2020: Chapter Nine

Winter, being the coldest, darkest season, is often equated with misery and seclusion. But for Ishana Chaudhri, Secretary to the Chancellor of the World Confederation, which includes over four billion men, women, and children, it is a time of peace. She has her hands stuffed into her new winter jacket. The garment is a fine woolen one that reaches down to her knees and fits snugly to her form. Her long black hair, smoother and silkier than ever thanks to the efforts of Zheng’s media relations staff and their demands for her to look presentable at his side, hangs limply behind her.

Below her, the large engine of the bus in which she travels rumbles noisily, while the whole vehicle undulates unevenly as it turns and stops. Outside, the great city of Beijing is covered in a thick blanket of snow. A few pedestrians trudge by outside the bus on foot, their forms fat with thick coats.

Ishana, for her part, despite enjoying the peaceful scene outside on this dark December evening, feels an uneasy anxiety in her chest. “It’s been weeks since I saw them,” she chastises herself, “I hope they’re not too mad… Yet…” She looks down at her left calf. Most of the bandaging is gone, but she can still see through the outline in her black dress pants of the remaining bandages, forevermore a reminder of how tenuous her life has become.

“I’ve done it all for them,” the secretary assures herself, “I took the job so I could help make sure Jon and the kids are safe.” Yet, her reasoning feels hollow and has little substance to it. She knows her family will not see it that way. “Do other people feel this kind of guilt for doing what they think is right?” She looks around the bus at the other eight people still on it. An elderly couple, a night-shift workers, and a woman in her late 20s busily texting away.

The dim, yellow light coming from the bus’s ceiling gives everything a decidedly calm atmosphere. Advertisements above the windows show wonder products ready to be sold for a low price ending in 99, popular fast food chains, and one large advertisement displaying Delun Zheng gesturing dramatically at a podium while fighter jets fly overhead. Above the planes are the words “Stronger Together,” subtly reminding Beijing residents that the World Confederation is a safety blanket for all members.

Ishana removes her own phone and opens her messages. She’s responded to every one her kids and her husband have sent within a few hours without fail, and there’s been no sign that they’re even remotely angry at her, or conversely worried for her. “It’ll be fine,” she assures herself.

However, relief is replaced with confusion as the bus turns down another narrow street and abruptly stops. Looking up to the front of the long vehicle and out the dirty windshield and spies a set of plastic orange barricades blocking the street and a few soldiers clad in their signature grey uniforms. “Fantastic,” Ishana grumbles to herself, hoping to play it off as a checkpoint.

The bus slows to a stop directly before the barricades and a soldier knocks on the door parallel the driver, who complies and opens it. “Office of Public Security,” the woman announces firmly, “Turn off the engine and hand the keys to me slowly.” The driver, evidently familiar with these things, complies and the bus goes dark as a result, before lighting once more as the bus’s battery takes over.

“Everyone is to stay seated and stay still. We will check each of you for identification. Do not remove it until we come to you.” This first soldier unzips her thick grey jacket, revealing the same uniform Lieutenant Atash Hashemi had worn when he had informed Ishana of her injury and Trade Minister Xiao’s untimely death. Three more soldiers board the bus, also clad in the grey suits, red ties, and silver stars of the Office of Public Security.

The first soldier moves to the texting woman first, who removes her I.D. and hands it away. The soldier swipes it through a machine she procures from one of the men who is evidently her subordinates and waits. After a moment, she nods and hands it back.

The four soldiers continue this and slowly move to the back of the bus where they find Ishana seated in the corner. “Ma’am, your I.D.” the woman instructs coolly. Ishana complies and removes her wallet from her purse. Though, as she does, she dislodges her cane from its resting place on the seat next to her and it tumbles noisily to the ground, clattering against the metal floors.

In an instant, handguns and assault rifles are drawn, loaded and aimed at her person. Ishana feels her entire body tense, her injured leg screaming with pain as she reflexively twinges against the noise. In her right hand she holds her World Confederation Government I.D. with her title displayed in large letters.

One of the soldiers behind their superior slowly leans down, handgun still pointed at Ishana, and picks up the cane, taking a moment to analyse it as the superior scans the I.D. After a gut wrenching few seconds, she hands it back and motions for her soldier to do the same with her cane, which the relieved secretary places next to her once more.

“Apologies, Ms. Secretary,” the soldier says in the same cold tones, “But you won’t be going anywhere. We were ordered to make an example of any VIPs from the government.” She turns around and faces the other three, “We have a job to do. Secure the vehicle.”

“Captain Fan,” a younger soldier at the head of the bus who had been interviewing the driver speaks up, “What’s going on? The Bureau didn’t order any of this.”

Fan abruptly draws her handgun from its holster on her waist and fires it. Screams echo off the bus, but the bullet is momentarily louder. Helpless to stop what’s about to happen, Ishana cries out: “No!” But the young soldier, evidently not let in on what’s going on, staggers backward, the windshield shattering as a bullet passes through his chest.

“Why…?” He wheezes, his voice anguished, confused, and miserable. Clutching at the growing crimson spot in his uniform, he stumbles forward once more before collapsing in a loud crash, blood pooling around his already dead form.

The elderly woman at the front of the bus clutches at her husband and weeps quietly while her husband stares at the dead soldier in horror. Panicked whispers are exchanged between the two remaining soldiers, but everything becomes quiet as Captain Fan fires her gun through the roof of the bus. “Enough chatting, you two! Demeter gave us a job and we’re going to do it! Now secure the doors and let’s get the equipment,” she hisses angrily, “We will not fail Lacertus!”

“Lacertus!?” The name echoes through Ishana’s mind with disbelief. “Why would Greenpeace’s leader be involved in this? I know they’re passionate about ending the war and stopping any environmental damage from it, but this!?” It all seems like madness, but then something occurs to her, something sensible: “Maybe they’re doing it for him. Maybe he doesn’t know… Maybe this is just a few random individuals.”

The three soldiers disembark the bus, though the two subordinates quickly move to block the fore and the aft doors from the outside. Ishana wastes no time and quickly removes her phone from her pocket once more. She opens her messenger app and types as quickly as she can to a familiar name: “Hyjacking by terrorists on bus…” she pauses, looking up and spying the number above the rear view mirror, “… 1642. Three soldiers: Captain Fan and two as of yet unnamed. They have already killed one man. Requesting immediate intervention.”

Ishana pockets her phone and prays silently the recipient of the message receives it in time. She clutches her hands tightly together, determined to not look afraid, but feels a horrid dread creeping up her spine. Did she survive the terrorist bombing at WC City on Minister Xiao just to die in a bus hijacking by a couple of eco-terrorists? “Please…” she prays again and again.

Captain Fan moves back onto the bus after her subordinate steps aside, and is followed by the same man after a moment of pause, though he simply takes point in front of the door inside, now. Fan holds in her hands a bulky laptop and a small black box attached to it. “Alright, let’s set up the feed and we’ll run it live to Demeter as well as Poseidon, so he can send it abroad.”

“Right, I’ll start on the uplink if you get the camera ready, Captain,” the subordinate replies confidently, taking the laptop from her and placing it on the dashboard of the bus.

Ishana feels her phone vibrate. A text? She cannot be sure. But then it keeps vibrating. A call. “EVERYONE!” She shouts, “Get down!” Confusion follows, but she dives to the floor anyway.

A window shatters and the soldier outside the bus topples backward into the now broken window of the door, his chest oozing with blood. Screams of horror sound and the passengers drop to the floor. “What the fu –“ Fan is cut off as she too topples to the ground, gasping for breath as she clutches at her chest, her lung evidently having been pierced by a bullet.

“I surrender!” The man at the front of the bus cries out, dropping to his knees, “I surrender! Please! Don’t hurt me!” Tears fall freely down his face. Ishana grabs her cane and slowly rises to her feet, moving down the length of the bus as she takes out her phone and answers the call.

“Thank you, Delun,” she says gratefully, “You just saved eight innocent people’s lives. Of course, we can speak later. Goodbye.” Ishana ends her call and looks around at the passengers. The elderly woman, her face still covered in tears, shakily brings her hands together, clapping. Soon, she’s joined by the rest of those who had originally been on the bus.

Ishana feels a sense of overwhelming gratitude and humility wash over her, and she bows deeply. “Please, I didn’t do anything,” she says earnestly, feeling a wet warmth trickle down her face. “Thank you…”

Later…

Behind her, the military transport trundles off, leaving Ishana alone before her dark, quiet house. The small building, comprised of a tiny kitchen, a living room, a washroom and three bedrooms, is wholly silent. “They must have all gone to bed,” she realises as she moves up the snow covered sidewalk, her heels crunching noisily on the snow. “I hope they won’t be too mad…”

The beige stucco that covers the exterior is worn and yellowed, worst under leaking windows. The roof sags over her master bedroom – something Jon has promised he’ll fix for years but never has. The main door still hangs awkwardly, and so when she unlocks it, it takes some effort to wrench it outward from its frame.

Nevertheless, it releases and she steps into the warmth of her home. Before her, a well-worn green couch sits across from a small television from the early 2000s and is joined by two miss-matched plaid chairs. To her right, a staircase leads up to the bedrooms. She flicks on a few light switches and spies up the stairwell, but sees that the doors to the rooms are all open. “Strange,” she says quietly to herself.

Behind the living room is the kitchen; an assortment of simple white cabinets on a wall and old appliances badly needing replacement. Yet, this is home.

She flicks on more lights as she closes the door and, again sees no signs of her family. Ishana discards her coat on one of the large plaid sofa-chairs and looks around. “Maybe they went to find me?” She questions aloud but pauses when she spies something sitting on the old green couch.

A folded piece of printer paper has her name written on it in her husband’s writing: “Ishana,” she reads aloud and slowly moves around the couch, a great sense of unease working its way through her. She takes a seat and flips over the page, finding a brief message on it.

“Ishana,

When you woke up in the hospital after the Trade Office was attacked, I had never felt happier to see you. I wanted so badly to know you were okay, and seeing you there made me feel like the luckiest man in the world. My beautiful wife was okay and our family was okay.

But then you took your new job. You did it not just for yourself, but for your kids, too. You want what we all want: a world where kids like Jun and Dhruv can grow up without fearing a terrible world war. I fell in love with you for that same heart that drove you to work and work and work.

Ishana, my beautiful, lovely wife, I will always love you, but it’s not safe in Beijing. And, in your effort to save your kids, and even me, from danger, you’ve forgotten all about us. You’ve forsaken your actual family for the idea of your family.

I love you so very much, Ishana. I always have. Please, don’t be sad when you read this. The kids and I will be happier than you can ever make us by working yourself so hard. Now, you can devote yourself to your work without feeling burdened.

Goodbye, my beautiful wife,

Jon.”

Her voice cracks and finally fails as she reads his name. The letter crumples as she balls her hands into fists. Her heart shatters in her chest as she realises all she has just lost. Memories of sitting on this very same couch, holding an infant Jun, her husband’s arm around her shoulders, and a toddler Dhruv fast asleep on her husband Jon’s lap, pass through her mind. Memories of eating dinner in front of the TV as they watch an old sitcom, too, come alive.

Tears, this time not of gratitude and relief, but of unimaginable heartbreak and loneliness, fall freely down her face as Ishana collapses sideways, her cane clattering to the floor. She buries herself in the fabric of the couch cushions, the familiar musty scent now a bittersweet one.

She cries loudly and miserably, her heart throbbing with agony in her chest, crying out for it all to end. Curling up into a ball, she pulls at the couch, trying to draw it closer, to bring her family back.

Instead, all she finds is an empty house around her, and tears for her company.

~*~

Three months of training, and yet Logan feels as though they are not remotely ready for what awaits them. The uniform he wears, camouflage green cargo pants and jacket, a heavy vest laden with various things he barely knew how to use, and an all too real assault rifle in hands -  it’s all now too real, too heavy, too restrictive, and too damning.

Their military transport rides smoothly, if loudly, over the empty streets. Through small windows between each person, he can see the outside world. Tokyo, Japan. Weeks of bombing have reduced it to a smoldering pile of ruined skyscrapers, decimated suburbs, which has left hundreds of thousands of Tokyo citizens fleeing north from the encroaching UN soldiers now moving in by land.

The transport, little more than an overgrown covered truck, seats four on either side in the back, and two in the front. Between the squadron sits a long trunk bolted to the floor of the vehicle. Inside one can find ammunition, food, and other supplies one might need if they’re ever bogged down.

Logan looks to his left, seeing Private Emmanuel Otero, a 35 year old Brazilian man with a penchant for saying nothing and yet seeming entirely disinterested in the world around him, looks predictably bored with the task at hand. Next to him is a much different figure. Where Otero is tall, strong, and stoic, this young woman of only 20 looks horrified.

Private Faith Ryan. Meek, small, and timid seem to be accurate words to describe her, Logan decides. She’s a kind girl, but panics easily. She’ll talk endlessly about her home in Melbourne, but won’t tell anyone why she enlisted. “Dirk said it was because she was escaping…” He recalls the words of their sergeant late at night: “She’s running from something… or someone. In either event, she’s a brave girl to come here. She should be commended for that.”

“Ever the hopeful odd duck, aren’t you, Dirk?” Logan thinks to himself, looking over at the pensive figure of Sergeant Dirk Ritter, sitting directly behind the passenger seat of the vehicle, with admiration and a moment of relieved bemusement.

To Logan’s right is probably the most honest and kind people he’s ever met: Private Samuel Freeman. A young black man from Oklahoma. The nervous Logan sees in Freeman something rare: a genuine care for the human race as a whole; a man of 27 physically, but with an old soul.

Across from him sit three figures to the left of Dirk. Private Claire Levesque, a rich girl from Quebec sent to the military as punishment for marrying an Anglophone. Next to her, Helena Starek, the tough, no nonsense understudy of Dirk’s who wants to make the military her life. Logan admires her drive, but finds Private Starek to come off a bit… strong. Finally, next to her is the ever problematic Private Frederick Eastwick, the British teen who can’t seem to not piss off everyone.

Finally, driving their transport is Private Jack Irving, a Texan through and through, but fiercely loyal to the chain of command during operations. Next to him, their resident ops man: Private Masod Johiqa. Logan’s seen him dismantle a damaged laptop and get it working in under five minutes more than enough times to know this computer engineer means business.

On so many of his compatriot’s faces, Logan sees nothing but anxiety, fear, and even terror. None of them feel ready. None of them seem to feel that they received enough training. However, he’s hard-pressed to blame Dirk, who was given a wholly impossible task of training people with the martial skills he gained as an orphan – a strange personal history if ever Logan’s heard one.

What worries him more is something that none but he knows. “Greenpeace will make their move,” he reminds himself, “Nathan told me himself.” The environmental organisation, Logan has realised, is so much more than that. Lacertus himself explained their goals while visiting the UBC camps. They will destroy the old world of the UN and WC, and in its place build a new, just world, where people live in harmony with the earth and each other.

It’s something Logan dearly wishes for now. “I will die, but I will die knowing I helped end the cruel world that killed my parents and left me all alone,” he assures himself, the faces of his parents slicing into his bruised heart.

The transport slows and rounds another corner, growing ever closer to their destination, when Dirk passively looks over Masood’s shoulder and startles. “Irving! Stop the transport!” He shouts.

“What?” Private Irving looks back for a moment, “What’s the matter, sir?” He looks forward again, “I don’t see –“ he never finishes his sentence.

The front driver side wheel bumps upward momentarily and a loud click is heard. “Everyone! Brace!” Dirk shouts, and this time his soldiers comply as an ear shattering explosion rockets from underneath them.

Logan feels himself leave his seat as the heavy transport truck catapults up onto its back passenger-side tire. Emmanuel Otero slides into him while Faith Ryan collapses forward. Across from them, Dirk holds himself in his seat and braces Claire Levesque back, and Helena Starek does the same for Frederick Eastwick.

Even still, the front of the vehicle is lost to them in a flurry of flames and shearing metal as it explodes violently. Shrapnel flies everywhere, piercing flesh and vehicle with indiscriminate vigor, its surface hot and searing.

Their transport comes crashing down onto its side, and all the strength Logan could possibly muster isn’t enough to stop himself from being thrown across the vehicle and into Privates Eastwick and Starek. His fellow comrades on the left side of the vehicle do the same before everyone roll in a painful jumble of bodies as the vehicle turns over.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, everything is still, and all is quiet, save the noisy crackle of flames from the front of the vehicle and the occasional groans from a messy pile of ill-trained soldiers.

Logan opens his eyes, having not realising he had shut them, and sees a figure clad in a now dirty white uniform staggering to his feet in the overturned vehicle. His quiff of blond hair is displaced and blood is dripping down the side of his face. Yet, he seems to ignore all of this, even the piece of shrapnel jutting painfully out of his thigh and grabs an unrecognisably burned individual and drags them toward the exit.

“Starek!” Dirk calls out hoarsely, finding the desired soldier to be cognisant, “Get the doors.” He pauses and slings the body he had dragged over his shoulders, “Everyone! Get out, now!”

Private Starek opens the back doors of their transport and staggers out with Dirk quick to follow, a body over his shoulders. Others begin to move out, and Emmanuel Otero, the ever stoic figure, wordlessly grabs another burned body and carries it out. The others, Logan sees, are able to move themselves. He too exits, and finds himself in a downtown intersection bereft of life, save them. Dirk transfers the casualty he carries to Samuel Freeman.

All around them rise cold, jagged skyscrapers into a grey, miserable sky. No sun can be seen, and as such eerie silence greets them. Logan abruptly feels a weight on his shoulder, and finds his superior, Dirk, leaning on him. He can see from this close the small lacerations on his face and the worry in his pale cobalt eyes.

Looking down, he understands why Dirk is using him as a crutch: the shrapnel in his leg is deeply embedded. “Why are we here, Dirk?” He questions miserably as the others wordlessly grab supplies from the overturned truck. The more dutiful soldiers: Helena and Emmanuel, are handing out weapons to those who lost theirs to the explosion.

Dirk looks over and sighs, evidently not believing what he’s about to say. “Because the UN government believes the terrorists responsible for the Chan Centre attack and other attacks are based in Japan.” Looking down at his injured leg, he looks up at Logan, “Pull it out, Logan. I can’t do it myself.”

“Are you su –“ The concerned Private is abruptly cut off.

Dirk nods, “Yes. Now. We need to get going.” Logan hesitates, and as he reaches down to the shrapnel in the sergeant’s leg, he hears a cry of pain. Behind them, Masood Johiqa is clutching his shoulder.

“Someone shot me!” He cries out.

“Snipers!” Helena shouts.

“Now, Logan!” Dirk rasps. Private Greer wastes no more time and grabs the long, narrow shard of metal and slides it out of his friend’s leg, the latter of the two of them hissing in pain as metal slides against rent muscle and sinew. “Everyone! Into that skyscraper! That’s an order!” He points at a nearby office tower.

Eight soldiers, two carrying two more, hurry toward the doors, and Logan hears bullets whistle by, cracking the pavement upon landing. Dirk has his arm around his shoulders, but despite this, still keeps up. Helena points a handgun at the doors and fires off a few rounds, the noise of the bullets causing Logan’s ears to ring painfully.

The doors are opened and everyone hurries in. The glass of the doors abruptly shatters after being shot, and the squadron moves further in, out of sight. “Sergeant,” Samuel Freeman says gravely as he sets down the burden he had been given by Dirk.

Lain before them, Private Claire Levesque lets out a choked cry of horror.

The mangled corpse of Jack Irving lays before them. Once a handsome, tall man from Texas, now his tanned skin is charred black and red, his eyeballs melted, his mouth set open. Dried blood is stuck to his face. His uniform has partially melted to his right arm, and a few fingers are missing off each hands.

Freeman falls to a knee and feels for a pulse. “Sir…” he reports gravely; “He’s dead.”

Logan looks from Samuel to Dirk expectantly. A long pause ensues, but is abruptly broken as footsteps can be heard from somewhere above them. Logan takes inventory of their surroundings: the lobby has only two entrances: the main doors and a set of stairs leading to a landing, from which the stairs begin again, but perpendicular to their original course. The exterior wall is cement, save the doors, and heavy support pillars are placed at even intervals, creating something of a pathway from doors to stairs.

Dirk looks to his soldiers: “We’ll grieve for Private Irving later. We’ve got unknown numbers of enemies closing in from above.” He pauses and grabs the walky-talky on his shoulder, calling in: “Command this is Squadron 73, Second Army. Sergeant Dirk Ritter reporting in: we’ve hit a landmine in downtown Tokyo. Location unknown, bogeys incoming. Requesting immediate support and evac.” No answer.

A tense pause settles, but Sergeant Ritter, now in command fully, does not allow it to be. “Privates Otero, Levesque and Eastwick. You’ll be with me. We’ll take point around the stairs and stop any before they come onto the landing.” The large Brazilian man Emmanuel Otero nods and gestures to the fair woman and problematic Brit to follow him.

“Privates Greer, Starek, Freeman and Johiqa, you’ll take point on the door. Eliminate any that come through until evac arrives.”

“Yes, sir!” Rings out from those gathered.

“Sir, what about Faith?” Masood asks, bandaging his injured shoulder and looking over at the burnt form of the timid girl. “She was right behind Jack’s seat, she needs medical treatment.”

“She does, but for now…” Logan stops listening. A high pitched whine rings in his ears, his head feels light, and everything seems to become somehow abstracted from him.

“Why am I here?” He questions, looking at all the terrified faces around him, “Why are any of us here?” He aimlessly moves behind a pillar near the door and loads the assault rifle hanging from his combat vest, “Are we just here to die?” He looks across the way at Samuel Freeman who’s eyes betray his calm and speak of his fear, “I want to die…” He realises once more.

Behind him, his friend and his fellow soldiers are set up on the stairs to stop anyone from coming up behind them, but all Logan can pay attention to are Samuel’s eyes and the acrid smell of burning flesh coming from the seared, eyeless corpse of Jack Irving which lays somewhere between their two groups.

He stares for a long time at the miserable corpse of a good man. “He didn’t have to die…” he says quietly, his ears still ringing so loudly he can barely hear himself. Logan hears his name being called, and again the raucous blaring of bullets sounds. He looks around the pillar and sees Samuel firing at an oncoming contingent of what he thinks are Russian soldiers, given the flags on their grey, World Confederation uniforms.

Logan looks down at his weapon, confused. “Why do I have this…”

“Logan, for god’s sake, don’t let us down!” A familiar voice shouts over the noise. He looks back and sees a worried Dirk staring back at him. Logan slowly nods and the ringing in his ears begins to abate.

He looks forward once more and peaks around the pillar. “Sam,” he says, and gestures at their overturned transport, behind which he sees three soldiers observing them. “Those three are using the truck as cover...”

“Fire at the gas tank!” Private Freeman announces, evidently understanding what Logan meant. A flurry of bullets is released by the same man, and after a long moment of indecision, he raises the weapon to his shoulder and looks through the firearm’s sight, only to see their method of transportation explode.

A fiery explosion overcomes the ruined vehicle, and in a split second, the sky is raining metal debris on the local area. Body parts, too, come flailing down, smashing against the pavement with blatant disregard for the dignity of the dead.

“They’re coming!” Samuel shouts.

Logan looks to his right and sees four grey-clad soldiers rushing the doors. “What are they doing!?” He questions hopelessly, knowing they’re going to die. He once more brings his weapon up and trains it on the closest man. He’s an elderly Japanese fellow with a decidedly common look. “He’s old…” Logan realises, his finger ghosting over the trigger, but not yet firing. “He probably has kids, grandkids!”

“Well he’s going to kill us regardless!” Samuel shouts at him, “Just fire!”

“I’m sorry,” Logan says silently, and pulls the trigger as the man reaches the doors. Glass shatters and the old Japanese man staggers forward before collapsing, dead. From behind him, he hears a faint voice: “Logan?” Looking back, he finds a badly burned Faith Ryan walking toward him.

She’s dazed and out of sorts, but entirely in danger as more soldiers fire into the building. Whereas Logan, Samuel, Helena and Masood are protected behind pillars, Faith is entirely vulnerable. “Get behind a pillar!” Logan cries out, but realises the enemy saw her before he realised the danger at hand. A spray of bullets enters the deserted corridor between the pillars and catches the petite girl.

She goes stiff as bullets riddle her body before collapsing forward. “Faith!” Logan calls out, horrified at the gruesome scene as blood flows freely from her many wounds. He tosses his rifle aside and grabs her hand, dragging her behind the pillar with him. “Why did you do that?” He asks her miserably.

She coughs violently, her eyes dull, and her face deathly pale. Her once blond hair is largely missing on one side of her head, and in its place a hideous burn mark. The rest of it is now painted with her blood. Logan cradles her in his lap, his back against the pillar. She looks up at him, her hand moving up his arm, and he grabs her hand, holding it to his chest. “Faith,” he begins, tears welling in his eyes.

“I barely know her, why am I crying?” The question goes through his mind speedily, but he ignores it. “Logan,” she begins weakly, “I’m so scared….”

He shakes his head, his tears falling freely onto her burned, disfigured face. Blood is coating his uniform and dripping through the fingers holding her back. “Don’t be scared,” he assures her, his voice calm, “You’re going to be a happy place…” He sniffs back snot and fails to restrain his tears, “You won’t be in any pain anymore, soon.”

“I’m cold…” She whispers, and he can only barely make it out over the screams of Helena Starek as she moves to a new pillar and begins mowing down Russian and Japanese soldiers trying to overwhelm their tenuous position.

“That’s okay,” Logan assures her, “You won’t be soon.”

“You’re right,” her eyes begin to close, “I… don’t feel…” She lets out a terminal breath, her hand slipping from his and her back slackening, “a thing…”

This girl Logan had barely known quietly dies in his arms as bullets fire off all around him. For all the mayhem around him, Logan weeps for a girl whose life was stolen from her.

~*~

A preschool seems like an odd point of interest for the World Confederation Army, but Elizabeth Harrington knows from personal experience never to assume the motives of the armed forces to be sensible ones. From behind an abandoned car, she can see them entering the squat, small building in the centre of a sizable playing field.

Stranger yet, although she is not entirely sure, the Project L. heir-apparent believes she can see green armbands on their biceps. As seven of the nine soldiers move inside the building, she notes the remaining two that move in front of the double doors after their compatriots exit.

Armed with semi-automatic assault rifles and with walky-talkies making a call for backup all too easy, Elizabeth knows infiltrating this strange hideout will not simply be a matter of shooting them. She looks around, gauging her terrain: the preschool is set in a large field, which is then surrounded by closely built houses, all of which have been abandoned prior to the bombing by the United Nations undertook on urban centres.

“Didn’t Kingsley say they were just going to bomb military and strategic targets?” She recalls with bitter chagrin as she looks over her right shoulder at the jagged, broken high-rises of downtown Tokyo. “It seems downtown is a strategic target…” Elizabeth disregards the thought: what the UN and the WC are doing isn’t important. Figuring out who the terrorists behind the assassinations are is what matters, and following that determining their cause is of chief importance.

Looking down at herself, she takes note of her relatively workaday aesthetic: baggy beige pants, an ill-fitting black sweater, and to tie it all together, her short bob of black hair is messy and easily hangs over her face. Clipped to her belt under her large shirt is a small knife, and near the same area, buckled to her chest, is a pistol equipped with a silencer.

Elizabeth moves from her squatting position behind one car to behind an electrical box on someone’s front lawn. From there, she moves to the door, aware that the guards are preoccupied chatting instead of doing their job. From the door, she feigns a limp and begins dragging her right leg as she hobbles toward the preschool.

“I’ll get to the doors, dispatch the guards, then take out everyone but the target: Sergeant Dina Utkin, of the Platoon 37, Third Army…” She gives herself a mental nod and continues on her way. She comes down the sidewalk leading up to the empty house, then crosses the street to the field surrounding the preschool.

Only then do her targets notice her. “Hey, you! Stop right there!” One of them shouts in Chinese. She complies and hangs her head, her hair falling over her face and concealing it. The two soldiers hurry toward her, and she takes stock of them: both are privates, though one is a private first class. Both have standard issue assault rifles: the QBZ-95, standard for the World Confederation Army.

What Elizabeth does find strange, however, is that while one man is clearly Chinese, the other is Russian. “Why would separate armies be working together? Is this really what I think it is?” She wonders to herself. “Lady this is a restricted zone under the authority of General Alan Leung, of the Third Army. What do you think you’re doing here?” The Russian private demands.

Elizabeth forces a stammer and looks up through her bangs, hoping to seem younger than she really is. “My family…” she begins in a purposely broken Chinese accent, “They left me here… Because I’m not Japanese.” She wipes at her eyes, feigning tears.

The Chinese private first class takes a step forward, “Alright. We’ll call for a pickup. You’ll be taken to the WC’s relocation base in the Saitama Ghetto. They’ll be able to help you there.” The two men turn and begin to walk back toward the preschool when Elizabeth speaks up once more.

“Excuse me, mister soldier…?” She says meekly.

The Chinese soldier stops his subordinate and looks over his shoulder; “Yes?”

“Can you do me a favour?” Elizabeth fiddles with the hem of her shirt, subtly slipping one hand behind her back.

“Of course. What is it?” The man says, relieved she didn’t have anything suspicious to say.

Elizabeth lets out a small hum and continues to appear to fiddle with her shirt behind her back. However, unseen to the two men before her, her hand grips the small hilt of the knife sheathed on her belt. “Could you…” She looks up and with a small click, unsheathes the knife, “Die?”

“… What?” The man says, alarmed. However, she gives him no time to react. Elizabeth steps forward and with a glint of silvery metal, his neck is slit open, blood spurting out. His subordinate, alarmed, goes for his gun, but it’s too late.

Elizabeth grabs the barrel of the man’s assault rifle and buries her knife in his carotid artery and drags it across the width of his neck. The two man collapse to the sides, gasping for air as they choke on their own blood. She watches them disinterestedly, “So pathetic,” she chides them.

She reaches down and unclips the Russian man’s assault rifle from his vest as well as a flash grenade from the fallen Chinese soldier. She then moves on, discarding her feigned limp and hurrying toward the building as the two men die. She takes one look back, and notes their green armbands. “Who wears their affiliation so obviously? Not even Dirk is that stupid.”

She reaches the squat building: a single story dwelling no larger than a house. There’s a wide porch off the front where a few chairs have been set up, as well as an assortment of forgotten toys. Inside, there’s a large window next to the door, but curtains cover it. Hearing voices from inside, she discerns that they’re in a different room, and so she slowly opens the door.

Inside she finds a small foyer. Pairs of small shoes fit for children are scattered everywhere, as are winter jackets fit for children. Overturned shoe racks complicate her path, but she steps silently over them. Ahead, the foyer is separated from a large room by a single door with a glass window situated halfway up.

Elizabeth quickly steps to the side and out of view. She peaks around the edge of the door and sees an undesirable sight. Thirteen soldiers: seven from the World Confederation, six from the United Nations. “Why are they together? Is this what the terrorists want?” She pauses, unsure what to do. It’s simply too many to eliminate on her own.

Looking down at the flash grenade in hand, she rolls it back and forward. The grenade is a simple oblong metal tube with a pin at the top, and yet it may not be enough. “Well, no risk, no reward,” she muses before pulling the pin out with her pointer finger. She silently opens the door to the main play room and tosses it in.

Alarmed shouts sound as it rolls noisily along the floor. Elizabeth braces her hands against her ears and shuts her eyes. Even still, a loud bang sounds in the next room and her ears ring. She rounds the corner and throws the door open completely, stolen assault rifle in hand.

Twelve bullets are dispensed and twelve soldiers collapse dead. The last one she shoots in the kneecaps, and she collapses to the ground, crying out in pain as she clutches at her ruined legs. Blood seeps onto the floor, missing in a macabre fashion with the forgotten toys, the happy felt puzzle pieces covering the floor, and the various colouring books strewn about the large room.

Across from where Elizabeth stands in the doorway, large windows look out over the field surrounding the preschool, where she can see a small playground set up behind the building. The smell of blood fills her nose as she breathes in, the stress of the job she’s currently undertaking flowing out of her system.

“Sergeant Dina Utkin?” She questions, moving toward the collapsed woman on the floor. Elizabeth removes the pistol hidden in her shirt and points it at her target’s head. “I’d answer, if I were you.”

The woman looks from her badly bleeding legs and up to Elizabeth. She nods once. The captor loads her weapon and presses the silencer’s barrel against Sergeant Utkin’s head. “Good. I have some questions for you about what you’re doing here, and what Lacertus’s thugs intend to do in Japan…”

“I’ll talk…”

Elizabeth smirks coldly, “Good.”