Blood stood tall. Her feet hurt like hell, but finally, it was just her body hurting. This body had never been her own. It had been abused too much to be her own; she had long decided that it had been assigned. So that she did not have to feel its pain.

  The demons scanned every inch of her. Havoc squeezed her way towards Blood, put her maps away, and joined the rest. Blood had never learned to read expressions, but she didn’t need to this time. Havoc wore the same expression as Zharova when Blood had slaughtered an entire platoon of POWs. The same expression of lab-coat-clad vermin after a successful gene-editing session. After a weapons development grant approval.

  I want to belong. I am what I am. I never had a choice.

  Numbness devoured pain. Fists clenched, back unslouched; her sight felt her own for the first time in her existence. The helicopter cabin felt familiar. The burnt outskirts of the dead city outside did not look bleak. Her platoon, her tribe, had accepted her. They hadn’t tortured her, experimented on her, or locked her naked in a damp cell. They hadn’t pilloried and raped her.

  Pain returned at the thought of the unspeakable. She held Rain to smother the feeling, fingers intertwined, she exhaled.

  “Welcome back, Blanket.” He pressed a cigarette into her mouth and lit it. Rain loved his smokes.

  You are mine. I’ll rip apart anything in our way.

  Blood knelt. She pulled him violently into her embrace.

  Home.

  They kissed. The demons cheered, clapped, and whistled. For the first time, it felt better than the weak human’s kiss. The human was never powerful enough to protect her. Blood knew Rain could, and he would. The demons would. The contract was clear.

  “Who are you?” Havoc asked. The gene warriors fell silent.

  Major Havoc did not look like her human masters. Her expression was not thirsty for money, power, or lust—just death. She did not wear a spotless lab coat. She was clad in armor over fatigues. Her armored rig was scratched, her fatigues old and discolored. She held a long-obsolete rifle, names scratched into its stock, not a neat clipboard scribbled with results. Her eyes were blood-red, not brown, blue, or green. They were honest. She was on the front line; she did not observe death from the safety of armored glass like the meek humans.

  The human’s ghost appeared in her peripheral vision. It repeated a different question in his language; in their language. In German.

  Was bist du geworden, mein Edelwei?? (What have you become, my Edelweiss?)

  Rain tightened his grip. It was alive and not dead; it was strong and not weak; it offered what she had always craved: belonging, protection, stability. Tangible, real, available here and now. But also not songs, not music, not that arcane meaning Holger never managed to explain fully. Humanity.

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  She pulled the thick myopia glasses from her rig—Holger’s glasses—and put them on. Just once. For the last time. The past did not crush her soul as violently as it had every single day since Holger died. It felt like an old wound, and she had enough of those.

  She did not wear them, and she did not crush them. She placed them back in her rig.

  Auf Wiedersehen, Holger.

  “I am Blood. Serial number GW-02-G7X. Previous function, technology demonstrator prototype.” Her voice was biomechanical, like the groaning of industrial machinery.

  “Current!” Havoc snarled.

  “Gene warrior!” She snapped to attention. The rest followed.

  Silence.

  Havoc locked her gaze onto her second-in-command and nodded sharply. Her blank expression never changed.

  “2 APCs, 2 tanks, our ammo, and my life, Major. Didn’t count roaches.” Carbide saluted.

  “Also...” Wire aimed a finger at her feet. Havoc’s eyes widened, and she swallowed hard.

  “What is your training, Gen-7? Missions, previous squads. Never lie to me.” Havoc’s voice cracked.

  The Gen-7 told them everything, except for Holger, except for the abuse. Those were not part of her anymore. The cabin froze at the story of her existence up until this day. Every so often, the Gen-6s tasted the air around the Gen-7 and touched her fingers to make sure she told no lies. Rain never left her side.

  “Assessment” Havoc’s voice hardened again.

  “Can’t be a coincidence both Gen-7s got assigned for this mission, Major.” Rain added.

  The Molot platoon stood at attention and extended four fingers pushed flush across their chest. They stood silent.

  Blood shut her eyes and jabbed four fingers aimed at her heart. Havoc nodded and mirrored the gesture.

  “See to her training Rain; you’ve got 24 hours. Blood, you have raised my expectations significantly. Well performed, soldier.”

  “Molot platoon, we infil SLC in 3, start gearing up!” She saluted and went back to her maps. The demons checked weapons and ammo. A battle rifle and an ammo bandolier were pressed into Blood’s hands. She smiled at the loaded chamber as she racked the slide. The sound of the safety clicking off sounded different. It sounded normal. Each loaded mag she pressed into her rig felt necessary, a burden no more.

  As Havoc walked away, an old black-and-white Polaroid photo slid from the stack of maps. Two Gen-3s were holding hands, smiling widely, with Mount Fuji in the background. The female Gen-3 was adorned in an elegant kimono. Next to her, a male Gen-3 in an officer’s uniform held the same gun Havoc carried, though the stock had no names scratched into it. 7/8/2058 was written in red with her elegant handwriting on the margin. A tiny piece of a long-dead cherry blossom was stapled next to it.

  The platoon looked away as Havoc knelt, picked the old photo up, and quickly shoved it into her rig. Blood did not look away; she stared, offered a smile. Havoc returned it.

  “Focus on the mission, soldier,” Havoc commanded. But this time, her voice sounded younger. It almost sounded sweet.

  “Yes, Major!”

  Wire passed her two towels and two pieces of paracord. She wrapped her feet and fastened the rope around them. The gene warriors put on their full body NBC suits.

  A small klaxon moaned. Radiation: 1 Sv.

  Outside, Salt Lake City was burning in nuclear fire.

  Rain pressed an NBC suit into her palms. Blood just smiled and returned it.

  “You gone nuts, Blanket?”

  Radiation: 2.75 Sv.

  “I am a Gen-7, my Rain.” Her eyes glowed radioactive green.

  Time passed. Radiation climbed as they descended into the depths of her domain.

  The doors swung open. Blood was the first on the fast line.

  ? The Noble Reincanarted Demon King ?

  by BookRusher98