Chapter 17
Preparations on the Western Front
[DATA: 28. CYCLE 11. YEAR 40 INDUSTRIAL]
[LOCATION: RESIDENTIAL DISTRICT “A-4” — BLIN]
[TIME: 04:15 PRE-DAWN]
[STATUS: CIVILIAN TARGET ELIMINATION]
The night in Blin resembled a sodden shroud, suffocating every frequency. Though four solar cycles had elapsed since Halter unveiled his strategic architecture in Brus, the industrial capital appeared anesthetic to the tides of conflict. The factory monoliths exhaled plumes of soot until late, yet in this obsidian hour, before the primary glare breached the horizon, the terrain had found an unnatural stasis. Only the frail luminescence of a solitary dwelling challenged the opacity of the alleyway.
?Upon the threshold, Friedhelm Voss—a man of seventy winters, burdened by the mass of years—stood with a jacket anchored over his shoulders. He inhaled his cigarette languidly, observing the mist as it maneuvered like a sentient predator.
?“This sensation is exquisite,” he murmured, saturating his lungs with the frigid air of the dew. “How I yearn for this tranquility to sustain itself into infinity.”
?But the stasis ruptured. The resonance of metallic boots upon the humid cobblestones approached with a mechanical cadence. A silhouette clad in an elongated black greatcoat emerged from the umbra. Voss remained stagnant; he continued to scrutinize the descending moon, unconditioned to the realization that death could march with such overt transparency.
?As Voss drew his terminal draught of smoke, the black figure collided “accidentally” with his frame. For a nanosecond, the man’s aged optics encountered the red lenses of a mask. A guttural resonance, stifled behind the filter, pierced his ear:
“I solicit your forgiveness, Mr. Friedhelm Voss.”
?Voss remained petrified. The figure continued its trajectory without pivoting, evaporating into the mist.
?“Stay... how do you possess knowledge of my nomenclature—“ His articulation was severed.
?A frigid sensation, followed by an intensive thermal cauterization, impacted his abdomen. He lowered his gaze and observed his hand, which was instantly saturated by a dark, incandescent red. The cigarette slipped from his digits. His respiration accelerated, mutating into a desperate convulsion. Panic injected sufficient adrenaline to propel him inside the structure, leaving the valves wide open behind him.
With his vision beginning to hemorrhage into opacity, he lunged toward the domestic telephone. Every stride was a kinetic struggle against the expiration leaking from his wound. He managed to elevate the receiver to summon medical intervention, but in that microsecond, another hand—encased in a black leather glove—anchored over his own, compressing the lever downward.
?“My apologies, Mr. Voss, but the frequency is currently compromised,” stated The Professor, his silhouette now etched with clinical clarity beneath the chamber’s glare.
?“Who… who are you?” Voss’s articulation was stifled by the arterial flow congesting his lungs. He forfeited his equilibrium and collided with the gargantuan workstation.
?He collapsed amidst the concussive resonance of archaic manuscripts and fractured optics cascading from the decaying timber desk. As his eyes initiated their terminal closure in the final throes of agony, the final visual his cortex registered was that of The Professor, who held a minute ledger and was drawing a sub-zero line through a name.
[SUBJECT: THE PROFESSOR — ARMAMENT: CLASSIFIED]
[OBJECTIVE: VOSS — TERMINATED]
The Professor scrutinized the lifeless frame until the final muscular tremor ceased. He returned his gaze to the ledger. Voss’s nomenclature was struck through, surrounded by dozens of other erased identities, yet beneath it, the roster extended into the void.
?“Another neutralized,” The Professor’s guttural resonance colonized the silence of the room, devoid of a solitary vestige of remorse.
?He initiated his movement with a methodical precision, elevating the volumes slowly and auditing every drawer. After minutes of searching, his optics ignited as he discerned a well-concealed ivory envelope. The parchment bore a distinct sigil: a red quadrate with a white orb at its epicenter.
?As the primary solar rays began to impact the rooftops of Blin, The Professor accelerated to evaporate every trace of his presence. He operated as the night does: he claimed the tranquility for himself and left behind only the ash of what was once a human existence.
[DATA: 28. CYCLE 11]
?[LOCATION: SRR CENTRAL COMMITTEE — MISKA]
?[TIME: 08:30 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: CENTRAL COMMITTEE CONVOCATION]
In Miska, the SRR capital, the sun ascended over a horizon suffocated by the heavy exhalaust of industrial monoliths. The city resonated with the rhythmic pulse of war machinery, while a minute frost draped the cobblestones in a thin layer of vitrified ice. Within the corridors of the Central Committee, the atmosphere shifted: a calibrated heat and a silence ruptured only by the decisive footfalls of Major Masha. With a rigid posture and the Grade B insignia reflecting upon her uniform, she navigated toward the assembly hall where Bruskin awaited.
?From a nexus in the corridor, a silhouette emerged from the umbra, pacing parallel to her. It was a figure entirely entombed in a mantle of ivory fur. Masha, propelled by a sub-zero curiosity, scrutinized the entity with a lateral glare. Its visage was shrouded in white bindings, exposing only a solitary, vacant eye.
?Devoid of articulation, they arrived before the gargantuan valves. Masha, bypassing any protocol regarding her silent escort, breached the door first. The chamber was submerged beneath a dense veil of cigarette haze. Bruskin and Shuker stood inclined over a titanic cartography of the continent, appearing as two architects of a forecasted catastrophe.
?“Welcome back, Major,” Shuker stated, igniting a fresh cylinder of tobacco.
?Bruskin pivoted slowly, exhaling a plume of smoke that dissipated over the map.
?“I commend you, Major. The Fana operation was finalized with a velocity exceeding our diagnostics.”
?“I merely executed my mandate, sir,” Masha replied with military stasis, anchoring her hands behind her lumbar.
?In that heartbeat, the ivory figure manifested adjacent to her, maneuvering like a specter upon the carpet. Masha retracted a step, irritated by its inexplicable proximity.
?“There you are, finally,” Bruskin stated with a faint, lethal smile. “Major, permit me to introduce the White Dream. The apex marksman you shall ever encounter in this existence.”
?“Indeed. A privilege, I’m sure,” Masha countered with a lacerating irony, her suspicious gaze never detaching from the entity.
?“He shall serve as your kinetic partner, Major, in your forthcoming deployment,” Shuker interjected, venting smoke toward them.
?Masha calcified for a nanosecond, blindsided by the imposition of an unknown collaborator. She pivoted her head with a jagged motion toward the white figure, then rotated back toward Bruskin and Shuker.
?“I am devoid of any necessity for support, sir. I can neutralize any objective autonomously,” she stated, advancing with a posture of open defiance.
?“This is not a solicitation, Major. It is a definitive mandate,” Bruskin’s resonance deepened instantly, obliterating any vacuum for negotiation.
?Masha felt the mass of his authority.
?“As you command, sir,” she replied, retreating a step, though her jaw was constricted with suppressed rage.
Shuker interjected, anchoring his index finger upon the cartography, precisely over the feral expanse of Rumus.
?“Major, you must internalize that total autonomy is unfeasible, especially within territories like Rumus. Your deployment is there. And consider the variable of benefit: the entity is mute. You shall possess a superlative listener during the protracted transit.”
?Bruskin and Shuker exchanged a cynical smirk, while Masha rotated her optics in open derision. The White Dream, conversely, remained as a lithic statue of marble, with zero muscular resonance beneath his ivory fur.
?“Until the terminal architecture for the operation is drafted, you are released, Major,” Bruskin continued, reclining into his leather throne. “However, I require a detailed diagnostic report of five hundred pages regarding the Fana mission. I refuse to forfeit a single micro-detail.”
?“Five... five hundred pages?” Masha’s resonance subsided in bitter bewilderment. “As you command, sir.”
?She egressed the hall with heavy footfalls, without a lateral glance. The moment the valves sealed, Bruskin’s stare focused upon the white figure remaining in the chamber.
?“I trust we possess a mutual understanding, Simon,” he stated, flicking the tobacco ash with a lethargic motion.
?The White Dream offered a solitary nod—a movement nearly imperceptible—and retreated with that same lethal silence. The moment he breached the corridor and sealed the door, Masha intercepted him, obstructing his trajectory. Her eyes ignited with concentrated indignation.
?“Listen closely, ‘Snow-boy.’ I possess zero interest in your nomenclature,” she stated, encroaching upon his perimeter. “If you commit a solitary error that compromises my standing or the mission’s success, you shall find yourself in terminal jeopardy. Is that processed?”
?The White Dream scrutinized her for a heartbeat with a species of infantile bewilderment, shrugged with an absolute indifference, and continued his transit, leaving Masha detonating with rage in the center of the corridor.
[DATA: 28. CYCLE 11]
?[LOCATION: TACTICAL ENCAMPMENT “H-2” — FRENCA FRONTIER]
?[TIME: 17:45 SUNSET]
?[STATUS: OPERATION “CLANDESTINE BLADE” — PHASE I: INFILTRATION AND SABOTAGE]
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
The descending sun was obstructed by obsidian clouds anchoring heavily upon the horizon—a stark antithesis to the frail, ivory vapours of Miska. Halter had established a clandestine bivouac with the Second Division, positioning his echelons adjacent to the Frenca border with absolute opacity. Within a spartan command pavilion, he sat transcribing into his personal ledger. Beside the tome, his white kerchief was folded with an almost obsessive regularity.
Force is not the anchor of conflict; intelligence is. If you engage according to the adversary’s protocols, then anticipate your dissolution. One must engineer the rules of engagement before igniting the primary spark. On page 76, it is demonstrated...
The pavilion’s aperture ruptured open. Blais breached the interior, severing the Chancellor’s cognitive flow. Halter sealed the ledger, embedding the pen between the parchments as a marker, and secured the kerchief within his tunic.
?“Chancellor, as per our diagnostics, the BAA host is marching blindly toward Byg,” Blais reported, his resonance carrying a shard of sub-zero admiration. “Concurrently, the H-class units have already deployed to sabotage the primary defensive perimeter of Frenca.”
?“Blais, mandate General Denis’s fleet to initiate the envelopment protocols,” Halter commanded, scrutinizing the horizon where the exposed Frenca lay dormant. “The epoch for our kinetic maneuver has arrived.”
Blais nodded curtly as he spread several documents across the cold surface of the desk.
?“These, sir, are the current status reports,” Blais stated, initiating the briefing. “We have approximately 9 tons of diesel and over 1,000 rockets remaining.”
?“The informant was explicit,” Halter countered, his eyes scanning the logistics data. “He confirmed their primary ammunition depot is situated precisely 1.5 kilometers beyond the second defensive perimeter. We have no cause for alarm; there is no need to deplete our own reserves. We will reach that depot... and we will use the weapon.”
?Blais understood instantly. A faint, razor-thin smirk ghosted across his lips as he pivoted to finalize the operational procedures.
Centuries of kilometers distant, within the marrow of Byg, the Allied host surged toward the capital, Brus. It was a colossal tide—a river of flesh and steel that appeared inexorable. Yet, this magnitude was precisely their defect: their mass rendered them lethargic and oblivious to the constriction being engineered around them. This inertia conceded sufficient temporal space for Nax-Geot’s First Division to retreat with surgical precision, enticing them deeper into the viscera of occupied territory.
[LOCATION: OBSERVATION EMINENCE — BYG ADVANCED SECTOR]
?[TIME: 18:00 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: ALLIED ADVANCE — OPERATION “RETRIBUTION OF LIBERTY”]
General Ademi stood upon the apex of a strategic ridge, scrutinizing the infinite echelons of his host with a rigid, ancestral pride. In a posture of absolute stasis, cranium elevated and chest broad, he radiated a formidable self-assurance. His Grade B insignia, anchored upon the pristine Allied uniform, ignited whenever the sparse solar rays fractured the obsidian clouds threatening a tempest.
?A junior officer approached from the rear, navigating with difficulty through the visceral mire that saturated the observation node. He halted parallel to the General, struggling to regulate his respiration.
?“General,” the officer reported, his resonance laced with the intoxication of imminent slaughter, “Field Intelligence confirms that Nax-Geot forces have definitively abdicated their primary positions. In all probability, they are attempting to engineer a desperate defensive perimeter within the ramparts of Brus.”
?Ademi did not accelerate his rebuttal. He anchored his hands behind his lumbar—a gesture of tranquil authority—and impaled the mountain ranges concealing the trajectory toward the capital with his stare.
?“Excellent, officer,” he stated with a weighted resonance that permitted zero vacuum for doubt. “The moment our divisions secure the ridges, mandate the immediate deployment of heavy artillery arrays. We shall decimate them from the elevations, pulverizing every defensive strata before our infantry even treads upon their thoroughfares.”
“Just as a reminder, General, our supplies are being consumed at an accelerated rate,” the officer remarked, his voice saturated with concern. “With such a massive troop concentration, the diesel reserves required to maneuver the artillery and the heavy armor are beginning to hemorrhage. These machines require an immense amount of fuel to stay mobile.”
?“Do not trouble yourself, officer. I intend to conclude this swiftly,” Adem replied, his smile projecting an unshakeable confidence. “Our depots were engineered precisely for this offensive. Now, proceed with the protocols.”
The officer nodded with a jagged motion and retreated toward the communication conduits, convinced that victory was merely a variable of hours.
[LOCATION: SECONDARY DEFENSIVE RAMPART — FRENCA FRONTIER]
?[TIME: 18:30 LOCAL]
On the opposing flank of the frontier, where Halter was preparing to drive “The Spear,” the atmosphere was deceptively stagnant. For the Frenca garrison, the solar cycle was eroding without anomaly; the echelons executed their mandates oblivious to the fact that Nax-Geot’s war machinery was merely kilometers distant, cloaked beneath a veil of radio silence.
?Within the command hub of the Second Wall, Colonel De Gori—a man of thirty-two winters—had just finalized his daily diagnostics. He was meticulously calibrating his uniform, ensuring his Grade G insignia was perfectly centered. As a devotee of static endurance and structural permanence, he perceived himself as the invulnerable sentinel of his fatherland.
?Abruptly, the valves ruptured open and an officer entered with accelerated strides. His agitation was so conspicuous that De Gori furrowed his brow.
?“Sir,” the officer reported, struggling to suppress the vibration in his resonance. “We have forfeited all contact with the Primary Defensive Wall. The radio frequencies are necrotic, and we are receiving zero feedback signals.”
?“It is of no consequence,” De Gori replied with a weighted, severing tone. “In all probability, the tempest has lacerated the high-altitude transmitters. Nothing can compromise the most formidable fortification of this continent. Do not initiate panic over a technical malfunction.”
?The officer remained stagnant. He continued to constrict his hands—a primal manifestation of instinct signaling that something catastrophic was manifesting. De Gori exhaled a derisive breath, but to sedate his subordinate, he issued a mandate:
?“Fine. If it secures your nocturnal tranquility, dispatch a motorcycle courier to inspect the perimeter and retrieve a physical report from the First Wall.”
?“Immediately, Colonel!” the officer’s voice lightened as he retreated in haste.
[DATA: 28. CYCLE 11]
[LOCATION: OCCUPATION COMMAND — VARNA, EASTERN SECTOR]
?[TIME: 23:45 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: LOGISTICAL AUDIT TERMINATION — PROJECT “UTOPIA”]
Time eroded inexorably, yielding to an obsidian and oppressive night that weighed upon the shoulders of the subjugated city. In Varna, the darkness colonized every crevice like a silent retribution. The solitary vestige of vitality was the sterile glare emanating from the central command aperture of Nax-Geot. Within that chamber, Aista was consuming her terminal infusion for the day, while Goto anchored himself by the glass, scrutinizing the urban void.
?“Finally... I have synthesized all diagnostics for Central Hall,” Goto stated, massaging his neck with a motion that betrayed his chronic depletion.
?“And regarding Project Utopia?” Aista queried, the thermal steam of her tea dampening her immutable visage. “Has Central Hall dispatched any novel directives to initiate the subsequent phase?”
?“For the current interval, we remain in stasis,” Goto replied, emitting a brief, weary exhale. “The terminal mandate specified they would deploy one of their primary operatives directly to this coordinate to oversee the progression. We are merely the custodians of the terrain.”
?Silence recurred, weighted and frigid. Goto’s optics refocused upon the primary plaza, feebly illuminated by the glare of the security perimeters. There, amidst the emptiness, stood Avasha. She was perched upon a munition crate.
?“That girl is manic... she remains in this sub-zero void as if anticipating something perceptible only to her,” Goto remarked with a convergence of irritation and dread, finally retreating from the aperture. “Regardless, I am withdrawing to my quarters. I require restoration before the Chancellor’s envoy manifests.”
[INTERNAL STRATA: THE INFANTRY BARRACKS — VARNA]
?[TIME: 23:50 LOCAL]
While the sterile glare of the command hub incinerated the night, within the echelons’ quarters, an oppressive darkness reigned, fractured only by the frigid lunar rays penetrating the high apertures. Inside, the atmosphere was saturated with the scent of saline sweat and the rhythmic convulsions of exhausted men—a cacophonic choir that had mutated into Erten’s diurnal torture.
Damnation, he thought, constricting the abrasive fibers of his blanket. It is insufficient that I must survive the solar cycle amongst these fanatics; I must also endure their visceral symphony throughout the night.
In that microsecond, a soldier in the adjacent bunk emitted a gastric release in his slumber. Erten sealed his eyes in profound despair.
Seriously? I fail to perceive how this trajectory could degrade further.
Pivoting in search of a modicum of equilibrium, he discerned a rigid object within his tunic pocket. He extracted it slowly, elevating it toward the lunar luminescence: a red confection.
This... the candy Avasha surrendered to me. A sub-zero suspicion lacerated his thoughts. Halter is manipulating me through every micro-detail. It is statistically impossible for this confection to possess the exact chromatic frequency of her eyes. Why is she omnipresent?
“Do you intend to consume it, or merely subject it to hypnosis?” queried a soldier, roused by Erten’s erratic movements.
?Erten pivoted his head with unbridled indignation.
“Can you not perceive that I am engaged in cognition? Why must you infiltrate every vacuum of my space?”
?“My apologies, ‘scientist.’ I shall permit you to retreat into your morbid imagination,” the soldier countered, rotating toward the umbra.
?Suffocated by the barracks’ miasma, Erten ascended. He navigated the chamber with phantom footfalls, evading the discarded boots littering the floor, and egressed. The predatory winter gale of Varna induced an instantaneous tremor through his frame. He anchored his greatcoat against his sternum and advanced into the virgin snow.
?“At least here, there is stasis...” he murmured, inhaling the crystalline atmosphere.
?But the stasis endured for a solitary second. A short distance away, perched upon the munition chassis, sat Avasha. Erten calcified. He attempted a retrograde maneuver with the hope of remaining undetected, but the temporal window had expired.
?“Hey, scientist! Toward what coordinate are you migrating?” she hailed, her silhouette shifting with a formidable, predatory velocity. She extracted her sidearm and aligned the bore toward his sternum.
?Erten’s cardiac rhythm accelerated into a manic cadence. His respiration constricted.
?“Did you summon me, Colonel?” he queried, his resonance vibrating with instability.
?He advanced slowly over the snow that detonated beneath his tread, until he stood diametrically opposed to her. Avasha scrutinized him for a heartbeat with that smirk which never prophesied sanctuary, and then erupted into a brief, dissonant laughter.
?“You should have observed your own visage, scientist!” she continued, descending the weapon. “Relax... it is void of munitions. For this interval.”
?For a microsecond, Erten’s features contorted with indignation at her terminal mockery. But in the subsequent second, as she initiated the consumption of a chocolate biscuit with a traumatic naturalness, he no longer perceived the formidable Grade S Colonel. He observed an adolescent girl consuming confections like a forgotten child in the viscera of conflict.
?“What necessitates your presence at this nocturnal hour, regardless?” Erten queried, seating himself with hesitation at her flank.
?“Slumber is monotonous when you possess these exquisite biscuits,” she stated, extending one with a motion bordering on cordiality. “Claim it. They possess a flavor as if someone truly expired to render them this saccharine.”
?As Erten claimed the biscuit with skepticism, his gaze fell upon the industrial nomenclature of the chassis they occupied. It was a pressurized container saturated with high-yield explosives. He froze, yet did not ascend. A species of fatalism was anchoring him.
?“Are you conscious that this container is flooded with ordnance? A solitary spark and we cease to exist within the fabric of reality.”
?“Then it would be the most saccharine expiration in history, would it not?” she countered, licking her digits with a total disregard for the volatility. “And the dividend... I would no longer be forced to endure Central Hall’s grievances regarding munition expenditure.”
?Erten scrutinized her in bewilderment as he masticated the biscuit. The flavor was indeed transcendental, yet what he was truly consuming was the irony of the situation.
?“I question if you are truly a biological entity, or a machine devoid of neural affect.”
?“I have never been ‘normal,’ just as these biscuits are an anomaly. How is it feasible they are this superlative?” Avasha queried, claiming another. “But to extinguish your curiosity... I am a girl like any other, not a mechanism.”
Erten’s optics lost their focus for a microsecond. He fluctuated between two focal points of dread: her sub-zero smirk and the crimson irises igniting beneath the lunar glare. Abruptly, Avasha ascended and discarded the remaining cache of biscuits into his lap.
?“Retain them, I possess surplus. I am egressing now, scientist. The frost is becoming an irritant even for my constitution.”
?As Erten navigated back toward the echelons’ quarters, their two silhouettes were being audited from the elevations. Aista, from the command aperture, drew a draught of her infusion and furrowed her brow.
?“Damnation... I became preoccupied with those two and the tea has hemorrhaged its warmth,” she murmured within the vacuum of the chamber.
?Meanwhile, Erten reclined once more upon his abrasive bunk. Consuming the confections in the obsidian dark, while scrutinizing the ceiling, granted him a synthetic sensation of immunity. The visceral convulsions of the sleeping soldiers recurred, yet this time, they failed to induce irritation. It was as if the sucrose and Avasha’s residual presence had anesthetized his conscience, calibrating him for the atrocities that the dawn would inevitably deliver.
