John wasn’t listening.

                “Khvatit!” yelled a man mixed in with the group of soldiers.

                A man with a black cap crouched down beside Pohand, softly smiling and tilting his head at the old man’s shaky attempt to rise from the dirt. John noticed the men around him were all dressed the same apart from the man with the black cap. All of them had their faces hidden under black balaclava’s and helmets, but they all wore the same sandy colored uniforms. All but the crouched man carried polished wood and metal rifles, like the ones he had seen the others carrying. The man with the black cap carried only a small handgun loosely in his hand. The only gear he had was a light harness with a holster for that little weapon. Everyone else was fitted with an assortment of bags, backpacks, and other miscellaneous items on their belts and harnesses. Several men sported large knives holstered in sheaths against their chests. They all looked like menacing killers, but none of them carried the sinister aura that the black capped man had in his unnerving stare and twisted smile.

                “My name is Vadim,” the man with the black cap said, cutting into the night with his cold voice, “I don’t want you to forget that name.” John’s eyes widened once more. He was the one that spoke Pashto so bitterly. He stared intently, watching Vadim’s every subtle, slithering move. The man changed his crooked, tilted stare to his other shoulder, his face full of smiling apathy. “Do you understand?” he sneered.

                Pohand nodded, still coughing and struggling to balance himself with his hands against the ground. His legs laid in a tangled, lifeless manner. What strength he had left went into his shaking arms. Vadim smiled with his thin lips, exhaling a sigh through his nose.

                “Good,” he said, “it’s nice to meet you Pohand.” Vadim stood up in a ghostly, lethargic manner, still smiling. He lifted his boot, gently letting it hover next to Pohand before giving him a hard shove. Pohand gasped as he flipped onto his back, landing with a thud and knocking the wind from his lungs. His hands clutched at his chest as he meekly rolled back and forth on his back. Vadim tilted his head to the side, his smile vanishing for a moment. Just a moment. He crouched back down to his side once Pohand caught what breath he could.

                “I’m looking for someone,” Vadim said, almost in a whisper, “well, two people really. Two white males. One, elderly, much like yourself. We know he’s here, and at the sight of you, I know he couldn’t have gone far, even if he had somehow known we were coming, yes?” He looked him over, watching his labored movements. Pohand just lay there, eyes closed, stabling his breath. Whatever patience Vadim put on to show ran out almost immediately when he snapped his fingers and a soldier stepped over and slammed his foot on Pohand’s knee. The old man cried out, and John could see a stream of tears fall from his eyes where they were pooling.

                “You know who I’m talking about?” Vadim asked more sternly, leaning closer to his face. Pohand managed to nod again. “Good, good,” the Russian carried on, “now, I need you to tell me where he is so we can wrap up this little… fiasco, hm?”

                Pohand began to cry, shaking his head back and forth. Tears streamed down his face. He clutched at his chest and smashed knee, wincing and making begging mumbles. Vadim shook his head, furrowing his brow and feigning concern. He lowered his free hand, stopping just out of reach of him, then pathetically pat his shoulder. His face grimaced at the touch, obviously disgusted. His hand recoiled immediately when Pohand reach for his arm, falling for his care.

                “Now now,” Vadim said, retreating from him, “we can’t have this. I need an answer.” He stood, and gestured to another soldier, who marched around to Pohand and wrenched him up under his armpits, attempting to force him to his knees. He only collapsed again, grabbing at his wounded knee. His face hit the dirt, but one hand managed to slam against the ground as well, keeping him up just enough to not crash entirely against the ground. Vadim cocked his head to the side and sighed.

                “Where is he?” he repeated, direct and louder. Pohand didn’t respond, only trembling and grasping at his knee. The soldier didn’t hesitate to move this time, sending the tip of his boot stabbing against the elder’s knee, resulting in a dull crack. Pohand yelled out, turning his head back and forth. The old man clutched his fists into the earth, his limbs shaking with strenuous pain. Vadim asked the question again, but the old man just shook his head, weakly, but defiantly through the pain. Vadim took a step back, sighing once more.

                “Very well,” he said, clenching his jaw, “another dead end.” He took his handgun in both hands, flicked off the safety, and pointed it at Pohand’s head. Pohand pushed himself up to his knees, wincing and gritting his teeth. He looked up to Vadim, his eyes wide and searching, then closed them. There was a faint sigh that resonated from his gaping mouth.

                A burning feeling struck through john’s lungs and muscles. His nose curled and his brow narrowed. He couldn’t let this happen. He didn’t bother looking to Nuria for help or to make sure she wasn’t in his way. He pivoted to his side, swiftly reaching under the truck for the ax, grasped his hand around it tight, and pulled it from where it rested as he stood abruptly. He heard Nuria draw in a short breath and felt her frantically grab at him to stop him, but he forced his way from her. John stood, pushing himself around the corner of the truck.

                “John!” Nuria beckoned a little too loudly.

                They hadn’t seen him yet. Four of the six soldiers had their backs to him, acting as a picketed fence, blocking him from the view of the other two. He gripped and twisted the ax in his hand, making the wood creak tensely in response. Turning it over in his hand, he grasped it with the other, readying it as he marched towards the group. He could see the handgun pointed at Pohand glistening between the fence of soldiers. He picked up his pace, now less than fifteen feet from them. His footsteps fell louder and harder as he approached, each footfall felt like it needed the extra push as every passing second grew shorter. One of the soldiers cocked his head slightly to the side, then began to turn around.

                “No!” a voice cried, but it wasn’t John’s. They all froze, John included. The soldier that had begun to face him suddenly turned, staring with the mass at what made John’s eyes widen and catch his breath in his lungs.

                Helai stood in the doorway of the home, eyes wet and shining in the light. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, wrapping around her neck and catching on the gentle streams that flowed from her brown eyes. They looked like burning coals now, glowing with the gold of the fires just beyond the row of buildings of the street corner. She held a box in her arms, pressing it tightly to her chest. One hand was bent crooked away from the box, with a silver ring on one finger connected to a string leading into the box. She stood, chest and shoulders puffing with rage and heavy breaths. Her face was bent into a pained look, baring her teeth in a frown and wrinkling her nose up against her brow, creased with fury. She stumbled slightly, but clutched the box tighter and pulled her stringed finger farther away when the soldiers saw her fumbled stance.

                The soldiers raised their weapons, backing away slowly from something John did not understand. Vadim cocked his head towards her, but kept his handgun aimed perfectly between Pohand’s eyes. Pohand saw her too, his eyes opening with surprise, then filling with tears again. He shook his head with a drawled sway, breathing her name out with his rasped breath. Silence fell over the group. The soldiers had stopped their impatient fidgeting. Everyone seemed to hold their breath. The roar of the fires still crackled over the stillness, followed by muffled, far-off gunshots. A distant rumble of thunder carried with the soft breeze tugging at their hair. The world around them was the only thing that moved, surrounding their statuesque stances with an ensnaring bitterness. The momentary silence was broken periodically by a stifled cry from Helai or Pohand. No one moved.

                Helai looked over the group. She gave a dramatic twist and pull with her hand, drawing the string to its fullest length before stopping. He heard a soldier draw in a sharp breath, holding it before letting it blow out with relief. Helai stomped her foot forward, jutting herself towards them menacingly. A few soldiers looked to each other, then lowered their rifles slightly. Vadim shot a glare at those that backed down, then turned to face Helai. An unnerving cackle distorted the silence that surrounded the group. Vadim’s laugh grew louder as focused on her, raising his free hand and lifting the handgun away from Pohand.

                He pivoted, turning his body to face her. He kept both hands raised partially at either side in a relaxed manner. John couldn’t see his face as he turned from him, but he knew there was a hideous smile on his pale face accompanying his disdainful laugh. The soldiers looked to each other, but kept their footing, pointing their weapons at the girl. They didn’t move, but Vadim took a slow, confident step forward.

                “So there was another,” he said, “the man hides his words, the girl hides herself. He hides the truth, and she hides what’s in the box—poorly.” He laughed, then took a firing stance, pointing the handgun directly at her. The soldiers around him mimicked his posture, raising their weapons with him with a boost of mettle. “This place is full of mice ,” he hissed, taking a glance back at Pohand, “and rats.”

                Helai didn’t back down. She took another step forward and bending her wrist, accentuating how taut the string was. She grit her teeth as another tear fell down her cheek. A gentle breeze drifted through the open street, pulling loose strands of hair from her wet cheeks and gently laying others in their place.  

                “But she does not hide her intentions,” Vadim finished, raising his hands to his sides again haughtily, throwing on an air of indifference. With accentuated caution, he slowly slid the handgun into the holster at his side. He backed up, steadily placing himself between the back of the group of soldiers. He stopped, made a subtle gesture, and stood perfectly still as the group made a half circle that folded towards Helai. “Ogon' po moyey komande,” he hissed.

                John bit his tongue. With several harsh stomps to the earth, he leapt forward, raising the ax above his head. He made the distance between him and the group in a second, before any of them realized it. Vadim’s ears perked upwards, cocking his head down to his side. John slung his ax over Vadim’s head before he could move, pulling it back hard against the man’s neck. He broadened his shoulders, lifting Vadim to his toes against him. The soldiers spun in a confused flurry, switching their aim from Helai to him.

                “Ublyudok!” barked one of the soldiers, jabbing his rifle in his direction.

                “Ubey yego,” another one yelled. He flipped his safety off and ripped the bolt of his rifle back with a harsh clang, taking several steps towards John. Another soldier hissed a command to him, making him stop in his place. He shot a look of uncertainty back at him, then flung his glance back to John, gripping the wood of the rifle harder.

                Vadim made a sound, like he was trying to speak, but only a chocked cough sputtered from his mouth. He clutched at the handle of the ax, but John held it tight under his chin. John pursed his lips, fuming through his nose as he lifted Vadim higher, almost off the ground. The soldiers raised their rifles to him, yelling in a cacophony of Russian slurs, curses, and orders. Each time one would try to step around his side, John would face him suddenly and heave the ax up under Vadim’s jaw, forcing a pained choke out of him. The soldier stopped, looked to his side for some sign from his comrades, and uneasily kept back.

                “On ub'yet yego,” a soldier in the back chorused with an assortment of whispered curses amongst the group, “strelyay seychas!” Another nodded in response, playing with the firing modes on his weapon before circling out around the group. John watched him, listening intently to each of their aggressive and worried grumbles. With two brisk movements, he faced the encircling man and shifted the ax against Vadim’s neck, crunching against his neck at a diagonal angle with his collarbone. The soldier growled, stopping in his tracks.

                Vadim clasped his hands around the ax and attempted to shake it side to side to free himself. John held fast, puffing a short exhale out through his nose and holding the ax tighter. He could see the man’s face begin to turn pink. Vadim started thrashing his shoulders and legs back against him as he struggled to break away. A rhythm of short, strained breaths beat back in forth from the two. John could feel Vadim’s fighting lessen, and a moment later, his hand fell to his side.

                He needed to do something. The soldiers grew nearer with every second Vadim had less to breathe. If he passed unconscious, he would lose the high ground, but if he loosened his grip, he risked showing unsteadiness to the soldiers, and even worse, he risked losing his hostage. He had little breathing room himself, and he wouldn’t be able to fight these men and restrain this bastard at the same time. He was running out of options, and he was certain the only reason he had lasted this long was from the caution he sparked in the foreigners alone. He looked from side to side, shooting glares of hatred to feign brutish intentions. His looks of aggression, while putting on the effect he desired, allowed him to search for recourse once they finally attacked him. It wouldn’t be much longer.

                John glanced to and from his targets, and in between, searching for anything. He was nearly surrounded, should they finally pounce, his options would be limited, even fewer if he stood his ground to fight after Vadim passed out. His mind raced, knowing that each breath he drew was one less he would breathe out. A line of sweat fell down the side of his face. He twitched his cheeks, wanting to shake it off him, the minor discomfort adding to the realization of how horrible of a position he was in. If he ran, the corner he came from would be too far away to bolt to before he was pierced full of bullets. It would be a straight line to run in too, but it almost seemed like a likelier success compared to swinging an ax in close quarters among five men armed to the teeth. Success wasn’t a likely outcome to begin with.

                The soldiers shuffled closer, making him rotate and retreat towards the stack of bodies by the wall. They had him pinned, and they knew it. Just a few more breaths, that’s all he had left. His heart was racing. Panic began shuddering through the adrenaline that had been pumping within him.

                Nuria , he thought abruptly, attempting to crane his neck to the side. One soldier flinched from the sudden opportunity, taking a step forward. John turned back to him, gritting his teeth and stepping forward. He didn’t think of the consequences for the risk, but it seemed to work. The man took another step back. He was unable to catch a glimpse of her during the mere second he allowed himself to be distracted. That second alone was far too much, he was being watched for any mistake, anything to be a large enough slip up to strike. Fear seeped into the back of his head. Where’s Nuria , he worried, now realizing how surrounded he actually was. There was no one coming for him, no one had his back.

                He cursed her, biting down against his teeth hard. He looked up, his breath staggering through his teeth. Helai saw him. She hadn’t before when he was behind the group, but now she saw him, and it terrified him. She stood at the bottom of the steps, just a few yards away, staring at him with her big, brown open eyes. She didn’t say a word. Her mouth had fallen open some time ago after the struggle began, and now it only quivered slightly. John’s face fell from glower, the etched look of enmity relaxed, now left blank. He stared unblinking as a short breath shot softly from his parted teeth. A tear fell down her cheek, rolling off her jaw and falling into the moonlit sand below. It caught the light of the fires in a momentary grasp of reflection before being extinguished in the shadows amidst their feet. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, what she was doing, what anyone was doing here. He couldn’t believe he was standing here, fighting like an idiot. He couldn’t believe she was here still, breaking her silence and revealing herself, knowing she wouldn’t be able to save her father. He knew he couldn’t either. Maybe he always knew. He just couldn’t believe it.

                He looked at her, and she looked at him. He could feel his stifled breaths become more rapid as his attention sunk deeper into her dark eyes, now dimly lit coals. A wash of feeling overcame him, and he could see it reached her too. There was no feeling of peace or tranquility. Only fear, and acceptance. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t strong enough. None of them were. Helai closed her mouth, clenching her jaw and staring at him attentively. One last spark of light reflected of her damp eyes.

                She was so beautiful—

                A piercing crack struck through the night. All thought ended. The sounds of the fires and the murders, all the deaths, screams, and fighting, all of it ended swiftly, for a moment. Its echo penetrated the valley, a jarring sound that waved in a sickening melody. John’s heart stopped, looking down to see an arm raised from below his torso. His eyes followed up the arm outstretched from him to its hand where a small, black handgun was held in Vadim’s hand. He stared in disbelief, at the weapon, subtly shaking in the man' s hand, glistening in the light of bonfires and stars.

                He forced himself to look up, and met Helai’s stare again. Her mouth had fallen open, and she had a different look to her face, no longer creased in hatred. Her brow narrowed upwards, and she blinked as she tried to focus on him. John held his breath, watching. The soldiers looked too, petrified from the startling gunshot. Some even lowered their weapons, surprised while they turned to see what had happened.

                Helai swayed on her feet, her eyes darting sporadically around John, as if they couldn’t quite grasp him. Then she stopped breathing. Her lips made subtle motions as she tried to speak, but no sound came from them. John watched them, reading them, while the feeling of suffocation began to strangle his lungs.

                John.

                Blood spurted from a hole in her neck, quickly flowing out in pulses and drenching her clothes. She swayed slightly again, then buckled under her weight. Her feet bent to the side as she began to fall. It all seemed so slow. John’s mouth opened and he screamed her name as everything returned, all the sound and chaos. His voice practically disappeared into the cacophony of relentless gunfire, erupting infernos, screams and wails, and the sound Vadim’s neck breaking against the handle of the ax when he wrenched it backwards. A shrill ring struck out as Helai’s loose arm tugged the string away from the box, snapping it free from its contents. Her and the box fell to the side simultaneously and freely. Her eyes looked vacantly past John before she collided with the ground.

                A series of gasps and hisses spurted from the group as they all spun on their heels disorderly, grabbing and pushing to disperse. John just stood there, with Vadim’s limp body pressed against him. His vision started to darken, he had kept his breath held, as if the last breath he took was with Helai and to draw in another would be to live. To live, while she died. He didn’t want to. Every instant passed with the length of a minute, Helai hadn’t hit the ground, the soldiers still shoved and ran, the box still drifted several inches above the earth. John just watched, motionless. Then he let his breath exhale.

                The corner of the box struck the ground, cracking and splintering along its sides. A bright light erupted from inside immediately, blinding John momentarily before he was lifted off his feet. The sound of Panicked Russian disappeared in a roaring fury of sound. Then the sound washed into nothingness. The force of the explosion drowned out his senses and sent him hurtling backwards. A burning pain latched over his skin, surrounding him as he tumbled back. Vadim’s body smashed up against him, his skull crushing against John’s chin. He let go of the ax, the shock of stabbing pain made him recoil senselessly as he was carried through the air. He hit the ground hard, his breath knocked from his lungs. A second later something landed on top of him, and his head thumped against the ground. Everything was black.

Chapter Text

30 March 1984. 22:15. Rural Village, Amniat. Northern Kabul, Afghanistan.

                John woke to the feeling of his skin burning. His mouth hung loose, drawing in rasps of air, but still breathing. His eyes fluttered open, gazing upwards in a daze. His vision doubled, then tripled, blurring in and out while multiple images of everything swirled together, unable to focus into one subject. His mind swirled. No thought emerged from his polluted brain, filled heavily with a tiring smog. All he could do was breath, barely, and twitch his gaze side to side. His body felt lost, numbed or paralyzed, and what parts of himself he could feel were wrapped in an excruciating burning sensation. No feeling of panic or urgency came to him. He just lay there, staring, as he was submerged in pain. He felt the strong urge to sleep, but something deep within him fought against it. It didn’t feel like himself. All his movements felt foreign to him, like he was inhabiting another man’s body. He experienced his pain, his loss, his suffering, but he did not care. He couldn’t. He was mentally unable to.

                Embers and smoke swirled upwards into the sky, like falling stars and clouds being sucked into the bloating abyss of darkness. He felt as though he too would be lifted from the earth to eaten by the immense, churning smog; as if he were part of the sky, a star like the embers, threatening to be plucked from the coarse grip of the earth and fall below into the gloaming toxicity of shadows and bleak emptiness that enveloped the light. Despite the stomach churning feeling, his body remained pinned to the ground. His eyes began to drift lethargically, defocusing and blurring the night sky into a mist of twinkling blackness. His eyes were heavy, and the feeling of sleep grasped its fingers over his eyelids, pulling them together. His breathing grew subtle, and spaced farther apart. Air floated lightly in his mouth and down his throat until it quietly returned to a stop on the tip of his tongue.

                His eyelids twitched, then fell shut as he let himself become consumed by the entity of the darkness above him, seeping down into his body. The only feeling he had left was the delicate beat of his heart, vibrating in his chest and head. There was no sound, no screams, no gunfire, nothing. As he let himself sink into his mind, a soft ringing began to push its way into his conscience, growing louder, yet echoing as if he was falling farther away from it until its shrill cry bounced off the walls of his mind and enclosed around him. It grew louder, screaming all around him. He couldn’t escape it, even as he sank deeper. It followed him, latching its invisible tendrils around him and pulling him back from the nothingness.

                A shot of adrenaline lanced through the fog of his mind, snapping and bending its way through heavy walls of sleep and submerged thought. His heart jolted awake, panicked by the loss of oxygen. It felt like it was being clawed from the inside out. John’s eyes flew open instantly as he bent himself upwards, gasping for air. Whatever laid on top of him fell to the side. His lungs gasped, filling with air and smoke. The adrenaline pumped through him, making him shudder against the clasping pain throughout his body and forcefully suck air into his lungs. He fell on his back, coughing. He breathed heavily, his chest heaving up and down while his heart pounded, begging for oxygen. His ribs flexed outwards in a terrified rhythm held by his spasming lungs. His abdomen rose and fell in a shaken aftermath, swishing the contents of his stomach and threatening to rid itself of them for the sake of taking in more air. He turned his head to the side, avoiding the ghastly smolder that rose from the earth. He tightened his throat, keeping himself from vomiting.

                The ringing in his ears pierced into him relentlessly. He could feel the vibrations of his breathing and heart, but no sound could push past the endless crying ring. His breathing stabilized, although still hoarse, and he tried to sit up. He pushed himself off his back, resting on his elbows, but something heavy still rested on his legs. His arms ached and he stifled a cry as he forced himself to stay upright. John looked down at his exposed skin. It was patched with an assortment of bloody, red colors where the skin was either seared or burned off from the explosion. He began to panic. Pressing through the pain, he twitched his hand up to his face to feel for burns or worse. Nothing. He sighed, relieving himself of the terrible thought of his face being disfigured by the blast. Thankfully, all was in place apart from a few cuts smeared with dried blood. He drew his fingertips away from his forehead where a splash of blood had been dripping down his brow. Feeling around his scalp he pulled his hand away. There was no source from where that much blood could have come from. He came to the realization that it wasn’t his. His wrist creaked as he wiped the blood from his face on the back of his hand. It glistened with the smoldering orange light of fire. John released his breath kept tight in his chest, flicking some of the blood from his hand with a quick, but painful, motion.

                His relief was cut off abruptly as an agonizing surge coursed over his burns. He clenched his teeth, groaning and closing his eyes. He opened them, looking down to see his skin begin to harden and scale like flakes of stone over his wounds. His joints stiffened as his skin began to create a grayish shell over his forearms. He had never experienced this on this magnitude before. John endured more cuts and burns than he could count over the years, but none of them were of this size or intensity, nor had they ever covered this much area of his body at once. It was excruciating, laying there, petrified like a statue while his skin miraculously repaired itself like it had done so many times before. Despite the miracle, it was a ferociously painful process. The stone skin covered the tormented area and dug into the skin, tearing out and eating damaged and dead areas and replacing it with a soft, fluid covered film that gradually wove into new skin beneath the hardened shells.

                He let his head fall back, clenching his jaw to the point where his molars hurt. He growled through his teeth, wanting this torture to end. His ears still rang intensively and his vision still swayed. His nausea returned in full force, punching against his abdomen. Anything beyond an arm’s length spun dizzyingly and blurred into a watercolor painting of swirling objects and colors. His head felt like it was continuously turning to the side, restarting from his original gaze, and then turning to the side again. He clenched his abdomen, feeling a sickness bloat in his stomach from the imbalance flowing through him. He collapsed onto his back and felt something break away from his arms. He exhaled a deep breath, opening his eyes to the spinning sky above him. He swallowed hard, then tried to lift his arms. His forearms were still stiff and his fingers moved like those of a creaking corpse, but he could bend his elbows again. The stone-like covering had progressed farther down his arms and to his wrists, leaving behind a scaling, gray pattern to his skin where the shells had embedded themselves. The upper layers of the shells had dried and flaked away, breaking like hardened clay when he moved. It still burned angrily, but provided it was left alone, it would be a few more hours until the skin began to return to a more normal state. Scars that would haunt a normal man for the rest of his life would fade away within a day or two—if he survived that long.

                He pushed himself up again, sitting more upright than before. His vision started to come together, although still blurry. The twirling copies of objects came together into consistent shapes. When he sat up, he looked down at what had pinned him down. The body of Vadim laid haphazardly on top of him, scorched by the blast. The only way he knew it was Vadim was due to the black cap that still clung to his bloody scalp. The fibers of the stiff cloth melted from the fire and fused into his mutilated skin. John’s heart leaped to his throat at the sight of him.

                Parts of him were missing, and it was hard to tell where his body ended and where the dark blood and meat infused with the earth began. Bits of bone protruded from his legs and chest where the blast had caught him directly. Vadim’s body had protected John from the worst of it—the very worst of the worst, John had realized, swallowing hard. A hole was burned through his charred face, exposing bloody gums and broken, yellow teeth. Fire still fed on his body near the remains of his legs, auguring to set him ablaze.

                John froze. The haunting memory of the corpse in the ruins dripped into his mind. He could smell it. The dry stench of decay. The rotten flesh layered with bacteria, torn and eaten by wildlife and sand blowing in the wind. The nightmare that kept him up for weeks; the terrible secret that he had kept hidden—had returned. It found him, and with it came death and ruin. He began to panic, his breathing catching high in his lungs, like any breath he drew wasn’t enough. He did this, he caused all of this. The shadows of his past had followed him because he kept to that stupid promise. He could have prevented this, if not for Nuria—the sudden thought of her tore him back to reality, guided by a sudden anger.

                He had to find her. He needed to know why she made him keep that promise all those years ago. He needed to know if it was worth it to her, for all this. She caused this.

                He leaned forward, pushing the remains of Vadim off him. The corpse clung to him, stiffened from death and char. John’s own strength hadn’t returned to him, making the act of sitting alone to be a struggle. His joints screamed in harmony with his raw skin. He groaned through the pain, and shoved the body to the side. He sat haphazardly on his side, having taken a toll from the force of energy. His throat rasped with heavy breaths, collecting what strength he could. He bent towards his legs, massaging them to help the blood flow through them again. He pursed his lips and blew out with relief as he curled his toes. His limbs still functioned at the least, and he was whole. As feeling returned to his legs, so did pain as he noticed several tears in his pants. He felt along the holes in his clothes, searching for the source of the pain. When he found it, he winced terribly, recoiling his fingers. He gently lowered his fingers again to prod about gently at the wounds. After lightly feeling over the gashes in his skin, now partially covered by hardened shells, he found pointed, metal shards at the tips of the wounds. Shrapnel had pelted his legs during the blast, being the most exposed part of his body, and stabbed through his clothes and into his skin and bone.

                He couldn’t bend his legs without feeling the shrapnel scrape against his bones. He shuddered, yelling through a growl before letting his legs fall limp. He rested back on his elbows, clenching his jaw and breathing harshly through his teeth. A gut-wrenching part about the healing process was feeling his skin, muscles, and bone move and reshape against his will. It was revolting. He looked around himself. Bodies lay everywhere, but it was hard to tell which ones had been dead before the blast and which were killed by it. His fuzzy vision depicted everyone as black blobs. He turned his head side to side, looking for any sign of life.

                Nuria , he thought. He shot a look to the alley they had come from. Nothing. He was alone. He winced again, grabbing at his leg. Where is she? He thought, blinking away stinging tears.

                Something moved in front of him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The world still smeared into a blur around him, and when he tried to focus, his head ached. All he saw was blackness sporadically painted across the dirt where the blast had been, and dark blobs which he assumed were more bodies. Only now, one of them began to move. Whatever it was sat up, and what looked like a limb rose from its body and touched what he assumed was its head. Others began to move. They fidgeted on the floor, sluggish and shaken. A muffled sound came from the first, barely making it through the shrieking ring in John’s ears. More muffled sounds echoed from the cluster of blobs. The bloated distortion of speech came from one to the other in a dull rhythm.

                The ringing began to fade as his vision weakly returned, and John could begin to decipher what he saw. The first blob became the fuzzy image of a man on all fours, looking to another fuzzy man as he crawled towards something laying in the road a few feet away from the group. The third person, dressed like the others, heaved violently on his back, kicking his legs out and yelling muffled nonsense to the others who ignored him. John was too slow to react. He sat there, staring at the three soldiers waking from the torched earth. He needed to move, but he didn’t. He just watched, breathing quietly and shuddering from the pain. The vibrations of his heart thundered in his ears. He was petrified.

                The first soldier, reached what lay caressed in the dirt, retrieving the object and rising to his knees. John squinted, attempting to force his eyes to focus. He barely made out the details of the object and panic plucked at his lungs when he realized it was the man’s rifle. With what speed he could manage, he started pushing himself away from them along the ground. He was too slow to move quietly, and let himself fall on his side so he could drag himself faster. They had to have noticed. More dampened blurbs of speech came from behind him as he crawled away desperately.

                He felt his healing skin tear along his arms and become slick with blood. He growled through his teeth, feeling more tears spit into his eyes. He tried to raise himself onto his hands and knees, biting his cheek as he felt pointed bits of shrapnel push deeper into his skin. He made it several feet until a piece of shrapnel struck into his kneecap. Part of a scream rumbled in his throat before he pressed his lips together hard. He could hear yelling behind him, still partially muffled. He gave in to the temptation and gave a quick glance behind him. The second man had been pointing at him and the first hobbled haphazardly toward him, readying his rifle. Dull cracks belted from the rifle sending several bullets pelting around him inaccurately. He saw the man with the gun cry out and drop to the floor, his own wounds restraining him. John turned his head back and tore has hard as he could forward. A spurt of blood gushed from his arm and he dropped to the ground. Hot tears streamed down his face. It all hurt so much. He wanted it to end. He wanted the pain to stop and to finally sleep, to forget all that had happened, to escape this. He had to keep crawling.

                He struggled to breathe. Sweat poured down his brow and mixed with his tears. He could taste blood. He spat into the dirt and looked behind him. The soldier was no more than twenty feet behind him, still struggling to get up. He rose to his knees, aiming his rifle again. Two shots struck out, hitting right beside John. The man yelled profusely, then collapsed to all fours again, tearing off his balaclava and coughing up blood. John looked ahead. He had to make it back around the wall. If he could make to Farhang’s store, he could hide among the destruction and bodies. He just had to keep crawling. He clawed forward on his stomach, swinging his knees up to his sides and kicking back one after the other to push himself forward. He could see it—the corner—just a few feet away. He moaned with pain, pushing himself harder. The earth became damp with his blood as he left a trail that seeped from his wounds. His body persisted to repair itself as he continued to tear himself apart just to move. He was almost there—just a bit farther.

                Another series of muffled cracks rung out, most of them patted harmlessly into the dirt ahead of him, but the last pierced into John’s thigh. He cried out, his face pressing down against the ground. He rolled onto his side, clutching at the gun wound. His hands grasped desperately at his leg, squeezing it hard as if it would calm the pain. He was abruptly kicked in the shoulder, throwing him onto his back. He blinked through the tears and sand in his eyes to see a barrel pointed between them just inches away. He grit his teeth and breathed through them in pain and anger. The man above him staggered slightly, putting his boot on John’s sternum and barking deadened words that John couldn’t make out, but their vicious tone held their intent. John wrapped his hands around the man’s boot, making him lose some of his balance. The Russian yelled something again, then smashed the butt of his rifle against John’s cheek. John fell back in a daze, losing focus. His hands fell to his side meekly. He had no more strength. His muscles burned from exhaustion while his skin felt as though it was being flayed from his still breathing body.

                The soldier’s face began to blur into even less detail and the ringing in his ears managed to carve back into his head. His breathing rasped in staggered bursts, either from the agony or fear. John watched the soldier twist his head back to shout something at the second soldier who was now limping in their direction, then as swiftly as he could, turned back and readied his rifle against John’s forehead. He saw the Russian’s lips move subtly, but heard nothing. John just closed his eyes and let his head rest against the sand. His lungs were being crushed beneath the soldier’s boot, making each faint breath even weaker. His entire body chorused the same exhausted, agonized song of desperation and failure. He could do nothing to hear its pitiful call.

                After a moment passed, his eyes flickered open. The man was no longer aiming his rifle at him. He was peering beyond him, with a puzzled look on his face. He raised his rifle, and said something to the nothingness, then again after a few seconds passed of silence, then again. A response came before the fourth time. Two dull pops echoed above John. The soldier faltered back, firing several random shots from his rifle before another loud pop echoed from the shadows. Blood poured from two holes in the man’s chest, and the ruby liquid squirted from a third in his neck. He crumpled to the ground before he could grab his neck as a fourth punched through his eye. A rain of blood clattered over John as he stared, shocked. He then rolled to his side, relieving his begging lungs with a gasp of air and looking away from the blood spewing corpse beside him.

                He saw a pair of boots step beside him. He tried to look up, but collapsed when his aching muscles overcame him. He watched as the boots stepped forward, meeting the path of the second soldier, who was raising his hands and shouting a splurge of words that all melted together. His eyes, full of terror, pleaded while his words spouted from his shaking mouth until a bullet punctured his forehead and exploded out the back of his skull. He collapsed backwards like a ragdoll. The stranger remained where they stood, dropping a magazine beside their feet. John heard several dull clicks and clacks as another magazine was loaded into the weapon.

                The stranger pivoted, and made a hurried series of steps towards John. They knelt in front of him, and John saw a familiar shade of red hair fall in front of his savior’s face. Nuria , the single word struggled through his mind to its surface. She said something John was unable to hear. Something burned inside him, making his mouth lips twitch over bared teeth. He suddenly grasped her by the arm, squeezing onto her as tight as he could. She fell to her knee, staring at him with bewilderment. She cried out something, her lips moved, but all he heard was muffled noise. Her face contorted into a pained grimace, and she clutched at his firmly gripped hand. He gripped tighter, making a sound that started as a low growl as stone shells morphed from his skin and dug into the gashes covering his body. Tears rolled down his cheek. He glared into her eyes, searching for something. She held onto his arm and looked back into his eyes. She was sad, visibly sad and in pain. He hoped it was from him.

                She started mouthing something, a phrase, a word, over and over. There was no sound, just the clear pronunciation from the movement of her soft lips. I’m sorry . John bit his teeth harder together as the stone skin ripped into his arm, filling torn skin and weaving into tissue. He cried out, nearly crushing Nuria’s arm in his grip before falling limp to the earth. He breathed out heavily, tasting blood in his mouth. Once released from his grasp, Nuria jumped back from him, clutching her arm and wiping away a few tears shed from pain. They stared at each other for a time, then John let his gaze fall to the floor. His breathing continued in a harsh pattern from his mouth, and his eyes begged for rest. Nuria stood a while longer, watching him cautiously before stepping out of his line of sight. John stared blankly, watching dimming embers land around him. The shrill ring in his ears fell fainter while he rested. His vision focused and his ears began to pick up the sound of the war-torn night. Nuria returned and crouched beside him, his ax slung over her shoulder.

                “Can you stand?” she asked, her words breaking through his once deafened ears. Her voice was cold. John blinked, and met her piercing gaze. He said nothing. He shook his head slowly after a few aching seconds passed. “Alright,” she replied. Her face portrayed no emotion, but he could feel her indignation for him burn into his back.

                John closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was on his knees. Nuria was beside him, placing his arm over her shoulder and trying to lift him to his feet. He blinked in confusion, looking around, but eventually finding himself staring at Nuria. The ringing had subsided, and he could see clearly again, but his head throbbed with pain, threatening to pull him unconscious when he moved too quickly. He winced, clenching his teeth as he tried to stand. A sharp string of pain contorted in his ankle and he fell forward, barely stopping himself from hitting the ground with his hand. Nuria exhaled anxiously and tried to wrap more of his arm over her to take on more of his weight.

                “We have to move,” she said quietly, “there are more coming—”

                “Why,” John muttered, feeling himself about to faint, “why did—” –he stumbled again— “why did you leave?” He looked into her eyes as she stared at him with a frozen expression. She flung a look to the side, watching behind them for a moment. She didn’t answer, lifting him with a sudden push of effort. He staggered, but held his footing. They started down the road, towards the remains of the explosion. John closed his eyes again.

                He didn’t remember taking each step. He would open his eyes and they would be much farther down the road than he thought they would have been. He forgot how many times he had fallen and how many times he had blacked out temporarily. Each time he opened his eyes felt like the first time since he woke up after the explosion. They continued hobbling forward, struggling to make it around the next corner. John attempted to persist his questions, but he could only ever manage a few broken words before nearly passing out again. His head was pulsing with pain.

                Something snagged him and he opened his eyes abruptly, his heart leaping to his throat as he tripped and landed on his hands and knees. Nuria cursed, turning back and prying John away from the third soldier that had survived the explosion. John kicked away from him, spinning around onto his butt to stare at him in surprise. From how he looked, he shouldn’t have been alive. The majority of his face was burnt away, leaving his teeth exposed and most of his cartilage obliterated. Blood soaked his clothes and continued to flow from where an arm used to be. John stared at his bloodshot eyes in horror. The man groaned, and a wheezing sound blew out through a hole in his chest. They maintained eye contact for a moment, then watched the Russian slowly lower his head to the ground and cease his wheezed breathing. He stared at the corpse with widened eyes full of alarm, then looked beyond him to the aftermath of the explosion. It wasn’t blackness from the blast that he thought he had seen torn over the earth. It was blood. Dark blood and gore strewn over the road. He tore his gaping gaze away immediately, feeling his stomach churn and bode to upheave its contents. His breathing quickened as he tried to shut out images of what happened, and of them—Helai and Pohand. His abdomen quivered with sickness. John pushed himself farther away from the body, bumping into Nuria’s legs. He felt her place her hand on his shoulder.

                John looked up at her, who stood over him watching the corpse attentively. She caught his gaze and reached down to pull him up. This time he was able to push himself up with a little more strength, with the balance granted by Nuria’s outstretched arm. John breathed hard, steadying his racing heart. He started coughing, struggling not to empty his stomach. Nuria placed a calming hand on his chest as they began stepping forward. The sudden gesture brought on a wave of ease. He pursed his lips and blew out steadily, attempting to calm himself. Nuria didn’t say anything, and neither did he. He shot a glance at her and watched her unblinking focus before dropping his gaze.

                They’re going to suffer for this , he thought, all of them. Fury boiled in his blood, creasing his brow in harsh wrinkles. His jaw tightened. Nuria could feel him tense up as his steps became stiff. She looked at him, seeing the look in his eyes and understanding. She breathed out quietly while studying him, then shut her mouth and exhaled hard through her nose as she sped up their pace. John forced himself to match her speed, despite the clenching aches in his legs. They rounded the corner and started down the next section of road. It was dark and void of life. There were a few bodies that were organized beside the edges of the road with arms and legs together. No doubt so that vehicles could move through unhindered. John shot a glance over them, locking onto their blank eyes looking blankly towards the smoldering sky. He grimaced and pushed on, letting out a low growl with every breath. The pain began to mean less with every stride forward.

                Nuria had to pick up her pace to keep up with John’s limping march. She let his arm fall from around her shoulder and placed her hand on his back for support instead. She now took quick looks behind her, anxiously expecting more soldiers to round the corner after them. John watched her do so out of the corner of his eye but focused on the path ahead. After this corner the road weaved in one direction for a few hundred yards until meeting another turn that wove back into the village. John’s home was at the end of that curve. He was almost there.

                There was an empty silence that hung over the alley. There were no buildings apart from a few homes by each corner of the road. Two mud brick walls stood on either side of the path, separating them from both parts of the village. It kept them isolated from the chaos—for now. It was quiet enough for John to hear his own forceful breathing echo off the walls. Their footsteps echoed off the homes at either end of the road, so they’d surely hear those of their pursuers before they came into sight. Nuria paid attention to the corner behind them. John saw her make paranoid glances over her shoulder while they hobbled down the road together. He didn’t care, as long as they made it to his home first, it didn’t matter what was behind them.

                Nuria came to a stop a few feet before the turn in the road, tugging John by the arm. He stopped short and spun sluggishly to face her, holding a disgruntled look on his face. She looked at him, mouth open to speak, but blinked her gaze to the floor. John shifted his footing, impatient, and exhaled through his nose to accentuate that. He scrutinized her, watching her brow wrinkle from thought. The details of her face became hidden by a lock of red hair that swung loose over her face from her untidy bun. The color complimented her flush face and eyes swimming with melancholy. He took a step back, wanting to leave, but he didn’t tear away like he tried to so many times in their past. He let out a deep sigh, letting his tightened shoulders relax. He let Nuria feel the weight of his arm as he let his stress and anger pass. Momentarily. For her.

                Her eyes slowly fluttered up to meet his. They pierced through him with the color of arctic waters. Their coolness stabbed into him and bled into his warmth—his anger. His mouth opened slightly as his focus fell into her gaze, his gray eyes sinking into hers like iron sinking into the sea. Before he could find words to speak, she pressed herself up against him, shutting his mouth with hers. John weakly placed his arms around her, and closing his eyes, he pressed his lips harder against her own. He wanted to hold on forever, but she gently plucked her lips away and took several steps back from him. Her eyes were wet and her lip quivered. Without tearing her gaze from him, she lifted the ax from her shoulders, undid the buckling, and tossed the ax at his feet, letting the sheath fall to the ground. John looked at her, puzzled, and took a step forward. She took another step back, subtly shaking her head and lowering her eyes. John froze, lifting a shaking hand to her.

                She took his outstretched hand in hers, gently turning it over in her palms before pushing it away from her. His hand fell to his side, tingling from her touch. He wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came. He opened his mouth wider, as if to say something, but she spoke first.

                “John,” she began, “I…” he watched her intently, not a muscle moved say for his heart which beat eagerly. She blinked multiple times, and John watched as the first tear rolled down her cheek.

                “Nuria,” he whispered.

                There was an abrupt commotion from behind her, back down the road. A series of shouting and pounding footsteps echoed towards them. Distinct Russian slurs and orders barked clearly as their hunters grew closer. John pursed his lips, watching earnestly for whoever pursued them to finally charge around the corner. Nuria heard them too, turning around and pulling her handgun from the back of her pants. John shot a look at her, then to the source of the oncoming threat, then back to her. He lurched forward, grabbing her shoulder.

                “Nuria—”

                “Run,” Nuria cut in with a cold tone. John froze, his words hanging on his tongue. She turned back to him, tears streaming down her face. “John—run, now.”

                He lifted his hand from her shoulder, taking a step back. His brow furrowed as he looked at her confused. His mouth still hung open with eager words pricking his lips. He took another step back, stepping over his ax lying in the sand. He looked down at it like it was some foreign object, like he had never held it before in his life. He raised his eyes to Nuria again, who was checking the magazine of her handgun before sliding it back in and flipping the safety off. She examined the weapon solemnly, squeezing it tightly in her hand, then shot a glare at John.

                “Go!” she shouted. John’s breath caught in his throat, seeing the terror and hatred that filled her crystal eyes. Her ferocity lanced into his heart and squeezed his lungs. He stumbled back clumsily, and crouched to grab his ax. When he stood, Nuria was already running back down the road on silent feet. He stood for a while longer, glimpsing her fiery hair swirl undone over her shoulders. He held his breath.

                She placed her hand on the wall, holding her gun at her side with the other. She made one last glance back at him as she disappeared behind the wall; one that seemed to last forever. John finally let his breath release from his lungs. His lungs breathed thankfully, but quickly. He stood with ax in hand, watching for her to return around the corner, hoping that she would. She never did. A minute that lasted an hour passed. Gunshots cracked angrily, followed by random screams and shouting. John closed his eyes, listening for any detail to know if she was safe or dead. None came. The blaring sound of gunshots rang out sporadically and endlessly with no pattern or pinpoint source. It became hard to tell if he was even listening to the same firefight anymore. More pops of gunfire erupted from all around him in other parts of the village. He became lost in the chaos, surrounded by its suffocating fires. He was alone, hidden in the encroaching swarm of death.

                A soft breeze whispered in his ear and through his disheveled, black hair, pulling a few short strands in front of his eyes. The dulcet touch of wind caressed his face and tugged his attention behind him, to the smoldering storm of embers and fire. He squeezed the handle of the ax in his hand and swallowed. He had forgotten about his wounds, but was quickly reminded of them when his first step forward shot pain through his bones. He shuddered, slowing his initial pace and taking his next step steadily. His foot stepped carefully onto the sand covered road. He spread his toes in his boots and exhaled sharply through his pursed lips. Confident with his movement now, he took another limping step forward, and another, gradually.

                He turned the corner and froze with startled eyes. Everything was set ablaze. The swarming fires bellowed and swallowed nearly every building on either side of the street. Every structure succumbed to the torment of the ravaging inferno, clutching all it could and tearing it asunder to the earth, rendering its victims to char and ash. Embers darted like hornets in swirling masses into the street and up into the sky where they were consumed by the bloating smoke. Ash had started falling like flakes of phantom snow, like drifting corpses that fell to the earth and suffocated what hope was left. John was transfixed. The overwhelming sight of everything he grew up with, every neighbor, every memory being taken from him by fire struck into his spine and clasped his heart in fear. His eyes trailed along the road, grasping focus on each house as the ghosts of his memories were stolen and torn into nothingness, only to be returned to him in the form of dead ash. Each passing moment he had taken for granted was reduced to nothing. He wanted to stop breathing.

                Beyond the smolder and chaos sat his home, separated from the close cluster of buildings. It was dark, blending in with the night, and appeared untouched by the maelstrom of fire. The door was open. John’s heart fluttered. He hopped into an agonizing jog, pushing through each step that stung and tore along his entire body. His body held on as well as it could, the hardening of his skin persisting with its demanding healing process. He felt like a stone statue coming to life, grinding forward unnaturally. A spear of agony pierced through his thigh, causing him to stutter his pace and nearly collapse. He swung his arms out and barely maintained his balance, continuing his run. He stopped just outside his home, catching his breath and squeezing his thigh where he had been shot. His fingers felt through the hole in his pants and met where the wound would have been. It had already healed over, but he could feel the bullet still within him, grating against his muscle and bone. He winced, standing up straight and forcing himself to walk forward.

                He took the first step inside. It was dark, not a single light emitted from anywhere indoors. John squinted, scanning side to side for any sign of his father. He didn’t see or hear anyone. He took another step inside, closing the door behind him. His foot caught on something heavy, sending him tumbling to the floor. Cursing to himself, he shakily pushed himself to his knees. The light of the fires was the only light he had to rely on for sight. It fitfully washed over the contents of the room, making it hard to see whatever sat in the shadows. He felt the floor around him, searching for what tripped him. His fingers traced over the dusty, coarse floor until they found something stiff laying on the floor. He grabbed it and immediately let go when he saw he had lifted a boot; a boot still attached to a body.

                His terrified breathing slowed after he took a closer look. They resembled the same combat boots that the soldiers had all been wearing. John was the only one that wore a similar pair apart from those in the village that ran supply runs and his father never owned any of his own. His brow narrowed with puzzlement. He moved to the side, shifting into the shadows so that the light from outside could illuminate the body. The man’s silhouette became visible. He was one of the Russians, collapsed face first into a pool of drying blood. Although relieved that it wasn’t his father, fear clutched at the back of his head. They were in here. They came for him and they found him… or someone.

                John looked around, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could see his overturned bed to the far side of the room, next to other disturbed furniture. Debris was strewn over the floor. John blinked, trying to make out all that lay in the shadows. He looked to his father’s room. His door was closed, but deep scrapes and splintering wood on its exterior indicated it had already been forcefully kicked in. John got to his feet, taking his ax with him and readying it above his shoulder. There could be others on the other side—waiting for him, laying a trap and knowing he would return. He stepped quietly towards the door. He lowered his hand to reach the doorknob, but saw the door was slightly ajar; just by a crack. With his fingers placed softly against the door, he pushed it open slowly. Creaks whispered from its hinges as it yawned inward before becoming stiff. Something on the other side kept it from opening all the way. He pushed a little harder until the hidden weight gave way and a thick slump thumped from inside. The door swung freely against John’s touch, exposing the room and releasing the scent of iron and sour smoke.

                It was just as dark in here too, with the occasional glare of warm light from a window on the left wall. John slid into the room and shut the door behind him. The door was smeared with blood. His eyes followed the dry trail which ran down the door and ended in a thick, sticky puddle of congealing blood. There was a light wash of blood arcing from the smear on the door down to the ground. The blood led to another body collapsed on the floor. It must have been blocking the door. He crouched, turning over the body quickly as fear gripped tighter over him. He sighed, looking at the blank eyes of a young, pale face of a soldier dressed in an earthy colored uniform. Another Russian soldier. John studied his eyes, now glazed over and dried, staring at the far corner of the room. His mouth hung open, holding a word, a scream, that never came before he died. John lowered his ax to the floor, the metal brushing softly against the stone floor. He looked over the body, then lifted its arm that lay over its torso. Setting it carefully aside he examined the blood-soaked front of the man’s uniform. Several holes had been punctured through his chest. Someone killed him with a firearm. John’s brow pressed together, perplexed, as he followed the hollow gaze of the corpse to the enshrouded corner. Between his father’s bed and the wall there was a four-foot gap now filled with clutter. Amidst the broken bits of furniture and torn blankets from the bed was a dark shape slumped in the shadows. He squinted his eyes, searching, then a noise emerged from the darkness. It was soft and low.

                “John?” the rough whisper asked, followed by a muffled cough. John’s heart lifted to his throat, pounding heavily. The pulse of his heart struck in his ears. He lowered his breathing, listening intently. His mouth hung open and his eyes gaped. He leaned forward, leaning towards the source of the voice.

                “John,” the same voice beckoned, sad and hoarse.

                John’s face creased with dread and sadness. He left his ax behind, crawling forward around the bed. His hands felt along the ground, guiding him in the dark. He stopped under the window on the wall, the dim light illuminating him in the dark. He heard a choked sigh when he revealed himself. His heart ached at the sound. He could tell he was hurt, he could feel it in his heart. It became hollow, suffocated by his shallow breath. He blinked rapidly, the suffocation beginning to burn his lungs, and shakily drew in a deep breath. He held onto the gasp of air, his lip quivering, then let it fall from his mouth before drawing in another. Shivers chased down his ribs and made him tremble.

                The faint flash of an approaching thunderstorm pulsed over the clouds on the horizon, dimly flashing into the room and revealing the weary face of his father, wan and sad. John’s eyes flicked over him erratically, watching his silhouette as the shadows swallowed him again. He pushed himself closer, raising an arm and reaching out with a trembling hand to touch him, to see if he was real, to see if he was truly alive. His fingertips brushed against his cheek, feeling the gravel-like touch of his beard. The warmth of his face met the tips of his fingers. Something warm traced down the side of his father’s face, dripping onto his finger. He retracted his hand into the light, worriedly looking it over. The drop of liquid was clear and dried quickly on his skin. John frowned, his heart sinking. He fought against the warmth of his own tears forming in his eyes.

                “Kochai—” John choked, head down.

                “You are a noble fool,” his father spoke slowly, “you were never meant to come back.” His voice was hushed, followed by a suppressed cough. He winced, grabbing at his abdomen. He struggled to hush another harsh cough clawing to escape his throat. Light reflected off the glasses he wore, making it the only detail he could see clearly in the dark. John looked at him, at the two circles of reflecting orange light, confused.

                “You were supposed to leave, with her—” Kochai broke off, clenching his jaw and muting a groan of pain. “Why did you come back?” Another drop trailed down his cheek, glistening in the dark.

                “Father, I—” John searched for words, overwhelmed, “—I had to come back, I had to find you.”

                His father sighed, “your heart always outweighed your head. I cannot blame you for that.” He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth, looking down at his tightly clutched abdomen before continuing, “I should have warned you, I shouldn’t have been so selfish through the years. You deserved to know. You deserved better. I—I didn’t want my past to touch you. I wanted—you deserved—” he growled, grasping his stomach.

                John grabbed his father’s arm and tried to move it away. Kochai resisted, but eventually yielded. His clothing was darkened with blood, now spreading across his abdomen. John clenched his stomach, staring at the wounds in his gut.

                “I was a fool to not think this would happen sooner,” his father said quietly, “I had prepared myself for the day someone would come, but I never anticipated this. I never knew who would come, and I should have expected the worst—I was so selfish—Jonathan… I—”

                “We need to leave,” John said suddenly, his voice growing cold, “we need to get you out of here. Nuria—she kept them back—for now. Can you stand?” He moved to place his arms under his father’s, expecting he would need the help to stand. His father caught John’s wrist in a tight grip, glaring at him. John narrowed his eyes, hesitating.

                “No,” Kochai said. John frowned, bewildered. “I cannot go. They’re here for me—and you. When they found me, the boy by the door made a call to his superiors that they had captured me. My only chance to kill them—to free myself came after that call.” He lifted his other hand slowly. The hand clutched a blood-spattered handgun with an engraving along its side. He glared at it, curling his nose upwards and letting it fall from his hand to the floor. “What kindness heritage has wrought me,” he muttered. He stared at the old weapon for some time before meeting John’s eyes.

                “More are coming,” Kochai continued in a rasped voice, “if I were to accompany you, they would capture or kill us before we reached the village border—”

                “Kochai, I won’t—”

                “You must leave me behind. I have already brought the havoc of my sins upon our friends, our family… our loved ones… all these people. I will not see it consume you too. Not after all I’ve done to protect you,” his father said. He paused, searching John’s face. John wondered what he saw. “Now I see that I have kept all I’ve wanted for you from you by keeping to my thoughtless secrecy—” he squeezed John’s wrist tighter, “please forgive me.”

                John looked at his father’s tightly gripped hand. He couldn’t lose him, not now, not after all he saw—after all he lost. He didn’t want to lose him too. Drowning despair hung onto his heart and pulled it down. His body felt empty. He was losing everything, and for what? His father must have seen the question in his eyes.

                “I’ve kept so much from you, John, so much you deserved to know since the day you could first speak,” he choked, “I’ve lied so much to you and it hurts to lie here now and see what that has brought you. I should have told you—perhaps, I’m not sure—” he paused as tears began to fall down his wrinkled face and into his beard, “perhaps we—we wouldn’t be here. Maybe we would be in a better place. Away from these good people—or you would. If I had let go of my pathetic pride—”

                “Kochai, please—” John interrupted, placing his hand over his father’s tightly clutched hand. His voice shuddered.

                “You could have prepared—we both could have prepared, and maybe—maybe we could have been ready,” he gripped tighter with his hand has he spoke, fighting through the pain with a dignified voice. “I will own my consequences. What man would I be to leave here with you and forget the people who died for nothing? You will leave me here .” He released his grip on John’s wrist, weakly searching for something in his pocket.

                He retrieved a small, black, rectangular object from his pocket. He turned it over in the palm of his hand, then lifted it up into the light from the window between his finger and thumb. It was an audio tape. On the back was a strip of masking tape with the writing ‘ Sin-74’ , written in pen. John studied it, feeling more lost.

                “Here,” he said, handing the cassette tape to John, “you deserve to know, when you’re ready.” John took the tape after a moment passed. He examined it closely, then placed it in his pocket. “Keep it safe, please. There is much for you to learn, and I cannot teach it to you now. This—this will guide you… to your past, and, hopefully, to a better future.”

                John nodded slowly, unblinking. A low vibration from outside shook through the floor suddenly, dropping drifts of dust from the ceiling. John straightened his back and peered through the bottom of the window. Billowing balls of fire erupted far off in the village, followed by distant sounds of shouting. The tormented fires still danced amongst the city in a storm of smoke and crashing debris, but one sound was missing in the cacophony of the surging chaos. The gunfire had stopped. Another series of shouts echoed some distance away. They were coming. John shot a glance of worry at his father, who looked disconnected from the threat of oncoming soldiers.

                Another vibration shook the interior of the house, sending crumbs of debris down from cracks in the ceiling. The supports within the walls moaned and something snapped deep within them. Desperation sank in. John lowered from the window to his knees, facing his father. There was a subtle hint of a smile on his face.

                “You’ve grown into an impressive man, John,” his father said, his voice absent of the agony that was tormenting him, “I can’t begin to imagine what you will accomplish, but it will be great.”

                John raised his brow, his throat tightened. He clenched his hands into fists on his thighs. His brow furrowed and he glowered at the floor. He knelt there, silent, struggling.

                “I couldn’t be prouder of you,” his father said, practically whispering. John looked up. “Despite the hardships I made you face without explanation of this idea of a life I tried to give you, you have always been a loving and compassionate boy. You always inspired me and kept my focus on pushing forward—for you, for all these people,” he paused, flexing his abdomen in anticipation of another coughing fit that came abruptly. He covered his mouth and coughed forcefully, unable to suppress it. His breathing quickened after and his face contorted into a pained grimace. When his pulled his hand away from his mouth, he looked down at it, then wiped it on his clothes. Blood streaked across the fabric. His father swallowed hard, then continued, “There is one thing I must tell you before you go—”

                “I won’t leave without you,” John begged, “I won’t lose you too.”

                “John, please, I would only be a burden to you. Even if we crawled our way out of this place, I would—” a wet, guttural cough interrupted him, he hardly managed to cover it in time as red spit sprinkled from his throat, “I will die before we make it to the nearest hospital—”

                “No you won’t! We can place bandages on you—we can patch you up before we go. We can make it to the hospital using one of their abandoned trucks out by the eastern gate. I saw several on my way into the village.”

                “The roads will be watched, if not blocked off, and if I survived long enough, they would stop us before we made it inside a hospital. They know—” he covered his mouth, waiting for another rasping cough, but none came, “they know we’re here. Every city—every occupied place would be on alert. John, we can’t—”

                “Then we’ll deal with it here. You can perform surgery—I can help, I can do it. You can show me! Or I can watch the door. There must be something I can do, father!”

                “There’s no time, John.”

                John’s chest was puffed from frustration. The exasperation began to squeeze around his throat as panic tickled the back of his head. He exhaled sharply through his nose, lowering his shoulders and releasing his anxiously filled lungs. His eyebrows pressed together, creasing his forehead. He lowered his gaze, squeezing his fists again until his knuckles turned white.

                “You will not have lost me, John. My body may be fading, but you will always have my love in your heart,” he said softly. John’s lip quivered. “You will carry all I’ve taught you, every lesson and discipline. The courage inside you will guide you, as it did me when I woke every morning to see what amazing thing you would accomplish each day. You will never lose me. My time here was limited as it was, and I am glad I was able to begin my retribution for my mistakes before it was far too late. I am—” he sputtered a slight cough into his hand, looked at his palm, and wiped his hand on his clothes again, “I am happy that I could be here with you before I go.”

                John opened his mouth to speak, but his ears peaked at the sound of distinct Russian yelling coming from somewhere outside. The sound had been close, perhaps just around the block of homes outside. He turned his head back, as if to hear some hidden detail in the nearing roar of sounds. He listened, lowering his panicked breath. He wanted more time—he needed more time to be here. They couldn’t take that from him too—he wouldn’t let them. He turned his head back to his father, he looked like he had slouched farther down and against the wall, almost like he had fallen asleep. He raised his head after noticing John had turned back to face him and smiled.

                “It’s time for you to go,” he simply said, weakly smiling.

                “No, I…” John began, searching for words. He wanted to stall, to keep this moment from ending. Another surge of blaring shouts came from outside. They were closing around them.

                “I want you to know,” his father continued, “every story I told you as a child, each night, of the knights and heroes that protected the innocent, that explored the world, and slew the evil monsters and dragons—they were always about you.”

                A hot tear rolled down John’s cheek. His mouth hung open, unable to speak. His fists loosened.

                “I wish I could tell you about each story now, how they were always inspired by you and your caring, courageous heart. But that’s why I need you to remember them, so you can look back on them when you face seemingly endless hardships, and see yourself in them. To see how I and everyone else see you, and that you can overcome anything.”

                His father’s caring words struck through him, piercing his chest and tearing into his insides. He could have stopped this. He wanted to yell at his father that he never deserved those stories, that they could never be about him after all the times he had disobeyed him. He hated himself for hearing those words. He could have stopped all of this. John choked a sob in his throat. He should have told him the secret Nuria had made him keep for so many years. This was all his fault. He wanted to scream.

                “There is so much about your past that you deserve to know, where you came from and why you’re here. There’s so much I wanted to tell you—I would have given anything to be able to sit with you and tell you everything… but there’s no time for that now. You need to go—there isn’t much time. That cassette tape will lead you to the truth. Now please, go, John.”

                A bitterness flooded John’s chest. He wanted this torture to end, but every moment he spent trying to stop it came with more agony that swept him farther away from all that he loved. This was his last moment with what remained of that love. He wanted to leave, with his father, to ignore the circumstances and run. Part of him fought to believe he could run from this and be with his friends and family the very next day. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare. He squeezed his eyes shut hard, gritting his teeth and hoping that when he opened them again he would be in his bed, waking up from a bad dream.

                “Despite all that we’ve been through, all that you’ve endured because of this lie, I hope you can forgive me,” he heard his father say weakly, “no matter where life takes you, no matter what you discover—about your past, about yourself—you will never be alone. You have never had your own family, your own parents and brothers and sisters, but to me, you will always be my son. I love you, John, please remember.”

                John opened his eyes. Tears flooded forth, having been kept back by his tightly squeezed eyelids. His father stared at him blankly, with a faint smile on his lips, unblinking. He was still, appearing relaxed with his hands gently placed over his stomach. John breathed softly, staring back, listening. They sat in silence for some time. John tuned out the chaos from outside, focusing on his father as dismay prickled from the inside of his lungs. He could only hear his own breathing. He leaned forward. His father’s gaze remained focused on where John had been. John reached out and touched his face.

                “Dad?”

                It felt like his heart was being squeezed in his own grip. Tears flowed down his cheek, dropping lightly to the dusty ground. He let a deep breath release and the silence ended. Roaring fires crackled ferociously, igniting what was left untouched by the flames. The sound of shattering glass crashed from outside as fires dove into homes and cooked them from the inside out. Explosions ruptured from within several buildings, shaking the ground and etching deeper cracks into his home. More small shrouds of debris crumbled from the ceiling, scattering over the floor. The blare of engines echoed through the town as vehicles made their enclosing approach. John’s own heartbeat pounded in his ears, drumming dramatically to the point that his head was filled with its sound. He couldn’t hear his own heavy breathing, his ribs and abdomen expanding and trembling as he forced each painful breath in and out of his body. The air clawed his throat, digging into his lungs before being torn out by his panicked gasps for air. He clenched his abdomen, a laden sickness tugged at his stomach and threatened to make him upheave from his distress. He couldn’t calm himself, he couldn’t stop himself from shaking to pieces. He fell to his hands and knees, the weight of his own emotion and shrieking surroundings enveloping him. He was suffocating. Each breath was meaningless as he sunk deeper within himself, unable to move, unable to react to the soldiers that were surrounding around the house.

                This was it. The last of the light in his life was gone. They took everything from him. Helai, Nuria, Kochai—all his friends and family—they were taken from him. Why? Hardly a thought could rise from the boiling turmoil churning in his mind. Only the single word could muster itself from the toxicity swathing over him. Why? The question echoed inside him, blaring to the point he wanted to claw it out of his head. He clenched his jaw, a frustrated growl emitting from his throat. His throat ached from the endless, stifled cry that was pushing to explode from his mouth. His eyes stung with tears, wetting his face along with sweat that dripped from his brow. Blades of agony made with self-hate and failure punctured between his ribs. The pain weaved around his organs and strangled them, twisting his insides and tightening around his throat. He shuddered, ending his angered growl and letting out a choked sob. His forehead touched the floor, now damp from his tears. Cold dirt kissed his skin and clung to it, leaving a subtle wash of coolness that left a lingering feeling of repose—of acceptance. He huddled there, breathing against the dusty floor, his eyes shut.

                The abyss that formed within him tangled throughout his body and compressed within his head until something finally broke. He slammed his fist against the ground, the force of it sending dust from the ceiling down around him. He let out a deep yell, screaming louder and louder until his throat hurt. His fist came down again, smashing against the hard floor. Again, and again. Each blow to the earth sent a wave of shuddering pain through his arm. He didn’t stop. His cry grew louder, roaring with his mouth wide open, his teeth baring ferociously. With tightly wound knuckles, his fist came down once more. Something shattered hideously and he didn’t care whether it was the floor or his fist. He pushed himself up from the floor, resting on his knees and bending his head back. His chest heaved with deep breaths. He let the last of his tears fall from the corners of his tightly closed eyes. He opened them and stared at the dry, unfeeling ceiling. The cold of the night emphasizing its lifelessness. His home was dead, cold and empty. The ceiling he had woken up to above him every morning was a stranger to him now. It was silent. He knelt in a hollow building, devoid memory or warmth.

                The rumbling engines of trucks died. The fires had consumed most of what the village had left to offer, and now cackled softly amongst itself over the smoldering char that remained. Voices could be heard from outside. They were here. A fire sparked within him, knitting its way from the center of the hollowness inside him and stitching through his heart and up his spine. It bled into his mind and ignited the shroud the hung so heavily in his head. It had been blinding him, but now it burned away. He stood, stepping over the body of the dead soldier to retrieve his ax. He lifted it from the floor effortlessly. It felt warm in his hands, as if his passionate abhorrence had scorched its way through his body and warped into the wood of the handle. He quickly tore the door open, storming out of the room. He glared at the front door, making several swift steps towards it. Casual Russian chatter came from outside and several men could be heard encircling the door. John crossed the room in less than a second, reaching for the door handle without hesitation and throwing it open.

                He met the stunned eyes of a young, tan skinned soldier. His eyes wide with surprise. His rifle was slung over his shoulder and his hands were casually hung at his sides. They hadn’t expected him to be here—they hadn’t expected a fight. That’s what John hated most. His ax made a low whistle through the air, swinging faster than any of them could react. The blade crushed heavily through the soldier’s helmet, shattering shrilly. John had swung with entire force of his body, roaring with fury as the iron head of the ax blew through the man’s face. His head exploded in two, his eyes popping off to the side has the thick blade slew its way through his face. John immediately heaved back with the ax, hooking the blade through the soldier’s bottom jaw and tearing it from what was left of his face. Blood spattered outwards and the man’s body crashed forward with pull of the ax.

                The other soldiers screamed and struggled to raise their rifles. One turned and fled, sprinting towards one of the trucks that had parked in the encircling of John’s home. Another barked for help with his radio, his voice shuddering with bewilderment. John lurched forward, his ax cocked behind his head. With another animalistic yell, his swung down with all his strength, catching another soldier in the chest just has he pointed his rifle at him. The ax sliced through him, snapping several ribs and tearing through his sternum. The Russian raised his hands to his sides, unable to comprehend his heart being torn into. He staggered back, watching blood pour sporadically from his mutilated chest before collapsing backwards dead. On the follow-through of his swing, John pivoted and swung upwards at the other soldier, catching him in the back of the knee. The man screamed, firing his rifle wildly into the air before slamming on his back. John raised his ax above his head and brought it down against his collarbone. It broke through his collarbone and into his neck, exploding blood like a water balloon. The man’s scream turned into a guttural bellow. John brought the ax up again and carelessly planted it in the man’s face. Teeth shattered on impact. John slammed his foot on the man’s chest and wrenched the blade free from his head. His body fountained blood into the dirt and twitched in a demented rhythm.

                His knees buckled abruptly as several gunshots pierced through his thighs and side. He staggered, clenching his jaw, then looked up at the trembling soldier backing away from him. John pierced through him with his glare and marched towards him. The man started yelling, shaking his rifle nervously. Sweat streamed down his forehead as he fought to pull the trigger of the rifle. It had jammed. John made it to him within a moment, lifting his ax over his shoulder to swing. The soldier panicked and cried out for help, but was silenced as John’s blade swung through his neck. The soldier spun on his heel, spraying blood from the horrid gash in his throat. His body flung to the ground, ruby liquid seeping out into the sand. A soft gurgle whispered from his mouth before he died.

                John stood over him, breathing hard. Each rasping breath he drew fueled his hatred. Adrenaline surged through his veins and overpowered the pain that punctured his legs and abdomen. He knew he was bleeding, but he ignored his wounds. A growl emitted from his throat, expelling the agony that clawed at his body. He smothered his mind’s panicked responses to the pain, instead letting the torment kindle his enmity to these monsters. He stared at the body, limply sprawled over the earth, with a focus of intent as if to make it suddenly burst into flame; to banish it from the earth into cinder. This blood spilt was a poison to this land, an insult to all those whose blood was spilt in their own homes by these men. He wanted to burn them all. To erase the memory of them and what they did. He wanted to end them, their stories, their memories, everything.

                Shouting erupted down the road where the last soldier had alerted a group of four resting inside a canvas covered truck. They hopped out, scanning the area and witnessing the horror set before them. A few glued their eyes to the mutilated corpses of their comrades before noticing John, standing like a wild animal on its hind legs over the body of its last kill. They saw what he was, a tormented beast, finally free. The center soldier, a higher-ranking officer, barked at the men to open fire, his words spitting with a venomous distaste. John locked eyes with the man, and found a mutual reflection of scorching fire haunting the darkness of their pupils.

                With his toes firmly pressed to the earth, John lurched forward, shoving off the ground into a sprint towards the cluster of men. He heard the officer bellow something else before his eardrums blared with the drowning sound of gunfire. Muzzle flashes strobed in front of him dizzyingly. He ducked his head and barreled forward, holding his ax cocked to his side. Dust kicked up from his brutish stomps forward and stray bullets stabbing at the ground. With every step he pushed himself harder. Bullets punched into him, tugging his limbs and core back abruptly erratic. They felt like boiling balls of hail puncturing his body, attempting to tear him backwards and throw him to the ground. He drove himself forward and his body struggled to comply. He burned from the inside out. His joints creaked painfully, shuddering with every movement as bullets penetrated his skin while his body pressed to repair itself. His body stiffened as his skin hardened sporadically over his wounds, broke and tore from more gunshots and his own movements, and scaled over his aching joints. His entire body screamed for him to stop, but he kept charging, pushing himself further.

                The officer leaned forward, waiting for him to collapse and die. John could see the whites of his teeth in a hideous grimace as he charged towards him. Two soldiers on either side of him moved to stop him. One continued to fire while the other prepared to halt a swing from his ax. John didn’t swing. He used his momentum and propelled himself between the soldiers, plowing into the officer and sending him to the ground. Then he swung. From his side, he swung his ax in a sweep as he followed his momentum through the cluster. He sunk the blade into the abdomen of a man in the back of the group, the one that had alerted them. The blade drove into him with a wet thump, followed by a heavy wheeze from the Russian’s throat.

                John used him to pivot himself, stopping in his tracks. He spun in a short circle, wrenching the ax from the man’s gut. Dark blood pumped outwards as the blade exited his body. The Russian dropped his rifle and clutched the wide wound. He dropped to his knees, unable to stop the forceful bleeding from the gash. After quickly turning back around, John brought the ax above his head and threw it down into the nape of the kneeling soldier, severing his spine. He tore it free with such force that the body lifted off its knees momentarily before plopping away.

                The ringing in John’s ears shrieked as several soldiers opened fire in nearly point-blank range. John coiled his arms back to send another swing into the group when a bullet broke through his knee. He howled angrily, dropping to grasp his knee. One soldier abruptly charged him, taking the opportunity of his fall. A tightly wound fist struck against John’s cheek, kicking him back on his footing. John spun slightly, but immediately returned in a counter spin. He stabbed upwards with the butt of his ax, catching the attacker in his jaw. The man cursed, turning back to John and grabbing the ax with both hands. John pivoted around him, positioning the man between him and the rest of the men.

                They heaved side to side, trying to tear each other from their grasp of the ax. John bent and jerked the ax, attempting to put a kink in the man’s back and gain the upper hand. He didn’t budge. In fact, the Russian wasn’t backing down and John could feel his strength weakening against his. Quickly he turned the ax counterclockwise vertically and jabbed the butt of the ax upwards into the surprised Russian’s jaw again. A spitting sound meant to be curse dribbled from his lips as he bit his tongue. Blood spat from his lips. John took the moment of weakness and twisted the man around, tugging the ax back against his throat and holding him against him. This time he didn’t hesitate to act. Two brisk tugs upwards broke the man’s neck. Before the body crumpled to the ground, John shoved it forward with his knee. The dead man crumbled into another soldier, making him stumble.

                John stepped over the corpse, flanking the soldier off-balance. He twisted his waist, using the spin to power a sweeping swing. Most of his strength had been used and now his shoulders and chest ached, pleading for rest. That pain swam with the rest which swarmed his body. Sweat poured down his face, dampening his hair and pulling it in front of his face. He could hardly see with sweat and hair in his eyes and face. He used the strength left in his legs to propel his next swing, letting his body swing freely with it, still clutching tightly to the ax.

                Luckily, the ax found its mark. He heard a sharp cry and looked up to see he had dug into the bone of the man’s arm, nearly severing it. He tore himself backwards and took in a deep breath as he lifted the ax above his head with all his might, bringing it down on the man’s shoulder. The weight of the ax slunk down through the soldier’s collarbone and several ribs before slicing into his lung. A shrill rasp of air pressed through the gash, spraying bits of blood amongst the horrific flow of red drenching the man’s chest. The man choked, grabbing at his brutally dislocated shoulder with his good arm.

                John roared, making another swing haphazardly with one arm. The blade howled through the air, slicing open the Russian’s abdomen and gutting him. The soldier fell face first, making choked, guttural sounds in the wet dirt, now a mushy pool of blood.

                Several cracks of gunfire ricocheted dreadfully in his ears as he felt bullets lance through his shoulder and arm. He cried out, stumbling to his knees. He planted his hand out towards the ground, keeping himself from collapsing completely. He held his ax weakly in his right hand. His right arm throbbed with burning pain where one of the bullets had torn through his muscle and struck into the bone of his upper arm. John clutched his other hand into a fist, seeping his fingers into the sand and grasping a pile of it tightly against his palm.

                He heard the last soldier standing rush towards him, cursing under his breath. John remained kneeling, breathing hard and letting sweat flow from his brow into the sand.

                “Posmotri na menya, ty trakhayesh'sya—” boasted the soldier, stopping just a few feet away from him. He was cut off as John twisted to face him, throwing his open fist towards him and spraying his eyes full of sand. The soldier buckled his feet, screaming and swearing. John hobbled to his feet. His legs shook with exhaustion, making each step plant randomly into the sand. The soldier had lifted a hand away from his rifle, quickly trying to wipe out sand with a gloved hand. John stared at him wildly, swaying side to side, trying not to fall. His ax dragged behind him heavily, the thick blade trailing in the sand.

                John yelled, wrenching his mutilated body forward. He took the ax in both hands and threw its weight against the blinded soldier. The swing clumsily howled through the air, striking the man in the leg. The soldier shouted profusely, stumbling to his knee. John let go of the ax, the last strength in his shoulders was spent and the weight of the ax felt like that of a boulder latched to his arms. Growling through his teeth, John shoved himself against the soldier, sending them both to the ground. He nearly knocked the wind out himself, he had become so frail. His body was splitting at the seams. He coughed blood onto the man’s chest who now violently kicked to free himself. John ignored the spittle hanging from his bloodied lips and pushed himself up from the man’s chest.

                John cocked his arm back, then threw an open palmed thrust against the man’s nose. The soldier’s head smacked against the ground and he roared angrily in response. Still blinded, the soldier threw a fist where he thought John’s face would be, but it only grazed against his shoulder. The blow would have meant nothing to John, but in his fragile state, the punch almost shook him off the soldier. John quickly lifted his hand and smashed it down against the man’s nose again. The soldier tried to block it, opening his eyes despite the sand crusted over his face, but missed as john’s wrist thrust against his nose.

                John slumped forward with the momentum of his attack, his hand sliding from the man’s face to the sand to steady himself. He lifted his other hand and managed to curl it into an actual fist before haphazardly bringing it down against the man’s brow. The soldier became dazed. He was still very much intact and all John had managed to do was cause his nose to bleed. His punches were too weak, but he persisted. Another curled fist slammed against the soldier’s nose, then another. John endured multiple kicks and jabs to his gut and groin as the soldier tried to force him off. Agony had already been consuming him, making it easier to survive the beating his body was receiving.

                Another punch, another slap, another smashing thrust and the soldier’s nose finally broke. John’s intent was to break his nose hard enough for the bone from his skull to puncture his brain, though all he did was shatter it in two. The man wailed, clutching his face with his free hand. The other groped for John’s neck, squeezing around it once it found its place. John choked, ignoring the lowered airflow to his lungs and raising his hand for another thrust.

                A flash of color whizzed in front of John’s view, making him flinch just before he was kicked between the eyes. His head flung back and he lurched backwards. The impact of the sudden kick sent John off the soldier and crashing onto his back. His hands swung out at his sides. John gasped dramatically for air, having just had the wind knocked out of him. Before he could steady his breath, someone was on top of him ramming blow after blow to his face. His head screamed with pain so loud that his ears began to ring. He could hardly open his eyes. What he could see was blurred or blocked from a fist smashing against his skull.

                The beating was relentless. John tried to fight back, but his weak kicks and throws of his fists fell pathetically against the sturdy torso of his attacker. He could feel his face swell and blood pour from his nose and mouth. Eventually, he fell limp to the untiring thrashing. His head swung side to side with each punch, on the verge of permanently snapping his neck in either direction.

                Then, the beating suddenly stopped. John sucked in air hoarsely through his busted lips. He angled his head up as much as he could to face his attacker. Through thick eyelids, he peered through his blurry vision to see his attacker above him. The grotesque face of the furious officer glared down at him. John watched as the soldier sat up, reached to a small sheathe at his side, and briskly draw a long combat knife. The blade glistened cold in the night, drinking ghostly light from the starlit sky. John wheezed, his lungs were being crushed and blood began to clog his airways. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t fight. This was it. There was no will to fight within him, no human emotion left, just pain and the want for it to end. John’s abdomen abruptly spasmed as he coughed the blood out from his throat. The officer looked down at him, disgusted.

                He didn’t waste time. The officer quickly lifted his knife and stabbed down towards John’s neck. The blade stopped mere inches from his skin. The bewildered look on the officer’s face matched John’s own. John had stopped it. Something within him had made him stop the blade. He had given up, accepted the end, but he caught the blade in his hand before it could slice into him. John’s alarmed eyes slowly found the blade punctured through his own palm. Blood poured over the knife from his arteries, dripping onto his neck.

                John curled his nose and bore his teeth. His fingers clutched around the hilt of the knife like ensnaring claws and pushed against the effort the officer made to pierce the blade into his neck. A roar bellowed from John’s chest as he drove the blade away from him. His feral glare tore through the astonished man’s eyes. John heaved up, bending towards the Russian like a corpse reborn. John’s strength broke through the officer’s grip and sent the hilt of the blade smashing against his cheek. The officer recoiled, then twisted back to throw a punch. John ducked, avoiding the fist by a hair.

                John coiled his legs out from under the officer, who was now unsteady from his missed jab, and tackled him, using the weight of his body to throw him to the ground. John didn’t waste any time either. He crushed the officer’s nose immediately, then pressed his thumb into his eye socket when the man swung back in response. He shrieked horribly as John sunk his thumb into the corner of his eye, nearly popping it from its socket. John recoiled his hand like a venomous snake just as the officer grasped for his hand.

                Distracted by his brutally wounded eye, the officer clutched at his face, writhing in pain. John sat up, glaring at him viciously. He breathed harshly through his teeth, thinking only of how much he wanted the man to die. John bent his mortified hand, still pierced with the knife, towards him, taking the handle of the blade in his other hand. He gripped it tightly, drew in a deep breath, and ripped it from his flesh. The blade’s grooves tore through his skin and muscle as it was pried from his hand. John screamed, head bent back, as the knife was freed from him, followed by an eruption of blood. He clutched his hands in bound fists, squeezing his blood and knife so tight his hands shook. He continued to cry in pain, letting his scream fill the night full of ashen rainfall. His own roar echoed with the sound of crackling fire. He melded with the chaos of the night, becoming part of the tormented, succumbing to the fire. Ash kissed his tearful, tightly shut eyes.

                The ash swirled around him, caressing him in a warmth long lost. These flakes, the ghosts of war, embraced his throat and felt the surge of his horrid scream. As the fire of hope died inside him, the ash bathed him in the promise of a new life. He had died when he first glimpsed the fires burning the village, his home, but he rose again in the aftermath. He was the aftermath and he stood again, ashen, and reborn. The ash brought new life, and with it, servitude—a promise for bloodshed.

                Tears streamed down his dirty cheeks, catching dying embers whose light finally surrendered to the night. His call for mercy ended, lost to the night, unheard. He opened his eyes. The struggle of the officer beneath him awoke him from his agony. He breathed lightly, savoring the cooling air. Then he plunged the knife down.

                All sound ended. There was only blood and fire. John watched the officer writhe and howl as he plunged the blade into him over and over again. The cruel metal drank gratefully of the dark crimson fluid. He planted it randomly and freely. There was no strategy, no will for a quick end, only the want of suffering. It was for his people, his home, his friends, his family, his love, his father, and for himself. Nothing would stop him from taking this moment.

                Even as the officer died, he continued to thrust the blade into his bloody body. He tore into his chest, stabbing his heart for every bullet these men put into the bodies of his people. He dug out his eyes for raping his home with their greed of war and death. He slit his throat for stealing the air meant only for those who had lived their lives peacefully, with no sin deserving of this destruction. He wanted to reduce him to nothing, to meat for the hounds. This man was no one’s son, no one’s brother, no one’s father; he was a monster, something to be hunted and purged from existence.

                The body of the officer had become nothing more than a shredded piece of red flesh. He stabbed him countless times, he had lost track entirely. Blood trickled lifelessly from the corpse, slowly turning the earth around him dark with vile blood.

                John knelt, breathing hard. With his wounded hand he wiped away the sweat and tears from his face, replacing that innocence with the smear of his own spilt blood. It was warm against his skin. He exhaled steadily, feeling the coolness of the night sap the warmth away.

                His eyes raised to see what he had done. The bodies of these men, these hunters, were strewn over the road, decorating orange canvas of the dying inferno with their brown uniforms. But there was one missing—the man with the sand crusted eyes. John gazed over the carnage, looking for where he had gone. The night was still, then a faint buzzing sound and a whisper could be heard. By the truck the soldiers had driven, John could see a foot sticking out from behind one of the thick tires. John stood, his joints whining and popping. He limped towards the truck, knife in hand. His hand found balance on its cold, metal hood, tracing along its wide body as he rounded its corner.

                Huddled against the side of the vehicle sat the last soldier of the group, whispering into a radio taken from one of the corpses. He hadn’t seen him yet, he was too panicked to notice. John cocked his head, twisting the blade in his hand above his head.

                “Ublyudok,” John drawled.

                The Russian looked up at him, startled, then screamed one last time for help into the radio. John’s blade sliced through the side of the Russian’s neck, then tore along its side before being wrenched free. The man convulsed, drowning in his own blood. The liquid smothered the radio, cutting off the last, hurried words blaring through its speaker in response to the soldier’s plea. The soldier slumped forward and died. John watched as the last few pumps of blood drenched the man’s dusty uniform.

---

                John stood for a long time in the center of the bodies. His heart pounding in his ears. He was drenched head to toe in sweat and blood. He had dropped the knife somewhere along the way when he started walking. He stepped down the road, his head filled only with the sound of his heavy breathing and his slowly beating heart. He stopped to lift his ax up from the sand where it had been thrown, and continued on. He could hear voices down the road. More of them. He couldn’t stop until they were all dead. Then, and only then, could he die. The ax dragged behind him, heavily, but it felt weightless to his numbed touch. His body lost all feeling of touch or pain. He had been submerged into it until he could no longer breathe without it rushing into his body. He had drowned in it and now its chilling touch left him hollow and unfeeling.

                He stopped when he heard unorganized marching pounding down the road. He would wait for them so that he could savor his energy. His vision blackened periodically while he stood, and time began to blur and slow. He felt as though he were standing there, like a statue in a graveyard, for an eternity. Then they came into view. He couldn’t count them all. They raised their weapons, all chorusing shouts and commands until their superiors barked above them, organizing the ensnarement of him. More footsteps echoed behind him as more soldiers flooded in from the rear. All that had taken part in the pillaging of the village now clustered together around him. The glint of barrels from their weapons shown like twinkling stars. The soldiers began to enclose.

                Who he had guessed to be the highest-ranking soldier now took a step towards him, raising his rifle in one tightly coiled arm and signaling to soldiers in the group with the other. H e shouted a command at John, but it fell on his ears as a deafened blurb of noise. He shouted again, then again before taking another step towards him, jabbing his gun in his direction. John guessed what he had been ordering. His fingers lightly uncurled from the ax, let it drop to the ground. He partially raised his hands to his shoulders. The superior soldier studied him, looking surprised that he had complied. He waved his hand curtly to another soldier in the cluster who then slung his rifle on his shoulder and retrieved a pair of handcuffs from his belt. The young soldier stepped cautiously towards John. John scrutinized him from the corner of his eye, keeping still. His time for rest would soon be over. The boy hesitated for a moment, then firmly grasped John’s wrist. That’s when it began.

                Everything happened in a moment. Time and every movement all bled together into one singular memory, one state of being. It all happened at once, it all lasted forever, and it all ended before it began.

                John twisted instantly, pivoting around the soldier, clenching his arm around his neck, and taking his rifle in hand. He pulled the trigger of the rifle, belting random explosions of bullets into the crowd. The frenzy of movement began. Soldiers ducked and dove behind buildings and into alley ways, stood to fight, or froze in confusion where they then died from the erratic spray of bullets. John twisted around, using the young soldier to catch multiple bullets from the surrounding firing squad. As the boy became deadweight, John spun on his foot and threw him at the superior who charged towards them. He dodged the body, jumping over it as it tumbled lifelessly to the ground, but he had looked down to do it. In the temporary blind spot of the superior, John lurched forward, taking the rifle in the man’s hand and shoving its butt into his jaw. He fell down with him purposefully, twisting on his heel and emptying the magazine of the still slung rifle into the opposite side of the crowd.

                Another soldier grabbed him, prying him off of his superior. John hopped up, having freed a handgun from the superior’s side. It cracked twice loudly, puncturing wounds into the soldier’s gut. He staggered back, then collapsed. John turned back and fired another bullet into the superior’s face. They would all die if he was to die.

                The night churned into an endless battle. Blood coated the earth. It was a payment for the feast the fire had consumed. Bullets peppered the ground, buildings, and the night sky. Smoke erupted from crumbling building’s, blinding some, while giving the upper hand to others. Some fell to their killer, some never saw him before they died. In the chaos, piercing bullets ricocheted and fired from everywhere and nowhere. Everything was used by the soldiers, and John used everything they had. Explosives popped from the interior of buildings, sending debris and shrouds of dust onto the roads. Smoke grenades dashed across the open terrain, swiftly bellowing gas forth and separating the mystified and hateful gazes from each other. John’s ax howled through the night air, through the debris, fire, and smoke towards unsuspecting soldier’s, cutting them down instantly. There was as much blood spraying from bodies as there were bullets erupting from their weapons.

                John dashed through the streets, throwing his might into brutal swings with his ax that dismembered soldiers and disoriented any organized firefights. He hid in buildings and used the weapons he stole from bodies to ambush groups of Russians he had just evaded moments ago. He broke their limbs and used them to kill one another when tangled in close quarters. One by one they fell. He felt no pain, nor remorse, as he slew his way to the center of the town.

                It ended in an open courtyard in the middle of the destruction. Blood soaked bodies crumpled to the earth where they died and seeped their fluids into the sand. They turned the earth dark and sickly as their bodies added to the gore they had wrought within the village. Their bodies lay beside those they had killed, their blank eyes staring back at each other in mutual death. All who lived here and all who came here were dead or missing, including John, though his heart still beat and his lungs still drew air. His spirit, the child he had been and the innocence he had enjoyed were gone, turned to cinder within his hollow heart. He had died, and what remained was the tortured husk of a man left permanently crippled within his mind.  

                He stood amidst the end. Corpses lay everywhere, both soldiers and civilians. This was the heart of the town, and now it bled sorrowfully for the sons and daughters lost to this madness. Little light remained in the village. The fires began to starve, say for what brittle char could be cooked and what few bodies that lay near already feeding blazes could be eaten. Only bloating smoke from dying the inferno filled the atmosphere, blotting out any exterior light. The once open village now sat enshrouded in smoke and ash. Few embers still rose and fell like shooting stars throughout the village. They broke away from cooling smolder, floating gracefully until they were caught in the bellowing current of black smoke. Eventually the last embers were spit back out high above where they drifted lazily back down to the earth to sleep their final rest. As the last embers died, cold ash took its place. A slow dance of ashen snowfall fell in whispered circles, suffocating the air no longer needed.

                John trudged forward. He had no direction, no goal in sight. He only waited to succumb to his wounds, now catching up with him with mortifying agony. His legs were broken in several places, making each step come all the closer to death. His ribs were shattered and snapped randomly from gunfire and now bent inwards, prodding his organs. His arms hung at his sides, one dislocated, while the other decorated in gun wounds and gashes. His entire body was riddled with bullet holes, now being covered in stone-like skin, trapping the metal bits inside him. He could feel the bullets and shrapnel stir within him and scrape at his bones. His lungs were punctured, and although his body attempted to repair him, he could hardly breathe. His eyelids hung laden with exhaustion. He wanted to rest, finally, with the rest of his family. But sleep never took him.

                He wandered for several more steps before the bone in his shin splintered and sent him to his knees. He didn’t cry out in pain. A shallow exhale through his open mouth was all he could manage. He knelt, a blank stare held in his eyes. He waited. The end would come. It had to.

                Minutes became hours and hours became minutes. He held no grasp on the flow of time passing by. It could have been seconds or days—it all felt the same. Eternal night hung above him, torturing him with the haunting existence he now took part in. He waited to be taken from it, for his lungs to collapse and to stop breathing, for his heart to stop beating, for his body to stop healing, but it didn’t. He hadn’t died. No matter how much he wanted to, what vile curse inside him kept him on the brink of death. He was mere inches from the abyss, staring it in the face, but this unwanted miracle tethered him here. A tear rolled down his face. Then another. He blinked, his eyes filling with hot liquid.

                It was gone—everything—his home, his family, himself. Now even their ghosts left them, carried away by the remaining embers, only to be returned to him in the form of ashen memories that he wanted to forget. He was truly alone. He had experienced death relentlessly, but he still knelt here, alive. He cursed the life given to him. He cursed his father for what he did to him. He cursed him.

                Pain struck in his heart at the thought of those words, and he immediately retracted them. Warm tears streamed forth and he sobbed. He cried like a child, letting his tears run freely. They dropped to his lips and dribbled down his chin where they collected in his short beard before dripping onto his open palms. No one deserved this. No one deserved to endure like this, to live, after all that had happened. He saw the bodies around him and he saw what he had done. He saw what they were, humans, not monsters. He killed them. He killed every last one of them—the soldiers and the civilians. He caused all of this. They were sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, storytellers and lovers—and he killed them all. He was the monster.

                He gasped, sobbing uncontrollably. His head cocked back and his chest heaved erratically with every sob. Blood dripped from old wounds, adding to his drenched clothes. His tears began to soak his shirt and mix with the bloodstains to create a somber watercolor painting. He bled with the earth.

                He opened his mouth and screamed as a colossal clap of thunder roared across the valley. A flash of light from distant lightning sliced through the village, followed by another rumble of thunder. He screamed until his throat rasped and he could taste blood. Even when his voice gave out and not but a whisper tickled from his gaping mouth did he continue howl his sobs. Then the first drip of rain fell. It was few, but each cleansing drip that touched his skin brought the end of his cry. The storm passed from far off, but it had graced the smoldering earth with a light rain. What fires remained sizzled in defiance, their presence dwindling.

                He hung his head low, closing his eyes and letting the rest of his tears fall. He breathed softly, choking subtle sobs. Exhaustion wrapped over his mind. He opened his eyes one last time, then submitted to the pleading cries of his body. He slept.

---

                Footsteps.

                John exhaled. His mouth hung open, dry. His eyes fluttered open. A throbbing pain squeezed around his skull, smearing his vision and filling his ears with nonexistent buzzing and shrieks from nonexistent sources. His head swayed with a gentle breeze passing through the courtyard, feeling heavy with fatigue. If not for his tensely cramped muscles, he would have fallen to his side. His eyes flicked several times over the ruins before him, unable to discern any detail from the wash of paint his eye-sight had become. Gradually, he lowered his eyes and closed them once more.

                Voices.

                He felt like he was dreaming. He could feel nothing, yet everything. All the tears, gashes, and wounds torn through his body, all the broken bones and prying shrapnel beneath his skin, all the rough carapace-like shells sewing into his flesh and mending a man who had already given up. It all screamed together so terribly that it all became nothing. The overwhelming sensations melted together into one chorus of feeling. He felt nothing more than a tingle, but its potency made him cry internally for peace. No tears came, his eyes had become dry and empty of fluid. They only stung instead. He was reduced to nothing but a broken husk enclosed around a child who had died, smothered by the ash of his forefathers.

                Light.

                John raised his head, straining to keep himself from succumbing to his exhaustion again. Something moved, flickered, through the smoke. Dark clouds of smoke rose from the ruins all around him, surrounding him in a garden of smoke-fed blood iron and rock. The walls of smoke bellowed up from the earth, meeting together above him and creating a shrouded world frozen in unending death. The aftermath remained, with no sign of diminishing. He was kept alive in this little world. A tomb he was kept within, but not permitted to sleep in—to rest—finally. It was his own personal limbo, to rot, alive, amongst the blood he spilt. Those he murdered were the only who found release from this torture. Their bodies already drying and their fluids absorbing into the sand.

                There was a voice. It was unnatural and distant, but it swam within his mind and kissed the back of his head. He was imagining things—his mind was just as broken as his body. He had made that conclusion. A woman, a man, a child. There was one voice and many, each interrupting the other and screaming softly—delicately. The screams weren’t always horrible, they were like songs. When a word began that he thought he recognized, it morphed into a blur of sound, like a chant overcoming a soft-spoken pastor. Each voice emerged from the crowd with a whisper, a memory, before being tangled back into the blare of ringing and wailing in his head. They called louder when his head pulsed harder with pain, blurring his vision until it was nearly black.

                They ended when a shadow stalked over the dark smog, tall, devouring what light poked through the walls of smoke. John struggled to keep his head raised. The voices subsided apart from a few tender whispers from a girl he never knew. This was it. He could feel it. The spirits he must have felt were those of the dead meant to comfort him, warn him, protect him, from the end. It was finally here. He must have already died, his ghost only lingering within his body to be escorted by death through the unknown. Whatever he saw or heard must have been what greeted those before the afterlife, or what his delirious, chemical filled mind concocted as it finally died. Regardless if there was an afterlife or the blank nothingness awaiting him, he could feel death coming to greet him. There was a joy in that.

                The voice of a little girl chirped in his ear. Another whispered and giggled, acknowledging something he could not see. The shadow grew darker as it approached, seemingly drawing in what light was left in the town of cinder. He could hear breathing in his ear. He wasn’t sure if it was his own. The throbbing in his head increased, but the voices fell away, all but one. It lingered before the shadow emerged from the wall of smoke, hesitating and humming in his ear.

                “Demon,” a little girl’s voice chimed, then vanished.

                From the shrouds emerged a towering figure, wisps of smoke trailing behind him as he surfaced. A shimmering, black horn crudely protruded from his skull, capturing the last of the light within the ruins and within John’s dwindling soul. A single, piercing eye watched from behind a heavily scarred face. The other was covered by dark cloth. The rest of his face was hidden beneath a black mask, echoing his breathing with machine-like rasps. Each draw of breath stole more of John’s own breath. He felt cold. The demon stepped forward, hulking, in tenebrous colored clothing and bulky armor. He was dressed like a knight from hell, sent to escort John to his rightful prison of fire and suffocation.

                John couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. His crippled muscles and bones kept him steadfast. All he could do was breathe and wait. He had hoped for the end to come, but he wished and prayed that it wouldn’t be so terrifying.

                The demon retrieved something from his side—a rifle, and aimed it at John. Two feelings managed to bolster themselves from the languor of his mind, disrupting his acceptance of his death—confusion, and fear. This was a man, a fierce, monster of a man, stepping towards him. He was real. John’s breath shook.

                Then others materialized from the dark clouds churning from the earth. They stepped out of the darkness all around him, all in similar dark clothing and heavily armored gear. All had tightly held rifles raised to their shoulders, and flashlights beaming into the courtyard. They crept inward silently, like phantoms borne by the shadows. They began to stop by each of the bodies strewn over the earth, kneeling beside them and turning them over. Each body was curtly searched, examined, and left where it lay, its inspector in pursuit of another. Few of them remained on the outskirts, putting their backs to the courtyard and watching the darkness they came from. They stood like sentinels, unwavering beings unfazed by the carnage they sloshed through.

                They were soldiers, John began to see through his blurry sight. If they were Russians, he hoped they would kill him already for what he did, but they didn’t fire. No one barked orders at him, no one screamed for support, no one came to his aid. They kept to their work, studying bodies and retrieving an assortment of items from both civilians and soldiers: papers, Identification cards, licenses, patches, documents—they left any and all trinkets behind. They all ignored him, overlooking him as if he was just another part of the rubble. Except for the demon. He continued to approach him, his boots crunching over the coarse sand. His rifle never fell from its aim at John’s heart. He hoped he would fire, he hoped he would finally kill him. He hoped the slaughter around him would be incentive enough to cut him down where he knelt instead of taking him away to be tortured.

                The demon stopped a few feet from him, standing rigid and tall. He could hear his breathing, exhaling through the mask strapped to his mouth with mechanical bursts. Voices spoke faintly. They weren’t those that had haunted John, he could hear real, human voices chatter aggressively from two little buds connected to a thick strand of black tubing at either one of the demon’s ears. He could hear them, but their voices were too dim to make out what they were saying. All he could manage to understand was a battle between different voices, arguing, while the abiding tower of a beast stood over him, rifle pointed at his chest.

                The demon’s arm glimmered blood red and appeared mechanical in nature. The deep red color faded into the darkness of his broad body. Everything he wore was black or darkly colored, even the rifle he bore was dark, gleaming in orange light which reflected off its polished surface. The weapon was vastly different from those used by the Russians. Apart from its divergent design, the rifle wore a medley of attachments and items—square objects along its sides emitting low, red lights, a small scope with circular, glinting glass, and a metal stick that protruded from beneath the rifle’s barrel. The demon held tightly to it with one hand while the other was firmly frozen over the trigger.

                Several pairs of footsteps plodded from behind John, stopping right beside him. In the corner of his eye he gazed at the heavily strapped boots of a soldier. Armor plating covered his shins, tied around his legs with tight leather strips. His boots were also covered by metal tips. John tried to crane his neck up to see the soldier’s face, but it was hidden behind a black mask and overlaid with shadow cast from a detailed helmet, unlike the simple green and brown turtle shell helmets most of the Russians wore. Two small slits where the soldier’s eyes should be opened for little detail of the man’s face. He also wore a similar black breathing mask over his mouth as the demon. Who are these people?

                “Boss,” the soldier spoke, directing to the demon, “the buildings have been searched. All documents and information have been gathered and secured for processing. Standard operations are complete.” He stood erect, awaited a response, received none, and briskly strode away towards another group of soldiers placing collected ammunition and weapon parts into green cases.

                English . He spoke English . John breathed lightly, his captors were unknown to him. They weren’t Russian and they certainly weren’t Afghani soldiers or enemy rebel tribes. Could they be Americans? The only involvement John knew about from the Americans were of suppliers to Mujahideen soldiers on the Pakistan border, and that was a long way from here. What were Americans doing so close to Kabul—so close to the Russians?

                The demon never broke his gaze from John, his single cold eye scrutinizing him. John felt naked before him, as if all his sins and memories were being played for him under his fierce stare. John lowered his head, avoiding the demon’s eye.

                “Sir,” a thick voice drawled from behind John, “there were important personnel discovered during the search—the body of Vadim Egorov was identified. Eastern patrols will be loosely controlled until he is replaced. What identification we could retrieve from what was left of him—” he paused, John could feel the man’s eyes on him, “—we secured. His body will be removed and airlifted for processing and the contract on his removal will be answered when Medical can provide a formal identification of the body.”

                The man sighed, shifting his footing in the sand. “We also found and identified the body of a Private Arkady Bok. The contract for his safe extraction from the Soviet Union is now null. We’ll submit a form for client decease during debriefing.”

                His voice was gravel, rolling over words like pebbles that turned to dust under his powerful jaws. He could hear his distaste for him, but the overall emotion of these men surprised him. They were disconnected from the hellish world John knelt within. None of them seemed to feel the weight of the carnage which broke John’s back. They continued their work or stood idly by, awaiting orders from their superiors.

                “Lastly,” the man continued softly, almost under his breath, “we identified the body of Doctor Viktor Nikolaev. Needless to say, he was found deceased. Intel returned a search on him after submission of the name. Boss, there’s a lot you need to know—you and the Commander. The building we found him in was stripped clean. Everything will be processed and displayed at your convenience. We’ve already informed the Commander. We’ve just landed in the frying pan.”

                The demon stood still, his rifle still ready to pierce John’s heart with lead. The voices had fallen silent in the buds in his ears. He paused, watching John. Then, another voice spoke through the earbuds. It was calm, and collected. The demon blinked once, then lowered his rifle partially, meeting the gaze of the soldier behind John.

                “Boss,” the drawling man said, “I suggest we torch the body. If our involvement is found beside the corpse of Doctor Nikolaev, we’ll have Soviet special forces crawling all over our area of operations. They can’t know he was here.”

                John’s stomach sank.

                “How many casualties?” the demon uttered. His voice sent shivers down John’s spine. It was a heavy voice, one that emitted absolute control and fell on everyone’s ears unquestionably. Even on John’s. He was afraid.

                “Forty-Seven Soviet troops were discovered KIA, two were found alive, but soon died from their wounds. Civilian casualties have yet to be entirely accounted for, but we estimate at least one hundred and thirty, sir.”

                The demon remained silent. He lowered his rifle and stood up straight. He turned his head away, gazing off somewhere in the distance. No one spoke. Only the wind whispered in their ears as they awaited direction. John looked at the soldiers standing around them, watching the demon who stood as a towering statue in the cool night breeze. He turned his head back to face John, peering down at him from behind his breathing mask. John knew he was contemplating how he should die—if he should be left to rot with the blood he spilt or if he should put a bullet in his head right here, and keep him from taking another breath of air that these people would never draw again. Then the demon looked to the soldier beside John and nodded.

                The gravel-voiced man nodded in turn and immediately marched toward a group of soldiers.

                “Let’s move!” the man announced, and two soldiers from the tight cluster emerged, each carrying a large canister that sloshed copiously with liquid. They swiftly marched to the man’s side and pressed their way out of the courtyard, followed by the gravel-voiced man.

                John was left alone with a hellish knight sent to murder him for his shameful slaughter. He should have just ran away like his father told him to. He should have kept a clear head. He should never have let himself become so consumed by his own hate. He could have saved his father, he knew it, if he hadn’t let his rage build so brutally as he witnessed the atrocities the Russians committed. If he had just listened to Nuria and followed her direction, he could have left here without all this bloodshed. He should have just listened to her. Nuria …

                A soldier jogged up to them from the rear. He came to a halt at a safe distance from the demon, planting his feet firmly in the sand. The demon cocked his head to the side.

                “Intel just came in,” the soldier said, he sounded young, “Russian reinforcements are inbound, ten minutes out. Multiple Mi-24s are being sent to level the village. We leave in five, Boss.”

                The demon simply nodded, slightly, then locked his eye on John. John glared back at him, swallowing his fear. He grit his teeth, using the pain engulfing his body as a means to summon his hatred back from the depths of his heart. He hated this man. He hated him. If he wanted to kill him, he should do it. Do it , John thought.

                Almost instantly in response, the demon relaxed, holstering his rifle at his side and turned away from him. He stepped off, brushing past the soldier standing behind him. The young soldier quickly pivoted behind him, keeping himself from bumping into him.

                John wanted to scream. He couldn’t leave him here. He couldn’t abandon him too. Death could not abandon him too. It was the one thing he deserved. He had to kill him. It was thing only thing he wanted left in this world, and the gods couldn’t take that wish away from him too.

                “Kill me!” John blurted, blood spitting from his mouth. Tears boiled in his eyes and began to stream down his cheeks, wetting dried blood. He tried to make himself stand, but his legs had become too cramped from kneeling for so long, and he collapsed. His arm shrieked in agony as he pushed himself up to glare at the demon, who now stood still, facing away from him. “Kill me!”

                He screamed in English, in Russian, in Pashto, in every way he could. They couldn’t leave him, they couldn’t just ignore him and leave him to the Russians, to the wolves, to the ash and smoke filling his lungs. Death right here and now, from them, would be far better than what would happen to him if the Russians found him amongst their dead comrades. Even the thought of wolves tearing him limb from limb was a prettier dream. This night had to be his last. The sight of morning fanning over the horizon would be a sight far worse than any he had seen before.

                “Demon,” John cried, his sore throat distorting the words in a guttural cry, “kill me!”

                No one moved for a long time. The air was filled with the sound of wind and John’s coarse breathing. The demon remained turned away from him while the soldiers watched idly by. Then the demon took a single step back, cocked his head in John’s direction, and stared at him silently. John clenched his jaw, tears stinging his eyes. His head throbbed angrily, submerging his eyesight temporarily in darkness. His consciousness was beginning to fade. He was running out of time and soon he would be left by these men to the unknown—the possibility of endless torture at the hands of these Soviets.

                John fought against his weakening muscles, his head lowering to the ground ever so slowly against all his might to keep himself up. He collapsed entirely, his arms falling as if dead, numb and buzzing from lack of blood flow. His head rested on the sand, the tiny grains sticking to his wet face. He turned his head to the side and peered up to the demon. He could hardly see him anymore and with all his strain he could only grasp a look at his boots. The tense flexing of his neck would soon give out and he would no longer be able to see anything but the sand beside him. He could feel his mind call for sleep once again, and his eyelids began to fall to the lulling song of its beckoning.

                He saw the demon’s feet shift again. Something was said, but he couldn’t make it out. The corners of his vision began to darken and the sounds around him dulled into blurbs of floating notes. John peaked his ears, forcing himself to grab hold of some of the words being said.

                “…Commander…,” a heavy voice, distorted by John’s slipping mind, said, “…orders are to…are you sure?”

                “Restrain him…,” the demon’s stoic voice echoed.

                John could hold out no longer. His head slid away from the men conversing, brushing over the sand until his head lay naturally, limp. He couldn’t feel his limbs, not even his eyelids which tugged down over his drying eyes with several flickering movements. Then they closed, and sleep’s narrow fingers clasped over his mind, clutching his consciousness and pushing deep under the waters of his subconscious. He let go. He stopped fighting back. He let the tendrils of fatigue gracefully pull him under his own thoughts.

                The sluggish whip of helicopter blades passing through the air drummed a deep pattern into John’s dreams. He could hear it, but it felt like nothing more than the ambiance to a dreamless sleep he was cocooned in. The last sensations of reality drifted past him. Cold steel against his cheek. Bitter wind hurriedly snagging at his clothes. The feeling of light, fresh air passing through his lungs. Then, nothing.

Chapter Text

31 March 1984. 8:20. Installation 03, Designation Yeger. Northern Afghanistan .

               A knuckle cracked. Fingers broke their interlude and continued to tap. A throat cleared. The buzz of a malfunctioning air conditioner. A pen spun counterclockwise. The first heartbeat felt at the beginning of the minute. Weight redistributed on an old chair. Another knuckle cracked. Exhale. Fingers drumming, faster, then stopping. The pen repositioned, it turns slightly, its weight unbalanced. Papers flutter. Fingers drum again. The thump of the next heartbeat. A drop of sweat plopping onto a dusty floor. Tinnitus. Obsessive compulsion tilts the pen back into place. A hard swallow. The fingers begin their next song. The rhythm doesn’t hold. The pen swivels. A third heartbeat thumps. The absence of sound is unbearable, and rings all the louder.

               His thoughts begin to collapse on one another, breaking apart and dying in an unending cycle, trying to understand. He can’t understand, because he cannot allow himself to be blamed. Yet every corner his mind ventures ends the same. He enters a corrupted maze where every entrance collides, churns, and twists in a mass conglomerate, but helplessly allows him through to the end, regardless of which path he chooses. The maze is simple, but he wants it to be complicated. There had to be an excuse as to why he ended up here.

               “What do you want to know?” Yuri spoke to the man who until then had stood motionless in the corner of the dusty room.

               The figure, who stood in the blind spot of a window casting morning light into the room, stepped into Yuri’s view. His hair was short, dark, and cast a shadow over his eyes. His cheekbones protruded past that mask of darkness which naturally hid his face. He was tall, thin, and wore a black battle-dress uniform. The letters X.O.F were stitched on his left breast pocket in a striking yellow. He looked down at Yuri, his expression permanently frozen in a cold, unfeeling look. The color of his eyes was unknown to him, for he had never seen them in the light. When the man spoke, his voice rose like a whisper in a church – soft and unbroken.

               “What you know,” the man stated.

               “You have the report,” Yuri replied in a rough tone, “and if my assumption that you’ve read it is mistaken, then I am confused as to why they sent you here instead of an executioner. Or am I to take my own life, and your purpose is to be my witness – to document that I paid for my sins in blood?”

               “I am not here to pass judgment,” the figure hushed, his chin tilting to one side, “nor am I here to issue your death warrant. Though if you wish to speak of sins, now is the time to confess. We have read your report, thoroughly, and given the gravity of the events that took place, it has been determined that this situation be handled delicately. To your benefit, I have been requested to personally hear of the account from your own words – to allow clarity, so to speak.”

               “What’s your name?” Yuri asked, peering at his uniform. He wore no patches indicating his rank, name, or some other alias. He only bore the insignia of X.O.F.

               “For simplicity, you may refer to me as Agent Rainer,” he replied, “Think of me as an auditor, rather than a magistrate. I came only to listen.”

               “Well, Agent Rainer, where shall I begin?” Yuri’s eyes narrowed on him. He knew there was more behind those shadow cloaked eyes. This was X.O.F. There would be consequences, and he knew blood would mark these walls before the sun fell. Failure was not tolerated.

               “As we understand it, one of your reconnaissance groups was out on patrol in Northern Afghanistan,” Rainer smoothly began, never missing a beat in the conversation, “They were the first to see what happened.” He paused, his lips pursed, and gestured a hand to the open manila folder on Yuri’s desk. Its contents were spread out, revealing an assortment of photographs and the report given to Yuri earlier that morning.

               “Kappa-4. They were assigned to Zone Twenty-Two—”

               “No need for details that defined,” Rainer cut in. “I know them. Just tell me what you know, Commander, personally.”

               Yuri’s nose curled up in a glare. He felt foolish, like a child standing before his mother having to admit to something he did wrong. He hated this. He knew what he did wrong, every single action that lead to the unthreading of the entire operation he was chosen to command. It would be far easier to take the pistol from his desk and fire it into his temple right here and now. It would save him some time and release him from the anxiety feeding on his insides. But he wasn’t a coward, and if he was to die, he would die by the hand of justice for his failures, not his own.

               Yuri cleared his throat, glancing and the photographs set before him. “As I understand it, a patrol began its scheduled route north of Kabul, monitoring kishlaks in the rural areas surrounding their encampment. Around zero one thirty hours, the patrol hiked along a mountain ridge overlooking a vast valley known to hold several villages. They stopped when they spotted a village under siege by the Red Army through their binoculars.”

               “How was this significant?” Rainer asked, “The Russians have put hundreds of these…kishlaks to the torch.”

               “Far too much damage had been done, and by infantry,” Yuri responded, sliding photos towards his attention and others away. “Normally the Red Army would simply bomb the village. Infantry wouldn’t step foot into a kishlak.”

               “Why not?”

               “Kishlaks belong to the Mujahideen at night, they become invisible jaws rowed with fangs. Infantry have learned to wait for the dukhi to come out from the shadows before killing them. Meaning they were searching for something. Fervently. The village had been reduced to cinder and rubble, leaving no stone unturned.”

               “Would you say the patrol members were unaware of the attack before they began their route?” Rainer asked calmly, his questions plucking at Yuri’s pride.

               “Yes,” Yuri answered, growing impatient. “They had not reported the event unfolding until they came across it. What they saw was the end of a massacre. The last shots were being fired, and the final tracer rounds that split the sky faded into the night like the end of a feux d’artifice.”

               “Creative.”

               “Do you mock me?”

               “No, I simply appreciate your manner in which you speak.”

               “And?”

               “And nothing. I apologize for the interjector – Please, if you would, tell me the name of the village the patrol discovered ablaze.”

               “It was one of many in Zone Twenty-Two,” Yuri commented, squinting at the agent. He leaned towards the report placed beside him, beginning to thumb through the stacked pages, “I have the name written in my footnotes here—”

               “Were you aware a Yeger operative was stationed at that village?” Rainer asked, raising a halting hand, the hint of a smile curling up the side of his face.

               Yuri let the pages of the report fall, the soft sound of the paper fluttering back to their aligned place wrapped around the tension between the two men. He furrowed his brow. Heat began to squeeze his stomach. His jaw clenched. Sitting upright in his comfortable chair, Yuri turned to face the agent directly.

               “The air in which you’re directing this – this interview, is disparaging,” Yuri growled. “Do not take me for a fool.”

               “Commander—”

               “If you care at all for the honor and respect of ranks – superiors, you will not patronize me.”

               “Of course, sir—”

               “Commander.”

               “Commander,” Rainer hissed. “But you will understand that my presence in your office is due to a question in your credibility. If you are insulted, it is a result of your own actions. You are not in a position to demand anything but a chance to allow our organization to listen to you.”

               Yuri’s nose twitched as his glare intensified. He wanted nothing more than for this man, this hollow husk, a wraith, to be taken from his sight and to never see him again. The bastard couldn’t be older than his mid-twenties, yet he stood poised looking down on a man who served in countless missions longer than he had been alive. He was just a boy. He wouldn’t lick his wounds beneath some boy. He felt his ears blush red.

               “This is that chance,” the agent continued, his eyes glinting with the pleasure of watching Yuri squirm before him. He knew all his weaknesses, his faults, his failures, his reputation now tainted – all it took was a subtle glimmer in his eye to tell Yuri he was ensnared. “I suggest you take it. You will not see this kindness again.”

               He glowered into Rainer’s eyes, searching for a weakness of his own he kept in the darkness. All he saw was his own reflection peering back at him from a self-possessed, sharp contour of a face. He let his breath exhale from his nostrils, loosening his contracted abdomen. He allowed himself to look at the photographs again, an excuse for tearing away from Rainer’s haunting gaze.

               “I was aware we had an agent in the area. We have hundreds of operatives under Yeger, all positioned throughout the Middle East and parts of Asia. Before I was appointed as commander of Yeger, many of these agents were already stationed to a host of locations. There were many who were repositioned, many who died, and many who were in the process of being implemented into the field,” said Yuri.

               “When I took control of Yeger, it grew quickly from a small unit under X.O.F control to a full-fledged militarized branch – a partnership, connected to your organization. There were plenty of fires to put out and loose ends to clean up before, but once the mantle was given to me, those things became mere trifles to what we were dealing with.”

               “Do you blame the previous leadership of Yeger for not keeping pace with their own problems before you became commander?” Rainer inquired gently.

               “There was no leadership before me, and no, I do not. It was my responsibility to ascertain and understand all the information Yeger had collected in the years before my appointment and finish what was already set in motion. But there was too much, so in an attempt to alleviate a portion of the repair needed, I appointed trusted individuals to manage missions in each operation zone. They would report to me on their findings, repairs, and requests.”

               “Would these individuals catalog operative progress?”

               “Yes, as would I. I gave the orders on where to move select operatives and what they should do with their gathered intel.”

               “Was this promotion of those you trusted an error?”

               “What are you asking?”

               “Was information withheld from you by an appointed operations commander? Were you betrayed? Or did they fail to fulfill their duties to you?

               “They are not to blame,” Yuri suddenly interrupted in a harsh tone. “No others are to blame for what happened. The fault lies with me! They did everything I commanded, faithfully, and if information failed to be procured, it is because I did not give the order to have it extracted.”

               “To return to the original question,” the agent’s voice slithered, “were you aware an operative was stationed at the village found destroyed by your reconnaissance patrol, specifically?”

               Yuri ground his teeth, then slumped back into his chair. “No, I was unaware of the agent’s presence in the village mentioned in the report.”

               “Do you keep track of your operatives’ psychological profiles?” Rainer jumped to the next question, hiding how he savored Yuri’s answers behind his white teeth when he spoke. The corners of his mouth would tilt upwards after each admittance Yuri was forced to shamefully display for this viper. He felt like a mouse being commanded by a serpent to perform for him before being consumed. The tips of his ears continued to burn.

               “We catalog all information available to us on our personnel,” Yuri blandly stated. He had enough of being tormented. He decided he would answer the questions simply, to get this over with. There was no saving him from this, and he realized this man was only here to rub salt into his wounds before the inevitable. “Personnel under Yeger are required to maintain appointments with our doctors in order to assess their health, mental and physical.”

               “What about emotional?”

               Yuri paused with an open mouth, impatience flaring up the back of his neck. He held himself back from snapping again.

               “Of course,” Yuri replied. “And before you ask, no, agents do not have access to a doctor in the field. We assess their health after operations have been completed. However, agents are required to maintain contact with us and send personal journals along with updates on their missions and the status of their health. Failure to do so would imply degradation and the agent would be pulled from the field to ascertain their suitability to continue operations.”

               “Were you aware the agent positioned in this village was corrupted?”

               “Corrupted?”

               “The agent had falsified intel passed to Yeger and maintained personal journals which appeared healthy and consistent with the standards set in place to continue operations. They knew the attack was coming, yet they left no hint of it.”

               “Where did you—” Yuri’s fingers sputtered through the layers of the report. He knew nothing about the agent’s details from the report other than the existence of one in the village. Had he missed something?

               “Your report doesn’t mention that information,” Rainer smiled. “We pulled the file on the operative from your database and verified the possibility alongside intel of Russian missions in the area. We maintain an archive of Russian radio communications and discovered multiple directives issued within weeks of the event hinting the attack was coming. At the time it was uncertain where it would hit, but once we obtained your operative’s file, we noticed a pattern in her updates to Yeger.

               “Each time the Russians gained ground – narrowed in – she would submit an update a day or so after stating no complications due to Russian interference with the mission and that the Red army was moving away from the village,” continued Rainer. “Did you know she started her work with Yeger as a child?”

               “I know who she was.”

               “Then you knew about her mother? The complications which followed their original assignment?”

               “Yes.”

               “Did this not raise suspicion? Wouldn’t you have pulled the assignment after her mother’s death?”

               “That was before—”

               “So you do not see yourself to blame, Commander?”

               “All that has happened has been due to my inaction. It is I who bears the blame and no one else. I’ve already stated this.”

               “Do you think the agent’s inability to fulfill her duties was because she was a woman?”

               “Excuse me?”

               “Ad acta.” The agent blinked. “You knew the Russians had the same interests as us. They were able to locate and secure what Yeger was meant to find before we got any hint of what was under our noses due to the actions of this operative.”

               “Secure,” Yuri scoffed. “They reduced the kishlak and what they searched for to ash.”

               “Yeger’s only goal was to retrieve Dr. Viktor Nikolaev and or his research and assets—"

               “Viktor,” Yuri mumbled, looking at the photographs.

               “—after you yourself,” said Rainer, not missing a beat, “had assisted in his defection in 1961—”

               “1962,” Yuri corrected him. “And I am blameless for those events. I served under the orders of Axis Andromeda, an organization that detached our branch and left us to die before a relocation operation could be led to recover Dr. Nikolaev.”

               “The Russians were looking for him too – ever since you first helped him escape the Soviet Union. Do you think they were able to gather any information in the village?”

               Yuri massaged his temples. His mind was spinning, leaving him rattled. He was beginning to lose track of his thoughts and all he had rehearsed in his head before this meeting. He eyed the report, but his gaze slowly turned to the black and white images he had been organizing passively. They captured the gruesome bodies of Russian soldiers who had been mutilated and burned – civilians who were shot and piled up beside the roads, the small frames of children poking out from the masses – and the face of a man he once knew quite well. Viktor.

               The picture had been taken in the dead of night. Moonlight poured through an open window across the man’s face, glinting off the glasses he wore. There was an emotion captured in his face that he couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t fear. There was a look of sorrow in his eyes, but he seemed peaceful. Yuri felt something turn in his gut. He swallowed, flexing the muscles in his jaw. He wished he could have had a better fate.

               “Commander?”

               Yuri cleared his throat. “Where did we leave off? The village. The patrol had arrived when the shooting stopped, and silence filled the air. They waited for signs of life, civilian or military, coming or going. Nothing moved. They had to scale down one of the far mountain passes to reach the valley floor. An hour or so passed before they reached the outskirts of the kishlak. The fires had begun to die down and there were still no signs of life. Then, before they entered the village, multiple helicopters roared out of the thick smoke above them—”

               “The aircraft,” interjected Rainer. “What are your thoughts on them?”

               “My thoughts?” Yuri was puzzled. Either there was something X.O.F knew about the event that he didn’t, or Rainer’s questions had become gradually more patronizing – no, idiotic. “The patrol noted they resembled the same models X.O.F uses, though they lacked any recognizable insignia. I assume—”

               “That it wasn’t us,” Rainer finished. “You would assume correctly. There are only a few known to use the UTH-66 Blackfoot, and if it was us, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

               “Do you know who it was then?”

               “Commander, it has come to our understanding that multiple forces interacted with the village last night – do you believe Dr. Nikolaev and his research have been compromised?”

               Yuri cleared his throat, frustrated. He wasn’t used to being treated so curtly. Pursing his lips in an effort to stifle a curt response of his own, he darted his eyes over the photographs of the Russian casualties once more. He was confident the Russians were at an equal end of this failure as Yeger had been, but the presence of an unknown military force in the village threw everything to uncertainty.

               “Commander Volkov?”

               “There is much I am uncertain of,” Yuri finally spoke, solemnly. “The body count of soldiers – all killed in this brutish way, as if by some monster – the phantom appearance of some unknown cohort – but I believe the Russians failed to gather any useful information from Dr. Nikolaev.”

               “Why is that?”

               “I knew him, at least the kind of man he was. He didn’t give up any information and certainly did not allow them to take evidence of his research. Viktor was a smart man. If he kept anything, he kept it far away from his home, or destroyed it. Given the evidence left after the event, I would conclude that during an adrenaline-fueled raid on a village in search of something the infantry didn’t truly comprehend the gravity of, the Russians barged through the doctor’s home like any other, unsuspecting of who could be inside, and were fired upon. The soldiers reacted with instinct first and returned fire before grasping the situation, killing Dr. Nikolaev before he could be secured and interrogated.”

               “You hint of the possibility of a secret cache kept by the doctor,” Rainer asked, visibly interested. “Are you aware of any points of interest where the doctor would have hidden information?”

               “I truly wish I could give you an answer. The truth is we knew of Viktor’s past in Afghanistan back in the 60s, but we didn’t understand the scope of his connections. If he kept secrets in the mortal world, I have no inkling of where they could be.”

               Agent Rainer’s expression faded, returning to its sober, contoured demeanor. The agent glanced out the window, his eyes squinting from the outside glare. Yuri hoped the end of this conversation was near. He was eager to finally face judgement. The anxiety in his heart was becoming unbearable.

               Rainer remained silent for some time, making the commander uneasy. He thought to break the silence, to give him something so that the conversation could move forward or come to an end. Anything was better than this silence.

               “There is some respite,” Yuri chimed. “Before Russian reinforcements retook the village, I sent a team to recover all that they could of importance. They found the operative. She’s alive, and she’s on her way here. I’m told she was found unconscious, nearly dead, but they have her in stable condition. Once she wakes up, I’ll pry every last word from her throat—”

               “I know,” Rainer said. “We didn’t come just for you.” He nodded through the window.

               “We?”

               Yuri stood up from his desk, quickly making his way to the window. Rainer kindly stepped aside, a slight smirk twitching in the corner of his mouth. Outside, beyond a large field used for training exercises, was the main hangar. Its large doors were in the process of opening like immense mandibles preparing to consume its meal. The sound of air being torn by massive blades echoed towards Yuri’s office as the helicopter he had sent his team in early that morning was preparing to touch the ground. Yeger’s insignia, a greyhound on an earth-toned rectangular field, reflected angrily with the morning sun which struck the side of the helicopter. A swarm of Yeger soldiers and medical personnel were waiting in anticipation, standing in a semicircle around the aircraft’s landing point. But there were more coming.

               Just over the rocky ridge surrounding the installation approached a squad of dark helicopters, their blades a thundering symphony that swiftly overcame the rotors of the Yeger craft – now settled on the airfield. The thunderous helicopters expertly entered the landing zone, resting onto parts of the airfield and training field so abruptly that it sent Yuri’s men running to avoid being knocked down by the gusts of wind the helicopters bellowed. X.O.F. Yuri read the letters on each of the vehicles as men clad in gray uniforms leapt from the open doors of their choppers. They were all heavily armed, as X.O.F always was, charging to intercept the medics moving the wounded operative onto a wheeled stretcher.

               The small amount of pride the commander had felt slipped away. The last piece on the chessboard that he held so dearly to his heart had been taken from behind. He had planned on using the girl as redemption, as something to offer, but they were going to take it from him before he could use it. He was left defenseless. No, he thought. He could stop this.

               Yuri shoved past Rainer, whose smug expression only exemplified itself as Yuri’s composure fell apart and his fear manifested itself. He didn’t stop him, even after being pushed to the side. He remained standing firm, hands behind his back, with a satisfied look in his eye. Yuri didn’t care. He needed to get to the hangar before they could take her. The girl was his agent, his responsibility. They had no right to take her from him, not until he could rend everything from her mind, body, and soul for what she did to him.

               The door to Yuri’s office groaned with displeasure as he swung it aside, striding inexorably. What serenity Yuri had maintained within the solitude of his office was drowned by the chaos he now pushed through in the hallways. Staff jostled about frantically, all terrified for what would happen to them since they discovered Yeger failed in its sole objective. The report was confidential, but word had spread quickly. Yuri could hear it beyond the office’s walls. People running haphazardly between departments, searching desperately for something they could use to defend their positions, reputations, and even lives.

               They were pathetic. They only ever got in his way, just as they were now. He shoved past multiple panic-eyed analysts attempting to grab his attention to prove they had found something useful. The Yeger personnel had always been nothing but cumbersome – more of a burden, like children – than anything of use to him. He only cared for his men in the field, those he knew and trusted. He wished he could have been out there with them rather than locked away in his office, surrounded by imbeciles.

               Several more staff members trotted up beside him while he marched past the department offices. Each one blabbered over the other about things he knew already or were blatant lies. One young boy who looked to be just shy of twenty rubbed shoulders with him, holding up a report for him to view. Immediately, Yuri took him by the scruff of his unwrinkled shirt and threw him into a receptionist’s desk, sending both his report and the desk’s content sprawling onto the floor. The others who had crowded to have their turn to prove their worth abruptly stepped away from Yuri’s unyielding approach.

               The clamor amongst the rows of desks suddenly silenced. He could feel dozens of eyes set on the back of his head. The only sound came from the sad grunts of the young boy steadying himself against the desk he had been thrown into. Yuri stopped in his tracks, furious. He turned to meet the audience of blank faces staring agape. The boy had gotten to his feet, blood pouring from his nose. He had broken it. Yuri stood firm for a moment, his breathing deepening as burning heat boiling in his chest.

               “Return to your work!” Yuri bellowed, his voice echoing through the department. The words bored through their simple heads, then they all sputtered into motion, clearing the floor. He looked at the boy who was clutching his bleeding nose, tears beginning to run down his cheeks. “And for God’s sake, someone fucking clean him up!”

               Yuri pivoted, hateful of the embarrassment he felt for lashing out. The boy didn’t deserve that punishment, but he could no longer contain his frustration. He made for the next door at the end of the building which lead to another hallway connecting to the succeeding department. Each door that came in his way was flung open more aggressively than the last.

               The sporadic staff were in disarray through each department he crossed, but none dared to approach him. His face was contorted into a ferocious, hideous glare, sweat dripping from his matted hair. The sound of his advance parted the sea of headless chickens.

               Finally, he rounded a corner leading to a guarded door. Beyond the heavy metal doors was the hangar. A cacophony of yelling could be heard growing louder as his neared. Two armed guards standing on either side of the entrance saw him marching towards them, and without hesitation, stood aside. Yuri parted the doors before him, unleashing the brutish sounds of men arguing over one another as the uniformed blare of helicopters rumbled just outside the hangar.

               He looked around anxiously, trying to spot the medics or the girl. X.O.F soldiers were positioned everywhere, barring off sections of the hangar or speaking with the Yeger personnel. Everywhere he looked, the gray soldiers walled off his view. His breath quickened. Had they taken her already? He tried to push past some of the soldiers to get a better view, but more stepped before him. Yuri could feel heat bloat in his chest again as the last of his composure dissolved.

               A familiar presence came to his side. Yuri turned, meeting the hard look of a man he knew well. One of the operation leaders, a man he had fought beside during his time with the Spetsnaz, gestured for him to follow.

               “Commander,” the man spoke over the uproar, “I hope you haven’t arrived too late.” He wove expertly through the crowds of gray and brown, Yuri right on his heels. He never glanced back to see if Yuri kept up with him – he didn’t need to. “We had no idea they were coming. Our bird was only a few kilometers away when X.O.F radioed their approach. When they arrived, they shut down the whole hangar – as you can see—”

               The man he knew as Roman slipped between soldiers shuffling between vehicles until they reached a circle of both Yeger and X.O.F who were in the middle of a heated dispute. Between the rows of legs and arms all moving in angry motions, Yuri spotted the wheeled stretcher carrying the traitor. Yuri didn’t hesitate. He stepped past Roman, eager to settle the matter.

               Roman gripped his shoulder, turning him back to his attention. His eyes looked up at Yuri’s, dark and sunken under a low brow.

               “She is alive, in stable condition, but I am doubtful she will survive the night. Do not do anything too rash – at least not yet. And be wary of those bastards from the wolfpack, there is virulence behind those eyes. Step carefully, comrade.” He released his grip, stepping back into the fold.

               Yuri clenched his teeth. He faced the circle, shouting now spitting amongst the men. Placing a hand on the shoulder of a Yeger soldier, he parted the wall of belligerent arguing. His men fell silent, straightening their posture when they saw him. The soldiers from Cipher fell silent too, their piercing gaze now focused on him from behind black balaclavas.

               His men looked to him expectantly, evidently frustrated and spent from their quarrel. They expected him to end this. To send them away. To keep them from taking what was theirs. That was what he intended to do. He looked to the center of the gray-clad soldiers, seeing no one of obvious higher rank to deliver his order to. As he was about to speak, his words clung to the sides of his throat. In the center of the circle was the stretcher, and on it was the operative – unconscious, and covered in blood-soaked bandages. She was almost unrecognizable apart from her—

               “Commander Volkov,” an X.O.F soldier from the center of the ring said, “we have orders from the XO that we are to requisition Operative Driscoll. Skull Face has personally requested we escort her to him for private debriefing.”

               Some of the Yeger staff started protesting, their voices rising in rumbles from their throats. Yuri raised a hand to silence them, nodding at their disagreement.

               “This operative belongs to Yeger, this is a matter that we will handle. She is our asset and knows information crucial to Yeger’s mission—”

               “Our mission, sir,” the soldier interrupted. The Yeger soldiers looked to Yuri, their expressions uneasy.

               “This agent is our responsibility. She is under my manifest, and therefore my authority,” Yuri challenged. Some of the staff behind him chirped their agreement.

               “That’s right!” a soldier called.

               “Go home, lapdogs!” another spat.

               Yuri shot a look back to the men, quietening them once more. No more childish squabbling. He knew the Yeger staff—particularly his own men he had hand-picked to join Yeger—detested the X.O.F troops. Cipher had a tendency to step on their toes when they involved themselves in their operations, leaving little to no breathing room. It wasn’t uncommon for Yuri to attend court-martials involving infighting between the two groups. They were not comrades-in-arms, that much had been clear.

               “Under the direct orders of the XO, Operative Driscoll has been liquidated into Cipher supervision following the failure of Yeger’s mission.”

               The men were outraged. They began cursing and balking at the Cipher soldiers. A few stepped into the ring, threatening to start a fight. The X.O.F men remained unperturbed, as if entirely unaware of the Yeger staff’s presence at all. They maintained their unbreaking formation, always representing their stereotype for being unfeeling entities – unfeeling men – of their organization. Another reason for Yeger’s distaste for them.

               Yuri opened his mouth to protest, feeling the looks of his men burning into his back. His tongue twisted as he searched for a counter to the soldier’s words, realizing there may be none. His frustrated thoughts were pushed aside as a voice spoke from the circle.

               Two men stepped into the ring of gray and tan uniforms wearing formal military attire. On the left was the appointed operation leader of Afghanistan, a major, and on the Major’s right was a captain. He knew them both. They had served together in Hungary on a covert operation during the Hungarian revolution. The Major, Melor Borisov, and the Captain, Stefan Krupin, had been inseparable friends from their days at university, both enlisting in the Russian military, both having been recruited into the GRU, and then both having served in the same operations as Yuri. They were invaluable assets, capable of functioning perfectly as a team to acquire crucial intel that lead to the capture of Imre Nagy, the Prime Minister who lead the revolution against the Soviet Union.

               Yuri had led that operation, and after being recruited into the shadow organization known as Axis Andromeda, he requested that the two be recruited as well; he had stated that they would be indispensable in high-risk stealth operations. And they were. After being appointed to Commander of Yeger, Yuri extended an offer to join him to the two men, also left abandoned by Andromeda, and as expected they did. With their experience, he appointed Melor as a Major to lead Afghanistan operations with Stefan just beneath him so that they could still maintain a close work relationship.

               “You requested to see us, Commander?” Captain Borisov asked.

               Yuri looked puzzled, his eyebrows pressed together in building tension. He hadn’t given any such word to have them brought here. He looked around the circle, catching the glances of endless blank eyes all watching him. His mouth became dry.

               “Pardon?” Yuri responded.

               “We were ordered to report to the hangar under your directive, Commander,” Stefan’s voice stated in a twin-like tone. “How can we assist?”

               “Standing quite still would be lovely,” a sing-song voice announced beyond the circle. “I just adore these uniforms you’ve made for yourselves.”

               The wall of X.O.F soldiers dissolved to allow a man in a trim suit and lavish coat to pass through. He carried a drab case in a gloved hand while the other toted a black cigarette, its smoke drifting as fluidly and silken as his long, ashen-brown hair. A handsome smile parted his skin to reveal pearly white teeth, their perfection contrasted by his pronounced canines.

               The hangar echoed with the sound of the stranger’s steel-toed shoes as he paced up to the two officers, quaintly gawking at their clothes. He was unnerving, and Yuri wasn’t alone in feeling that way. Everyone in the circle had grown quiet, studying the mysterious stranger who seemed to glow from the attention he was receiving.

               “These are precious,” the stranger said, lifting a medal up from Melor’s jacket with his pinky. “An old token?” Cigarette ash drifted onto Melor’s uniform. The major took a step back, his jaw receding into his neck. The stranger raised an eyebrow and smiled at the major’s frown of revulsion.

               “Yuri Volkov,” the stranger said, drinking deeply from Melor’s glare.

               “It’s Commander Volkov,” Yuri corrected him, his nose curling up into his brow.

               “Is it?” The stranger cocked his head towards him. He waited to see Yuri’s hatred reveal itself on his face, then smiled. “Ah yes, of course, of course. Forgive me, it’s my first visit to your—” he looked around dramatically “—humble home. Yeger does make good use of what it is given. I wish I could say the same for its staff.”

               Several Yeger soldiers stepped to Yuri’s side, their fists clenched at their sides. Yuri looked hideous as he scowled into the intruder’s calm, hazel eyes. He feared this altercation would end with blood pouring over the concrete floor, but what he feared more was that he would allow it.

               “Allow me to introduce myself,” the stranger cooed. “My name is Ambrose Lancaster, your new CO.” He bowed exuberantly, peering up into Yuri’s eyes from between his brown locks. His smile grew as the staff grew disquieted. They looked around in disbelief, muttering amongst each other and to Yuri who ignored them in a shroud of malice he felt for this man. There was fear in the back of Yuri’s head, but it was squelched by the loathing he felt.

               “There is already a commander of Yeger,” Yuri’s voice was as cold as stone. “I am that man. Whatever farce is being conducted here is in error. I ask you to leave. Take your men Mr. Lancaster and never return. This matter is one that belongs to Yeger, and I will speak directly to the XO otherwise. I will not listen to a pompous jester.”

               The men around him shouted their agreement. The tension amongst the circle began to squeeze around them, making the air feel thin. Yuri was bewildered by the manner in which X.O.F arrived, and he had a multitude of questions. Something was terribly wrong, but he had to preserve his composure on behalf of his men and all of Yeger.

               The stranger now known as Ambrose fluidly recoiled from his bow, hiding his striking teeth behind his lips. He held up the case he carried daintily to the side. Without giving an order, an X.O.F soldier took the case from him and remained at his side, holding it in both hands.

               “Hm,” Ambrose hummed. “You should be careful what you ask for, Commander.” He placed his cigarette to his pursed lips and snapped his fingers. He took a long drag from the onyx-colored stick of rich-smelling tobacco as he waited. Moments later a soldier entered the fray carrying a green field telephone. The soldier approached Ambrose, opposite to the man holding the case. Ambrose reached for the telephone, but he suddenly froze, his muscles flexing in his sharp jaw.

               “You ought to understand the severity of your situation, Volkov,” Ambrose spoke. “All of you. I’m sure you’re all very aware of that. However, by your tone, it comes to me that you do not grasp the role Yeger plays with Cipher.” He delicately plucked the half-burned cigarette from his lips, flicking ashes onto the floor. “The way your men allow themselves to bark like dogs as if they matter is evident of that. You’re unruly, undisciplined. I see now why Yeger has failed its mission. It is being led by a man who only wishes to live in the past – in the glory of his achievements – and to take advantage of what was given to him so that he can relish in that memory forever.

               “You do not care for what you were given, do you?” Ambrose asked. He didn’t wait for a response. “You and all your men have grown lazy, spitting on the opportunity your father has given you. You believe you are free, that you live under the roof of our gracious leader but can leave freely to play and fuck like an adolescent. You do not acknowledge the tether wrapped around your necks that is tightly held in Cipher’s grip.”

               “Do not be mistaken,” he continued. “You operate here because we allow it. You have clothes on your backs and food in your stomachs because we allow it. You shit because we allow it. You stand here before me, alive, Commander Volkov, instead of being churned into nothing but entrails and fat clumps in a sewer, because—We. Allow. It.”

               Yuri stood silent, as did his men. He could feel sweat pour down the back of his neck. His men took several steps back, glancing at one another, unsure of what to do or say. He hoped they would remain quiet. This man was dangerous. He could see the thin thread that held his poise together in his dark pupils. He chose not to speak. Only could he stand firm, feigning to be unabashed.

               Ambrose once again reached for the telephone, curling his slender fingers around the handset. He lifted it to his ear, whispering something into the phone. He held his eyes closed, like he was listening to music with great respite. A moment passed and his eyes fluttered open, locking onto Yuri. He gently removed the telephone from his ear and held it out at arm’s-length to him.

               Yuri furrowed his brow, worried. He hesitated, feeling as though he would suddenly be set ablaze if he moved from this spot. He knew only death waited to speak to him from that phone. He glanced behind him. Roman’s half-closed gaze peered at him from behind the crowd. Despite his lack of expression, there was a hint of warning in his eyes. The Yeger staff all held their breath, watching him with the wide eyes of juveniles.

               Yuri swallowed. Each step he took was longer than the last. The sound of his boots hitting the concrete echoed throughout the hangar, each thump returning to him later than the last. Ambrose tilted his head, grinning slightly at his gradual stride. His heartbeat pounded in his ears louder with every inch he narrowed between them. Ultimately, he stopped within reach of the telephone. His jaw clenched tight, his teeth growing sore from the stress.

               With a sturdy hand, Yuri grasped the telephone, raising it to his ear. He paused, listening through the static for anything. Not the slightest amount of sound beyond the void of crunching electricity could be heard. He knew exactly who was on the other end of the line, but he wished he could gather something – anything – useful. He must be waiting for him to speak. He took a deep breath, choosing his next words carefully.

               “Bilagáana,” said Yuri.

               There was silence, but only for a minute. That familiar voice touched his ear, its gravel-like whisper digging through his skin and into his head. The voice spoke briefly, but the words were mortifying. They prodded through his head and into his spine, sending chills prickling down his back. He felt his armpits dampen and his heartbeat quicken. Sweat forming in his ear nearly made the tightly clutched phone slip from the side of his head. He felt moisture bead along his brow. His tongue curled to the back of his throat. He wanted to vomit. His vision lost its focus as all he could cope with were the words delving into his soul, their poison blackening his organs and causing his hands to shake.

               Then the voice stopped speaking, and the line went dead. Yuri continued to stare at the nothingness that captivated him as his senses had dulled. He shakily removed the telephone from his face, holding it just beyond his ear. His stomach churned, nausea massaging the inner walls of his abdomen. The man holding the radio box gently took the telephone from Yuri’s hand, returning it to its connection and exiting the ring.

               Everyone could see it now. His weakness bled through every pore on his body, his very soul had been pried from his core and put on display for everyone to see. He couldn’t control the vibrations in his fingertips. He clasped his hands behind his back to hide his visible fear. They all saw him. His weakness, his failure. He was surrounded by eyes, all staring at him. They watched his spirit die before them, their leader had failed and now he would be forced to watch them squirm.

               Ambrose snapped his fingers again. The click brought Yuri back to reality. He was breathing hard, sweat dripping down his neck into the clean collar that became strained around his throat. Mutters chirped amongst the crowd, all curious and fearful for what he had heard on the other end of the executioner’s line. He cleared his throat, stood up straight, and brushed his dampening hair from his brow. He looked at Ambrose and the soldier carrying his case who was now unbuckling its latches in response to Ambrose’s curt order.

               The buckles came undone, and the case opened towards Yuri to reveal a silver-plated revolver, already loaded. Yuri simply stared at the glinting weapon, unmoving. He could not do what had been asked of him. He wouldn’t. Ambrose studied his expression, waiting. Yuri inhaled deeply, raising his head high. He wouldn’t do it. He chose not to.

               Time passed and Ambrose grew impatient. “You have been chosen,” his voice slithered into Yuri’s ear canal. “You have been given a second chance, but it comes at a price, Commander. Will you not take it? You know the alternative.” He smiled hideously, gesturing to the revolver waiting for him.

               Yuri’s jaw pulsed with tension as the muscles within them flexed repeatedly. There must be another way to end this. The alternatives he created were thoughtless, he knew they would only end with more pointless bloodshed. He was trapped with only two options given to him. A price had to be paid, but who would be chosen to pay it? It was up to him to make that decision.

               What would happen if he were to die? Would things be better or worse? Would his men be taken care of, or would they be left to the slaughter if he was removed from the picture? The guilt of greed squeezed his heart as he tried to convince himself of his importance. He wasn’t important. These men would march on without him, regardless of who led them. What he contemplated would set an example to everyone around him with one option allowing him to see the effect of his choices come to fruition within the Yeger staff.

               What kind of man am I? He traced his fingertips over the silver revolver. They trailed along the barrel down to the grip. His fingers sewed their way around the handle, lifting the weapon from where it slept. He held it in his hands, its weight insurmountable on his soul. Who am I? He glared into Ambrose’s eyes. He could see his silhouette looking back at him in the reflection of the stranger’s eyes. The man blinked, as if he could see Yuri’s soul reverberating from him, and now it belonged to him.

               Ambrose bore his canines happily. “I can see it in you. Your struggle. I can tell you what kind of man you are. You’re a coward – a dead man and a coward. All that you are is twinkling in your eyes. Watching you succumb to your own self is beautiful.”

               “You know nothing of what I am,” Yuri growled.

               “Then show it to me, wolf.”

               “I will make you suffer for this,” Yuri snarled.

               Suddenly, Yuri raised the revolver in his extended hand. Without hesitation, he pointed the barrel between Major Melor’s eyes and pulled the trigger. A tumultuous boom delivered a powerful shot into Melor’s skull, hollowing his head and punching into the wall. As the horrified clamor of people twisting on their feet to escape began, the click of the revolver’s hammer being pulled sliced through the mayhem. Melor’s body hadn’t hit the ground before Yuri lined up his next shot, the end of the barrel now captivating the terrified bewilderment of Stefan, who wasn’t given the chance to scream.

               A second explosion erupted in white fire from the end of the revolver, taking off the corner of Stefan’s head. His body twisted around from the force of the bullet, collapsing in a splash of his blood. The bodies had collapsed, their blood seeping into the cracks of hangar floor. Yuri’s arm remained extended, the revolver aimed at where the men he called his brothers once stood. The silver plating of the revolver shined bright, as if it had captured the light of their souls instead of the artificial lighting above. Yuri exhaled heavily, the shaking returning to his fingertips. The first price had been paid.

               The blood of Yeger’s failure had been given up in sacrifice in his palms, but the oath had not been sealed. His blood must mix with the blood of his brothers. The hammer of the pistol clicked as it was pulled again. He lowered the revolver to his thigh, pressing the barrel deep into his clenched muscles. His breathing hastened, his chest lifting and falling exasperatedly. He ground his teeth, holding his breath in his throat, and pulled the trigger.

               The final crack ended, the ghost of its echo vibrated into annihilation against the walls. He lay on the ground in a pool of blood. The liquid flowed all around him, bursting in pumps from his leg and murdered comrades. He wanted to scream. He wanted the roar to tear through his throat until he was mute, but nothing came. He just lay there, twitching in a red puddle, with tears of pain stinging his eyes. His hands clawed into the floor, desperately searching for an escape from this pain – from the unjust sins he had committed. It had to be done. He had to continue living so that he could ensure all of Cipher would be reduced to agony and ashes. Yuri would play his part, but he would begin their undoing.

               Lively laughter chorused with an empty clapping filled the void of hangar. Steel toed clicks resounded beyond Yuri’s vision as the stranger walked around him through the blood. He stooped over Yuri’s body, gleefully bingeing on his affliction.

               “Encore, Commander,” said Ambrose. “You certainly are beguiling!”

               Yuri’s voice shuddered in his mouth, unable to speak. His face contorted in pain. He did all he could to lift his head, searching for where he had dropped the revolver. The silver gun now glistened like a ruby in the puddle near his wounded leg, just out of arm’s reach. His fingers stretched feebly for it, unable to touch it.

               The stranger crouched beside him, blocking out the fluorescent lights blinding his eyes. He watched him pluck the revolver from the floor between his thumb and forefinger, letting it hang over Yuri’s body. Drops of blood ran off the polished metal and onto his chest. Ambrose chuckled.

               “You’re more entertaining than I thought you’d be,” he exclaimed, standing up and handing the revolver to a gray figure who began to blur in his vision. Another figure appeared by his side. He was dark and tall, with a tortuous face Yuri could still recognize as his vision faded.

               “Rainer,” the stranger said, “you know where to begin.”

               “Yes, sir,” the agent’s soft voice replied.

               “Good! My men will take you where you need to go. Find them.”

               The figure in black briskly stepped into the fog of Yuri’s blurred vision, disappearing with the other gray figures. The slow tearing of helicopter’s blades began to boom outside the hangar. Foggy images of people moved all about, as if he didn’t exist, as if there weren’t bodies soaking in blood in the center of the building. They were going to leave him like this, he was sure of it. It was a final act to mock him before leaving him to die.

               Ambrose started off, fading away, but then stopped. He stepped back over Yuri, close enough that he could still make out his distinguished features. He fumbled with something in his breast pocket, then withdrew a polaroid image, turning it over between his gloved fingers.

               “Fear not, Commander, not all is lost,” Ambrose whispered, letting the polaroid flutter down onto his chest. “I look forward to working with you.”

               Ambrose snapped his fingers and a team of medics rushed quickly to Yuri’s side, bending down to tend to his leg. Yuri watched Ambrose disappear from the hangar between the arms of the medics bandaging him. He looked down to his chest at the polaroid the stranger gave him. He lifted it to his face, straining his eyes to make out the details of the image.

               A pale boy stood looking off to the side, wind blowing in his dark hair. He wore a t-shirt with curled up sleeves, and pants that had been faded in the reflecting light of the scene when the photo was taken. At the bottom of the photo the name ‘John’ was written in pen. He studied it, looking for meaning in the photo. Then he moved his thumb, which had been hiding more that was written. In small, cursive handwriting the name and date of the photo taken had been scribed.

               ‘Amniat, 79’.

Chapter Text

1 April 1984. 03:00. Unknown location. Seychelles .

               John.

               John lifted his head, his eyelids heavy. Murky darkness poured down the walls of the room in a thick fog. Yellow, artificial lights flickered along the ceiling, casting a sickly, greenish hue in the dark. The room was long, leading towards a staircase which split into opposite directions beyond his view. Bars rowed from floor to ceiling along the room, segmenting it into sections filled entirely with blackness. He was in a cell, he realized, in the back of the room.

               His mind was numb, his thoughts uncollected and failing to form. He had no recollection of where he was or how he got there. He struggled to remember where he had been before, and who had brought him here. The nerves throughout his body felt dulled, reacting with delay as he attempted to move his fingers. He struggled to lift his hand to his face, appearing fuzzy to his unfocused eyes. His hand began to shake as he brought it upwards, then dropped to the floor. He let his head slump back against the wall, too weak to move.

               This is a dream, he thought. His breathing was slow, rhythmic. He would succumb to the weight of his sleep-deprived mind and return to a deep sleep. He would wake up, in his bed, in his room, in his home. He would get up to see his father, already awake, preparing breakfast. After eating, he would get dressed and set out to meet Arman to get his assigned chores for the day—

               Arman. John fought with his subconscious. Arman has been missing for months. But I just saw him? We were repairing an engine for an old truck just last week. He said he’d teach me to drive once we fixed it since dad is always so busy. That was six years ago. Arman is dead. Nuria said so, but I didn’t want to listen. Nuria…

               John.

               He flicked his eyes open, startled. His back tensed up as panicked heat surged through his lungs. Another voice tickled his scalp and entered his thoughts. It was soothing, churning with a chorus of familiarity, but foreign—disturbing. The voice carried many within it—he couldn’t place who it was, only that it was known, and it knew him. He cocked his head side to side, his vision blurring as it struggled to keep up. There must be someone else here.

               The other cells were shrouded in darkness, only their bars managing to glint through the engorged shadows. He could see no figures within them, no silhouettes or hints of life. He was alone, his thoughts being the only company he kept. Where had the voice come from? He must be dreaming. He would wake up, at home, safe. He repeated the thought over and over until it blended into the turbid pool of reverie clouding his mind. This isn’t real.

               John.

               “Nuria?” John said softly. “Arman? Helai? Dad? Who’s there?”

               John.

               “Where am I?”

               Where did you go?

               The chorus prodded throughout his head all at once. It came from everywhere and nowhere, inside his ears and from across the hall. Each voice was sewn together to form a harmony of equal emotion—of guilt, sorrow, anger, and happiness. John’s breathing quickened. He didn’t know how to answer. He should be at home with everyone. Why did they think he was gone? He would never leave them. Did someone take him?

               “I—I don’t know,” John replied to the nothingness. “I don’t know where I am. I can’t see—”

               Where did you go?

               John wrapped his arms around his knees held close to his chest. The voice felt critical. Guilt swelled in his heart. Had he done something wrong? He couldn’t remember what he could have done. He wasn’t supposed to be here, it wasn’t his fault he was here—he didn’t even know how he got here. He didn’t want to be blamed.

               Why did you leave us?

               John felt tears well in the corners of his eyes. The voice wouldn’t listen. He felt it feed into his mind, wrapping around his thoughts of anguish and confusion, taking his arguments of innocence and destroying them before he could speak. It wouldn’t let him speak, it wouldn’t let him justify himself. He was left vulnerable, defenseless, while the voice stoned him with vile iniquity.

               Why did you leave us?

               “I didn’t!”

               You left us.

               John.

               You left us alone.

               “No—”

               You left us to die.

               Where are you?

               I loved you.

               “Stop it—”

               They murdered us.

               You let it happen.

               The darkness of the room began to flow out from the ensnaring cells, cascading into the walkway and crawling towards John. The voice splintered into a myriad, collectively stabbing into him from every side. They berated him, tormented him, sundering into a thousand words all said at once. He couldn’t understand them, but their venomous fangs pierced into his heart, leaving it blackened.

               You ran away.

               I loved you.

               Murderer.

               Will I see you again?

               We needed you.

               Traitor!

               “Stop it!” John screamed.

               The voices suddenly concluded, ending in whispered screams and succor. The room became cold, the shadows retreating to their asylum beyond the flickering lights. His mind was left empty, leaving him tired and his vitality taxed. He dropped his head between his knees, quietly letting the tears drop from his face. He just wanted to wake up. This nightmare had to end.

               “John?” a voice echoed faintly from the stairs at the end of the room.

               “Nuria?” John responded. The voice hadn’t come from his head like the others. It was real. His heart pounded. It was her voice—she came for him. She would put an end to this terror and take him home. His eyes darted over the two stairways leading down to the room, waiting for her to step down and come to his rescue.

               “I’m down here!” John called, wiping the tears from his eyes. He was too weak to stand, but he managed to lean against the bars for a better look. He meekly stretched his arm through the metal rods, waving to get her attention as soon as she entered the room.

               No response came. Silence cloaked the opposite end of the hall, say for the buzz of the blinking lights which now sputtered more frequently. John stared with bated breath, but not a sound resonated from beyond the room. His impatience clawed around his skull, boring into his head.

               “Nuria!” John yelled again. “I’m down here!”

               Immediately a loud, metallic cranking noise clanged, followed by the leaden groan of a door swinging open. The jarring sound came from above the stairs. John couldn’t help but smile, relieved to be free from this purgatory. A sudden chill spread throughout the room, flooding over every surface before wrapping itself around him. His breath became visible as he panted. He looked around anxiously, watching frost form along the walls and puddles turn to ice. He curled back into a ball against the wall, flinching slightly as his back touched the frozen metal. His arms clung around him, his hands rubbing his shoulders for warmth.

               He had never felt coldness like this—it was unnatural. It seeped through his clothes despite his attempts to keep warm, ingesting the warmth from his skin. His ribs contracted, trying to protect his organs from the wintry breath that haunted him. It ate at him mercilessly until he was left shivering from head to toe. There was no escape from it. Frost ran down the poles surrounding him and across the floor.

               “Jjjohn?” A voice spoke through the darkness.

               John’s voice froze in his throat, leaving only a stuttered whimper to escape his lips. His muscles all clenched together, managing to pulse enough warmth for a moment of respite. He coughed as he tried to speak, his saliva becoming cold and sludge-like in his mouth.

               “H-here,” John answered. The voice had to be Nuria, but something was wrong. It was different—altered. He couldn’t think anymore as the cold constricted his sinuses, causing a headache to bloat in his forehead.

               “Wwwherrre are you?” the voice wheezed. Two subtle smacks of footsteps echoed from the top of the stairs. The groan of the door rang out like a suffering animal before shutting with a hefty crash, followed by another metallic clang. Another footstep slapped, then another, then it stopped.

               John couldn’t see who had entered the room yet but fear now pricked along his spine. This is wrong—this is all wrong.

               “Jjjjohn,” the voice beckoned again. Several more steps resounded from the stairs leading off into the blackness. Dripping liquid trickled from the source of the voice. Little plops of droplets striking the stairs pinged across the room.

               He is here, the voice within his head awoke, blaring in his eardrums. He clutched his ears and grit his teeth. The chorus of whispers sprouted from inside his brain, basking in the nourishment of the cold.

               Find us.

               Please.

               John.

               John panicked, pushing away from the bars. His back smacked against the wall, greeting him with frost that gripped his clothes with a thousand invisible hands. He closed his eyes, shaking his head to rid himself of the voices. They cried and sang louder, threatening to split his eardrums.

               “Wwwhy did you leeeave?” the voice wheezed like several souls trapped in one body. The steps continued, patting down the stairs. A figure formed in the shadows, descending from the steps slowly—irregularly. The silhouette twitched sporadically, convulsing in a bestial way.

               John’s eyes widened. His lungs squeezed his breath, holding it in his chest. He trembled as he watched the horror that stepped out of the shadows.

               A red, skinless leg emerged from the darkness, followed by the other, stepping slowly down the frozen steps like a corpse resurfacing from the depths. Bare, jagged teeth grinned unintentionally from a lipless mouth, their broken rows carving all along a sinew-laced face. A crown of bone protruded from the creature’s exposed skull, running like spines over its scalp. Its hollow eye sockets fixated on John, enveloping him in their abyss.

               Watch.

               It opened its maw as if to speak, letting its tongue curl down through a hole in its throat. Chirps and clicks popped through red bubbles seething from its open gullet. Its naked muscles writhed with movement beneath their thick strands of fiber, scattering spasms throughout the revenant’s body. Breaths of air passed between its garden of teeth with a repulsive rasped whistle. The lights seemed to pulse faintly with each breath consumed, leaving the air feeling thin. John could only take deep, mortified breaths, his head becoming light.

               It lowered its head, letting its mandibles open and releasing a throaty chirr. Its tongue slithered back through the hole in its esophagus, squirming into its mouth and between its teeth. It took a misshapen step forward, twisting its torso grotesquely as it moved. Another step closer, another, and another. Blood seeped through its muscle tissue with every movement it made, rolling in trickling streams onto the floor.

               You left us.

               We will find you.

               You did this to us.

               “Jjjjohnnn,” the revenant keened, shuddering violently.

               John’s jaw hung open, aching with tension. His eyes twitched over the tortured stature of throbbing muscle and splintered bone. He was going to die. He was in hell, he had to be. This is hell. He wanted to scream for help, but his voice shuddered into oblivion under the weight of his fear. Not even a prayer could be uttered in his head. He was alone, damned, for all that he did—for what he must have done to deserve this.

               Phantom hands spread over his brain, turning his thoughts to blight. He sat there, helpless, watching the blood-torn specter corner him. The voices within him cooed happily at the revenant’s approach, their strength manifesting in a surrounding feeling of carnal elation.

               We found you.

               Lover.

               Butcher.

               High-pitch clicks erupted from the revenant’s trachea, cocking its head in sudden jerks. It continued forward, muttering his name repeatedly in a slew of tormented voices. The voice was saddened, singing lightly in a woman’s soprano, but collectively encumbered by a choir of wheezing souls. He heard the dead speak to him through the drumming vocal chords vibrating in its open neck. He did this. He killed them. And now they came to take him home—to the home he wrought for them.

               He remembered. He remembered all that he did—how he failed them, how he let everyone die. He couldn’t save them, not a single soul. All that remained were ashes and bodies—and him. He lived. Everyone perished in vain while he was allowed to live. His fear and sorrow rang his stomach. He wanted to vomit. With the strength he had left, he pushed himself along the floor back towards the far corner, distancing himself as far as he could from the manifestation of his sins.

               It continued haphazardly towards him, its wet feet sticking to the frost on the concrete floor. What sounded like laughter or sobbing chortled through its mandibles. Its empty eyes stared at him, never looking away. Its bones popped with every jerked movement its joints were forced to endure. Another rhythm of low chirrups passed through the flexing tubes in its throat.

               “Pleeeease don’t leeeeave,” the corpse wept. “Ddddon’t. Leeeeeave”—it raised a hand of clawed, twitching fingers towards the bars of John’s cell—“Meeee,” and passed through them like they didn’t exist.

               You cannot escape.

               Don’t ever leave us again.

               I love you.

               John coughed a scream from his cold filled lungs. He trembled in horror as the revenant passed completely unphased through the bars and into his cell. Tears rolled down his cheeks, quickly turning to ice before they could drop from his jaw. He held a shaking hand up to protect himself, feeling the cold devour his nerves in his limbs. The frost crawled up his body, slowing his blood. He couldn’t move. He fought to keep his arm raised to protect himself, but it gradually lowered, shaking less as the freezing air sapped the last of his warmth.

               He felt his final breaths sputter from his lungs as the corpse stood above him, peering down at him. Warm blood dripped onto his body, turning to yellowish steam. The rhythm of tongue clicks slowed to a subtle flow of vibration as blood clogged the revenant’s throat.

               You deserve this.

               The revenant roared, spattering blood over John’s face. It lurched forward, sinking its claws into his side and tugging at his ribs. John wailed violently, feeling his body being torn to pieces.

               It whimpered, pausing as it brought its grotesque face against his. It bellowed hot breath onto his face, watching him. John’s eyes opened through the agony, his body convulsing with final tremors. He grit his teeth, turning to face the creature and looking into its hollowed eyes. Bloody tears poured from the holes in the back of its sockets. It sighed with euphoria, then unhinged its jaw into demented hinges. A bloodcurdling shriek exploded from its throat, lurching forward and engulfing John’s head in teeth. The garden of teeth bore into his flesh, ripping him asunder. John screamed into the pulsing throat of the revenant until the abyss finally swallowed him.

               He woke up screaming, soaked in sweat. He was thrashing his arms and legs around, kicking in the darkness. Several voices yelled in annoyance.

               “Shut the fuck up!” one barked.

               “Get me the hell out of here,” another yelled. “I can’t take this shit anymore!”

               His stomach heaved with harsh breathing and nausea. He turned onto his stomach and vomited forcefully onto the concrete floor. He collapsed into the pool of bile, the stench fuming into his nostrils.

               “Jesus Christ!”

               “Shit, he’s up again,” a clamber of heavy footsteps marched up to John’s cell, the sound of keys jangling in a lock echoed in the room. “Hey, I need some help down here!”

               Moments later, a multitude of footsteps pounded down the room. John rolled onto his side, looking up at the figures standing beyond the bars of his cell. Revenants. More of them. The fear in John’s mind hadn’t subsided. He flinched back, screaming again. The cell door flew open and the figures rushed in around him. He was shoved down onto the ground, hands pressing his flailing limbs against the concrete. He jerked his head side to side, trying to wriggle free.

               “Sedate him! Hurry!”

               “On it.”

               “Dammit, hold him still!”

               Something sharp pierced the skin of his neck, delving deep into him. He blenched, but his head was held fast. He groaned, breathing hard into his cheeks. Suddenly the figures let go of him, stepping back into the darkness. Warmth rushed over his body, flowing through his veins. His eyelids fluttered softly, gently closing as his nerves numbed with a welcoming comfort. His breathing calmed to a gradual rhythm. The tension in his muscles released and his limbs fell limp. Another source of warmth spread throughout his waist.

               “We can’t keep this up. Why the hell… boss… him?” The voices gradually faded in John’s ears as he succumbed to the heavy sleep wrapping over him.

               “…don’t know…tomorrow…”

               “Make sure…asleep…dangerous…”

               The rest melded into the churning sound of nothingness that sleep brought him. His chest raised and lowered slowly, welcoming gentle breaths through his open mouth. Sleep finally came, and it was deep and devoid of dreams.

Chapter Text

1 April 1984. 07:54. Unknown location. Seychelles .

            “Sleep well?” a voice asked dryly, a soft ringing coating the words in his ears.

            John jolted from the haze gluing his tired eyes shut. He lifted his head, looking around wildly at his new surroundings. He sat in a chair, hands tied behind his back, in a large room bathed in dim, red light. Tall steel walls stretched up to a dark ceiling that escaped the illumination. Exposed pipes and air ducts clung to the walls like roots searching underground for nutrients. A flimsy metal table was placed before him with an assortment of papers, files, and photographs sprawled along its worn surface.

            His vision pulsed with blur and focus, unable to fully shake the drug induced sleep he had been forced into throughout the night. His muscles ached; he could barely manage to keep himself from slumping forward and crashing into the table. He tried to make out the figures standing in the room but could only see their dark shapes. A reflection of himself mirrored his movements in a long, black tinted window spanning across the wall to his right. The pale blob in the reflection gradually took form as his eyes strained to focus. A sweat drenched, disheveled man stared back at him, hair matted over his brow, stubble overgrown on his jaw. He looked like an entirely different person apart from his gray-blue eyes glinting in the glass. He looked like an animal.

            “When will it wear off?” the same voice drawled. The male voice spoke as if under water, sinking deeper as John’s mind struggled to awaken.

            Adrenaline warmed his chest and quickened his breathing, but something still clung to the back of his mind as if a sack of bricks had been tied around his head. His stomach churned and boiled its contents up his throat. He fought to keep himself from vomiting, catching the vile stomach acid in the back of his mouth with his tongue. A cough ruptured through his lungs, sputtering bitter spit from his mouth onto the table. A dribble of discolored saliva hung from his bottom lip.

            “The anesthesia should wear off momentarily,” another voice spoke behind John, this one much softer—withdrawn. “Once the drug dissipates in the body’s system, he would have regained consciousness within a few hours. However, given the patient’s peculiar resistance to the drug, I expect he’ll be ready to talk in minutes.”

            “Thank you Doctor.”

            Light plinks chimed with heavy footsteps as a figure approached John around the table. The echo of the steps thumped throughout the room in a slow chorus melodiously pursued by a bell-like jingle until they stopped just before him. A gloved hand took hold of John’s jaw gently, hesitating, then briskly turning his head up to face the blurred figure.

            John squinted has a harsh light suddenly bore into his eyes. He tried to look away, but his face was held firm. He closed his eyes, but they were forced open by the hand.

            “Dilation looks normal,” the figure hummed. “He should be ready.”

            “If I may, sir, I advise the use of caution. His body has reacted unpredictably to medication, sedation, and to the attempted surgery upon arrival. His body’s capability may be intriguing, but I am unsure of his mental strength given the amount of anesthesia used on him throughout the night. Technically, he should be dead, for enough reasons to make me—”

            “Don’t worry, Doctor, I only want to ask him a few questions,” the figure responded, a hint of pernicious levity in his voice. “We’ll go easy on him. Wouldn’t want to break what’s already broken.”

            The person John assumed to be the doctor coughed into his arm, remaining quiet. The figure released his grip on John’s face, letting his head sag between his shoulders. The slow footsteps clopped back around the table, the light jingles dancing after each step. John looked up, watching a gloved hand trail along the table’s surface, brushing papers over one another until the hand’s slender fingertips stopped on top of a drab folder. A small stain wrinkled its corners.

            “Can you talk?” the figure asked. Soft ringing continued to wrap around each syllable entering his ears. The words sounded foreign, as if he no longer understood the language. Simple chatter and tongue clicks were all the figure’s words were reduced to.

            He lifted his head, narrowing his eyes to force them to focus. The figure wore a chestnut colored, buttoned shirt tucked into his pants—the sleeves carefully rolled up to the elbow. His leather gloves appeared to have once been a vivacious red, now sun-bleached with a hue of rust. His sharp features became visible as his face formed from the blob John’s eyes perceived. A long, pointed nose separated his slender eyes glinting in the shadow of his brow. Graying, mousy hair grew down to his shoulders, smoothly kept behind his ears. His remaining features were hidden beneath ashen stubble and a moustache apart from his prominent laugh lines which curled up with a smile.

            He waited momentarily, then asked another question. “What’s your name?” His voice was more pronounced now.

            Murderer.

            The ringing in John’s ears abruptly screamed, racking his brain. He winced, cocking his head to the side and gritting his teeth. Pain trickled through the veins in his scalp, surging into his skull. His toes curled.

            Look.

            Betrayer.

            “Are you going to answer him?” a calm voice drifted into John’s ear, hushing the pain. He opened his eyes, looking to his side. Nuria sat beside him, her piercing blue eyes looking into his. Her fiery, red hair lying in silken strands over her pale face. John’s heart pounded. Nuria. His breath burned in his lungs as he held it, his disbelief constraining him. He gawked at her, the red light reflecting off her face in a beautiful shade of—

            “This isn’t working,” a different voice growled from the darkness. “Wake him up!”

            John blinked. She was gone. He cocked his head back and forth frantically, searching for her. He began to hyperventilate. His abdomen spasmed against his harsh breaths. Where did she go? She was right here!

            Several solid steps marched up behind him. John’s muscles clenched as a bucket of water was poured over his head, suffocating the air around him. He coughed up water that had been sucked into his trachea, hoarsely belting the remaining fluid clinging to the back of his throat. He was soaked to the core, shivering. He sobbed, letting the warm snot drip from his nose into his lap. Nuria.

            “Commander,” the doctor spoke up. “Anything sudden—recovering from the anesthesia—his heart may be too fragile—”

            “You’re dismissed, Steel Markhor,” hissed the voice from the shadows. The doctor was silent. The sounds of boots clicking heels together resounded in the quiet room, followed by someone marching briskly out of the room and through a heavy door. Once the door slammed shut, a thump echoed from beyond John’s recovering view. Then came the sound of a shuffled step sliding across the floor.

            Thump. The sound of a shuffled step.

            Thump. Another shuffled step.

            Thump.

            The man with the chestnut shirt lost his smile, stepping to the side and away from the table. John peered at the figure approaching them.

            From the shadows limped a tall man on a crutch wearing a formal green uniform. A beret held his unkempt blonde hair out of his face. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of sunglasses, the lenses blackened—casting a bourbon glow in retaliation to the scarlet lights. His brow was pressed into a permanent scowl, pairing nicely with the clenched muscles in his jaw. His uniform hung loosely over one of his arms and legs. He was an amputee.

            A defiant appearance writhed in every movement he made, marching forward as if none of his limbs were missing—though his face twitched with every step as though each stride brought significant pain. Silence poured into the room, periodically broken by the sound of the crutch’s rubber end striking the floor. The amputee came to a stop just before the table, the sound of him catching his breath rumbling in John’s ears. He stared at John, his gaze piercing through him. John lowered his head, avoiding the eyes he couldn’t see.

            “I don’t know what you are,” the amputee snarled, “but you’re going to give us some answers.”

            “Amniat,” the man in the chestnut shirt spoke. “That’s where we picked you up. Why don’t you tell us why you were there?”

            The amputee shot a glare at the other man, then turned back to face John. He directed a curt nod behind John and another person emerged from the darkness. The person looked like a soldier, wearing military attire that more closely resembled a maintenance outfit than a soldier’s. He wore a black balaclava, keeping his identity hidden. All he could see was a pair of wrinkled brown eyes studying him as he passed around the table. In passing, John caught a glimpse of a patch on the soldier’s arm. It was diamond shaped, shaded with vibrant colors. There were words stitched along the embroidered emblem, but he couldn’t make them out.

            The soldier stopped at John’s side, opening the stained folder and retrieving a folded map. He quickly unfurled it, placing it in front of John and jabbing at precisely where his home was located. Amniat. John stared blankly, feeling his throat tighten. His mouth hung open as the memories surged back into his mind. Father. Nuria. Helai. Arman. Everyone. They’re all dead. His eyes stung from the nonexistent tears he could no longer cry. He shut his eyes, gritting his teeth.

            “You killed all those people,” the amputee exclaimed. “Why?”

            John was taken aback. They think I did it? His stomach sank with fear and confusion. His eyes darted over the contents spread over the table. Images of bodies piled along roadsides and soldiers butchered in the dirt were countless among the opened files. The sight of the carnage made his insides burn. He didn’t do this. He didn’t kill everyone. He wanted to save them.

            “Answer the question!”

            John’s voice clung to the walls of his dry throat, escaping as a broken whisper. He began to tremble. He didn’t do all this, he couldn’t be blamed for the slaughter. He wanted to scream it out, to repeatedly cry his innocence until they left him alone, but nothing came. He sat there, staring with wide eyes in terror.

            “If you won’t talk,” the amputee muttered disdainfully, “then we’ll make you—”

            “I-I didn’t—” John sputtered, his voice barely a whisper. “It—it wasn’t me—”

            “You were the only survivor. You knelt in a pile of bodies—bodies of women and children. An entire platoon of Soviets butchered—while you were left alive and covered in their blood. Don’t feign ignorance.”

            “You don’t understand—”

            The amputee gestured to the soldier standing beside John who nodded in return. The soldier stepped out of John’s view, and a moment later he returned with a syringe in hand. A jade colored liquid gleamed from within the glass casing, slithering up through the needle as the soldier applied subtle pressure.

            “Loramara Vermis. A neural depressant made from a blend of wormwood and tarragon,” the amputee said, shifting his tone. “The United States Army developed an obsession over the past decades for the idea of using anesthetics and barbiturates to coax out the truth in suspects. The drug relaxed cortical nerves and allowed suspects to speak more freely under pressure—”

            “Truth serum,” the man in the chestnut shirt denoted. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

            “The US Army failed to perfect a drug that could hold up to the name, however,” the amputee continued, agitation returning to his voice. “But this isn’t the United States, and our development isn’t hindered by medical law.”

            John stammered, unable to respond. His muscles clenched as if he could shrink away from the needle that hungered for his flesh. His eyes flicked from person to person, struggling to form a cohesive thought. He needed to say something. Anything.

            “The doctor was right. You should be dead. But your resistance to medication provides a unique opportunity. We can test our newly developed truth serum, and if you start to slip away, we’ll bring you back,” he gestured behind John where a defibrillator and medical case were set on the floor. The man in the chestnut shirt glanced at the amputee, narrowing his brow, but said nothing.

            John opened his mouth to protest when a sharp pain entered his shoulder. He winced, watching the jade liquid press into his skin from the syringe. The soldier apathetically forced the last few drops of the fluid into John and briskly plucked the syringe from his skin. John growled in pain, squeezing his eyes shut.

            A deep burning sensation coursed through his shoulder, down his arm and chest, and up his neck. His skin tingled like it was sunburnt. The tingles chased over his body and made his hairs stand on end. The burning sensation was quickly followed by a chill that wrapped over him, causing his muscles to twitch in random spurts of shivering. The surge of sensation peaked his panic. He shifted in his seat, straining to free himself. He was going to die here. Whatever they injected him with was going to kill him. He needed to escape.

            As if plunging underwater, the spidering sensations were abruptly washed away by a comforting warmth that bloated throughout his body. His breathing slowed. The heartbeat pounding in his ears dropped dramatically in rhythm, keeping a subtle, deep beat. His eyes felt heavy, but not enough for sleep. He continued to shiver, but he no longer felt it. Then came a feeling of giddiness and joy.

            He felt like he was at home, swaddled in a wool blanket. The warmth placed its hands on his skull, letting its seeds of joyful submission seep into his mind. His bottom lip drooped, completely numb. A laughable fear that his tongue might fall into his lap if he opened his mouth made him smile—and hiccup stupidly.

            “Now,” the amputee’s voice passed into his ears, followed by its echo which scattered over his mind in an array of octaves. “You’re going to tell us everything.”

            John looked up at the fuzzy image of the man who now sat before him. His disgruntled scowl still identifiable. For a moment, a dark silhouette appeared behind the man, contorted. It vanished immediately. John smiled even wider. The ringing returned to his ears, buzzing pleasantly.

            Remember.

            Lie.

            “You’re not the first,” the amputee continued, selecting photographs from the table and sliding them into a row in front of John. The images showed dark figures standing in demented formations. Their eyes glowed blue. The memory of John’s nightmares returned briefly. Shivers tickled over John’s ribs. “There have been other anomalies operating in Afghanistan—they’re all tied to Cipher. It points an undeniable finger. You’re involved.”

            “Cipher,” the words came without thought. Sliding off his tongue before he could conjure the words himself. John’s eyelids hung loosely, masking any sign of intelligence that still resided within him.

            “What was your involvement with them?”

            “Cipher,” John repeated. The word swirled in his mind in a blend of color and false memories as he tried to form a connection to the word. Nothing but nonsense mixed together in a soupy distortion, which then flowed from his mouth. “Cipher. D-decipher. Deciphered. I don’t know—”

            “Cyprus, March eleventh. Where were you?”

            “Cypress?” John struggled to understand. The words he heard floated in an endless echo. He felt compelled to speak however, the giddiness coaxing his vocal chords to vibrate into a rhythm of speech. “T-trees. I was cutting wood. Firewood. I had to go.”

            “Who do you work for?” the man’s voice became coarse.

            The words reverberated within his mind until dissolving into muted vibrations of sound. The question evoked an emotion resembling perplexity, but like all else that he felt, it was a subdued replica of feeling. Without his own action, his answer formed, as if a second host had invaded his brain. The thoughts came and he responded, without accord.

            “My father,” John answered sluggishly. The moment he spoke, the artificial thoughts melted back into the raw, empty nonsense that filled his head.

            “Who is your father? Who does he work for?”

            Kochai.

            It was his fault.

            You failed him.

            My father. John attempted to recall the meaning of those words. Indistinct images of an elderly man pressed against the veil of thought. The memories bloated behind the film of his subconscious until it burst, a flood of emotion, thoughts, and images scourged into his mind. He couldn’t stop the flow, he could only watch the memories form and roll out onto his tongue.

            “Kochai,” said John.

            There was a pause. The man in the chestnut shirt pawed through a stack of papers set on the table, searching for something. The amputee held his unwavering glare.

            “Kochai…” the man in the chestnut shirt muttered. “That alias is unknown, at least—”

            “These questions are a waste of time,” the amputee snapped, getting up from the table with difficulty. “It doesn’t make a difference.” He marched over to John’s side. John gawked up at him, and hiccupped.

            “You work for Cipher. Admit it!” the amputee growled. “It was you who killed all these people. You’re part of this unit, these Skulls.” He jabbed at the photographs. “You cower behind the false guise of a farm boy, but I know what you are. I’ve seen it—we’ve all seen it. You’re a butcher.”

            Butcher.

            He’s right.

            “Who are you?!”

            John’s heart thumped ahead of his thoughts. He sat in silence, staring at the man’s face now mere inches away from his. Fear set upon his mind, pushing his thoughts out from their hiding places. The warmth caressed the words forming in his brain and soothed them out onto his tongue.

            Murderer.

            “J-John. John Rycroft. My name is John.”

            Liar.

            “Your name isn’t what’s important. I want to know who you are. What you are.”

            You will die here.

            Please.

            “I don’t know,” John exclaimed. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know!”

            “You’re lying!”

            “You’re lying,” John mimicked without thought, his eyes stinging with tearless frustration. He bent over, shrugging away from the amputee. He just wanted to go home, back to the charred ruins that remained. He wanted to go there and be alone forever.

            “Let me go home,” John whimpered under his breath. He shuddered with sobs. The warmth in his mind and body began to tug downwards, pulling a heaviness over his eyes. He slumped slightly, allowing himself to retreat within the safety of his tired thoughts. A feeling of relief washed over him as he began to succumb to a sudden sleepiness.

            “He’s slipping under,” he heard the man in the chestnut shirt say.

            “Keep him awake.”

            A sharp pain pierced into his arm, quickly spreading throughout his skin like wildfire. John cocked his head to see another needle lanced through his flesh. The fluid in the syringe absorbed the deep red light burning in the room. John watched the seemingly blood-like fluid thread completely through the needle before the soldier retracted the syringe. A corrupting fire crawled with a thousand hands under his skin, tearing into his blood and letting itself be carried throughout his body. The fibers of his muscles tightened. His heart began to thump rapidly. His eyes widened as the new corruption poured into his mind and boiled with the bloating warmth that had occupied his thoughts—tearing into one another like roaring seas.

            Come home.

            His lungs squeezed inwards, nearly collapsing. His trachea pressed shut, trapping decaying oxygen inside him. His tongue clicked at the back of his throat, unable to cough to force his airways open. He had forgotten how to breathe. He simply sat in his chair, collapsing within himself. His body filled with fire, twisting his muscles in excruciating cramps and seizing his lungs in an unforgiving hold.

            Don’t you remember?

            Please.

            He kicked his head back, feeling his eyes roll under his eyelids. Spit sputtered from his esophagus as his mouth salivated for air. All he could manage to do was twitch his joints in desperation, hoping that he would manage to slip free from the chair. His mind grew cloudy. All thought began to flush from his head, replacing itself with fear and desperation. His heart pounded.

            It’s ok.

            “Damn it,” someone swore, “we’re going to lose him!”

            “He’ll fight it.”

            “No, he won’t. You pushed him too fast.”

            “You don’t know what we’re dealing with—what he is!”

            “Precisely—”

            “He’s one of them—”

            “That doesn’t matter. It was the Boss’s decision to bring him here. We can’t just let him die!”

            An electrical surge scattered over John’s bones. A feeling of release soothingly flowed through his muscles, calming the unremitting twitching of his joints. His lungs suddenly expanded, as if pried open from the outside, a burst of air opening his trachea. He lurched forward, vomiting jade colored bile between his legs. Rasped bursts of breathing followed, finally able to catch his breath. He remained bent over, his chest heaving greedily for oxygen.

            John…

            Come… home…

            “Remarkable…”

            “Now you see why we can’t treat this lightly. We don’t know what he’s capable of.”

            “Torturing him like this won’t bring us any closer to the truth.”

            “We can’t trust him! His word is worthless—either he’s been trained to withstand this, or they’ve done something to him to make him forget. We have to tear out the truth hidden within him.”

            “You saw the condition he was in when the Boss brought him back. If he was going to break, he would’ve broken then. He was begging for death when he found him, it was in the report—SOS’s too.”

            There was silence. Footsteps shuffled around the room. A low buzz numbed john’s ears.

            “Let me talk to him. I’ll take as long as he needs.”

            “Fine. If he tries anything, I’ll have him killed.”

            The sound of shuffled footsteps separated by thumps striking the ground echoed throughout the room. A door was cranked open, followed by the shuffled footsteps. The door closed with a bang.

            John wheezed softly, drinking in the air. The steady feeling of breathing helped relax him as the swirling sensation of engorging warmth drained from his body. The burning tingles still danced over his skin, but gradually died out until he was left with the feeling of wet clothes and mucous coated breaths. His eyelids hung heavily, but the feeling of sleep was kept at bay. His muscles throbbed—and he was thirsty.

            Long minutes passed without any interference to his rhythmic breathing. He found solace in the little world he encompassed himself in between his legs; his wet, greasy hair hanging over his eyes to block the rest of his view. He stared downwards at the jade puddle, imagining it to be a green sea far below the cliffs he leaned over. The false serenity warmed his chest.

            The chorused sound of boots stepping on concrete trailed by light, metallic chimes sounded in John’s ears as someone approached him. Through the drying strands of his dark hair he saw a pair of leather boots step towards the table. Shining, polished spurs were strapped to the boots. The weariness of John’s mind was hardly perplexed by the strange boots, but they captured his attention—watching the glinting wheels of the spurs spin ever so softly.

            “Lift your head up, please.”

            The command prodded John’s mind awake. He twitched, as if waking from a nap. With hesitation, he raised his head to glance at the man before him. Through his disheveled hair he saw the familiar chestnut colored shirt. He sat up. The man before him was standing with his arm outstretched towards him, a canteen in hand.

            “Thirsty?”

            John paused, his eyes darting around the room, waiting for another threat to attack him. He cleared his throat, sitting upright, and nodded. The man retracted the canteen, unscrewing the plastic lid and strafing around the table towards John. John lifted his head as the man tilted the canister to his lips. Cool water trickled into his mouth. He felt the walls of his throat unstick from one another as the crystal liquid soothed it. His throat ached slightly as the water slid over the raw flesh that had been made sore from relentless coughing. He continued to drink until the man gently lowered the canteen, screwing the lid back on and sitting down at the table.

            “John, right?” the man asked. John watched him gather several photographs from the table and place them neatly beside a stapled stack of paper placed on the map of Afghanistan. The man looked up at John from under his brow, waiting for a response.

            John nodded, avoiding his gaze. He felt vulnerable under the man’s probing stare. Humiliation rose inside him, acknowledging his disgusting appearance and smell. He was entirely exposed, with nothing to hide, but he hoped the man would see that—that he would help him.

            “Strong name,” the man remarked with a smile. “Easy to remember.” He flipped through the stack of papers, stopping occasionally to read something, then flicked the papers back down with his thumb like a stack of cards. “I want you to understand why this hasn’t been easy—for you, for all of us. The war in Afghanistan is roaring louder by the month, new technology is being smuggled into the field by outside countries, and the death toll is climbing. What we’re trying to do—” he paused “—hm, think of us as philanthropists—we’re trying to assist those trying to flee the war. And to do so, we need to know what we’re up against.”

            Philanthropists? John narrowed his brow. Is this how philanthropists treat people? He knew he was lying, but about how much? Were these the Russians? He was fearful he could just be a toy in their hands trying to coax out the truth before dismembering him. He chose to stay silent, his exhaustion bearing down on him.

            “In order for us to do our job, I need to know where you stand,” he continued. “The events of the raid have left us at a loss. I don’t need to know if you’re an enemy or a friend, I just need to know if you’ll cooperate with us in order to come to an understanding. You’re our only witness, and as everyone else wants to see it, you’re our only suspect within reach. So for your sake, would you be willing to answer a few questions?”

            John hesitated, weighing his words. His tired mind repeated them over until he understood. The feeling of sleep still clung to the back of his head, but he forced himself to nod. His head slumped down, simply gesturing sapped what little strength he had left. Either he was going to die, or this man was going to help him, or at least delay the inevitable.

            “Let’s start with the basics and work our way down—make this simple. There are two piles of bodies. The civilians of this village—” he pointed at the map “—Amniat, were executed primarily by gunfire. The other pile, the Russians, were butchered with an ax—one found beside you. I take it you aren’t affiliated with the Red Army, correct?”

            John nodded.

            “So who are you affiliated with? The CIA? Pakistan? Someone like you sticks out like a sore thumb. You’re not a native, obviously. So where are you from?”

            John lifted his head, attempting to meet the man’s eyes. He quickly looked down, instead looking over the unfurled map. He swallowed, then cleared his throat.

            “Here,” he whispered. The single word felt like a ball of thorns climbing up his throat. It ached, but he drove himself to keep speaking. “I’m from Amniat. This is my home.”

            “Afghanistan?” the man said with an eyebrow raised. “You live here?”

            “Yes. I-I did.”

            “You mentioned your father. Kochai? Was he your real father?”

            John closed his mouth. He knew Kochai wasn’t his real father, but what led him to conclude that so easily?

            “I ask because that name is Muslim in origin, and given your physical appearance, I can assume he’s not your real father. Am I correct?”

            “Y-yes. He wasn’t my birth father. He found me when I was a baby.”

            “An orphan huh? Have you lived here your entire life?”

            John nodded, eyeing the ink name of his village printed on the drab material. He felt his every word being judged. Insecurity began to seethe from his heart.

            “Okay John, let me tell you what I have a problem with. You’re a white male, dressed like a lost tourist, who’s been living in a rural Afghan village with your father who hides behind a fake name. The trail leads to the conclusion you’re an operative working with the Mujahideen. Who was your father really?”

            He was stunned. To hear something so blatantly suggested made his stomach sink. John shot a look at him, his face plainly painted with his astonishment.

            “Don’t give me that look,” the man smiled. “Kochai is a girl’s name. And if your father was the Muslim man with an adopted son you claim him to be, customs prohibit such name to be given to a man. Additionally, if he had found you at birth, your name wouldn’t have been the one that was chosen. I’m sure if you do truly live here you would know of these basic customs.”

            John’s voice caught in his throat. He was taken aback. He knew the customs, but he knew they never applied to him. His father wasn’t Muslim, but would that mean—

            “So where is the lie and where’s the truth? None of this adds up, and I suggest you start talking—about everything.” He cocked his head to the side, gesturing to the door.

            John clenched his jaw. The amputee had to be waiting for his chance to come back—to torture him until he died. He swallowed. He couldn’t let it come to that. He turned back to the man, thinking desperately for something to say—anything that could be the right answer to save his life.

            “I-I know my father was a foreigner!” John stuttered helplessly. “I think he came from the north—a long time ago, from the Soviet Union.” He waited for something—a sign, but the man simply watched him with a stone face. “He taught me Russian, Pashto, and English, a-academics, literature—everything I know. I don’t know where I came from, but I’ve lived in this village since before I can remember!”

            “Did he live there too? Your father?”

            “Yes.”

            “Was he there during the siege of the village?”

            “Y-yes.”

            “What happened to him?”

            John lowered his head, the memories sinking their teeth between his bones. Their grasp filled him with poisonous echoes of his dread and sorrow. Remembering his father’s face as it had been when he had left his side tormented him. The reflection of the moonlight softly caressing his face through the window was forever captured in his memory. He felt tears begin to warm his eyes.

            “He died.”

            “Can you identify him?”

            He looked up, his eyes foggy. Blinking repeatedly in embarrassment, he glanced over the photographs the man motioned to. There were countless photographs layered over one another. Hundreds of images that blended together in a slew of carnage and chaos. His eyes darted back and forth over the photos, not knowing where to start. It all looked the same—bodies strewn over the earth in mangled positions.

            Sweat formed on his brow. He felt the time he had to answer begin to slip away. He glanced at the door, the ache of pressure sunk into him again. His nerves refused to let him take in any individual photo, his focus flickered across the table without order.

            Then something ensnared his attention. One photo stood against the others. It was the spitting resemblance of his memory—of that moment. A photograph of a man slumped in a desecrated bedroom, the moonlight casting through the window kissing his relaxed, empty face. Father. The muscles in John’s jaw tensed.

            “There,” he said quietly.

            The man tilted his head towards the area of the table he had indicated, peering over the images. He glanced at John, then took several of the photographs in his hand for a closer look. He breathed in deeply, paused, then exhaled. He picked a picture from his hand, flipping it to face John. It was the picture of his father. John nodded. The man’s face remained sober, but something glinted in his eyes.

            Without a word, the man stood from the table. Photograph in hand, he stepped towards the door and exited the room. John was left alone and afraid. This was it. There was nowhere to run—nowhere to hide. He just had to wait and see who would come back through that door, and what they would do with him.

            Some time passed without anyone coming for him. He strained to listen for anything: talking, footsteps, whatever hint he could gather from behind the besieging metal walls around him. The hum of air conditioning drove out anything he could pick up on apart from a leak which dripped somewhere in the room. He thought he could hear muffled voices talking behind the dark window on the wall, but he shook it off as his imagination.

            Right when his fears of worry began to pluck into his heart, the door slid open with a loud creak, startling him. The man stepped back into the room, quickly making his way to the table. His eyes were locked on the photograph of John’s father as he walked. He stopped beside the table, leaning over John and holding up the image close to his face.

            “This is your father?” he asked, a hurried sternness in his voice.

            John nodded again.

            “You’re not an agent working to protect him? An informant? Were you sent to extract him before the Russians found him?”

            John stared at him with bewilderment. He had no idea how to answer these questions. All he knew was what he told him, but now he began to feel doubt as his memories of his father were being questioned. Did they know something he didn’t?

            “We found this on you when we picked you up,” he continued before John could answer, taking a cassette tape from his pocket and setting it on the table. ‘Sin-74’ was written along its face. It was the tape John’s father had given him. “Do you know what this is—what this writing means?”

            John shook his head.

            “We played the audio tape before you woke up. It’s a series of numbers played in Morse code in a loop. Do you know what it means?”

            “No.”

            “Do you have any idea who your father was?”

            John’s face only sunk deeper with confusion. His father was Kochai, a simple man who had lived in Afghanistan for most of life to help the people. That’s all he had ever known about him, but now he questioned everything. Was there more to his father’s past? Was there more to his own past?

            “Your father,” the man spoke in a lowered tone, breaking the silence, “was Doctor Viktor Nikolaev, a Russian scientist who defected from the Soviet Union in the sixties. He had been working with the KGB on a top-secret military project that would have changed the course of the Cold War—at least, that’s how the rumors go. The Soviet Union, along with many others, have been searching for him for decades. Turns out he fled to Afghanistan, with you—if we connect the dots.”

            What? John’s mouth hung open, unable to speak.

            “I can tell by the look on your face that you didn’t know that. Explains how no one had been able to find him until now,” the man said. He walked back around the table, sitting down in his chair. “Whatever the Doctor was working on was reportedly destroyed. When we found your village after the siege—when we discovered Doctor Nikolaev’s body, we did our own search. There was nothing. Not a scrap of information in the house—nothing, except for you—” he jabbed a finger at John “—you’re all that’s left.

            “You’re important,” he went on. “We just don’t know how. Which puts us in a difficult position. We don’t know what you are or what you’re capable of, but you’re special. If all that’s left of the Doctor’s research is you and this little black box, and that’s still worth it to the Russians to decimate an entire village, then we can’t let you fall into the hands of his pursuers.

            “Which now leads us to a couple options—well, two ways of doing things,” he said. “And that all comes down to how you’re going to cooperate. We can’t let you leave, not until we know what’s going on. You can either spend your time back in the brig, or you can come with me and the medical staff and be treated well while we sort out what to do with you. Under the circumstances, we haven’t had the chance to do any proper testing on you—don’t worry, it would be hardly anything beyond a blood test. So what’s it going to be, John?”

            He was at a loss for words. He gawked at the man, feeling both baffled and relieved. He was scared to trust him, but he felt comforted to know he wasn’t in the Russians’ grasp about to be sent to the executioner’s block. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so much confusion that swirled in his mind, but a spike of confidence spread in his chest. He was terrified, but something had clicked within him. The realization of a chance. A chance to live, a chance to fight and take back his home.

            He clenched his teeth, glaring down at all the photographs of the innocence murdered. A dwindling fire inside his heart struck back to life from the charcoal of his dying hope. He needed to know what happened—who his father was, and why he gave him that cassette tape. John turned his head to the man, looking into his eyes.

            “I’ll cooperate,” John promised.

            The man smiled.

            “Good.”