all quiet on the western front

There are no windows in the cattle car. Shand can't see his own hand in front of his face, but he can feel how full this lurching metal box is, the dampness of short breaths crowding the air, the hushed cries that still echo off the walls.

There are no windows and Shand can't tell if it's day or night, only that they've been moving, accompanied by the mind-numbing grate of metal scraping metal for hours that bled over into more hours until he wonders if any memory he has outside of this box car might actually be a dream.

There are no windows, but he can tell it must be snowing outside. The way the air is biting, sharp, prickling with the cold. The way the metal floor where they're huddled hurts, stings at his bones.The way the static electricity sparks his skin when Dakara moves suddenly to grab his hand. Her skin is cold, so much that it jolts him a bit. He grabs it tight, and she's shivering, or trembling, or crying silently.

The cattle car jets backward and then throws them forward, and they collide with other cold, shaking bodies and everyone is holding their breath- a collective, stifled scream smothering in each of their throats, like they're all choking to death on their fear.

The sliding door grates open suddenly and the only light flooding the car now is dim, yellowed moonlight and sharp flashlight beams. Shand shields his face with his forearm, but the light still shows the box car packed to capacity and then some, all dirty and worn and terrified faces, soot and rust streaked clothes, children clinging to mothers. Some people stretched out, some crumpled, in the frozen metal floor, not moving.

Even as the harsh yells of the men with the flashlights get them moving, herded out of the car and into the night. Shand fills his lungs deeply with the fresh air in relief, but the sight of car after car in the endless train behind them, all emptying of more poor souls, and nothing but snowcapped pines ahead of them, replaces the relief with more dread.

Someone jabs the back of Shand's shoulder hard, and he doesn't dare look behind him to see if it had been with a flashlight or the business end of a rifle. He just pulls Dakara closer to him, her face shadowed but ashen, as the large group that forms starts to shuffle at gunpoint into the dark forest.

The snow is crunching under Shand's scuffed, holey shoes and this has always been such a pure sound. The world turning into a bright white wonderland, where everything is a source of awe and wonder.

He feels sick, heat rolling in his stomach that he'd much rather feel in his numb extremities or his face as they continue their hurried march miles into a forest without landmarks, with no clear directional markers.

They walk for hours, and no one says a word. Only men with guns yelling in a language that sounds harsh and foreign to shand. Only gentle snowfall and snow crunching pristinely underfoot. It feels like a dream, unnatural, unnerving, like he's going to wake up any second in a warm bed, somewhere where the people speak more softly, where it's warmer and brighter. Somewhere his feet don't feel like frozen iron deadweight and somewhere the night doesn't last forever.

Everything looks the same so Shand isn't paying attention when Dakara pulls his back hard, stops him short from falling into a huge, packed down opening in the earth right in front of them. The bottom, some twelve feet down, is covered already in snow.

People are pushed up all around them, lining the sides of the huge precipice, and Shand knows Dakara doesn't understand yet what's going on. How could she? She grew up loved, protected, far away from war for as long as possible.

He hadn't. So he knows they're standing at the edge of a mass grave. Their's.

He looks over at her for the first time since they'd started the track and her face is haggard, eyes dark and sunken and tired, matte strings of red hair clinging to cheeks that are so pink, they make the rest of her face look even more pale. But he can see in her eyes, in the way they widen slowly, that it's starting to dawn on her.

She deserves to understand. But he can't bring himself. There isn't enough time anyway.

Shot start hollowly off into the night, far away at first, inciting the cries, the bloodcurdling screams and steam curling up into the air like some nightmare creature's ghostly fingers. Dakara grabs his shirt with both hands and just clings, and he can hear her heartbeat from where he's standing. He's not sure why, but he's not scared yet.

The shots get closer, echo less, start to ring in his ears and rattle in his brain more, and the heavy plods coming from the bottom of the grave get faster, one after the other after the other, like they'll never stop. The otherworldly silence is gone, eaten alive by every sound hell can conjure.

Dakara falls first, her eyes growing wide at the red splotch that appears on the chest of her shirt, how it instantly expands outward, and her grip on Shand's shirt tightens. She's stumbling backward, her mouth open in a silent cry, pulling him with her as her back foot fails to find earth.

As he loses his footing, his shoulder burns from behind, like fire is tunneling through him, and his shirt has its own pinprick of red that eats hungrily outward in an instant. He sees Dakara's mouth go slack, something on her face harden, a confusion, a dread cemented in her grimace. He remembers the quiet taking over halfway down, thinks its probably like how it must sound right in between the doomed cacophony of the earth and the peaceful nothingness of the underworld.

He doesn't remember ever hitting the bottom of the grave.

The gravel shifts under three sets of heavy trudging boots, alerting everyone nearby to the trio passing by. Two of the three earn curious stares but the one at point between them makes the crowd of soldiers part like water, fumbling with what they’re doing, smacking everyone around them to attention, each working in their own way to throw up a quick salute before it’s too late.

The last thing anyone needs right now is disciplinary action, especially over missing a simple respect gesture. There’s enough to think about.

There’s definitely enough for the person their attention is drawn to, so much so that she misses the protocol around her, unable to acknowledge it as her gaze stays steady, fixated ahead.

Right, left, right, left. One, two, one, two… The steps of the two flanking her sides don’t match, their steps don’t align. They aren’t well trained soldiers, but damn if they aren’t potentially her last hope. Maybe the last hope for the entire war.

After the chaos of throwing salutes around passes, soldiers do start to take a better look at the two newcomers to the camp, whispering to one another, wild rumors and accusations spreading before the parading three every make it to their destination at the center of the chaotic little slice of forest green tent city peace.

All the tents are familiar and the faces recognize the lead as she walks by, but this isn’t where she belongs. Military rationed tents are identical no matter which squadron you’re a part of and everyone knows to spot the mark of a general. No, she shouldn’t be back here miles from the fighting; she should be back on the front lines with her men. There’s not even a single sound of a distant gunshot and none of the people here have blood splattered on their faces fresh from an attack this morning.

She can hear clearly and it fills her with dread. The only silence she knows is the silence before a storm, the kind that fills your heart with unbelievable dread, dread that finally makes you aware of just how many similarities there are between the foxhole you’re cowering in and a grave. That silence and dread would send chills through her if she could feel any; it’s pushed her to her breaking point over and over again.

But this quiet and slow pace is far worse. It’s a lie, an illusion, people living the cushiony side of war, ill-prepared for what’s lurking just beyond the hills ready to snipe them out of existence. They can live this life because of how many men she’s sent to their deaths on the trampled, bloody fields up north. This place makes her sick in an entirely different way than any battlefield.

“The others are waiting inside.”

A man with a riffle on his back but a friendly, unhaunted smile opens the tent flap for the group, ushering them inside. Sure enough, a group of men stand around a map table, laughing, sharing drinks, slapping each other on the back before pointing back down at the paper, reminding themselves that they have work to do.

“Oh? If it isn’t Miss Fengari. We were wondering if you were going to grace us.”

A man with dark red hair notices her first and it takes a lot for her to keep the bile in her throat down at the way he looks at her, though it does give a moment of hesitation to her steps. Maybe it’s the way he looks her up at down as if the oversized combat uniform, dirt, blood, and all, doesn’t stop him from imagining past it, or maybe it’s the blatant disregard for her title and well-earned status in this army, but everything leaves an instant bad taste in her mouth.

“General Estenor. General Fengari, if you absolutely must persist in acting like a rebellious child, Lieutenant Lev Knigh.”

But Lev just smirks, throwing her a subtle little wink before turning back to his general, the two men sharing some quiet comment that rolls snickers between them. It’s nothing she isn’t accustomed to by this point. Not only is she the youngest general, she’s also the only woman general and that comes with it’s own… Mountains to climb, much like being blamed for all the issues in the army, with the war, being forced to answer for things that she has no hand in just to save one of the older men from rightful scrutiny.

It’s much easier to blame the young woman than any of the established “respectable” men.

“Well, you’re here, girl. Tell us how you’re planning on turning the North side around.”

The oldest man, graying beard and hair, wrinkled eyes, looks upon her with deep contempt, but she has little power to correct the army general, so she bites her tongue on his belittling and gets to her purpose.

“As ordered, I researched into potential ways to strengthen our forces in the North and have sought out the assistance of mercenaries. This is Axel Nor and Trita Airin, both agents specialized in intel and espionage. I believe if we can get them working within the right circles or planted behind enemy walls, we could really benefit from their expertise, learn weaknesses that haven’t even been formed into rumors yet.”

She steps to the side, motioning for the two in question to step forward. She’ll hand it to them, they carry themselves with undeniable confidence, staring each of the stuffy, well-decorated man before them down as if they’re equals or even if the ranks are reversed.

“We’re half of the Diamond Four. I’m sure our reputation proceeds us but we’d still be happy to answer any questions you gentlemen may have.”

The man of the two, Axel, smiles amiably, attempting to keep the room as calm as possible, noticing the unspoken discourse between the group. When he mentions their group, however, the group of men seem to tense up, expressions becoming instantly guarded. Somehow, based on how he still smiles, that was the calculated response he was looking for.

“The Diamond Four? You mean that ragtag little group that sold out Axis military intelligence to our West forces then turned around and sold Allied information to neighboring Axis troops? That was your doing?”

“Yes. It was.”

As the gray-haired wolf continues to smile calmly, his female counterpart steps forward to answer the question, her expression far more detached, bored, disinterested in the situation and sudden fear hanging in the room.

“We typically sell to the highest bidder, it’s true. That’s what mercenaries do. But I think you forgot the part where your western army intentionally only gave us half our pay. Our actions were justified. All things considered, you’re fortunate we didn’t just kill your troops ourselves.”

The way she speaks, how she seems more interested in looking around the room, gathering information, doesn’t do much to settle things. Some men seem ready to grab the pistols at their belts right this second but stop when her sharp red eyes land on them, when noticing their planned action pulls a cold smirk across her lips.

Trita Airin has the air of a slightly unhinged woman. When Fengari had done her research on the Diamond Four, that was one of the first things she managed to dig up, but she was hoping the rumor could be suppressed long enough for a case to be made as to why it’s smart to hire this hybrid group out.

“Why the hell should we hire these criminals? Why should we trust them? General Estenor, have you lost your frail little mind?”

Fengari eyes both the hybrids and there’s a moment of wordless communication between them, nonverbal cues for them to step back and allow her to take point in front again.

“With all due respect, we just keep firing blindly at the Axis forces. We know little about them, what weapons they have, what plans they have stored up, the actions they’re willing to go to for victory. We keep losing at every turn because we just keep sending out men out to fight with no information. It’s literally like sending children out with sticks to fight grown men with heavy artillery. We can’t sustain this. We need these two to gather any information they can to help us even possibly turn the tide.”

“So you think it’s smart to bring known traitors into our army? You know this is why I was against you joining us in this war. Dumb ideals. Bet you try to see the best in everyone? Quick to trust, huh? I told them this would happen bringing a woman in. No clue how war works.”

As the men turn to talk, flinging low jokes, sneers and leers, Fengari stands with a strong stance, arms behind her back, pressing her thumbs into her palms.

One, two, one-two, one, she counts her heartbeat as a distraction, aware of the growing agitation and annoyance within this general tent. This was a long shot idea and she knew it every second of her trip here, but what else was she supposed to do? Every day men needlessly die, more and more every battle. Morale is low, the army is dwindling, bodies are piling, families at home are losing fathers and husbands, and no one seemed to care.

She had to try something, but not just anything. Something smart, calculated, something that didn’t just throw lives out like expendable resources.

“Brute force can only get you so far.”

“Oh yeah? But feelings and emotions can get you further? Is that it? You just had a feeling about this idea? Christ…”

They’re not going to listen. Not that they ever have but it would be nice if they could at least try knowing that it isn’t just her reputation on the line.

“I’d say that you can trust us because we trust General Estenor.”

The addition of the unwelcomed voice quiets the room, eyes turning to Axel who has taken to wandering over to a bookshelf, pulling out a book and flipping through the pages. One of the men orders him to put it down but he continues reading on, nodding at some of the words he skims over. It’s clearly some sort of important file not meant for his eyes but he’s not about to put it down.

“We don’t know her very well, no, but she has more of a brain than all of you combined. Besides: She paid us everything up front. Foolish? Maybe, but she was trying to make up for your own wrongs and stupidity. I’d say she’s earned our loyalty on this.”

“You did what?”

Fengari flinches at the sharp voice, turning to justify her actions, eyes widening in horror as she notices Trita standing around the map table, peering over at the battle plans the men had been acting out before they arrived, even going so far as to flip through some scrap papers and plans carelessly strewn about on the table in front of her.

“Anyways, regardless of that, the two of us are here now memorizing all of your important documentation. It would be the dumbest decision of your life to send us away now with all we know.”

Ever so coyly, Trita picks up one of the metal unit pieces, examining it for a moment before shoving it deep in her pocket, mock saluting the men before turning and joining Axel in his snooping.

The room erupts into chaos, shouting, screaming, attempting to regain control of the situation, curses and commands. These grown men openly act like spoiled children in the face of their candy being taken away, but the two Diamond representatives pay them little mind. It comes to a point that Fengari loses track of how much time passes in this state. If this wasn’t a long-shot before, it’s certainly one now.

“Fine!”

The army general throws his hands up in exasperation to gain everyone’s attention before pointing an angry, accusing finger at Fengari, one that tells her what’s coming before the words even spill out of his shaking lips.

“These two are directly under you. Since they’re now your charges, anything they do reflects on you. If this backfires and fucks us all up, you will be dishonorably discharged- No, you’ll be condemned for treason if I have my way. Do you understand me, Estenor? Your job and even life rides on your blind trust in these two. Anything that happens, to your men, to you, you caused yourself.”

It’s hard to swallow as the warring emotions begin to swell. He’s said both the most terrifying thing and the most freeing thing she’s ever heard: Death.

She can’t stand the idea of this killing others, but… The idea that it could end her… No. No, now isn’t the time. This isn’t even about that to begin with.

Clear your head and answer him, deal with this later.

“Yes Sir.”

“Well, then what are you standing around for? Get back to your camp and I better not see your face until you have results.”

Shand’s cheek stings.

Something is melting on his skin, burning him.

He blinks his eyes open slowly at first, because it feels like all he’s capable of. His head is cloudy, thick feeling and impossibly heavy. His eyelids feel the same. But there’s a hazy desperation thumping somewhere in his brain that he can’t place, and it makes him try harder.

Snow. Snowflakes are falling on his face. The sun is high in the foggy gray sky, and although it’s shining right down at him, right into his eyes, the light is murky and choked at best. The stench arrests him before his eyes can adjust.

Putrid, something left sitting for far too long. Stagnant, or decay. He wrinkles his face up against the smell, trying to work up the strength to move, but his face feels hard, sticky, coated maybe. His hands are trembling when he lifts them, wipes across his cheek, and his shaking, pale fingers come away covered in half-dried blood.

He turns his head just slightly, and wide, unblinking, dense-looking eyes stare back at him, dull faded blue packed with cotton.

He jumps and it sends pain coursing through his entire right side as he scrambles to back away from this dead person, face stuck in a pained grimace, limbs rigid and unnatural and awkward looking. But when he backs away, something equally rigid pokes him in the back, and it all floods back to him, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know that he’s surrounded by bodies. That he’s laying on top of dead bodies.

His head whips around as quickly as he can manage, knowing the carnage around him but still having to check, to make sure this isn’t some nightmare, some sick joke, some break in reality. But Dakara is on the other side of him, the entire front of her shirt stained red and whipping in the breeze along with her hair, the rest of her stiff as a board, so unnatural, so unlike her.

Her eyes are stuck open too, staring straight up at the sun, the whites so opaque that Shand has to look away. He presses his hand over his mouth as he shuts his eyes tight. He can’t yell, he can’t cry, who knows who is watching and listening.

She looks so irreversibly dead, he doesn’t even have to check for a pulse. He tries to touch her, but his hand keeps jumping back when it nears her skin, like the coldness emanating from her is pushing him away, warning him that he’s not going to find what he looks for here. She’s long gone.

Shand pushes himself to his feet, and he slips, stumbles, unable to get solid footing from the floor of corpses he has to walk on. Every other step he trips, braces himself on something that had been a person.

How long ago had it been? How long has he been here? He presses his hand to the bullet wound in his shoulder. He’s not bleeding anymore, and his arm is tingling more than it is hurting. How much blood has he lost?

Once he makes it to the wall of the grave, he has this compulsion to look back. To find her frozen open eyes in the sea of faces that don’t belong to people anymore. But he can’t do it.

She’s not here anymore. That’s not her anymore.

He has to repeat it to himself to the point that they don’t even sound like words in any language he knows anymore. When he brushes his face with the back of his arm, it comes away bloody, and he wants to wash all this off of him. The blood, the death, the sound of the crunching snow that eats at his brain. The way her eyes look dead.

It’s all he can think about. He pushes his shoe in the dirt of the wall enough to make a foothold, and he has to kick harder than he’d anticipated, use more energy than he feels like his body has to give. It takes longer than he’s expecting, and by the time he can see out of the grave, his brain is barely functioning, but he still scans the area to see if anyone is guarding.

The piles of dirt still stand behind the grave, clearly waiting to go back where it had come from, but no one is around to do the job. They’ll probably come back later. Besides, the graves were only half full.

That nauseous feeling is back in the pit of his stomach, and Shand throws his good arm over the edge of the grave to pull himself up, but the wave hits him and he feels weak and like he’s going to throw up and maybe like he should just stay at the bottom and wait to die.

But suddenly he’s being pulled, forcefully, with a strong grasp around his wrist. He doesn’t have a lot of time to panic, but when the lightheadedness clears, he’s being set on his feet, held by the shoulders.

There’s a young man standing right in front of him, either sizing him up or looking him over for injury, brows furrowed, gray eyes darting up and down.

“Their aim got real screwy at the end, huh?”

He tosses some long, straw colored hair out of his eyes with a choppy roll of his neck, and he nods like he and Shand have had some kind of conversation, or bonding moment.

“Who are-“

Shand pauses to let another wave of nausea roll over him, and he closes his eyes and bends forward slightly. The man takes him by the elbow and starts leading him, and Shand can’t blame him because they’re slightly in the open by the graves. Back under the cover of the trees, Shand leans against one and sinks to the ground, ignoring the way the snow seeps coldness into him immediately.

“I’m Thrandr. Few more of us made it out, we’ve been hanging around to check but I think you’re the last.”

Shand narrows his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the forest canopy, and as everything comes into focus, he can make out a young woman and a small boy standing behind a thick tree trunk. The kid on the girl’s hip smiles shyly and waves, but the girl is scowling. She’s got a thick bandage wrapped around her head leaving only one eye exposed, and Shand’s not sure if the unpleasantness is her personality or an injury.

“That’s Aoife and Lunath. We’re all that’s left, I think.”

Thrandr is nodding to Shand, wavy hair bouncing against his face, like they’re kids playing a game of ball in the street or something, so nonchalant and poised. Did he just crawl out of the same hellhole Shand had?

“So you’re- you guys-“

Shand points from the two behind the tree to Thrandr, trying to gesture the assumption that they’re a family. If all his loved ones had gotten out with him, no wonder this guy is so calm. Shand just feels like he’s about to vomit and vomit and like he’ll never stop.

“Oh, no way.”

Thrandr actually snickers, which makes Shand want to kick him.

“Me and Aoife are from the same town, but we have no clue where the kid’s from. He doesn’t say a whole lot.”

He just witnessed mass murder. That’s probably the appropriate response.

Shand keeps that to himself, instead makes himself stand up, brush the clinging bits of snow off of his now soaked, ragged clothes. Thrandr seems like he’s got this all together, and Shand doesn’t feel mentally or physically capable of doing much more than just rolling with it.

“So it sounds like you’re the one with the plan, then?”

Shand’s voice is flat, hollow, gutted, ragged, and he cringes at the sound of it. He immediately imagines Dakara’s mother shaking her finger at him and pushing a warm mug of tea and honey for his throat into his hands, but that memory chokes him even more.

Thrandr laughs again, and Shand picks up on a nervous timbre to it, like Thrandr doesn’t know what else to do, like this is his version of feeling nauseous.

“Get out of here alive, I guess. Best thing to do is keep walking, try to stay under cover and not get spotted. You in?”

Shand wants to be sarcastic, wants to be biting and dry, but he can’t push these people away and he has no real reason to. Besides the ripped open way he feels at the thought of Dakara laying dead in the bottom of some ditch like last week’s garbage, at the thought of leaving her there.

“Yeah, sure.”

They walk for even longer than Shand remembers being trapped in that cattle car. It had been a normal day when they’d come for him, when they’d come for the whole village. Everyone had known for some time that the regime rising in the east was prejudiced, hated Dakara’s people with a passion, a passion vicious enough to kill and kill in horrific ways. Her village was so far removed, though, a safe distance away from all the conflict and the dangers and the atrocities of war.

They’d all assumed no war would be fought on their soil. That they’d never see the violence they heard stories of, intentionally ignored in the newspapers about poor towns further inland. Shand had been confused at first. He wanted to open every newspaper in town to the stories, demand they be read and paid attention to. It had felt stupid and dangerous for every one to just stick their head in the sand and ignore it.

But they’d all assured him it was fine. And he’d had no choice but to listen- he wasn’t a local, he wasn’t from their village. And if they felt safe, then maybe he should too. They’d all been wrong.

Shand had only ever seen a tank before once in his life, when he was small, so small that he’d often wondered if he’d made it up. But when one rolled down the main street of town and brought marching men yelling in that guttural, angry language, he’d known for sure that it had been real.

Her parents hadn’t made it out alive. They’d only been trying to protect their children, protect their home like so many of the other parents. They’d resisted, and Shand and Dakara had learned then that resistance meant death. From then on, they’d both tried to be quiet, tried not to look the men with the rifles and angry glares in the eyes, tried to keep their heads down and obey, even when it meant getting crowded on a cattle car on a train headed for god knew where.

It feels like a lifetime ago. Shand can’t possibly determine how long it had actually been. A few days? A few weeks? He suddenly doesn’t trust himself when it comes to the passage of time, like that part of his brain broke on the train where he’d spent so long not being able to see the sun.

Even now, he can’t keep track of how many days he and his new companions walk. They don’t talk much. Enough to know that they all have similar stories, that the girl Aoife isn’t injured, just been blind since birth, and that the kid, Lunath, really doesn’t talk a lot. He’s maybe five or six at the most, but Shand’s heard him say maybe five words the whole time, and most of those have been yes and no. He can’t blame the kid. Who knows what he’s seen.

It’s sunset after a long day of walking, after leaving the forest behind them and starting to scale a large hill. The sun looks like it’s right on top of the hill, and something compulsive in Shand tells him that if he keeps walking, he can walk right into the sun and that it will take him back home. And that somehow everything will be whole and right again, and Dakara will be waiting.

He knows it’s not true, but he clings to it anyway- anything that will keep him moving against the weakness, the hunger, the desire to give up and lay down and die. Lunath squirms in Aoife’s arms and she’s tired too. The boy slides down and goes running up the hill as if he’s the only one who’s eaten this whole time, and before they know it, he’s disappeared over the top of the hill and all they can see is the glare of the setting, angry orange sun.

“Lunath!”

Thrandr hisses, still unsure of who’s listening, but they all pick up their pace to try and catch up with him before something, anything, bad happens.

When they crest the hill, there’s a moment of blindness where the sun is at its brightest, but then their eyes start to adjust. Lunath has already started descending the other side of the hill, running right toward a huge encampment, row upon row upon row of identical tents and none of them is sure which side of the war they’ve stumbled into.

“Your fellow generals are real charmers.”

Trita grins at the other woman walking between her and Axel but there’s something sad and compassionate to the teasing expression. Of course, Trita has grown up in this world in a trade where you’re instantly assumed useless or inferior based on your sex. If anyone were to understand, it would be her.

But still, after everything Fengari has done for this war, for the Allies, for this military, her men, even people outside of her charge… It stings a little to know that the rest of her fellow officers would rather see her dead than attempt to assist any further.

She’s the general always out on the frontlines, she’s the one always throwing herself further into battle than she should, she’s the one who risks it all, sees it all…

“Hard to imagine we’d end up working with the General Estenor. Grew up on the streets and now we’re here. You know, we heard a lot about you way before you ever started researching us. Is it true that you’re the one who caused the fire pillar back on the Battle of Reach Bay?”

Axel tries to keep conversation going but something about it stings even more. In an attempt to save face and to save her troops, she’s brought more people into the chaos that surrounds her life. Both these people, these mercenaries, they’re smart, they must know the risk. And, if they really know her like they say, then they know what they’re getting themselves into.

Yet, here they are, trying to sympathize and keep things casual. She’s being unfair.

They continue on down the little dirt road, her campsite in sight and there’s something sickeningly familiar and homey about the view. The smell of blood and the sounds of sickness can already be heard but these are her men. She knows them and they know her. These are the real fighters and heroes of this war, not some stuffy group of generals miles away from a single bullet.

“Huh, what do you suppose that little kid is doing over there?”

The tall rabbit stops, pointing off to a hill in the distance, her eyes narrowed and ears at alert, trying to piece together why a small child would be running alone. A man’s voice rings out calling for the boy and then more figures come into view.

Silence falls in the area for a long beat.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Soldiers in the camp start buzzing around, whirling around, grabbing their gear and guns.

If this is how her camp is reacting, then the enemy camp not too far off and their snipers…

A bullet wizzes past the people on the hill from far off where the Axis have a team of snipers positioned in a crumbling tower of one of their stronghold towns.

“The fun begins.”

Axel sighs, twirling out a riffle from around his back as Trita brandishes two pistols, one in each hand.

“No- Stop!”

Fengari pushes past the two of them, racing her own soldiers to the child. The men eye her as they run, not understanding her actions but they can’t hear her orders over the sounds of the sudden chaos and panic. At this rate, both sides are going to kill this child before he ever has a chance to process what’s going on and something about the thought of that happening to him specifically makes her heart drop.

She can see her breath forming larger and larger clouds as she runs until it’s almost a steady stream of steam. It’s time.

Lashing her arm out to the side, it ignites in a swirling vortex of red hot dancing flame around her limb, flicking and trailing over towards her fingertips in the wind. One solid push off the ground, she jumps up into the air, flipping forward to propel herself forward further and then comes crashing back down, slamming her palm on the cold ground.

A wall of fire springs up, instantly melting the snow on the ground and in the air, shielding the child from both her army and the enemy’s, only allowing herself inside the flame with him.

“Hey- No, don’t cry-“

She suddenly curses herself for the show as she quickly approaches, watching him look around in absolute terror at the blaze surrounding him, obviously fearful, not realizing it’s protecting him.

“I’m here to help, don’t-“

The more water that collects in his eyes, the guiltier she becomes but she doesn’t have time to stand around and just wait for a stray bullet to find its way past the fire. In a quick movement, she scoops the boy up and runs back towards her camp.

Trita and Axel, on the other hand, are making themselves useful long before they’ve been given and order.

“Heads down.”

Trita calls out to the three remaining on the hill. They see her aiming two pistols at them and all instinctively duck out of fear of her but her aim catches two soldiers approaching them from behind. When they realize what’s happen and look back at her, she’s frowning at all of them, nearly disappointed.

“What do you think you’re doing? Wake up from a nap or something?”

She wrinkles her nose at them, smelling the decay. Clearly she knows or can take a guess as to what they’ve generally just come from but her stern expression stays regardless.

“You wanna live… Again? Then let’s get moving.”

The second the bullets start whizzing, Shand’s brain starts to shut down, like the terror has hit a kill switch in his mind. His eyes close tight all on their own, and his brain starts to replay the sound of crunching snow, the bloodcurdling screams. He sees all the dead eyes.

He sees that white padded room, feels the restraints closing around his wrists, hears machine guns whirring way too close to his head. He’d tried to pretend that place hadn’t existed, like nothing before Dakara had found him and drug him home had existed. Like her family had been the start of everything for him. In a lot of ways, it had.

But now all that is gone and what is he left with? Everything from before that he’d buried in graves far shallower than Dakara’s.

His hands are pressed tight over his ears as if he can shut out the auditory stimulus and the silence will muzzle his brain. It’s never worked before, but it doesn’t stop him from continuing to try.

When the noises fade, he stays there, head hunched over, focusing on the black and the rings that float and glow across his vision where his brain is telling him to make something out of nothing. Trying to masquerade as something innocent.

There’s a nudge, an elbow in his side, then a confused hiss.

“Uh, Shand? Are you- you might wanna not-“

Shand opens his eyes first to Thrandr’s horrified expression. Then he notices the blue glow cast on Thrandr’s face as he looks at Shand. Shand looks down.

He’s glowing, radiating. As if the color blue is alive, it’s darting through every vein in his body so fast that all of him glows in this pulsating way like an electric beacon.

One that is no doubt catching a lot of attention. Aoife is shielding her one good eye from him like he’s hurting her, and down in the encampment, the girl that has Lunath clutched to her all of a sudden is giving him a hard stare while the rabbit hybrid beckons them all down to the camp somewhat forcefully, eyeing the enemy snipers with a renewed concern.

Shand turns his head to the crumbling tower just in time to see one soldier finishing a reload, and repositioning his gun aimed right at Shand. He can feel his heart racing and he knows he’s afraid now, he’s terrified, but it’s like the emotion is bypassing his head altogether and is going straight to his veins, making the color intensify and the laps the glow is taking around his body quicken, like his veins are vibrating at more furious pace.

Then, out of nowhere, a bright lightning bolt hits right in the center of the tower, and the sound of the stone breaking apart echoes sharply across the little valley as the structure falls apart completely. The snipers and their guns are lost from sight, buried in the rubble.

Shand feels like he can’t move, like he’s frozen to this spot, his eyes locked on where the tower had been.

“Did you… did you do that? Are you one of them? Those science experiments, like that they did for the war?”

“No!”

Shand snaps back probably too quickly and with too barbed a tone to convince Thrandr that his answer is true. He tries again.

“I didn’t.. I’m not…”

Shand looks down at his hands, which are slowly dimming, losing their glow, until after a few long seconds, they’re back to normal entirely, leaving Shand wondering if he’s just going crazy.

He can’t look away from his hands, and Thrandr takes him by the elbow again and leads Shand and Aoife both down to the group of people waiting for them in the encampment.

“Alright, none of you move.”

Axel sighs, walking towards the small group once they’re back in the camp, more annoyed than anything, riffle still in his hands.

“You’re safe here and so on, whatever. I don’t know what it is soldiers are supposed to tell you, really.”

He just shrugs, motioning them to walk deeper into the sea of tents.

“You tell them not to do anything stupid, especially this one.”

Trita pokes the glowing man’s back with the barrel of her pistols, not really aiming to shoot him, more like someone poking a dead animal, trying to figure out if it’s still alive.

All of the soldiers not currently out suppressing enemy fire have begun to surround the small little group making their way in the camp. Every person glares suspiciously at them, fingers resting near the triggers of whatever guns they hold, all rightfully wary of the newcomers.

Everything stops when they get to the only slightly larger tent in the middle of the rest, greeted by the same woman that had shot out fire and carried Lunath away. She’s standing at the opening trying to talk to the young boy, assure him it’s okay, the bad guys are gone, the lightning is gone, the fire is gone…

The last one would be a little easier to convince him of if she weren’t holding him, if he couldn’t feel the heat radiating off of her, but she still tries.

“Hey, got the idiots strolling over the hill for you.”

Trita slips both pistols back into their holsters, stepping back from the three terrified people, eyeing all of the soldiers standing in a crowd at the ready. Holding her own guns up feels a little overkill now, a little too much of a scare tactic.

Fengari looks up from the boy in her arms at the other three, eyes narrowing to examine them, gaze flicking from one face to the next, brow knit the more details she takes in about them. Dirty, bloody, ragged, exhausted, the stench of death… They’re either refugees or dedicated cons, she’ll give them that.

“I’m General Estenor. You’ve all stumbled your way into an Allied Forces camp, though probably not one you would want to find. We’re the frontlines of this war.”

She takes in the man and woman standing closer together than they are with the other man then down at Lunath, initially assuming she’s holding their child. Upon further inspection, she notes he doesn’t look much like either of them, but, still, just in case, she doesn’t want to make this potential family think she’s trying to kidnap their son or something.

“Sorry, I’ll just-“

She awkwardly leans over and gently places the boy on the ground beside her so he can freely run back to the group should he so choose to. As soon as she does, she wonders if that was smart. The better option probably would have been to hand him directly over, but god how long has it been since she’s interacted with civilians? It feels like ages.

Clearing her throat, her eyes flick to the third-wheel of the group, eyebrow arched.

“His name is Shand.”

With a shrug, Trita walks past the man in question, jutting her chin at him, taking her place at Fengari’s side that the little boy isn’t occupying.

“Shand…?”

Fengari’s brow knits again, trying to think over the name, working it over and over in her mind but something about it won’t quite stick for some reason or another.

Without a word to the group as a whole, a few higher ranking soldiers slip past the scene, muttering something to their general quickly, casting glances back at the group, then slip inside the main tent that they stand outside.

“Well, and the fun just keeps going, huh?”

Axel chuckles from several feet away, ears pointed in that general direction. Hybrids can hear significantly better than humans, she’ll have to remember that.

“Well, since you’ve heard, can you take these three and keep an eye on them for a bit? Maybe get them food or something? But don’t let them out of your sight.”

She motions to what she still can’t decide is a family unit or not and Axel nods in return, waving to the three of them with a wide practiced, but well-executed, smile.

“And you’re with us, Sandy.”

Trita smirks, ducking into the tent ahead of them, moving on her own accord with such confidence that it makes Fengari openly sigh as she watches. What does it take to get that level of self-assuredness? All she can do is think over what would have to happen in her life to even come close to that as she waits outside the tent for Shand to go inside first.

Thrandr and Aoife seem to jump at the idea of food, clearly not attached enough to Shand to spend too much time looking back to check on him as they follow the wolf hybrid away. Lunath turns back for a moment, as long as he can with Aoife pulling him by the hand.

Shand feels that frozen sensation return again, and he’s not sure what he’s scared of this time, but he feels cornered, or like a caged animal or some kind of liability that even he doesn’t understand. Maybe they’re right to want to contain him, or kill him, or whatever it is they’re going to do to him, but he can’t accept that enough to be able to wipe off the wide eyed, suspicious, shell shocked look on his face.

But the General is standing expectantly by the tent flap, arms crossed and waiting. Shand doesn’t think he expected a general to look like she does- she’d only reach his chest if they were standing side by side- but still something in her presence says he shouldn’t linger for too long.

He ducks inside with a hard swallow, and the one with the long ears is waiting inside, hand resting calmly on one of her holsters and a half smile on her face, like she thinks she’s about to get some fun. He stops short near the tent flap, standing stock still in a corner, trying to make himself fade into the side of the tent, look smaller than he is, something.

There’s a feeling of dread continually growing in his stomach, and the nausea is back. This feels like the facility all over again. He blinks quickly several times as the General steps in and joins the taller woman. They both look him over, and it barely takes any time at all before the pressure and the heavy silence make him feel like he’s going to break.

“I swear I don’t know what that was. I promise I didn’t do anything on purpose, I’m not trying to hurt anyone, or do anything, I just want to go-“

He starts to say it, but he trails off quickly as he reminds himself that he doesn’t have a home anymore. He hadn’t really had one in the first place. Just a place holder, just a lie he’d told himself. One that was starting to catch up to him now.

He just looks down at his feet and tries to ignore how there’s no piece of clothing on him not stained with blood, not ripped and matted with wet dirt. The clothes on his back, this is all he has now.

“Really? Interesting.”

One of the other soldiers in the tent folds his arms, shooting Shand a sharp glare. He’s big and muscular, so much so that it looks like his shirt could rip at any second, black hair in a loose bun on the back of his neck.

“You’re one of those little science experiments from before the war. The ones they tried to keep under the table until they needed you.”

Another man stands by the first, nearly identical except that he’s more of a slender build and his hair is shorter, but there’s no doubt that the two are very much related.

“Can’t believe they’re just letting you wander around freely.”

As the two begin to hound Shand left and right, Fengari moves towards the desk in the middle of the room, pulling out the metal chair and plopping down in it with an audible sigh, leaning forward to pick up a pen and begin work on a small stack of papers waiting for her. Trita follows, sitting casually on the edge of the desk, legs crossed, watching Shand like he’s the most interesting thing to happen today.

“So, what’s your story, huh? You clearly crawled out of one of those mass graves earlier today but you’re also one of the military electric mice? Sure do sound like there’s never a dull day with you.”

No one stops talking or asking questions. As soon as one finishes a thought, another begins. The only one not currently speaking is the General herself who continues to look down at her desk writing away. Well, that is until no one is content with her staying out of this.

“Hey, Fengari.”

The brawly man strides over to the desk, tapping the top of it to get her attention. She flinches ever so slightly, slowly looking up at him and how he towers over her. Most people would be intimidated by his size but you would think someone of her stature would be even more so, but she seems as calm as ever, tilting her head back to finally find his face.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah. What’re we going to do with this guy?”

He juts a thumb over his shoulder at Shand, but she doesn’t even follow the direction with her gaze, brow just furrowed in deep confusion at the question.

“What do you mean-“

“We could run some tests.”

The slender brother stalks in a circle around Shand now, taking quick notes in his head, probably forming observations and hypotheses about who he is and what that power was right there on the spot.

The thought clearly doesn’t settle well with Shand but it , surprisingly, doesn’t seem to settle well with the General either. Fengari finally looks over, flinging her pen across the room so it hits the man’s back, earning his attention.

“No, no, none of that. I told you we don’t do that.”

“I know. I was just hoping you forgot.”

With a bit of a huff, he steps back from Shand, joining the rest of the group gathered around the main desk. The two brothers flank the General on either side like that’s exactly where they belong at all times, taking turns demanding her attention, always focused on her, maybe a little more so than any normal soldier would be. The three seem friendly, like they’ve known each other for forever, it just so happened that one of them found themselves at a higher rank, but it doesn’t mean much when it comes to their dynamic.

All the talk eventually becomes too boring for the hybrid woman so she cuts in, stealing an extra pen and rubber band, breaking the pen open and quickly getting to work reconstructing its pieces, holding specific ones together with tension in the band.

“To get us back on track and clarify: I think they were asking what to do with him because he’s a liability. To himself and especially to us, so what do you want to do with him?”

Her translation out, she holds her new device up, aimed at Shand, flicking a small plastic trigger from its position, sending the pen nub flying past his head, bouncing off the canvas of the tent behind him. His wide eyes snap to her but she seems suddenly bored by even that, setting the pen crossbow on the desk.

Fengari looks at the creation with a childlike fascination for a brief second before she shakes herself out of the curiosity, pushing the pen away like an adult forcing herself to stay focused. Distraction gone, she looks at Shand with a small frown, lips pressed in a tight line, thinking over the question.

“What are the options?”

“Kill him.”

Trita shrugs.

“Experiment on him.”

The slender man answers.

“Send him out of camp and force him to find shelter elsewhere.”

The larger brother answers in time with the other two.

“I… Don’t like any of those.”

The General looks around at the three with a deep disappointed frown but they all turn to her expectantly, silently telling her to think of something better. For a long moment, she can’t. All she can do is stare at the man across from them for a long, tense moment as her mind works over each possibility as fast as it can.

If she doesn’t think of something, he’s going to die one way or another.

“What if… I keep him as my charge?”

“What?”

The three collectively question her, all looking away from Shand as if he isn’t worthy of taking their attention from the crazy proposal placed before them.

“I mean, it makes sense. He can shoot lightning, I can shoot fire. I’m probably the only person in camp that can handle him if something goes wrong, right? So, I’ll just keep an eye on him.”

“Anything he does can and will reflect on you then.”

While the muscular brother seems at a loss for words, his slim counterpart quickly steps in, attempting to bring logic back into this.

“I know.”

But any argument he brings up is calmly shot down. The General seems to have made up her mind.

“This will be another way they’ll try to have your head.”

Trita chimes in but quieter, softer, more concerned and warning, mumbled through a tight frown. If they wanted to kill Fengari for treason just for hiring mercenaries, then they will actually hang her for adopting this livewire liability into her camp on a whim.

“Well, I’m sorry, I just don’t see any point in killing him. If you kill him, then you may as well kill me because we’re basically the same threat.”

Again: She’s made up her mind.

As the two who are clearly brothers seem to prowl around him, Shand’s shoulders involuntarily pull upward, tense, like he’s trying to occupy less and less space, seem like less of a threat, fade into nothingness. The longer the conversation goes on, the more speculation is thrown around, the worse it gets- his stomach is in knots and his brain seems like it’s firing all haywire.

He’s terrified. He hadn’t been scared when they’d killed Dakara, when he thought they were killing him. But he’s afraid now, and when one of them suggests experimenting on him, fight or flight kicks in and every raw nerve in his body begs him to run.

But the terror has him frozen again, and while they all debate around him about his fate like he’s not even in the room, leaving no space between their ideas for him to even get a word in edgewise to defend himself, he feels that pinpricking in his hands again.

Discreetly, he glances down and sees the glow start to pool in his palms again, start to light his hands brighter and brighter, so he pulls both his arms behind his back and shuts his eyes tight, tries to think of some way he can will it away, pretend it’s not happening, and maybe stop it that way.

They think he’s a lab rat now, he can’t imagine what they’ll want to do to him if he lights this entire place up blue. If they were to somehow figure out where he’d really come from.

One of the brothers eyes him, understandably, since he’s had his eyes closed tight and his face contorted into a grimace. He swallows hard and forces himself to even out his expression, presses his mouth into a tight line and breathes.

The only thing he’s really scared of here is hiding behind his back. And there’s no need to let anyone else in on that secret. All he has to do is breathe. He’s pretended he’s someone he’s not pretty much his entire life. He can keep up the act a little while longer.

It takes a few moments of deep breathing, eyes down, while the others are arguing over what to do with him. When they look back at him now, the smallest of smirks is on his face.

“So I’m supposed to follow her around from now on? Any tips on what to do if I lose her in a crowd?”

Ah, yes, a short comment. Wonderful. Original. Our very own comedian.”

The General rolls her eyes, a little exasperated already and he’s just open his mouth to make a comment for the first time since he stepped foot in the tent and they started debating his fate.

“A wiseass and a jackass all in one. Perfect. Don’t have enough of those in my life.”

But rather than glare at him, rather than bully him into an apology, Fengari just frowns at him tiredly, tapping her finger on the desk a bit. She can’t handle any more of this today. There are enough bigots and misogynistic men in her life, and here she goes willingly adding another one to the group.

Great. Good call.

“You’ll be lucky if you lose her in a crowd, asshole. If she’s ever away from you, it’s because she wants to be. You’re only good for being left to rot alone in a city forgotten than bother her. She’s giving you a hell of a lot of grace.”

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”

As the larger brother threatens Shand, shoulders back, muscles on display, the other very gently and carefully tries to talk her back from this idea, clearly very concerned for her mental state and time.

“Yeah, it’s fine. He’s not going to say anything I haven’t heard before, right? I’m a big girl… Theoretically.”

She attempts to deflect the concern and worry with a joke piggybacking off of Shand’s comment, trying to diffuse the situation, patch it over by appearing unbothered, by seeming amused. It doesn’t seem to actually be working.

As the two begin to gently try to reason with her, Trita stays perched on the desk, never breaking her eyes away from Shand now, openly staring him down, a smirk on her face to outdo his. There’s a knowing sort of darkness to it, like a predator. He is very obviously the frightened prey to her no matter the act he puts on and the idea seems to thrill her to a certain degree.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see what trouble your mouth gets you into. But if your mouth gets anyone else in trouble, well…”

She lets the thought trail, finally hopping off her seat, stretching casually as if she hadn’t said a thing, strutting to the tent opening.

“I’m hungry, it’s been a long day. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, don’t stick around too long, General Estenor has paperwork to do.”
Her voice tapers off as she walks away from the area in the general direction of the mess tent. It takes several more minutes of convincing to get the brothers to leave but, when they’re gone, Fengari is suddenly very aware that she’s the only one in the tent with this stranger now.

“I… Uh. Sorry.”

With a quick run of her hand through her hair to push back some of the purple strands falling out of the ponytail on the back of her head, she reaches into her desk and pulls out a spare pen.

“You… Don’t actually need to just stay in here. If you’re hungry, you can go get something, too. Feel free to lose me, they were just joking.”

Now that he feels like less of a prisoner and he can relax a bit, now that he can go freely if he wanted, there’s something else that makes his stomach flop suddenly. Sure, he’s pretty damn near starving, but the thought of leaving this tent, going out in the open, surrounding himself with all the people who had just been ready to shoot him down before, even with Thrandr and Aoife who are clearly in their own little world- there won’t be a familiar face among them.

Now that he thinks about it, there won’t be at all, ever again, anywhere. Everyone is gone. He forgets that the General is still there for a second, and he just sort of sinks to the floor, pulling his knees up to him more for comfort than anything else. It takes a few seconds of staring at the ground for him to pull himself out of it, to try and redirect.

“Uh, maybe I’ll sit in here a bit, if it’s okay. Oh, and I’m sorry too, I just. I mean, I’m not.”

He shrugs twice in a row as if that will emphasize… what, he’s not sure, but he sighs to fill the empty space. The ground is cold and hard under him and if he focuses just right on it, he can swear that he feels it rumble and sway under him like the cattle car. He darts his eyes from one end of the tent to the other to try and banish the sensation.

“I don’t want to be trouble for anyone. I don’t even know what any of that was, I’m not.”

He doesn’t know why he keeps ending there, why he can’t just get his words out, especially now when they most likely count the most.

“I’m not anything special. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

Clearly, he can’t want to go home anymore. What is it that he does want, then? He plays the question over and over in his head, and it comes up empty. He doesn’t have anything left.

He pulls his knees tight into his chest and he sucks in a sudden breath when he unintentionally rams a knee right into his injured shoulder. Now that he looks at it…

The entire left side of his shirt is stained with blood, so he pulls it away and peers through the collar of his shirt to see the red, angry, puckered skin a few inches under his clavicle where the bullet had exited. Significantly lower than he’d thought the wound had been. When he presses his hand to the wound, he can feel the bullet hole and the pounding of his heart both against his open palm.

He gulps again, pulling his hand down and wrapping his arms around his legs, careful not to jostle anything too much this time. He’s trying to claim he’s not a science experiment, and maybe he isn’t, not in the way they’re all assuming. But he thinks it’s only a matter of time until they’re no longer satisfied with all of his half answers and go digging for something more.


The general is working away on her paperwork, and Shand knows he should keep quiet, let her work, show some respect for the one who single handedly vetoed every option that involved him being killed, tortured, or abandoned. But somehow, all of a sudden, he can’t stand being quiet anymore, alone with his thoughts in his head. He can’t stand thinking that there’s no one left on the earth who knows him or cares anymore.

“So… Fengari? That’s kind of different. Exotic, or whatever.”

Shand studies his hands while he’s almost mindlessly talking.

"I'd... Prefer if you didn't use the term exotic. Doesn't really settle well with me."

How many times has she heard that word or something similar to it? About her hair, about her personality, her drive, her job, her powers... It's never been in a positive light. Always hungry men looking to belittle, treat her like some object. Never matters what they're hungry for, sex, power, fame, it's just baseline shallowness.

Then again, it would be a lie to say she isn't aware that people don't exactly think she's very human to begin with. Imagine having sex with the General Estenor, topping the supposed powerhouse of the Northern squadron of this massive world war? Something to tell friends about over some drinks. Or imagine getting this walking weapon of mass destruction under your wing and how there would be so very few able to resist whatever your cause is out of fear?

She's not natural, she's barely a person... Exotic is probably the right word but she tries every day to convince herself she's better than that... Maybe.

But he didn't mean it that way, or at least she'd like to believe he didn't.

"But, yes, it's different, that's for sure. A little surprised you pronounced it correctly on the first try. Some people still don't say it right and I've known them for years. Then again, that's... Probably intentional."

It's dehumanizing, so probably. Still, she tries to lightly laugh through the comment like it's a joke, not some reflection of life. Besides, it's not that big of a deal, not in comparison to the haunted expression she's been studying on his face since he walked into camp.

Trita said he had crawled out of a mass grave? She's heard of things like that happening before but it always seemed more like a rumor than truth. The way he fidgets on the cold ground and forces himself to make small talk, refuses to eat despite how his stomach audibly growls... She's inclined to believe that rumor is actually fact, at least for him.

"You know, Shand isn't exactly a common name either."

It takes a second, but she finally forces her eyes off of him, trying to give him a moment, get back to her work. That look, the hesitation, the guarded responses, she knows them all too well.

She expects it for herself, though. She's a soldier and a weapon, she's going to see, hear, and do things people were never meant to experience, but the whole point of that is to make sure civilians, people like him, don't have to become like this, like her.

Looks like she's come face to face with someone she's failed. He's not the first and he won't be the last, but something about having him sit here in her tent and interact with him, knowing she's failed him as she has, stings worse than any time before.

"I️, uh, I've had it for as long as I️ can remember, so."

He forces another crooked smile from himself and he can feel it on his mouth, but it doesn't spread to anywhere else on his face. His eyes feel tired, like they're barely capable of staying open, heavy like he's lived years since he last slept.

He can feel so much tension in his face, and he just wants to reach up and rub it all out, rub until the top layer of skin is gone and he's someone different. Someone new, better. Fresh.

But she'd probably look at him strangely if he was to do that. So he holds his own hands down a little more forcefully and tries to think of what else to say to keep himself here, to make his presence make sense before she kicks him out and he's by himself again.

"So this war... I️ don't really know... know a lot about it..."

He stumbles over his words and swallows hard, and it's mostly the truth. He only has a handful of memories from before the facility, and then the war had started and everything had changed. When he'd gotten out, he'd avoided everything to do with the war like his life depended on it because, well. It probably did.

And after Dakara's family had taken him in, they were far enough removed from it all that he hadn't had to even try to avoid it anymore. At least, until now.

For someone who has spent most of their life trying to pretend this war doesn't exist, it sure has dictated every piece of his life. That thought makes him wonder about the general. She seems young, his age, probably also like him just a child when this whole thing had started. He wonders how she'd gotten here, how she'd risen to such a rank.

Beyond that, how she can whip up columns of fire at whim, control them, seem so in control of what she's capable of doing. She barely even seems afraid of herself.

He racks his brain, but he can't come up with any way to bring up that topic that seems harmless, or like he's not angling for more details than he's entitled to. Actually, everyone around him would probably be more content and safe if he didn't go poking around in trying to figure out what power is lurking inside him. Maybe he owes that oblivion to everyone.

He scratches the back of his head to fill the pause, and he realizes he's doing it again, thinking things he'd rather not be, letting the silence make his head get loud and bully him around.

"So uh, the other guys."

Shand leans his head a bit toward the tent flap, talking about everyone who had been in the tent with them before.

"Your Bodyguards? Childhood pals? Drinking buddies? Junkyard dogs?"

"You sure do jump topics."

He seems like he wants to talk, like he's dying for some sort of conversation, something normal he can grasp onto.

She has work to do, things to be done... But how many times had she felt exactly the same way and no one had bothered to help her? To empathize with her? If they had then maybe she wouldn't be where she is today. Maybe there wouldn't always be a small little pill weighing heavily in her pocket, begging her to just try it once, knowing once would be the last.

Slowly, she puts her pen down, leans back in her chair and just looks at him, watches him, picks up on all his nervous little ticks.

"Trita, the rabbit hybrid, and her partner Axel, the wolf, are mercenaries I specifically hired out just a couple of days ago to help collect intel. Since you don't know much about the war, I'll just tell you that the Allies aren't doing so great. Most of the other generals are content to keep beating sticks together like insane people hoping it'll work eventually. I didn't want to sit back and watch that fail."

The little pen crossbow Trita had made still rests on the desk and that childish wonder begins to fill Fengari again as she looks it over. Her hand twitches on her lap and all she wants to do is reach for it, aim it at random objects in the room, study it and figure out every small detail of it and how it works. Now doesn't seem like the appropriate time to act like a toddler exploring the world, though.

"The twins are close friends, though. I've known them for... Ten years, maybe? I've basically grown up in the army so I was around when they joined. When I made my way up to general, I specifically picked them to move over and join my troop. They're just supposed to be high ranking soldiers with me, but they do kind of act like bodyguards, yeah. Not sure why..."

They've always been on the protective side of things but she's never really understood why. Most people she knows are the complete opposite towards her and then to think that two people would behave so differently... There has to be a reason, but she just hasn't been able to come up with it yet.

Her personal life isn't really something they need or should be discussing. Honestly, things like that are probably the last thing on his mind. Then again, what can she ask to keep him talking like he wants without potentially approaching a sensitive topic given what he's been through?

"Oh, so, I have an extra cot tucked in my footlocker. If you want to sleep at any point, just let me know and I'll pull it out."

The mention of sleep should comfort him, make him jump at the opportunity, but somehow it sets him on edge, like it’s a minefield waiting to blow him up. Hes never had good luck with his dreams before, and he doubts they’d start cutting him slack now.

“Uh, okay. Yeah, sure, I️ will.”

He moves from picking at the skin around his dirty fingernails to pulling loose threads from the already ruined hem of his sleeve.

“If... if the war ended tomorrow, what would you do?”

He nearly regrets asking, and he knows that its probably not proper for him to be speaking so informally with her, or maybe even to be speaking with her at all.

But his brain does jump, like she’s pointed out, and right now he’s wondering what he’s going to do. If somehow this blows over, if somehow it ever ends. What then? What’s left?

He does feel silly, dumb, like a helpless child for asking her this kind of thing. Clearly the fact of her ranking means she most likely knows something about life, and even if they’re the same age, he’s just going to operate off the assumption that she knows more than he does at this point.

Hell, probably anyone would right now. His brain is stuck on a one track loop, the same images and sounds and smells playing over, trapping him in the end of the world. He just wants to find some way to pull a piece of him out for a little bit, regardless of how trivial he has to be to accomplish that.

Still, she looks like she’s ignoring work to occupy him, to babysit him, and he doesn’t need to remind himself again that she’s risking a lot- apparently everything- on this. On him.

“I’m sorry, I️ can shut up. Sometimes I️ just...talk. My only real personality flaw.”

He makes himself chuckle, and it comes out sounding dryer and more forced than he’d wanted.

"No, no, it's fine. Not many people sit and hold conversation with me. If anything, you'll be begging for me to shut up soon. I'll probably start rambling about something unimportant."

Despite trying to pin the blame of her procrastination back on herself, she smiles easily. Taking the blame for something is easy but especially when it's something like this, taking it for someone who isn't trying to immediately shove it on her to begin with.

He seems like he has enough on his plate, no need to add her work to it.

But his question.. After the war? It actually pulls a laugh out of her, something smooth and natural, but dark and sad at the same time.

"After the war? Boy, the plan is not to live that long. If I have my way, there will be no 'after.'"

Her shoulders even shake with the laugh as if his question was legitimately humorous, but it's only when she notices his silence in response to her answer that it hits her what she just said out loud. The laughing stops quick and her eyes lock onto him. He's... Shocked, to say the least.

She shouldn't have said that.

He just crawled out of a grave.

She really shouldn't have said that.

Fengari clears her throat, turning in her chair to look off at a tent wall with a large map hanging down from it, attempting to distract herself from the little scene she just caused.

"... I don't know, I haven't thought that far ahead. Maybe just travel, see the world. Basic things like that. I've been a soldier all my life so the idea seems nice. Maybe try my hand at becoming a traveling vocalist."

Thankfully, she doesn't really have to think too long on a lie to cover up the truth. Long ago, back when she still had hope this wasn't all there would be to her life, she did want to travel and have the freedom to explore, learn new things, see new cultures, to sing, but that dream died years back. Still, she can remember the vague idea of it enough to spit it back up as an appropriate answer. Hell, that's what she usually does whenever someone asks, so why did the other comment slip?

"Stupid, I know, but what can you do? Heart wants what the heart wants, or whatever that stupid saying is."

And her heart wants anything but to exist, to feel the way it is she feels on a daily basis. It wants to rest eternally, take itself away from all of this, probably make a lot of other people happy in the process.

"So. You have a job before all of this? Was it your dream job? Something you wanted to keep doing forever or did you have a different goal?"

It's really enough about her. Talking about him is a minefield, she knows it, but apparently so is talking about herself.

He watches her strange behavior, the way she nearly jolts herself into changing the direction of her answer. Her body language says that only part of it had been truth, and Shand wonders how long she's been doctoring that response to others. Despite everything he doesn't know about the military and how it works, maybe, even despite rank, they understand more about each other than they know.

The inside of his mouth is raw now from how much he's been chewing at the inside of it, but he does for a little while more, silence before his answer.

"I️ was... was on the water a lot. Diving, mostly. Pearls. Market's good for them there. We live right on the coast-"

He stops himself short, brow furrowed, like he's perplexed at himself. He knows he doesn't live there anymore. He knows there's no one left for him to refer to as 'we'. Might as well accept it now.

"But anything after seems...."

Inhaling deeply, he pulls his knees even tighter to him.

"I️ guess it does feel like a lot of dark nothing on the other side."

He wants to say that normal won't ever come back, even after the war does end, but had he ever had a normal to begin with? Sure, he'd been with Dakara's family for... how long? Three, four years at the most? Just long enough to convince himself of the lie that he could have something like that.

Without them, after the war, he has to imagine will be a lot like it had been before them. A lot like it had been in the tent earlier before the others had left. A world where he is a lot less of a person and a lot more of an irritating and dangerous puzzle to be solved.

For what isn't the first time since they've stumbled into this camp, he wonders if it would have been better to have never gotten up, to have just laid beside Dakara and been covered up with more dead and dying people, then dirt, and then silence. Maybe anything that happens after this is cheated, borrowed, not meant to be. Cursed by his own strangeness.

Somewhere off in the distance, there's an echo of a gunshot, and although it's far away, muffled sounding by the space, it makes Shand jump, makes him feel pinpricks of cold all over his skin. He presses his forehead into his knees, closes his eyes, tries to calm himself, but he keeps involuntarily shivering.

We.

He's lost someone, maybe multiple people. The way he corrects himself by changing the direction of his answer says it all. Were these people bodies that couldn't crawl out of the grave?

She keeps calm, mostly for his sake, watching him duck down, tuck in on himself, like a small child at the sound of the bullets off in the distance. Just little potshots from the enemy to scare the camp, nothing more... But, an attack is still an attack and given the little show knows about him, she understands the fear.

"You get used to it, unfortunately."

Standing, she walks over to the side of the tent, towards the map she had been staring so much at the past few minutes. She keeps lying to him and she really should stop. No, you never get used to it, you just get better at hiding your fear, learn how to stifle your cries, distract from your trembling.

In the dead of night when you're alone, the demons come back. The sounds replay, the sights flash relentlessly. And that's when you're confronted with your own brokenness, the fact you'll never be a normal functioning part of society again. In the embrace of night, you remember it all so that during the day you can wear the well-crafted mask.

All of that seems a little heartless to tell him now so she decides to redirect the thought.

"Now that I think about it, you may not want to sleep in the same tent as me."

With a pull of the map, she reveals the hidden tent canvas, several holes and small tears concentrated in the material and she pokes at them mindlessly as if they're simple decorations she placed herself.

"Being a general isn't all glitz and glam. Sometimes you get assassination attempts, too. This one was a close call. If he had better aim, I probably would have been honorably discharged due to injury or something, but he only managed to get me in the side."

Pity.

To add to the story, she points to the general direction of her right hip, pressing into the thick uniform fabric, pausing to run it between her thumb and finger over a dark stain. She can't determine if it's blood or dirt, the two seem so similar and synonymous with each other at this point.

"So, if you want, we don't have to set up your cot in here. I can find a tent nearby to station you in. Trust me, I get that not everyone enjoys the idea of stray bullets in the night."

“No- no, really, it’s okay. In here is fine.”

He knows the quick protest must sound clingy, desperate, childish. He wants to say something else, to explain himself, but there’s no good way to tell her that he’s not afraid of the bullets, he doesn’t care if they hit him. And it’s not like he’s going to be sleeping anyway.

Every time a shot goes off, he just sees the dead eyes. But he knows he’s going to see them no matter what, whether he’s in this tent or another one, whether the shots die down or not. He’s going to see them whether he sleeps or wakes. He knows. He’s tried for years to pretend he was a different person, one like Dakara and her family, the kind of person this sort of thing never happens to. The kind of person not made for violence, to see the kinds of things he has.

Maybe the fact that he sees them over and over every time he blinks is proof enough that he’d lied convincingly enough to fool even himself, for a time. But the truth always catches up.

He shifts on the ground, more uncomfortable with the thought than he is physically unsettled. Part of him feels uneasy lying to her- he knows it’s essentially what he’s doing. He’s a fugitive from someone, somewhere, and the fact that he doesn’t know which side of this war he’s running from isn’t a good enough excuse for her to risk her career, her life.

But if he tells her, will she send him back? Will she somehow have those men in the white coats waiting right outside the tent to drag him away kicking and screaming, to lock him back in that room for the years to pass, but the time to stand still? It’s irrational, but it feels that way.

And he’d sooner die than go back. Anything but go back. So for now, he needs to just keep his head down and follow along.

Still, she’s plucking at the stain on her uniform and it pricks him a little that she’s the only one here who’s given him the time of day, who’s been willing to protect him instead of throwing him to the wolves, and this could mean life or death for her. He knows he’s caught in the middle of two extremes, neither of which sits well with him.

He clears his throat.

“I’m…uh, I’m sorry for the short joke, earlier. I just felt kind of tense. You’re free to make… clumsy, lanky giant jokes if you want. I do trip over everything.”

He makes himself shrug and puts on one of those sheepish half smiles.

"Oh, I was serious. I get those a lot. It's not anything I haven't heard before, you're fine."

Shrugging, she drops the map back into place to hide the old bullet holes. There's a small stove in the middle of the tent to keep things warm and an idea hits her. If he isn't willing to go eat, then she can make a drink or something.

"Warm whiskey? Or is that too presumptuous of me to assume you'd like that? If you want something in tea, I may have a small bottle of rum left around here somewhere I could mix into a cup of tea."

He's watching her like she's crazy but she's been through this before, she knows what works and what doesn't, even if they're only temporary fixes in the long run. Anything to keep yourself from jumping clear out of your skin. Or maybe he just doesn't know what to say at the idea of a general offering him a drink?

"You'll just have to trust me on this one, I swear it helps. But... Hot whiskey strait isn't most people's preferred warm-me-up, so I'll make some tea and rum."

She waves a bit to try to keep things casual, to calm him down, as she steps to the stove, putting a small, beat-up tin kettle on the single burner of it, reaching over to a small knee-high table beside it to ready some tea leaves in a steeper.

"Anyways, I'm sure you'll learn one way or another that I'm probably one of the most... Disliked generals amongst all the others. Not necessarily by the soldiers but by the other higher-ups. Quick little comments about my height are old news. A mean when you look like this..."

Holding a hand to the top of her head, she creates a quick visual measurement while also motioning to her body just in general.

"... You're pretty easy to dislike in this military. But it's fine. Trust me, your height is something to be envious of."

Figuring it's wise to keep things light, she attempts to match his smile with one of her own to keep the feeling of normalcy, no matter how frail, going.

"That...actually sounds really good, any of it."

The idea of anything warm sounds good, really. He's been shivering for days now and he knows part of it is the shock, part of it has to be blood loss, and a big part of it right now is nerves and nervousness and fear that at any moment, someone with a syringe will pop out of nowhere and take him back. But if he brushes all that away and actually thinks about it, he's aware that he's pretty cold, too.

He stands slowly, stiffly, letting his limbs stretch as much as possible without inciting too much pain, and takes a few steps closer to the stove she's working at. He stops short though, in fear of crowding her or being too pushy, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets and lets his shoulders hunch up tensely, trying to keep the shivers at bay.

"I️ don't know, you seem like the only nice one here."

That makes him want to bite his tongue as soon as he's said it, and he shakes his head in an attempt to clear that and start over.

"I️ mean, no disrespect or anything. Everyone else had some really valid points earlier that I'm probably just... biased...against."

He figures this situation is a lot like the war itself. Way back when, years and years ago when he'd first been taken in by Dakara's parents, back when the war was first starting to spread itself through the regions furthest from them, Dakara's father had made some comment, huffing about how war was only vain pursuit of glory.

Shand remembers the confusion, the shock that anyone could have such a skewed perspective about anything. He'd remembered from the days before and he'd never forget it. War is only survival. Nothing more, nothing less.

Maybe if the two equate, he'd be good at war after all. He'd have made a great addition to whatever army it was that had tried to drain him of all his blood, put him into comas and see what extremes his body was capable of handling.

Maybe it hadn't yielded all the results they'd been looking for, but he'd always, at least, been good at surviving.

"So... you said earlier that things are at a standstill? Both sides spinning wheels?"

"Well."

Fengari's brow furrows when her lips pull into a deep frown, staring intently down at the flickering flame heating the kettle in front of her, tapping the toe of her boot against the cold ground.

"That is... Probably the easiest way to put it. It feels like every day I'm ordered to launch a new attack and, every day, it gets us nothing but pointless deaths. The city Axis has is so heavily guarded, so strongly within their grasp, that we just can't infiltrate it to stop them."

She takes a quick glance over her shoulder at him before turning the entire way, however now she leans around to see past him, eyes narrowed at something a little ways away from them.

"Ah! I knew I still had some. Not sure why I put it over there, though. Must have had a drinking night or something not too long ago."

In the direction of her gaze is a small shelf, mostly lined with books, but there's an out of place bottle resting on its side tucked between a few. With some quick steps, she passes by him, procuring it, the books propped against it falling over with a light thud.

By "drinking party," she definitely means drinking shut up in her tent alone while trying to find the courage to either make it through a sleepless night or force the end of the restless night cycle, hoping the determination would be in the bottom of this bottle. Looks like past her only made it halfway through before giving up on the idea.

Regardless, she comes back to the stove, bottle in hand, readying two small metal mugs with a small amount of sugar.

"Anyways, not to mention this camp is what stands between the Axis in that city and all the towns behind us to the sound as far as Reach Bay. From what I understand, other squadrons are supposed to be evacuating those towns so we can finally move from this dangerous bottleneck, but it's taking longer than expected. But we have to stay and do our jobs... It's just... At what cost, though?"

The kettle begins to whistle so she takes it off the burner, filling both mugs up halfway, steam quickly rising in the cold winter air. She tops both drinks off the rest of the way, finishing up her old bottle of rum in the process. Instead of throwing it to the side, she sets it on the table beside the stove for some new use in the future.

"I've lost at least a third of the men I've started with and I can only lie to them about the fruits of our efforts for so long. It's rough. Though I guess I shouldn't complain. Most every squad has it rough, I'm just more invested in mine so I'm probably biased."

Handing a mug to him, she raises hers in a joking little "cheers."

He just holds the mug in both hands for a while, letting the warmth seep out of it and onto his skin, imagining it making its way to the rest of his body and stopping his shaking.

"I️ guess... guess things like this always take more that anyone's willing to give."

He finally takes a long sip from the mug, filling his mouth with the warm stuff, puffing his cheeks out with it, holding it before swallowing it slowly, feeling just as much relief from the slight burn in his throat as from the warmth.

He wants to ask her how it was she came to grow up in the military. But then again, he wonders if the same would have happened to him had he not seen his chance and taken it, and he doesn't want to do anything to even risk directing the conversation that way.

Settling back down on the ground, he pulls his legs in to his chest again and holds the mug rested on top of his knees. There's been a throbbing, a buzzing at the base of his skull for so long, and every sip he takes pushes it back a little. Maybe he will sleep tonight, even a short while. At this point, anything helps, he supposes.

"So you brought in mercenaries? Now what?"

After another long gulp, he shakes his head quickly before she can speak.

"I'm sorry, I️ don't know why I️ asked that. Obviously that's not the kind of thing a general just goes around sharing with whoever asks. Sorry. I️ don't know how all this really works yet."

He sighs deeply. He better figure out how it works and fast. Chances are becoming less and less that there's ever going to be much of anything else for him. There's no logical scenario in which he can imagine returning to any of the things he does know well. What is he supposed to be good for from here on out?

That's another question he won't ask, since he already knows the theoretical answer, and since it's not one he's willing to accept.

Sure, she's a general and she's got a tent to herself and a position of command, albeit seemingly less respect than she seems to deserve. But for all her abilities, for her powers, she doesn't seem to be any better off for serving some higher power with what she can do. If anything, he recognizes the weariness in her eyes, the defeated feel of her voice and thinks maybe there's no out for people like them.

Run and hide, pretend to be normal- or try to do some good with what you've been given, it all seems the same. It all seems to end in the same place, in the same dark pit. Maybe people like them are just doomed from the start. Maybe all his running was just putting off the inevitable.

He finds himself mindlessly pressing the mug to his face, having to wipe some soot and blood off of it when he lowers it again.

He's not sure that his brain is ever going to calm down, to ease out of its addled state enough for him to feel calm or find some relief, but at least his shaking has subsided and he feels warmer.

"This is good. I️ feel a little better... thank you."

Her hands freeze in their attempt to secretly add more sugar to her mug now that he isn't standing close enough to see over her shoulder at what she's doing. Little thought goes into controlling her expression as she turns to look at him, mouth slightly parted, brow knit, seeming genuinely confused by something he's either said or done.

"You don't have to thank me...?"

Because she is. Military work, or at least what she does, is thankless. Actually, it's quite the opposite. She finds herself being blamed more than praised or thanked for anything here, but it's just something she's grown accustomed to. A fact of her life she's had to come to grips with years ago.

Maybe her response had come across rude, he just keeps staring down into his drink. God, she needs to work on interacting with civilians again. If her nightmares and powers weren't going to make adjusting back to normal life difficult, then her inability to act like a decent person capable of communication would suffice on their own.

"So. I know you said you don't know anything about those glowing powers of yours, and I believe you, trust me. I know next to nothing about my own. But maybe you can just answer some simple questions?"

She turns back around, finishing sweetening her drink up to the point a child would be pleased with, then moves from the stove. It's always too hot near it but she has to keep it going in case someone should walk in her tent. There's no point in freezing others just because she can't feel the cold herself. But it does mean that she keeps both her bed and desk pushed back from it as far as possible.

The arrangement makes for bad conversation with this current set up with where he sits close by it, so she pulls her desk chair around and places it near enough they can easily see and hear each other but still some distance from the stove.

"Nothing complicated, I promise. Just like... I don't know, does it hurt? Did that giant bolt you cast have any recoil? I'd love to trade some notes, if you don't mind."

"Uh."

He makes himself take a deep breath before he takes an especially large gulp from the mug again and swallows hard. It feels harmless, she's not making it seem like she's trying to trick or fool him in any way. But still. It sets him a bit on edge and he can feel the trembling start trying to return. So he just grips the handle of the mug harder until his knuckle turns white.

"It... it doesn't hurt, just, kind of tingles, but... when it started getting brighter, it felt.. I️ don't know."

He struggles to find the words, and although he knows he's been leading them all to believe otherwise, it's not the first time he's had those things happen to him. It had just been so long ago. It's hard to match up what he remembers feeling then to now.

"I️ can feel it in my veins, kind of circulating. Like a current. The brighter it gets, it starts to feel like, I️ don't know, like little shocks. I️ don't know where the lightning came from. I️ have... I️ still don't even feel like that could have been me."

He knows it's less and less comforting the more he reveals how little he feels he can control whatever is going on inside of him and what it does outside of him. So he holds back the emotional component, how it had felt like the power had been feeding off how helpless he'd felt, how anxious and unsure and unsafe.

Because really, he's had a mix of those emotions ever since getting to this camp, and he'd like to think that he's not going to burst out with more lightning or strange glowing or anything else without any warning, but the truth is, he just doesn't know. Hinting that it might be a possibility is a great way to convince her that she should have taken one of her friends' earlier suggestions.

"You seem like you can... control it really well."

He nearly mumbles it into his mug, trying not to drink it at a rate that he knows will seem alarming, but not being able to hold himself back from draining what's left in the cup. It feels like he's asking for some sort of secret he's desperate to know. Since when has he had control of anything in his life?

"How do you do that? Make it do what you want?"