Motion on a fourth dimensional plane
Note: Egad...I really took my sweet time on this one...
Writer's block sucks ass. I struggled writing this chapter, and I continue to do so for Eve of Fate. I could partly blame having been accidentally introduced to Strawberry Panic! for my apparent lack of writing flair during the past week or two. Seriously, I never expected me to be suddenly so...interested...in an anime about lesbian schoolgirls. Not as much fanservice as one might expect, a few 'boner-inducing moments' here and there, but the series is sweet and cute in its own way. Great, now I'm hooked to that and kindly waiting for the next episodes.
Not much to say about this chapter - Sergeant Randall gets interrogated, almost exclusively by Naru and Motoko. Not as much torture as I expected, but a bit of flashback and introspection regarding Randall's character. I plan on a writing a few chapters like these - ones where he remembers his life, what came to be for him, his motives, and all the parts to define his character. Sergeant Randall is a character with an interesting background, from what I'm hoping to develop. He's a badass, but more of an intellectual badass, and I plan to develop that further. For now, he's going to have to survive an interrogation by the residents of Hinata Sou. Otherwise, not much is going on.
Chapter 4: Regret Nothing
POW – prisoner of war.
I've been declared a prisoner of war once, three years back. I was serving in the most volatile and most hellish place on earth – the Ural Front.
The War began on June 23, 2142, after nearly ten years of sabre rattling and hollow threats between the Commonwealth and the Bloc. The main forces of the two sides met at the Ural Mountains, and The War began there. The Bloc came in with a nearly infinite supply of soldiers, while the Commonwealth met numbers with technological supremacy. In spite of whatever advancements either side had for use, The War turned into a stalemated, conventional war reminiscent of the First World War. Long trench lines were drawn and dug up, artillery was set up at whatever good vantage points possible, and worse, landmarks and important tactical locations were constantly being taken and retaken, hundreds to thousands of soldiers dying in the process for matters of feet and inches.
Within the first few weeks of fighting, the little saying 'I died at the Urals' suddenly became the only way to describe the intensity of fighting there and the affects on the soldiers. When first heard, the quote only seemed to refer to dying, but it had far greater meaning than merely death. The civilians would never understand it, but the shell-shocked faces of young men turning into soldiers in the thick mud and cold of the Ural Front would know exactly what it meant.
I knew exactly what it meant after being captured.
My unit was ordered to hold the recently secured city of Ufa. We were hit by a force of Bloc infantry possibly six times our size. Within the course of an hour, we had lost our position, lost half of our guys, and the remainder that included me was captured, while the lucky few were merely routed and escaped safely. I spent two months in a Bloc POW camp located inside the city of Chelyabinsk, before I was liberated by a fellow Commonwealth unit.
Something happened to me when I emerged from the camp, while the medic checked me over after a pair of soldiers carried my crippled and broken body out. I suddenly realized what the saying, 'I died in the Urals', meant. I rejoined my unit after a brief hiatus and continued to fight shortly after. From that point on, my beliefs and mindset was developed, and have stayed with me to this day.
Being captured yet again wouldn't make me fall into some state of post traumatic stress disorder – I wasn't traumatized that much - but it brought back some memories. Interrogation and torture were bad enough, but I had yet to see how the residents of Hinata Inn would do this.
Did they have the guts to do torture? Well, probably. Come to think about it, they probably wouldn't have a problem with killing me. I think the better question to ask was whether I was going to make it out of this alive. But hey, I survived two months in a Bloc POW camp – how bad was this going to be?
Should I have handed myself in, though? Was that the most tactically sound option? The Commonwealth had regulations that stated it was better if a soldier would not interact with civilians, but if unavoidable, interaction was accepted, so long as the soldier reports in and returns back to friendly units as soon as possible, lest they be charged for desertion. During that, Article 4-C comes into affect – I could interact, but I can't reveal any mission-specific intelligence. I had no problem with following those rules, but how would they apply now – when I'm in a completely different time era?
Screw the bureaucratic bullshit - what was there even to reveal? None of the information I knew would even apply to the residents.
Regulations aside, should I have done this? I'm not exactly on good terms with the residents anyways, and with all the incidents that have occurred, handing myself in didn't seem so good. Well, on the other hand, what choice did I have? I have nowhere else to go, I'm marooned more than a century in the past, and trying to constantly hide and evade the residents seemed unrealistic, especially seeing how I might be stuck here for awhile. Better to apologize, hand myself in, and stay low without worrying.
I'm morbidly curious, however. Assuming I survive all this and make it back to my time era, would these details be considered? Would there be another section added onto the Commonwealth Military Command's Procedures and Regulations Document that applied specifically towards random temporal displacements? Better yet, could I get it named after myself – the Randall Code, or some other long and fancy abbreviated title using my last name?
I started to chuckle. I was already going to be remembered for possibly being the first time traveller, but if I would also be remembered by such a thing, then hell, I'll go for it.
All in all, it was an entertaining thought. On the plus side, it would keep me at least partially entertained during this otherwise bleak situation. Thoughts such as that are normal for soldiers, more or less part of our strange sense of humour that develops after time. Nothing beat the good old 'Alert, alert, alert!' routine back at rifle qualification, though. The rule was, if your rifle jammed, you'd throw it on the ground, stand up and start flapping your arms screaming 'Alert, alert, alert!' while running around in circles.
For almost no reason whatsoever, that still cracks me up all the time. Whether it was because it was almost completely random or because we've jokingly told new soldiers that and watched them do that, I have yet to conclude.
The room I woke up in was small. The walls were wooden panelling, and other than a tiny lamp hanging form the ceiling, and the door in front of me, there was nothing else in the room. I was sitting in a chair located in the centre of the room. I tried to move – only to find that I was constrained to the chair. Thick ropes were wrapped around my chest and with the chair, with my hands tied behind my back. The chair wasn't secured to the floor, but my ankles were tied to the chair legs. I wouldn't be able to move if I truly wanted to.
Well, so far I had to give them credit for being able to prepare, at least. They had me secured in a small and isolated room – the near perfect conditions for an interrogation. They had gone a bit overboard on the ropes, but otherwise, almost near perfect. All they needed now was a small barred window in the corner somewhere, some dirt and shit on the floor, and they'd have a great interrogation room.
Or, at least that was what my interrogation room at the POW camp was somewhat like, minus all the ropes.
From the feel of things, I still had my suit and my combat armour on. I had taken the liberty of removing my helmet when I had confronted the residents, as part of a friendly gesture. Unfortunately, that only meant having my head exposed for Shinobu to make a lucky hit. My weapons were gone – no surprise. I was thankful I still had my armour. It meant the residents didn't try to remove it, and because of that, the kill mechanisms in the suit didn't trigger, leaving me with an intact piece of Commonwealth military equipment. I preferred to stay in my suit, especially here. I was curious as to whether I still had my lighter equipment on me, but I was in no place to check.
The door then opened and the light above me shut off. A single bright beam of light then shined into my face. It took a moment for my retinas to recover. As I did, I then realized Kitsune's face was right next to mine. The bright spotlight, being directed entirely onto me, resulted in the area surrounding me to be left in darkness. Kitsune's fox-like face was shrouded in the dark, giving her a relatively unkind and evil appearance. I could hear shuffling in the room. Due to the lighting, I couldn't see them. If I had to guess, though, everybody else was coming in to interrogate me as well.
Suddenly, I felt something hit the side of my head. The force of the impact pushed the chair and I to the ground. Overtop of me stood Su, with her foot planted on my head. If I had to guess, it was her foot that got me.
"What did you do with Mecha-Tama-chan?" she demanded, her tone of voice definitely not threatening. Her actions, on the other hand, made up for that. She continued to apply pressure onto my head.
"Su, we'll worry about your Mecha-Tama later," a new voice, Haruka's, said. "We need to get some actual information out of him."
"Aw, but I couldn't find my Mecha-Tama – he must have reprogrammed it! He wants to use it against me!"
Su then kicked me in the face. Her Mecha-Tama…it was that robotic turtle thing that attacked me the other night. I hit it with a ring airfoil round and it flew deep into Su's room. She couldn't find it? Interesting, since I sure as hell didn't do anything to it other than shoot it. Su then eased off, and I then felt the chair be lifted up and off the ground and back into place.
"So, are you ready to talk?" Kitsune asked me. Her tone of voice was, on one side, cold and harsh, but on the other somewhat inquisitive and seductive. It suited her well.
"My name is Sergeant Randall. I'm a soldier from the Commonwealth-"
SMACK!
Suddenly, a hand flew out from practically nowhere and struck across my face. The side of my face stung from the strike and I felt my head recoil to the side. It wasn't a direct punch, but rather, the backside of somebody's hand. It felt strangely familiar, though. It was difficult to tell, but I could see the shape of somebody else standing there. It had to be Naru who hit me.
"We'll ask you the questions and you'll answer when we say you can, pervert!"
That was definitely Naru. Somehow, I had the feeling that single hit wasn't going to be the last one I was going to feel. Still, her calling me a 'pervert' was interesting. I suppose it had to do with me hiding in the changing room closet. I definitely needed to clear that one up as soon as possible.
"Answer Kitsune's question."
"Listen, this whole interrogation thing isn't really necessary, I can explain everything-"
SMACK!
"What did I just say?" Naru asked again, her voice slowly getting irate and impatient. I shrugged off the hit, reorienting myself as best I could. At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if my jaw shatters or something. Oh well. I suppose all I could do in this position was play along.
"Yes, I'm ready to talk."
The first few minutes of an interrogation often presented you with what you were going to expect for the next while or so. Not necessarily what the entire interrogation was going to be like, but what the initial encounter was going to be. So far, it was physical force every time I either refuse to answer or if I suddenly stall. I wasn't surprised, but an interrogation starting with physical force means they would gradually increase the amount of punishment over time. Luckily, it also meant they would stop at a certain point and use more relaxed methods.
"Alright then," Kitsune began, leaning back into a chair. "What's your name?"
"Randall."
"First and last name?" Naru then added.
Was I supposed to answer that? Didn't they already have my name? I really didn't want to answer that, personal reasons, actually. Should I answer it? Well, if I wanted to avoid another beating, then yes, but still…
I could see the outline of Naru raise a hand. I immediately braced myself.
"Hold up, Naru, we don't need to do that," Haruka's calm and emotionless voice then said. "We've already gotten his last name, and that's good enough already."
Naru then eased off. Good, I wasn't going to get hit, at least not now.
"What's your rank, soldier?" Haruka asked.
"Sergeant First Class."
"Serial number?"
Damn, Haruka actually knew what to ask. By sheer coincidence, name, rank, and serial, as it was back when the regulations of the Geneva Conventions were still in affect, were still deemed the universal questions any soldier could answer when captured. She wouldn't know about that coincidence, but then again, I suppose she still thought of me as a regular, 20th century soldier.
"MLCR-740-59L-4A56-B558."
Technically speaking, the word 'serial number' wasn't even close to being right for describing that long train of numbers and letters. The first few letters corresponded with my unit, and the others were created based off of an overly complex number scheme that related to everything else about me. I wasn't exactly sure, but apparently, details regarding my height, age, weight, and date of birth upon enlisting were taken in, put through some algorithm, and the numbers were created. It ensured a unique identification code for each soldier.
It explained why it was so long and complex. It also explained why there was a moment of silence amongst the residents who were interrogating me. Haruka probably wasn't expecting a 22nd century Commonwealth military serial number.
"Okay, moving on…"
"What are you doing at Hinata-Sou?" Naru demanded.
"I don't know, something messed up, and I ended up here."
SMACK!
…Christ, this girl can hit. I shook off the hit as best I could, and kept my head pointed forward. At best, I could keep my head up and at least show them I'm not joking around. It helps to do so in any interrogation, also to keep your morale and dignity up. From what I know, interrogators would always go for that in order to break their captive. Would the residents of Hinata Inn try that?
"You…don't…know?" Naru specifically made her question slow, sounding off each word carefully. In particular, she didn't sound surprised. She then began to pace around me. In my mind, I created an image of her in a trench coat and a military-style cap, especially reminiscent of World War II Nazi officer. Strangely, Naru would apparently look quite fashionable in that attire, in a cute, yet frightening way.
SMACK!
Naru had hit me yet again, this time on the other side of my face. I found myself violently knocked over in the other direction. Every muscle I tried to move in my face stung and burned, as though somebody was pressing hot irons to my face. I was lucky she had taken her frustrations on this side of my face other than the other, in which she had hit three times already.
"We know you're lying!" Naru shouted right next to my ear, now obviously agitated. "What are you doing at Hinata-Sou?"
Again, she was asking that same question.
"I told you, I don't know," I replied. Strangely, part of my voice sounded as though it was pleading. Well, whatever works, I suppose. "I don't know what happened, I just woke up and I was here."
There was an eerie moment of silence. Based off the sudden stoppage of sound, even Naru had stopped walked. How were they going to accept that type of answer? Better yet, how would I tell them the truth? How were they going to take the answer that I was a soldier from the 22nd century? Would they even believe it, or would they simply beat me even more for supposedly lying? I braced myself yet again – I had the strange suspicion I was going to meet Naru's hand once again.
Strangely, it never came.
"Let's start with something you do know," Naru then said, changing the topic. She resumed her pacing, slowly walking in front of me and back to where she had started. "Why were you in the women's changing room?"
Figures – she was bound to have asked that question sooner or later.
"It was an accident, I swear-"
SMACK!
"Why were you in the women's changing room?"
I shook off the hit. The side of my face felt stiff and swollen. I didn't worry – my nanites were already onto it. They would help in the recovery process for any type of wounds or injury. While the painkillers were being injected at full speed, I could still feel the pain. For a moment, all I did was groan in pain. I think the resident took that as my response. There was then a sudden swing of a sword, and the tip of a katana then materialized in front of me.
"Speak now, vile scum! What were you doing watching a trio of innocent maidens?"
From the looks of it, Motoko had joined in. Fun…
"I was hiding, and the only place I could hide at was the closet."
I was speaking the truth – honestly, for once, I suppose. I could see Motoko's face in little detail, but whatever I could pick out screamed of anger and annoyance. She then swiftly pulled her sword back. Was she pulling back? Was she satisfied enough with my answer?
"ZANGAKEN!"
Suddenly, those familiar, swirling forces picked up and contacted against me just as they did before on the many occasions Motoko swung her sword. I was thrown back along with the chair, the only thing stopping me being the back of the room itself. The force of the impact was violent and absolutely brutal. The back of my head hit the wall, leaving me with a rather disorienting feel. I could feel the chair, myself included, be lifted back into place by a pair of unknown assistants. As soon as I was back in place, I had less than a quarter of a second to realize there was a fist heading straight for my face. Naru's near patented punch – there wasn't much to describe about it. It was strong, and it hurt like hell.
"Liar!" Naru screamed, moving my head back in place and winding up for another strike. The fact that she was holding onto the top of my suit was all that prevented the chair and me from flying back into the wall as her fist made contact with my face yet again.
"You were watching us, weren't you, you pervert? Why else would you be hiding in a closet, in a women's changing room?"
Grabbing onto my head yet again and moving it into place, she threw yet another punch. As with all the other hits, my head was thrown back violently. Even before I could recover, Naru struck the side of my face with the back of her hand, throwing my head around in the other direction. At this point into the interrogation, I had taken a great deal of punishment. When I recovered, I leaned to the side and spit out the blood forming in my mouth.
"You're cleaning that up, y'know" Kitsune commented.
"I had emerged from below the hot springs," I then began to explain. "I entered the building via the changing rooms and I was going to enter the rest of the building. I hid in the only possible hiding spot possible when I found you, Kitsune, and Motoko closing in. I did not intend to watch any of you during that time."
Would they buy that? Well, seeing how Naru and Motoko are out to crucify me as soon as possible for even thinking about heading into the changing room, they surely would not. In the back of my mind, I tried to think of a way to end this. I needed to tell the real truth – I am a soldier, over a century out of place. I tried to think of the proper words to explain it, or something that at least didn't sound stupid. My thoughts were interrupted as Motoko's sword came into view. The very tip of the side of the blade reached the bottom of my chin and raised my head up. I was thankful she wasn't going to decapitate me – not yet, at least.
"Is that the truth?" Motoko's voice, shrouded in the darkness, asked.
As she did, Naru leaned in closer, allowing me to see her face. If I had to guess, she was trying to examine what I would do when I reply to Motoko's somewhat rhetorical question. Naru actually looked almost the same as every other interrogator – clean and pristine, with an expression caught somewhere between angry and uninterested. This was quite the typical appearance, especially for a female interrogator. Particularly with Naru, she didn't look as dangerous, but I had no doubt that she would rip my head off with her bare hands and beat me to death with it the first chance she got. Still, I had to admit, in spite of how much she has beaten me, I held nothing against her. She was here to get answers, and if I were in a similar position, I would do the same.
Hell, my methods of interrogation would have been even more extreme.
"I swear by all the religions of the earth and by all written and unwritten civilian and military laws, I speak nothing but the truth."
An awkward minute or so passed, before Motoko then retracted she sword and Naru pulled away from my face. Well, I was somewhat relieved I wasn't going to be hit. I say only 'somewhat' because they still would, in a matter of minutes if I did something wrong. I then felt Naru's hands grab hold around my neck and pulled me out, with her moving in closer.
"If you're lying, we will punish you" she threatened in a menacing tone of voice. She then pushed me back into the chair and walked back into the darkness.
"What is your unit?" Haruka then asked.
"I can't answer that."
Wait, what did I just say? Shit, it was my preconditioned response to that question, as part of our training. While name, rank, and serial was fine, asking for the unit was not. I had barely enough time to even realize it was a mistake when I heard Motoko shout her 'Zangaken' yet again and swing her sword. Same as before, I hit the wall, my head lopped around, ready to break off from my neck, and then somebody bothered to pull the chair and my attached self back into place. Stupid answer…
"I don't think 'I can't answer that' is a good answer!" Naru was shouting right next to me, with one hand holding my head in place. She then raised her hand.
SMACK!
Why didn't I see that one coming? Naru backed off again, leaving me to cough up more blood.
"Sergeant Randall," Haruka then began. "As you can see, Ms. Narusegawa and Ms. Aoyama are not pleased by any inconclusive answers. I understand you are under military regulations to resist interrogation and to withhold information, but this will go on for as long as possible until you explain everything necessary. I will ask again - what is your unit?"
"Ma'am, with all due respect, I can't answer that" I replied. "I can explain-"
I could see Naru's figure raise a hand. She looked as though she was going to strike at me, seeing how she always did so when I gave an answer less than constructive. Naru stopped part of the way through, possibly being ordered so by Haruka.
"And why is that?" Haruka inquired.
What could I answer with? Sticking by pure military regulations was necessary, but doing so was going to get me killed in a small room far from my own world. Then again, my refusal to answer bought me some time to think of an answer, in particular, one to explain who I really was.
"My unit does not technically exist."
There then seemed to be a brief moment of confusion amongst the interrogators. I was anticipating Naru to hit be again, but strangely, it never came. I could see, but whatever general outlines and shapes I could see moving in the background told me they were all in disagreement about what I was talking about.
"Does not exist, literally, or figuratively?" Haruka asked.
Come to think about it, to say that my unit technically does not exist was the wrong answer to use. It could be implied that either I'm a psychopathic or mentally unstable person lurking around the area claiming to be part of a nonexistent military unit, or worse, that I'm part of a Black Ops team, the type that officially doesn't exist. The latter would be a terrible one – able to account for my advanced equipment and weapons.
"My unit does not exist now," I explained. "But will in a little less than a century and a half. I'm not from this era, I'm from the future."
Another moment of silence then washed over the occupants of the room. This one was much longer than the previous ones. In this moment of silence, I had then realized how stupid my last bit was. Should I speak now and give them further details? It was awfully tempting, but staying quiet was as well.
The bright spotlight then shut off, and the dim lamp above me turned on. At that instant, I could see the entire room and all its occupants. Turns out, everybody was there – Kitsune sat in a chair to my front right, Naru stood opposite to her, almost right where I was, and Motoko had her sword readied in front of me. Su and Sarah sat in the corner with a rather horrified Shinobu watching on. If I had to guess, the severity of Naru's beatings and the affects they had on me were too much for her to take. Keitaro stood nearby in the other corner, watching on.
Haruka then gently nudged Motoko aside and walked up towards me. She was dressed in an apron with the words 'Hinata Teahouse' printed on the front, and she was without her near trademark cigarette hanging in the corner of her mouth.
"Explain what you've just said" she told me, plain and simple.
"I'm a soldier from the year 2145," I explained. "I woke up, and found myself here, and all that has happened so far as resulted in general chaos."
"2145?" Kitsune asked. The fox's curiosity was suddenly peaked. "You mean, 2145, as in the future?"
"If you consider one hundred and forty-six years to be far enough into the future, than yes," I replied, somewhat able to insert humour into the situation. It was actually quite funny – I was sitting, tied up in a chair, bloodied and beaten, and I was here cracking a joke.
"You expect us to believe that?" Naru was certainly not pleased. Actually most of the residents were not. My ultimate answer sounded stupider than anything they've possibly heard.
"Easy, Naru, we've gotten as much out of him for now," Haruka said, holding up a hand and stopping Naru from hitting me yet again. "Everybody, take a break, we'll continue this later."
Everybody then piled out of the room. I was left in solitude as the door in front of me closed shut and locked. Relief, at least, I suppose. My face burned and itched. Every time I opened my mouth, I could feel the sides of my face protest. Motoko's sword technique, if it was one, did surprisingly little damage to me other than toss me around, but Naru's hand was simply devastating. I pushed all thoughts of my wounds aside. This actually wasn't too bad. During the two months spent in a Bloc POW camp, I suffered far worse. Along the front and back of my chest, I had numerous burn marks, where a Bloc interrogator pressed welding irons onto me. I had remains of lashes still left from when an interrogator brought out a whip and started to hit me to try and get information. I was even missing a section of skin and flesh in my thigh – part of a chilling interrogation technique I had to endure. It was where the interrogator would slowly slice into your thigh with a sharpened trowel, cutting slices and sections of flesh off every hour or so, claiming he will keep doing so until he slices the femoral artery and leave me bleeding to death in an isolated sewage hole, unless I answer his questions.
Particularly, the interrogators made it abundantly clear that they did not care for our lives, and that whatever information we knew, they would eventually get, the difference being, whether we would have to die a slow and painful death during that process. That revelation and the thought of the torture on its own were terrifying for anybody, particularly those experiencing war for the first time. The interrogator had missed my femoral artery by two millimetres before he had to move onto the next soldier.
What made that entire process even worse was how the interrogators did so for enjoyment. They actually didn't care for what information the prisoner would give them – even if the soldier talked, they'd continue with the torture just to watch the soldier squirm as he would bleed to death, especially after they slice through the artery.
Comparing what I have experienced now to what I experienced back then, this was alright. It was still quite brutal and painful, but nothing that would match that same POW camp. At least, not until Motoko starts dismembering me limb by limb.
Thoughts of the previous interrogation aside, I started to look towards the door. What were they talking about out there? Did they believe my somewhat unbelievable claims? Were they amazed that I was something from the far future? Or, were they simply discussing how much bullshit my story seemed to be?
"He's lying! That doesn't even make sense!"
I couldn't hear what they were saying, but anything up to a certain volume was discernable. As of now, I figure at least Naru wasn't buying it. I wouldn't blame her, since claiming to be from the future was a highly illogical claim. Beyond the door, I could hear more shouting and yelling. They were all in disagreement on what to do with me. It was difficult to tell, but it sounded as though they were discussing other methods of interrogation. Either they were simply sadistic, or they needed a way to prove I was from the future.
The voices then went silent for a moment, and continued so for a few minutes. After those few minutes, I heard footsteps. The door then opened, and Kitsune walked in first. Instantly, I noticed what she was wearing. If I had to guess, it was a police officer's outfit, however, that would have only applied to the hat and the shirt she wore. The other part of her outfit comprised of a short miniskirt that ended only halfway up her thigh, proving a rather gratuitous view of her long legs. Other than that, she was complete with all the rest – a nightstick, pepper spray, and an authentic looking picture identification card pinned to her shirt. Most would find themselves unable to turn their attention from the revealing costume, but I found myself worrying about whether the pepper spray or the nightstick was going to be involved.
After her walked Naru and Motoko, both dressed in the same outfit. While Kitsune looked as foxy as ever, Naru and Motoko looked less than pleased. The idea of them being dressed in such a provocative manner probably didn't seem as appealing in their minds.
"Soooo…Sergeant Randall, am I right?" Kitsune asked as she sat down, crossing her legs. There was a definite emphasis on the motion of her legs. Her short skirt seemed to be part of that motion in particular.
Motoko rushed forward and grabbed hold of the front of my chest and pulled me forward. In angry eyes and face hovered slightly more than an inch from my face. She held her sword in the other and looked ready to strike.
"You will tell us the real truth you foul, deceitful coward and debauchee!"
"'I'm from the future?' What sort of BS is that? You came here to watch us you pervert! The penalty for peeping is death!" Naru, who was suddenly next to Motoko, screamed into my face. She held her fist high and looked ready to commence beating me into a bloody pulp.
"Hold up a minute…'scuse me…"
Kitsune then pushed the two angry women aside and came face to face with me. While Motoko and Naru were tense and agitated, Kitsune had an unusual calm aura to her that I just couldn't identify where it was coming from. Was it her eyes, which were partially opened now, revealing a seductive, yet beautiful pair of light brown eyes? Was it with her smooth and silky voice, in a tone neither critical nor mad?
Or was it the apparent fact that part of her shirt was unbuttoned and that she wasn't wearing a bra?
"Listen, Randall, you've seen what these two can do, and I'm sure it isn't fun for you," Kitsune said, almost purring, as she ran a hand up and down my chest, which didn't actually do anything, due to the ropes and my armour. "We can all play it nice and I can keep them off of you if you talk a bit. And besides, if you talk, maybe the two of us can have a bit of fun ourselves…"
Huh…that was something…under normal circumstances that would have been the greatest thing anybody could ever hear. My mind sped along in a great blur, trying to find some type of answer. Should I answer in the typical, uncaring, by-the-books military manner? Should I make some witty or suave one-liner? Well, should I make a one-liner, assuming I knew any? My mind settled for something in between, much to my disappointment.
"This is the Good Cop/Bad Cop routine, right?"
Kitsune then stopped, as did Naru and Motoko. Kitsune, who was previously all over me, discussing her definition of 'fun' suddenly looked at me with a shocked glance that differed almost completely. Somehow, I had the feeling I just killed the mood. Damn it, it just happens to be the one thing that I excel at.
"Wow, he's really bright." It was all Kitsune could say as she looked towards Naru and Motoko almost timidly.
"He knows?" Naru asked, severely disappointed.
"The Good Cop/Bad Cop routine is an interrogation technique often employed by members of law enforcement," I began to explain in a dry and almost educational voice. "It often involves two police officers, in this case three, one who plays the 'bad' role, meant to degrade the captive, and the other playing the 'good' role, where they pretend to act supportive for the captive to encourage them to talk."
The three women stood there, staring at me as though I had said the most shocking and most controversial statement ever.
"This technique actually doesn't work," I continued, pulling up the random bits of information that I knew. "It only works on those who are either very young, or those who have never heard of the technique. During the first half of the 21st century, the technique made its way into popular culture and the media, and as a result of it now being well known, it is no longer used for interrogation."
Again, there was another moment of silence. Were they shocked, or did they have nothing to say?
"Your amount of intelligence is almost astonishing" Motoko finally said, her statement differing in the way that it wasn't meant to completely insult me.
"How did you know?" Kitsune asked, suddenly sitting down to listen carefully for my answer.
"Well, for starters, all three of you walked in with police uniforms," I said, stating the obvious. "And my training also consisted of being taught all the current and past forms of interrogation, to either recognise or properly utilise when needed. Since the Good Cop/Bad Cop routine is well known, we are required to know it, as with several other methods."
"So, what actually works, in your opinion?" Kitsune asked.
"I usually don't do interrogations, but it would depend on the person," I explained. "You do a few things to them first to see how resilient they are, and then you apply the proper techniques. Generally speaking, I've seen drug and chemical induced interrogations work best and when combined with psychological effects such as white noise or discomfort, they usually start talking. Interrogations haven't been necessary in my time as much due to the abundance of computerised and digital information to access and analyse for intelligence."
Well, this was going quite strange. A few moments ago, Naru and Motoko were ready to put my head through the wall and Kitsune had some rather intriguing ideas in mind, but now, I was talking to the three of them about how to properly interrogate a prisoner. I was teaching my interrogators how to interrogate me.
Is there even a larger example of irony?
"Alright, that's enough!" Naru angrily thrust herself between Kitsune and me, ending our little conversation. "This isn't working; let's get out of here."
With that, the three left, leaving me, again, in solitude. Outside, there was more talking. If I had to guess, it was probably those three talking about how Kitsune's idea did not work. I tried to move in a bit closer, as much as I could despite being tied down in my chair. If I focused, I could hear a bit more of their conversation.
"Haruka-san, do you have some drugs? Y'know, the stuff you'd need for getting a guy to talk?"
"I think I might. I'll check my medicine cabinet later."
"I hope that would work. This plan was humiliating, Kitsune-san."
"Hey, look on the bright side, Motoko-chan – you look really good in that police outfit."
"What was that? Urashima, you dog!"
"Wait, no, I didn't mean that! No, wait, stop!"
"ZANGAKEN!"
Suddenly, Keitaro flew, and broke, straight through the door and landed face first right next to me. Through the now opened doorway, I could see Motoko with her sword drawn. Everybody else stood behind her, mixed between amused and worried for their manager. I looked down at his crumpled form, as he slowly got back to his feet.
"How nice of you to join me."
"Don't make me give you some payback for always attacking me!" Keitaro threatened. He did have a point – of all the residents, Keitaro was the sole individual that I've shot or attacked in some other way.
I looked up at him, and then laughed.
"I'd like to see you try, shrimp."
"Don't call me shrimp!"
Keitaro then balled his fist up and threw a punch. I quickly moved my head in the same direction of his fist. His knuckles contacted against the top of my head. Compared to Naru's fist, Keitaro's was the equivalent of being playfully punched at by a toddler. It didn't hurt me all at. After his punch, I came out practically wanting more. I couldn't say the same for Keitaro.
"Arrgh…that hurts…my hand…" Keitaro did his best to nurse his injured hand.
My head: 1, Keitaro's fist: -1. Was that not the perfect score?
"You idiot! You call that a punch?"
Naru then walked up to me and threw one of her trademarked punched at my face. The force of the impact threw my head around again. After I recovered, I turned to the side and spit out even more blood.
"You see, now that was a punch" I managed to push out after shaking off the hit.
The group of eight then came through the opening where there was once a door and gathered around me. Haruka was the first up. She took a whiff of her cigarette before she started talking.
"As interesting as you claim of being from the 22nd century is…we're going to need something a bit more concrete and believable than that."
"You must believe me," I said. "Come on, my weapons, my armour, my insignia – you've never seen any of them before, so how would you explain all of that?"
"Prototype equipment? That's always one possibility."
That was quite a logical statement. For all she knew, I could be a regular soldier part of a special team given new and prototype equipment to use. I tried to think of another argument – I could list out the companies who built my assault rifle, show them were their names were printed, and ask if they've ever heard of it, I could explain a bit about the powders inside my caseless ammunition and how several chemical compounds in it have yet to be synthesised, I could even tell them about my helmet and how different it was from anything they know about. It felt like my ultimate solution, but I didn't feel as easy revealing future specific information to them.
"I've got it!"
Su then practically flew into the room as though unaffected by gravity, holding a small device that looked much like an old-fashioned virtual reality headset. It was red in colour with a highly ornate symbol of an eye printed over it, and with wires running down from the side. With the flick of her foot, a small television set then flew into the room after Su as well. Quite comically, it happened to land on Keitaro, bringing him down to the floor in a crumbled heap just as before.
"Wait, is that…" Naru looked and pointed towards the small device.
"Yep, it's the Virtual-kun! We'll hook it up to him and see what's really on his mind"
"Wait a minute, just hold on," I protested. "Listen, Su, I'll give you back your hard drive, if you don't hook me up to…whatever that thing is. Just hear me out, we can negotiate."
Kitsune then put her hand on my shoulder, looking down at me with a smirk.
"Too late, buddy, we already found Su's hard drive. You've got nothin' now."
Keitaro was helped by Shinobu, and they both set the television set up, while Su hooked cables up to it. It was some type of display, that was for sure, but what was it supposed to do.
"Don't worry, we'll know real soon if you're lying" Haruka said, reassuringly, I suppose.
"I tell you, I'm not lying. I AM from the future!" I protested yet again, only to find it falling upon deaf ears.
As soon as it was finished, the TV was switched on, providing only static. Su then triumphantly raised the Virtual-kun over her head.
"Virtual-kun, go!"
She then threw the small device towards me. I moved as much as I could, but the device landed and latched over top of my eyes. It wasn't turning on just yet, but I swear, I had the feeling this wasn't going to be any good.
"Shinobu-chan, do you still have your frying pan here?" Naru asked.
"Hm? Oh, it's over here. Why?"
"Can I borrow it for a second?"
Wait…this definitely could not be good. I had no time to think about it any longer, just as I felt the hard metal of a frying pan strike the back of my head. I then drifted back into unconsciousness.
…My head…
Everything was a blur. As I opened my eyes, everything I could see was dark and featureless. Everything was quiet for all but a few seconds, of which when I could hear it all – the sound of a magazine being released from its weapon.
I blinked, and I found myself riding inside an APC. The already cramped interior of the vehicle was made more so by the other fully armoured Commonwealth soldiers sitting inside. There were eight of us in there, and one of them picked up his fallen magazine from his lap and slowly loaded it into his IW52. With the press of the magazine release, the magazine fell out again, and onto his lap.
"Anything wrong with your weapon, Baker?" our squad leader, Sergeant First Class W. Hargrove, asked.
"No, Sergeant."
"Then quit screwing around with it."
Someplace in the back of my mind, this all seemed familiar. I had seen and felt all this before, I swear. It was there, but it wasn't. I looked around, my HUD showing the IFF tags for the others part of 2nd Squad.
"I can't believe Corporal Randall's back so soon" Private First Class J. Delacroix commented, his chipper voice partially accented in his native French.
"You got that right Del," PFC B. Haverson, seated in the corner of the APC, added. "What was it, two months in a POW camp, three days in a field hospital, half a week back home, and he's back out here with us losers? I tell ya, the guy's a freaking machine."
"Randall IS a machine, Haverson," PFC G. Ostergard, a lean and athletic soldier from Sweden sitting next to me, answered. "Most of us would have spent another week and a half in the field hospital, maybe longer after that. We sure as hell wouldn't be back out here any time soon."
"I'll bet Randall's back out to waste some Bravo," PFC R. Galloway, a heavyset soldier hailing from Scotland, said, patting my shoulder. "Those sons-of-bitches are about to learn what 'payback' is."
I remember all this. This was 2nd Squad, back when I was still a Corporal. All these men…most would perish in a matter of weeks. I would inherit command of the squad a few ranks later. Not that it really mattered. This was the original 2nd Squad, with the original soldiers that made it was it was. It was like a dynasty that we all knew and respected. When it would come to its end, I would have to start another, with me as the head and with a new group of individual underneath me.
"How're the folks, Randall?" Ostergard then asked me. I knew him since basic training, and he was the closest thing I had to a real friend.
"Better yet, how's your sister?" he then added, emphasising the last part.
"Worried," I replied, not saying much. "And no, Lynette is not interested."
The others in the APC then broke out laughing with Galloway reaching out and gently punching Ostergard's shoulder. Ever since I had accidentally let slip that I had a sister younger than me by three years, the entire squad made it its personal duty to try, rather unsuccessfully, to get to know her better. Ostergard and Galloway were the two idiots who did that the most. Ostergard apparently had plenty of luck with women in the past, and Galloway…well, his self-proclaimed nickname, 'The Sexy Scotsman', and his numerous bragging stories pretty much summed him up.
"Alright, cut the chatter and listen up," Hargrove said, his normally harsh bark reduced to a more calm and authoritative voice. "4 ID can't hold much longer. Bravo has been reinforcing with troops, armour, and they've probably got mortars and other arty pieces sighting in. Since we've gotten here faster, we'll hold out until we get armoured support. As soon as we hit the trenches, I want all guys on me! We're going to set up fifty metres left of the bunker. Make sure you're in position – all the other squads know where they're going, so y'all do the same."
Several affirmatives were grunted inside the APC.
The APC lumbered along, suddenly shook up as an explosion detonated right next to its hull. I could remember the adrenaline pumping through me as that happened, as the others yelled out and swore. It was a mortar, and it got quite close to hitting us. Close, but not close enough.
"How far are we?" Hargrove shouted at the driver.
"We're here!" the driver answered several seconds later. "Pile out, go, go, go!"
Everybody poured out of the APC. Just as we did, I looked up into the sky. There was very little blue sky above our heads. It was another cloudy day, whether by actual cloud or by the smoke from our weapons, I didn't want to know. Hargrove's IFF was brought up on my HUD, and I followed as close as possible. Thunder rumbled in the distance in a series of distinct beats. It was no ordinary thunder – they were the reports from Bloc artillery barrels.
"Incoming…!"
I had barely gotten into the trench and inside a hardened foxhole when the shells rained down on us. The foxholes were dug into the trench walls and had concrete and metal reinforcements. They extended far enough underground such that a soldier hiding in one wouldn't get hit by fragmentations, and were large enough for one to easily get in and out. Each impact shook the earth, throwing great plumes of smoke and dirt into the air. Along the trench, I could hear shouting and screaming – the foxholes were plenty and were able to protect a soldier from any amount of bombardment, but they depended solely on how fast the soldier could get their ass inside one.
All of 2nd Squad got into cover as the shells rained down upon us. My teeth shook and I struggle to stay upright as the forces of the artillery impacts tried to throw me about. My ears were deafened as the explosions rocked the trenches and small clouds of dust and dirt swirled about, violently changing shape and course as each shell found their mark.
The violent rain continued for a minute or two, and then stopped. There was no fancy end to an artillery bombardment, nor was there some way to anticipate one. The only warning a soldier would get was when the thunder suddenly stopped.
"They're coming! Go, go, go!"
Everybody emerged from their foxholes and took up positions along the trench. Sergeant Hargrove directed orders to the squad on where to spread ourselves out at. Sections of the trench that weren't reinforced were torn apart with wide impact craters and covered with soft mud. I struggled to move through the weakened ground, only to find something solid to step upon.
I looked down, and realized it was the remains of a soldier's chest. He was missing everything below the waist as well as both his arms. I looked back up and kept moving. That soldier was dead already. Following my waypoint marker, I set up at my location and sent an acknowledgement. Five metres to my right was Delacroix, and another five to my left was Galloway. All of us did the exact same routine – we checked out magazines, made sure our safeties were off and our HUD sights were switched on. We then supported our rifles on whatever solid material we could, and waited.
It wasn't a long wait. Within moments, our enhanced equipment either picked up Bloc soldiers charging straight for us, or we spotted them ourselves. The soldiers of the Eurasian Bloc were dressed in warm parkas with a rough camouflage pattern dyed on. Some wore obsolete helmets, while others went into battle wearing berets or ushankas. Their most notable features were the large rucksacks they had strapped to their backs, which must have weighed a nearly improbable amount for a soldier to carry. Most of them carried the usual Bloc self-loading rifles, the SLR3, while others ran in firing their A43 SMG's. The A43 was a design almost taken piece by piece from the legendary and iconic AK47. It was a crudely constructed weapon, but was exceptionally light in both weight and recoil. It was also a severely underpowered weapon, unable to do any harm.
As soon as I heard the gunshots, I squeezed off my first three-round burst, watching as it caught one of the lead soldiers in the chest. The way he dropped to the ground, face twisted in pain and with his weapon flying out of his hands, was nothing new or shocking to me. I made sure he went down, and then went for the next. Bullets snapped by my position, but none would hit me. I took aim again, this time at a Bloc soldier who stood still to try and aim. First rule about charging into battle: never stop to shoot, unless you've got a squad to give you suppressive fire. Due to him presenting himself as an easy target, I fired off my burst, the 6.8mm depleted uranium rounds tearing through his head, red gore erupting into the air.
I switched firing modes, from three-round burst to my utility launcher. I knew I had grenades loaded in its magazine. The sights in my HUD changed to grenade launcher sights. My HUD marked out the location of a group of Bloc soldiers charging in. They were grouped tightly together. The other rule about charging into battle: never group up. Anything more than five men packed closely together was a great opportunity for anybody with grenades. My rangefinders picked out their distance, and set up a marker for me to aim for. Raising my rifle, I lined up with the marker and fired.
The 20mm grenade left my barrel and landed in-between the group. When it detonated, dismembered and burnt bodies flew into the air, complemented by blood and gore. I switched back to three-round burst and resumed fire, picking off whoever came first.
"I'm out, loading!" Galloway shouted.
I made sure to keep up my fire as much as I could. A soldier reloading was an easy target for anybody to hit. By the time Galloway finished, my magazine ran dry. I quickly swapped magazines and resumed fire. The soldiers kept coming. It was just like the First World War – differences being automatic rifles and enhanced combat armour.
"Get your heads down!" a soldier from down the line shouted. "We've got mortars, incoming!"
The waves of Bloc troops then trickled to a stop. We had barely any time to get behind cover when we heard the distant pop's of mortars firing. A second later, segments of the trench detonated, throwing rocks and dirt into the air as the explosive shells rained down on us.
Suddenly, something landed in between Galloway and I. It had to have been a mortar shell. It must have been closer to me, though, since the force of the impact forced me to the ground quickly and violently, while Galloway fell much slower than I did. My muscles ached and protested as I tried to move. My HUD brought up a new display, showing the extent of my wounds. I ignored all of that – I saw Galloway fall as well. Was he alright? His vitals were stable, his EKG was a bit faster than usual, but he was alright. As the smoke cleared, I saw him stand back up.
"Randall? You're alright, lad?"
I tried to get back up, but I seemed to lack the energy to do so. Behind me, Delacroix rushed to my aid, checking for any serious wounds that were treatable on the field.
"Randall's down! Randall's down!"
"I'm fine, Del, I'm okay" I said, getting to my feet, also trying to look for my rifle, which was thrown off in some random direction when the shell landed.
I crumbled to the ground. My legs now screamed in agony. Looking down, I saw a bit of blood forming in that area. The shrapnel and fragmentations had gotten my legs. The display in my HUD showed it was generally nothing – the bone wasn't hit, at least. But it was enough to keep me down. Delacroix reached into one of his pouches and produced a small nanite injector. He removed its cap and stuck the nozzle end of it into one of the seals on my armour and activated it. I could a small prick on my skin as the nozzle extended and punched through my skin, then generating a cold, sick feeling as a small colony of over energized nanites were injected into my body. These nanites, when activated, would last only a half hour or so before they would decay, but they operated at an accelerated rate to repair cellular damage. They would move to my legs and begin working there in conjunction with my current colony of nanites to stop the bleeding and repair the damage.
"Bayonet charge!" a voice crackling over our audio cues then warned. "Stand your ground, Bravo's doing a bayonet charge!"
The bayonet charge – it was one of the oldest and most suicidal frontal attack strategies ever conceived by human minds. The Bloc, especially the soldiers with SLR3's, had grown adept at timing their charges with artillery bombardments. The SLR3's had long barrels, and when fitted with a reinforced titanium bayonet, it pretty much became a spear. While Commonwealth soldiers had better armour and weapons, we were at somewhat of a disadvantage at close quarters. Our IW52's were restricted to burst and single shot, and even if we had shotgun shells in our utility launchers, we would have only four shells to actually use. Our training readied and made us specialized for precise medium to long range combat. At a good vantage point, we could hold back Bloc infantry waves nearly indefinitely. But seeing how this trench and the area around here were mostly flat, we faced the possibility of close quarters combat if we couldn't pick them off quickly enough.
"Let's get you to safety, Randall," Delacroix said, dragging me along. "We'll hold this area and let you recover. Don't worry - I'll kill a few of them for you."
I couldn't actually argue with him. The shrapnel in my legs was bad enough that I couldn't stand on my own two feet. That made me a liability in trying to hold the trench. Within a few minutes, I could probably recover, but staying in the trench for those few minutes made me an easy target for a bayonet wielding Bloc soldier. The best bet was for me to either wait for the nanites to fix my legs while I stayed back either inside a foxhole or back at the bunker.
"Hurry up, Del!" Galloway shouted, firing at the incoming waves of Bloc infantry. "Get Randall to safety! I'll cover yer asses!"
Delacroix dragged me along the trench for a short distance before being forced to return fire. Galloway kept his fire up, taking down several Bloc soldiers to cover our move. Suddenly, I saw a spray of blood from his helmet. It had taken me much long than I had anticipated before I could realize there was a gunshot that went with it. Galloway stopped firing, and his body fell to the ground. The bulky computerized HUD that covered Galloway's eyes and once maintained the robotic image of him and the Commonwealth soldiers was smashed and broken with a single gaping bullet hole in the centre. And with that, Private First Class Robert Galloway, a heavyset native of Scotland, was dead.
"Galloway!" Delacroix shouted, watching helplessly as his comrade slumped to the ground.
There was nothing either of us could do now. Some would wallow in the self-pity that holding our position wouldn't have presented Galloway with such impossible odds to defend and fail against, but it wasn't my decision to be dragged away to safety because of my legs. Then again, it wasn't the sort of thought to be thinking. Galloway was a friend and fellow soldier. A few minutes ago, he was talking about me getting payback for the torture I endured from the Bloc, a few hours ago he had bribed the quartermaster into giving us extra grenades, and a few days ago, he was bragging about the various women he had scored on in his 'prime.' Now, in a matter of seconds, he was dead – gone. He was nothing but a corpse with a bullet hole in his upper cranium. We would never be able to talk to him ever again. I would never be able to tell him to 'lay off my sister', and then hear a witty and suave comeback from him. I would never be able to hear about his famous stories involving dozens of women and girlfriends.
Galloway was dead. That same message kept ringing through my head, again and again.
"Get down, Randall!" Delacroix screamed as he continued to fire at wave of Bloc infantry.
Bodies dropped to the ground and some flopped over the top and into the trench. Delacroix fired burst after burst, and then switched to his utility launcher, taking down an additional number of soldiers. Then, a lone Bloc soldier jumped into the trench, landing between my position and Delacroix's. He swung the stock of his rifle and had caught Delacroix at the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. The soldier then pointed and thrust the bayonet-fixed end of his weapon at Delacroix.
I could only watch on in horror as the bayonet impaled Delacroix through the throat. He struggled for a moment, his hands uselessly trying to push the rifle off of him as blood leaked out from where the bayonet entered. All of Delacroix's screams and curses were reduced to bloody gurgles as he clawed at the bayonet hilt. Delacroix then stopped moving, his hands slowly dropping to his side and his body suddenly ceasing all activity. Private First Class Jon Delacroix, a proud and determined native of France, was dead.
Delacroix was another friend and fellow soldier, as much so as Galloway. He was overwhelmingly proud of his heritage as a Frenchman, and would never allow anyone to insult him. He also never gave up. In the thick of pressure and under fire from all directions, he gave it his all and only stopped when everybody else not with him was either dead or dying in front of him. Delacroix was strict and always straight-to-business – the necessary personalities that I always figured would make him a fine officer in the near future. All of that no longer mattered now. Delacroix was dead, and he had now joined Galloway in the next plane of existence.
Could I have saved him? I had my sidearm – I could have done something. I could have warned Delacroix, I could have shot the Bravo before he got Delacroix, I could have saved Delacroix…
The Bloc soldier then proceeded to unceremoniously yank his bayonet out of Delacroix's throat. He set a foot on Delacroix's chest and kicked it forward as he pulled, the long blade sliding out of the dead soldier's throat. Delacroix was dead, and I did nothing to save him.
I then rose to my feet. I ignored every screaming muscle and wound in my legs as I staggered forward. I took another step to propel myself closer, and I was right at him. The soldier turned around and saw me, but I was already there. My momentum knocked him to the ground and I pinned him in place. I pushed away his rifle and began to throw punches and beat at his face. He blocked most of them, but those that got through struck him hard in the face. It wasn't enough. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to make the bastard pay for killing Delacroix.
My hands then reached for a jagged rock, slightly larger than my fist. It must have been formed from the mortar shells landing just before. I grabbed hold of it and raised it over my head. In that instant, I saw the expression in the soldier's face. His eyes were widened in fear and his mouth was open and pleading for mercy. He was looking at a faceless robot, with a sharp rock raised over him.
That's right, be scared, you son-of-a-bitch. You killed Delacroix, so now I'll kill you.
I struck him in the face with the sharpest end of the rock. I didn't stop there – I brought it up again and back down on his face. Each hit sprayed blood over top of my mask, and each hit resulted in pained screams from the soldier. It…was…not…enough! I quickened my pace, continuing to beat at him with the rock. I was screaming with each hit that registered, mixing swears and near-primal cries with my onslaught. The soldier's hands then weakened and gradually fell to his side and he slowly stopped screaming. I continued to beat him across the face with the rock. I had dropped the rock after the last hit, and I finally got a good look at this face, or rather, all that remained of it.
It was completely caved in. Everything that would have made him recognizable was gone – bludgeoned and ripped apart. Only a single torn and bloodied eye remained, as did a wide, gaping mouth that was screaming for me to stop moments ago. I picked up the discarded rock and struck the soldier's face one last time, just to make sure. He was dead, but hey, let's assume he isn't.
"STOP!"
I heard somebody scream. It was not anybody I recognized on the field. It was the cry from a small girl. I recognized the voice.
It was Shinobu.
Suddenly, everything snapped back into reality. I was staring into a blank device that covered my eyes. I shook my head, and it slid down and off my face. I wasn't inside a trench, wounded and having just killed another man right in front of me – I was at Hinata Inn, in another time era, inside a room where I was being interrogated for answers.
The entire room held its breath in a horrified silence. The television set displayed the last image I could remember – the Bloc soldier's already caved in face with the rock smashed into it. Everybody watched on in fear, as though unable to switch off the television set. Even Haruka, normally cool and calm under all situations, watched on in shock as the image on the television set registered with her. The person most affected by it was Shinobu. She huddled in her chair, sobbing and quaking. From what I could see, her entire face was drenched in tears. She had never seen somebody die, at least, not like that. Naru and Keitaro sat beside her and tried to console her.
That device, Su's 'Virtual-kun', could display memories or dreams. That battle was a recurring dream that could be considered to haunt me from time to time. It was the first time I had ever done that – killed somebody that close and with that much primal rage. It wasn't pretty, but being in the military, stuff like that was always bound to happen. That instance just had to happen then, and had to be shown now.
"Where was that?" Haruka then asked me.
"About fifty kilometres northeast of Perm, in the Ural Mountains" I answered.
"There aren't any trenches in the Ural Mountains" Haruka answered, in a state of disbelief.
"There aren't any today," Kitsune added, her usually curious and intrigued personality now dampened. "A hundred and forty-six years later…"
The realization then set in. They now knew who and what I was. Their interrogation had succeeded, and they got the information they sought, but was it worth it for them? Did they need to see that? Part of it told me it was necessary, but seeing the looks on their faces, I knew otherwise. Often, I felt civilians were too ignorant about the soldiers and the war. In this case, that same ignorance would have been bliss.
"I'm sorry, everybody."
As soon as I spoke up, everybody looked at me with raised eyebrows and confusion. No wonder – they had tied me up, they interrogated me, and the only answers I gave turned out to be the truth, and yet I was apologizing? Evidently, the forces of irony must have been having a field day or something.
"I know I needed to prove my point, but showing that bit was probably too much," I explained. "If it makes anybody feel any better, that was the only sort of kill I have ever made. I've never had to do that ever again."
"How many people have you even killed?" Naru then asked, in response to the last bit.
It was the usual and most dreaded question a soldier could be asked – the kill count. Civilians either horrified by war or knew nothing about it often asked returning soldiers. Those horrified by it wanted to know how terrifying war really was, and those who knew nothing probably believed the propaganda and played the whole thing off as more of a video game, the number of kills I made being indifferent from a score.
"I don't know."
What came out of my mouth was complete and absolute bullshit. I knew exactly how many kills I have made. My HUD keeps a constantly updated number of them, which I could almost easily access. As of entering Hinata Inn back in my time era and having killed the fighter who dropped the homemade concussion grenade, my kill count stood at 497.
…
I stopped for a moment and thought about it – for the first time in months. I have taken four hundred and ninety-seven lives, all during the course of three years. I have taken four hundred and ninety-seven fathers, brothers, sons, and husbands, from their respective families. I have ended four hundred and ninety-seven lives, just so I could prolong mines slightly longer. Disheartened parents would be forced to bury their own children, spouses would face the grim fact that their loved one will never return to their arms, and the children will be forced to acknowledge that they will never again feel the love and care from their lost parent.
Worse, they will learn of how they were murdered by an enemy soldier like me, and seek vengeance. When they enlist and journey into the battlefields, they would only find death, thus sparking yet another vicious chain of vengeance.
Four hundred and ninety-seven - the number felt quite large, because it was. Our equipment and training gave us a significant advantage in battle and because of that, and because of how the Bloc were quite outdated, a single Commonwealth soldier, having fought from the very start of the war until the present day, could easily have made a minimum of three hundred kills. It depended ultimately on how often we were out in the battlefield. My regiment was always out there, and the amount of hell my fellow soldiers and I faced warranted for that amount.
I could not tell them the number. Seeing how they already saw me bludgeon a man to death with a rock, and for them to now acknowledge that I really was a soldier from the future, to tell them that I have killed close to five hundred people would not help anybody here. Then again, it wasn't like I had to tell them – their saddened and grim faces told me they at least suspected I had killed a large number of people.
"We're done for tonight," Haruka then announced. "Sergeant Randall will stay in this room for the remainder of the night and we'll continue this in the morning."
With that, she motioned for everybody to leave the room. Haruka seemed desperate to end this encounter. I wouldn't blame her – this entire situation had taken a lot from both sides and it was time to end it. As everybody slowly left the room, none of them looked back at me. I had dampened their mood, evident by the reactions of all the residents. Su, previously a hyperactive and almost completely insane, weakly stepped out of the room just like everybody else. Kitsune, still dressed in that same police outfit and seemingly on the verge of offering intercourse if I decided to speak the truth, left without a sound or a second glance. The same went for Keitaro and Naru. Shinobu remained soaked in tears, sniffling and rubbing her eyes as she continued to be consoled by Naru.
The only person whose behaviour changed for the worse was Motoko. She gave me a particularly cold glare as she left the room. No doubt, after seeing my memory, she was now fully convinced I was a threat to the residents of Hinata Inn.
The broken door was brought back into its place and secured from the other side. I was locked inside, isolated from the rest of the inn. The first day of my interrogation had ended, and I was not unscathed. I couldn't see my own face, but no doubt, I had to have looked like shit. My nanites would recover the most of the damage in a few hours, which would be reduced to a few minutes if I could reach one of my nanite injectors, assuming those weren't policed by my interrogators.
Would they come back in a few minutes and continue? No, I had doubts they'd come back. The solemn manner they left the room suggested they did not want to see me for awhile. Was it all specifically related to what they saw from my memory? It had to be. The Virtual-kun portrayed the battle as exactly the way I had saw it then. There weren't any special effects or computer animation – it was real and authentic war in all its shape and form. They had just seen death for the first time, and like all the others who have seen their first taste of it, they found themselves frightened and scared. To see somebody die in a movie or a game is one thing – in real life, it's a completely different story.
I wanted to talk to them a bit more, maybe explain a bit to calm them down. I wanted to prove to them that I wasn't some deranged or psychotic murderer. That would have to wait until the morning. In the meantime, I suppose all I could do was rest a bit, even get some sleep. I closed my eyes and relaxed. My head fell forward with my chin touching the top of my chest plate. The ropes that secured me to the chair actually kept me in place. Within a few minutes, I was asleep.
My dream continued, as though resuming from being paused. I was pulled off of the Bloc soldier and pulled to safety. After recovering, I went back into the trenches with Haverson and Ostergard, where we were able to procure a machine gun, circle around and set up a position flanking the Bloc advance inside an impact crater. Our long chains of suppressive fire were able to relieve pressure on the forward lines and allow our forces to rally and make an advance of their own. We were able to secure a greater foothold just as the Walkers and armoured support rolled in to fortify the area.
Losses were quite minimal and we secured the trenches and the position. Ultimately, it had its share of shortcomings. Haverson took a round and didn't make it. Private First Class Barrett Haverson, an American soldier hailing from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, had died in the impact crater from a single rifle round through the neck. At the end of the day, our squad paid homage to our three fallen soldiers – Galloway, Delacroix, and Haverson.
I was mostly indifferent about war, but this was the part that made me hate it – losing friends. You'd start second-guessing yourself and wondering if you could have saved them. Eventually, you'd settle with accepting that there wasn't anything you could have done, and that they died so the rest of the squad and the mission could succeed. But then you'd ask yourself, was it worth the cost? Was the cost of three friends worth the reward of holding a fifty kilometre square section of mud, dirt, and broken trench lines?
The life of a friend and fellow soldier was worth more than any piece of ground or objective. That's how I would have answered three years ago. Today, I can't give an answer. What was the most that I can say now? After the battle that cost the squad Galloway, Delacroix, and Haverson, it was made clear to me. War is hell, and with hell comes death. You'd simply have to bite the bullet and accept it, especially if you're the one leading them straight into it, which I would be later in the future. Not every soldier will return home – it was an undeniable fact – but what matters more is the strength that they will all give to keep fighting so that the others around them will make it home alive. Everybody had to keep going with no regrets. I had to do it just as much.
All of that corresponded even with this situation. I don't regret surrendering myself. I don't hate Naru or Motoko for beating me for information. I don't regret any of the decisions that have led me to here, sitting in a chair and facing them. It's like all the other decisions I have made – I've made what I felt was the best choice, and the fact that I'm still conscious, still breathing, and still alive means I at least did one thing right. Even if it was wrong, the fact that I'm alive means I can still fix it.
'Regret nothing' - the ones with no regrets are the ones with nothing to worry about.